I turned down the volume in the car because I noticed squeak had grasped at the back of his head twice since we passed the five lamps on the north strand road. Probably didn't help the fact I let the tyre pressure down on his side, Ha! He must be having a bumpy time back there. The atmosphere was tense in the car so I made a move for the volume dial, I lingered my hand over it for a couple seconds and noticed Mick catch me eyes in the rear view mirror. "Leave it !! " , he says as I crack a grin from the side of my mouth eyes fixed on the traffic ahead coming up to the turn for Ringsend. "Not in the mood for talking Mick no haha! " I said speedily as the blaster we had leaving the gaff comes back up on me again." "Fuck off man, were fuckin red hot nock that music off will Ye! " Mick says tentatively mumbling at the end of the sentence. "We've gone over it a hundred times!!!" I said furiously I was just fed up of the lads going on like nervous pigeons. " Right , firstly I'm the only person that's getting nicked in this car for not being insured!! We get in to this gaff... yous just watch the match with Jay for a few minutes I'll be in the jacks for a few, once I'm out were back skating in the jammer! If we get stopped I'm telling Ye they'll take the car I'll be searched at best! There's no smell a green, we've nothin on us, don't be paranoid, relax the fuck will yous! Ye tell them I said I was picking me mrs up in town, yous haven't a clue what's going on!!! Once where finished, taxi into town, we hit the academy, back to my gaff, the key under the flowerpot was gone , the dog was going nuts, and there was no sign a me Mas car in the drive way". I felt like the lads were not confident about the plan or maybe they were just gettin cold feet, thinking about their day in court down the road backing my statement up in court. I suppose introducing coppers into their world, something they hadn't really got a clue about at the time is something to be nervous about. "Yous are flagged boys." I think to meself laughing at me own thoughts. Get linked to this or stutter when there talkin to Ye or give them any whiff of dishonesty? " You better get the fuckin Tin foil hats out boys haha. Suckers". Maybe they were right to be nervous. 5,000 is a lot of money and they were only gettin a thousand each. Fuckin part timers, I thought, as I pulled in outside Jays garden. "Squeak ! " I said enthusiastically. "Shut up fucking talking will Ye haha!!" . Jay already had the door of the house open before I could kill the engine. Strange I thought, but how and ever, I'm not gonna act surprised, and give this cunt a glimpse of nervousness after all he's the guest in this car not me. I'm a machine I'd smash this cunt up if it comes down to it. He pulls open the passenger door and jumps in. "What's the story pal," jay good to meet Ye pal Ye! " he says, "same bro what's up where we heading" I say as I turn the car outside the gaff and head back towards the quay! "Ehh, we need to spin around to me mates gaff I'm grabbing a bit of Hoover just to calm me down Ye!". " no boder where's he live?" Bollox , I thought this is my fuckin car I told the lads we'd nothin on us and there'd be no reason for them to search thoroughly if were stopped! I was on the back foot with this cunt and he's only in the car a couple of seconds. Better up me game here, as all different scenarios play out in my mind. "What's this stuff like anyway jay" I said hungrily. "Top of the range bro, he's talkin mad money on this so I'm just picking up a Party pack off him, we're heading back your way aren't we? Iv to go back to a gaff in Coolock after town Ye" he says as his head turns out the window looking over at the poolbeg towers. "Pull in here. Two seconds bro". Says Jay. He gets out of the car looking at his phone skips down the driveway the door opens and he disappears into the gaff. Squeak comes back from the dead. " How does he know what our suss is for after this" splurts Squeak, and he was right. How did he know. My mind was racing but focused on my breathing like always, as I let my mind go blank and re think the situation. " why are we only gettin 5grand for this anyway, I'll get sacked from Accenture if this goes wrong", " I want 1,500 put me at ease here youll still earn more and get the car back on the insurance" squeak says as I tap the steering wheel and zone out of my breath and whip around. "I'll give yous the one five for fuck sake I need yous to stick to what we've planned", " squeak you don't say a word there'll be eyebrows raised hearing your big Ivor head on you" "your hear for me Ye don't talk to anyone while we're with this cunt Ye? Act cool but look paranoid alright? That's all brother" I said. Jesus fucking tonight I'm thinking sitting there tapping on the wheel of the car, but I was expecting one of them to bring up the pay rate at some point. Jay comes back out as the door slams behind him. He slips back into the passenger side, and points out of the estate. "Let's move " he says. "We need to drop into me mate he has his own garage just off d strand road I'm picking up a few parts off him before we spin out to Clondalkin Ye " he says confidently . "Here what's going on, Your working off a different blue print to me pal, 2 stop offs and Ye pick up Hoover now we're going to your mates garage I was supposed to leave your gaf without Ye, and give us a look at that Hoover will Ye " I was letting this prick know he's not jumping in here and thinking he's the pilot some little yoke from ringsend hearing a posh twang off my accent goin on like Nidgey because he left school before 3rd year and once done a 4 year stint in mountjoy for aggravated burglary . This fella thinks im in awe of him... Ha! Well here we fuckin go. Trust Dennis to stitch me up with this fuckin ejit! He sure knows how to pick them out. So Jay then dips into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket and pulls out about a quarter of white lightening and throws a coin of it into my face. " get that into Ye kid" he says as I Hoover up what was on the €2 coin. I took a minute before saying a thing after that blaster and listened to him carefully. He was confident which was good and he felt like he was in control which was even better. I needed this cunt relaxed pulling into his brother Johnny's garage for things to swing our way. The stupid cunt doesn't have a clue I know about his brother because of my accent he makes the assumption I'd know no one he knows, that I'm bait that's been roped in to drive us in n outta clondalkin after being smooth talked naively by Dennis over a debt or some shit. Jays brother was into some proper shit. His number was about €30,000 which to me was a terrible lot of money at the age of 24 getting €188 doing an ECDL course in fás in Baldoyle. Realistically he's worth more than 30 grand taking into account his garage and whatever assets he had at the time. No we're talking €30,000 in cash he had coming into his wash shop just off d north strand. He used it as a collection spot for the boys gathering paper for him. I clocked Jay one Friday heading down the garage after we sussed out someone small time from fairview who got stuff off him. The boys in the back seat hadn't a notion what was really happening here, the undercurrents of this physical language is there for only some to translate. Jay got into a bit of friendly debt with Dennis that was just over 3 grand. Jay though being the cocky wanker he is thinks he sits on a golden chair with his brother being Johnny Duffy. Dennis had been growing his business for a while but was looking to advance territorially to make a name for himself. I never travelled that line of thinking and considered myself an opportunist but I k ew what Dennis wanted and he liked the solution I had. Before we pulled in at the garage I pointed out to mick that the back wheel on squeaks side seemed flat. "Well have a look at it in the garage for ye Al don't worry, you'll get this car home not a scratch on it" says Jay as he scoops another coin outta his quarter. "Lovely " I say as I turn the car down by the river bank at the north strand. "Where's this place jay" I said exhaustedly. "Down the end to the left you'll see it I told me mate were droppin in" Jay said as his leg starts bouncing up and down. We turn the corner and I see an old dilapidated warehouse turned into an open plan garage with a n office right at the entrance of the shutters an upstairs walkway looking down into the garage floor and a car half disassembled towards the back of the floor with a pair of legs sticking out from underneath. I pull up and nick off d engine Jay jumps out. As do me and the two lads. "Dennis what's the story pal" he says as Dennis slides out from underneath the car. " Jay Ye pox" goes Dennis with a grin from ear to ear. "Is there a jax here " I say to Dennis treating him like jays mate the chap that just works here. I click mick lookin at the back wheel just as I head in for a piss. I hear laughter from outside and hear Mick laughing nervously which in a way put me at ease, I could tell Jay was starting to get hostile thinking he was frightening to us thinking he lived a life we had no clue about. I breezed outta the jax and ask the lads what score was the Liverpool match as I make my over to kick the back wheel of my Mas 04 focus and give the wheel a kick. " Liverpool aren't playing till Sunday pal haha" says Jay bullishly. " I'm just checking to see if there's a puncture " I say leaning in to look at the outside tyre. Suddenly a hand on my shoulder and it's Mick. "He's planning on smashing you up with a wheel brace and stroking your mas car" whispers Mick , as he steps back around toward the Driver door to Where Jay and Kev where standing with as Jay slips an iron bar up his sleeve. Kev was in on it. Dennis slipped back under his car, Mick stared blankly in fear at Jay. Me ? I let the air outta the tyre earlier anticipating Jay was in debt, he thought he'd do Dennis a favour and spin out to clondalkin with us to tidy up his bill. Jay was a pawn. He got me inside that garage his brothers collection point. It was the last Friday of the month. It was the last drop before the garage closed up the other boys had gone home leaving Dennis and Kev to lock up. Kev planted the idea of a car jacking in jays head weeks ago and confessed to him he'd do it with me after the lads at duffys garage told him a bit about me. It was the heist of the century I thought handy money I said at the time little did I know this stunt would change my life forever and push me over the line of which you don't come back from. I leaned down behind the car wheel and un strapped the 9mm Smith n Wesson handgun I placed there earlier that day. The job of the century on Johnny Duffy and his own brother was about to tell us where his cash drop was ruling Kev and Dennis out of his scope completely. Beside the river on the strand, a damp breeze blew in at us and just as I picked myself up from the ground with the handgun covered by the angle of my sleeve I took a breath before my life changed forever, thought about nature and concentrated on that damp air blowing in. One last thought before I whip around. How evening stole the light and how cold was the fuckin ground.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** In honor of National Wildlife week, your story must include an animal from an . *(Please be kind to them in your stories!)* This week’s challenge is to include the theme of ‘adventure’ in your story. The interpretation is entirely up to you, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth an additional 10 points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings - - u/AGuyLikeThat - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/pathetic_optimist You can view the previous week’s rankings ! *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Check out the brand new over on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at poetry with during the third week of every month on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Man has always feared the dark. In the most ancient times we huddled around fires to hold back the dark. To hold back what the dark concealed. The light, the heat, the fire; it provided protection from the wolves and cold out there trying to kill us. Man used that energy to conquer a world; and then again to leave that world and slowly, ever so slowly, conquer a galaxy. It took billions of years, but man pushed back the dark. But it is not possible to overcome the basic nature of the universe. Heat dissipates, order devolves. Even stars must concede to entropy. Generations of stars died their explosive deaths, seeding space with the material for the next generation. Man escaped those worlds and moved on. But eventually, there wasn't enough density of matter for new stars to ignite. Man stepped in and brought the ingredients together, but even that only bought time. And time was the only thing the dark had. Finally the last generation of stars was dying. An entire galactic empire very slowly unraveled over uncounted eons. All the planets which had been hospitable to life were destroyed by novas or were left frozen by their stars collapse. Planets were abandoned by those with the ability, the rest perished. Generations lived and died in vast fleets, living off massive stockpiles of energy and food. Over the eons even these resources were depleted. The fleets grew cold and died, derelict graveyards floating un-powered in deep space. In a final desperate hope for warmth some small colonies were set up on brown dwarfs. They brought all the food and power available with them; leaving behind the cold dead hulks, suckling on the lingering warmth of aborted stars. After a few thousand more generations all their equipment and tools began to run down and wear out. Man receded to a simplistic life devoid of any appreciable technology other than hyperspace communications. Food and light and connection were all that mattered, and only what they had brought with them was available. They carefully planned and conserved the stabilized rations and chemical lamps they had inherited from their forefathers. But even those vast stores gradually reached an end. They managed their own decline, each generation bearing fewer and fewer children trying to make sure there would be enough resources for one more generation. There was no celebration in the final colony when the last messages went unanswered. They knew they were the last vestige of humanity, and in a few brief generations they too would succumb. The final couple knew they should end it, but could not resist the warmth and comfort they provided for each other and inadvertently had one last baby. At the end, the lonely man sat in a room deep inside a brown dwarf with piles of stabilized rations all around him. As the green glow from his last chemical light burned out, a complete darkness such as no human had ever experienced enveloped him utterly. And he knew fear, not because anything was out there to kill him, but because he knew nothing was.


I always imagined that I would spend an awful amount of time during my twenties inside of museums and art galleries when I was younger. It was the activity that I looked the most forward to. I would think to myself, ‘ I could be there all on my own. I won’t need my parents or my older siblings to supervise me.’ I relished the idea of being around art by myself. There would be strangers in the building with me of course, but none of them would know who I am. There would be no one to distract me with their side conversations, no one to rush me to move on to the next painting, no one that would grow annoyed with how silent I became while I stood in front of a portrait. Younger me was kind of a ninny. Because oh, how much I wished I wasn’t alone right now. And I don’t mean alone in the sense that I have no family or friends who accompanied me today--I am the only one here. “Who the fuck pregames before going to The Morgan?” I can hear the grogginess in my voice and for a second, I think I’m in a dream. Younger me also failed to imagine I would be quite the drinker in my twenties. I recognize that my legs are laid across the floor and that they feel like mush. I can feel the cool tiles against my back. I have to be kind of sitting up, right? I turn my head to the right in slow motion. At least, that’s what it feels like. My eyes meet the lower half of a door and I can see what’s outside from the gap in between the floor and where the door ends. There’s a piece of dry toilet paper by my fingertips...so I’m in a bathroom stall. Shit. When did I go to the bathroom? Better question--How did I even manage to find the bathroom? Knowing what kind of state I must’ve been in before, I think that I don’t even want to know. I plant my hands on the floor and push myself to stand up. I’m still a little drunk, I see. After taking a minute to breathe, I push my hand into the pocket of my coat and thankfully find my phone. I turn it on to check the time and I feel a wave of anxiety run its course through my body. It’s four in the morning. I place my clammy hand over my heart and stare holes into my phone screen. I don’t see any notifications. No one called. No one texted. Which makes perfect sense, because I didn’t tell anyone what I would be doing today. Or yesterday. Whatever. Well...at least nobody knows what I did. I unlock the stall and pull it open at full speed. I’m met with a long mirror that rests above all the sinks. I put my phone back in my pocket and turn on the water. I lather my hands in soap and rinse it off. I splash the cold water on my face, not even daring to look at my reflection. With closed eyes, I grab paper towels from the dispenser and pat my face dry. Feeling brave enough to face myself, I slowly move the now wet paper towel away from my face and open my eyes. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it surely wasn’t this. I’m a big old scaredy cat. I shake my head and chuckle at myself. “I’m literally fine.” And I was. My hair was a little messy and my eyes looked very tired. The usual hangover look. Am I even hungover if I still feel drunk? “Why am I still drunk?” I know that I’m the only one in here, so it doesn’t fucking matter that I’m talking to myself. I push my fingertips to the back of my scalp and laugh anxiously, “Oh my god, I can’t remember how I continued to drink. Did I drink inside of the museum? How wasn’t I caught?” All of these questions and concerns were catching up to me quickly. It’s like logical thinking hit me out of nowhere because why was I feeling moderately calm up until this point? I’m in a bathroom--hopefully the museum’s bathroom--and I have no recollection of the events that took place before I woke up. This is possibly the worst place to blackout at. I know that if I open the door and walk out of here, I will have a greater chance at piecing together what happened last night. However, I’m scared that I’ll find a large crowd of people waiting for me outside. It’s irrational, because it is dead silent. And it’s four in the morning. I don’t even think the security for this place is here this late. Before I decide to walk to the door, I pull out my phone again. There’s a possibility I documented some of last night. I’m filled with nerves and excitement as I see my thumb hovering over the photos app, but it’s mostly nerves. I blow out a breath and press down. What... “The fuck?” I holler the rest of my thoughts out loud. I have to turn off the phone and march outside, an imaginary crowd of people be damned. I immediately know where I am as I walk down the halls. Last night wasn’t my first time coming to this museum. I came here last summer and I knew I had to visit again. No other museum or art gallery had drawn me in this much. No museum had spooked me this much, I now come to realize. “I’m not going crazy. I’m not going crazy. I’m not growing crazy.” Who the hell was I fooling? I was going crazy. I AM going crazy. Why in the fuck was the last photo in my gallery a selfie with the sculpture of St. John the Baptist? AND WHY WASN’T HE A SCULPTURE? WHY WAS HE WALKING BY MY SIDE HOLDING UP A PEACE SIGN. This couldn’t possibly be. I had to calm the thrashing of my heart against my chest. I kept on walking and opened my photo gallery again. The photo was still there and still very much SPOOKY. I stopped in my tracks when I saw that it was a live photo. There’s no way. I held my finger down on the photo and I could not believe what I was seeing. It sounds so cliche but it’s true. I. Could. Not. Believe. It. There he was, St. John in the flesh. His white mouth curled up into a smirk and his hand flew up to his face to make the peace sign. I don’t know how, but my legs managed to move me to the center of the room I entered. All of the paintings and the sculptures were...hungover. Oh my god, did I get them drunk? What type of questions am I even asking? It’s so hard to argue with myself because I’m literally seeing it play out in front of my eyes. I don’t think I’m drunk anymore. Is it possible to have so much adrenaline pumping through your veins that it cancels out the alcohol? Because I feel very much sobered up. “You..” I whip my head down to see who was talking to me. My eyeballs damn ear popped out of my sockets. The man from Portrait of a Man with a Pink was looking up at me with bloodshot eyes. I can’t even say his name because he doesn’t have one! For fuck’s sake, he’s called the Man. “You need to get this to a very special person.” He was holding the damn letter or whatever people have guessed it was in the painting in his hand. “I...well-” “Hey!” I gasped loudly and turned around with my arms up, like I was surrendering in a battle or something. I guess the security was here at this hour. “Young lady, you need to leave. Now.” I furrowed my brows and opened my mouth in bewilderment. Could he not see what fiasco was taking place behind me? “Can’t you see?” I asked incredulously. I heard my own voice and I was certain I sounded as crazy as I felt. I whipped my head around to point out the- They’re gone.


She looks in the mirror, and all she sees are black stains upon her body. They grow and they undulate, pulsing as she watches. Stains. She cuts and scratches at them, scrubs herself bloody, but still they remain. Every person that has hurt her, has left her or has willfully ignored her has left their own stain. She stands, watching her naked body. Watching the marks as they feed on her untainted skin. It shines through pure white, in contrast to the dark, and everyday it grows less and less. She looks at herself and thinks impure, dirty, broken. She feels, at this point, she could identify the black mark to the person. Her childhood friend, who took advantage and ultimately abused her is the stain across her forehead. Her lover, who laid with another, is the stain across her neck. Her mother, who would hit and scream and curse, is the stain across her stomach. The man she considered a brother, who took the last of her pureness and her childhood, is the stain across her middle. Her father, uncaring as she was abused and hurt, is the stain across her arms, her wrists. Her grandparents, who blame themselves for her abuse, is the stain across her thighs. Yes, she could name a person to each stain. But none could compare to the stain steadily works it's way through her brain, it's greasy tendrils stroking and probing their way through. She feels it; at night, when she's trying to sleep; in the day, when she has nothing to do. It whispers to her in those quiet moments, it drains her as it grows to a monstrous size. It stains. This stain is the worst, as it is the one created from within. Darkness, depression, sadness. A feeling of not being enough, of letting those closest to her down. Of being less than she was, and making her truly believe that. Those awful tentacles of doubt and of sadness massage her brain, making her think what they want, not what she wants. They drown out any other voice, with a sickening chorus that drones and drones and drones. A constant, it stains how she talks and how she feels; how she acts and how she thinks. It is endless. The pills didn't work to stop it's insidious spread, nor did the alcohol. Still, she would fill her senses and ignore her pain with that cutting spirit, to try and forget the horrors of days well past. All the while, not realising that it directly lent itself to the horrors of her current days. Sleepless nights and words she wished unsaid, actions done that were forever irrevocable. She feels these indelible marks every waking moment. They haunt her, they are the glance out of the corner of her eye and the whisper heard in an empty room. She spends her days terrified that those around her will see them too, and think her too dirty. Too damaged. Beyond help. Yet, daily, those around her prove her wrong. Their love and their warmth waken her heat, keep it beating. Slowly but surely, their love will help to shrink those awful stains. They will never be gone, not truly, but they can be minimised; can be worked around. For she is not made of her stains, but made of the clean, unmarked skin around them. The people who caused those stains do not deserve those black marks upon her skin, do not deserve the daily woes they cause her. They do not deserve the awful feeling that accompanies any kind of abuse, the feeling of 'I am now a victim', which is screamed at you by every professional around. A hand thrusts through the riptide, and is grasped by the golden light of those around her, pulling her out of that deep, dark sea. A thousand hands, gripping and grabbing and helping her stand on solid ground. She is better than her stains, and she has and always will be a survivor.


Here's a short story I wrote around the TitanFall 2 universe. if you have no idea what Titanfall is or you've never played it, here's a brief rundown: it's the future, humans can travel at light-speed, and now there's intergalactic war. It's between the IMC, ruthless corporation trying to exploit the planets on the quote-unquote frontier, the edge of space colonized by humans, and the militia, a group of pirates and outlaws trying to stop the IMC from exploiting the frontier so they can continue to live their lawless lifestyle. Pilots firewall running wall jumping super soldiers with cool gadgets like grappling hooks and such, that control giant robots called Titans and grunts are little human cannon fodder that run across the battlefield, specters are human sized android-robots and stalkers are bigger versions reapers are almost Titans but not big enough. [Edit] Stalkers are more like Terminator versions of Specters i.e. they'll keep moving if missing legs, or appendages. Can kill humans, and have laser guns. Reapers are like the size of SUVs, they Hulk jump around the map and going plasma balls from their hands I also like to say that I'm a young kid in middle School, I like to come up with stories in my head, and I just wanted to see what would happen if I decide to write one down. Any positive feedback in the comments would help, but please no hate speech. 90 Seconds It was an easy job. Holmes had never thought otherwise. He grew up on Meridian, an IMC fueling port; constantly under use. He met people, saw war. He was only 19 on the Battle of Meridian. He saw what Grunts did. Drop in, shoot, get paid, repeat. Easy. So when he he was 23, and the IMC raided his colony and executed his family he was willing to do whatever it took. That was 4 months ago. He was in the MCOR now. He was ready. Holmes glanced around. The hangar was busy; They were preparing for drop, and it looked it. Pilots were readying their Titans, engineers working on Spectres, and Grunts loading into their Pods. He turned back to his squad leader, Mercer. There were 4 of them, including Holmes. Standard. Anston, Perry, Mercer and Homes. “Get ready boys, here comes our Pod.” said Mercer. As he strapped himself in, he slung his weapon into its holster and uttered the words he’d heard long ago “90 seconds.” That was how long the average Grunt survived on the battlefield. At least, according to the IMC. Holmes knew it when he signed up, he didn’t care; all that mattered was getting back at the bastards. A siren blared. Holmes woke up again, looked around. It was drop time. He sucked in a deep breath, breaking the silence. They knew too. Every Grunt did. But so did Pilots, when they were Grunts. That was the end goal of the average Grunt: Pilot. But as everyone also knew, it took years of experience to be a Pilot, and that was a hell of a lot more than 90 seconds. Less than a second. They were falling. He saw the other Pods. Falling stars. Poetic. “From heavens of steel, the stars fall on Angel City” Perry shuddered. Anston prayed silently. Mercer pictured his daughter. And Homes just stared. THUD. 1 Second. The Pod slams into the ground. 3 Seconds. The doors open. 7 seconds. They’re out of their seats. 11 Seconds. Boots on pavement. As they look around, stars glint. Giants of hell fall. And they run forward. 16 Seconds. Movement ahead. Gunfire in the air. Spectres are dead. Holmes looks for other people. 17 Seconds. Reaper. Demon. Bombs fall, troops separate. He stares at it, and sees Mercer yelling. Holmes woke up. He grabbed the R-97 and ran. 22 Seconds. At the town square, Perry dies. Shot through the head. Clean. G2A5. Anston is quicker. Longbow shot rings through the air. The sniper is dead. So is Perry. 26 Seconds. Holmes gets his first kill. Ambushed from corner of the apartment building. So easy to pull the trigger. Holmes wakes up. 31 Seconds. Holed up at B. Pilot slides through the window, a friendly one. A Spectre jumps in afterwards. Then one more. They stay till the objective is amped. Momentary rest. Holmes wakes up. 37 Seconds. At A again. Only Stalkers are guarding it. Mercer says they should stay. No one disagrees. 45 Seconds. Firefight. A group of Grunts assaults A. Mercer kills 2, Anston kills one. Holmes wakes up. 49 Seconds. First encounter with pilot. Gunfire then silence. Pilot is gone. So is a father. 56 Seconds. At the alleyway, they meet Stalkers. Holmes is hit in the leg. Pain fills the air. So do bullets. 62 Seconds. They pass through the house. Screams fill the air. A man. Red on a white uniform. Begging. Mercy, reconciliation, regret. Holmes gives him what he wants. 69 Seconds. Titan. Hellfire rains through the window. The way is blocked. Backtrack through main floor. Holmes limps. He wakes up. 72 Seconds. On the street, Scorch meets Longbow. Scorch wins. Anston will not be buried. 77 Seconds. A star falls. So does the Scorch. Brown on green. Holmes is safe. 80 Seconds. Two Pilots. 4 dead Grunts. Holmes fires. Bullets fly. They connect. 84 Seconds. He lies in the street, on a car. Pain. He wakes up. 86 Seconds. Holmes screams. Begs. Mercy, reconciliation, regret. 87 Seconds. Holmes wakes up. 88 Seconds. A pilot hears him. She lands by him. Mercy. She stares. 89 Seconds. Reconciliation. A pistol. 90 Seconds. Regret. She gives him what he wants. 91 Seconds. Holmes sleeps.


In the quiet confines of his realm, a king sat in the dark and listened to the wails of the frigid wind against his window. A dark shadow hovered by his shoulder; it's icy tendrils brushed at the nape of his neck. "Sire," it's raspy voice breathed against his ear "She is late. She has broken her vow." "She will arrive, like she always does." he replied. A noise akin to a smirk was heard in response. "She might not this time, you can never tell with females. Their hearts are fickle and so easily influenced." "You don't know her." he said quietly, "She'll be here. She has always kept her word." He stands and walks to the window. The wind has died down and a hush has descended. "YOU don't know her." mocked the demon, "She has been biding her time and waiting for her chance to leave you. She is unhappy here." He pauses as he walks towards the door, not looking back at the demon he asks "Has she said anything to that effect?" The demon smiles as he feeds off the wisp of the man's self doubt. "She doesn't have to. If you've been paying attention, you would see her sadness when your back is turned, you want her all to yourself yet you lack the ability to make her feel like she truly matters to you. You are hopeless and she shall soon leave you for another." The man turns slightly towards the demon, barely realizing that the shadow has grown larger after feeding off his insecurity. "That isn't true," he said with a slight shake of his head. "She loves me." with that said, he walks out the door and down the cold stone steps leading to the gateway of his realm "what do you know anyway." "I know will she say anything to get you to trust her so that she can make her escape." taunted the demon who was now on sitting on his shoulder. "Let's not forget that I know you Sire. I know you best of all and I know you are not what she needs." hissed the demon. "She doesn't need this bleak and cold realm as a home," the demon continued "she doesn't need a battle scarred husk of a man. She deserves better and you know I am right." The man pauses as he reaches the foot of the stairs. The weight on his shoulders heavy, as his self doubts slowly begin to give way to other darker thoughts. The demon rubs his hands in anticipation as tendrils of his cold shadow slowly and teasingly wrap itself around the man's heart, ready to take and devour until he is consumed into nothingness. As the doubts and fear slowly form in the king's mind, salvation arrives in the form of a woman walking into the gateway of the realm in a flood of warmth and sunshine. Seeing the man before her, her eyes light up in recognition and she launches herself straight into his arms. "My love!" she squeals in delight as she wraps her arms around his neck and embraces him with all her strength. All at once, her warmth crashes into him like waves and the cold tendrils of ice building around his heart shatter as he hears her musical laughter while he holds her close. "I've missed you," she says, enveloped in his arms. "So did I" he whispers into her hair. Pulling away slightly, she looks deep into his eyes and sees traces of his battle with the demon. Placing her warm hands on either side of his head, she rests her forehead against his and whispers "I am home my king. Nothing will ever stop me from returning to you. I love you beyond all the existing realms in the universe." The king smiles and whispers back "Welcome home my queen." Tilting her chin back he leans in and kisses her deeply. As he does so, his demon slithers into the far recesses of the shadows, defeated by the light of love that calmed the king's thoughts. Outside, the bitter cold has ceased and world is awash in an golden warmth. In the quiet realm, the king sits on his throne, reunited with his queen in his arms.


I feel the sun burning my face. I can even see it with my closed eyes. I cannot say that it woke me up, I am not even sure when I am dreaming and when I am sleeping any more. The hunger has crushed my body and the thirst started to obscure reality. I am so tired I cannot open my eyes, I cannot even close them tighter to block the sun - I just stay there, unable to move, I suffer. Hopeless, I try to keep a log of the events in my memory to keep my mind busy - maybe even keep it sane. But it always comes up as flashes of horror. The first image is my brother and my dad fishing on the stern of the boat. Then is the explosion of the gas tank. We jump into the kitchen to see it in flames and my mom is screaming on the floor. She is covered in blood and all kinds of debris from the kitchen. We drag her and we realise in terror that her body is completely destroyed from the waist down. Her legs are hanging like pieces of meat. We drag her as fast as we can all the way up the stairs and on the deck. Behind us a river of blood that leads to a flaming hole. My brother, a doctor, stands petrified above her. I look at him and he looks at me hopeless. Our mom in our hands is still screaming. I look at her. Her face is an amorphous screaming pulp. I turn my head away. She stops. I realize that my dad all this time is taking things out of the kitchen and putting them to the dinghy. He grabs us from our shirts. His hands are bleeding, his grey hair is almost all burned and half of his face is full of blisters. He is shouting but I can barely understand what he says. “What the fuck are you doing? She is dead. There is no time for crying. Take any provision that you can and put it in the dinghy.” He leaves and goes back into the flaming hole. Me and my brother just stand there. Looking at the fire mesmerised and hopeless. He gets out again with tanks of water. His whole body is smoking. “There is no time! To the dinghy!” We stay shocked and speechless in the dinghy, looking at our burning boat drifting away. Our mom's body is still on it. Like a viking funeral - she would hate it. After two days I wake up and my dad is not in the boat any more. We are not sure why, maybe he was too proud to deprive his sons from their food and water - we’ll never know. And the rest of the days are the same. Only the food and water is getting lesser and lesser. Until there is no more. And that’s where we are now. Hopeless. I said this word so many times in my mind that it lost its meaning. Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless. Now I feel the sun burning my whole body. I hear the eternal silence of the wind and the sea, and the waves flapping on the sides of our little boat, and a soft moaning - what is it? I open my eyes and the sun is blinding me, my vision is blurry from the exhaustion. It’s my brother. I can barely see his face, something is wrong. He is covered in blood. “You are bleeding!” I shout and the last bit of adrenaline I have left pushes me to roll over but I can’t. He jumps back and starts whining “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!!”. I try to move, but I can’t, I am tied to the boat “What is happening?”. “Oh Fred I’m so sorry...” he cries. I look at my legs, and I am also bleeding. I look at my brother again, he is looking at me terrified and covered in blood. It takes me some time to realize what is happening. “What? Are you, are you eating my leg?” the words come out of my mouth in a sentence that I would never think I would say - I feel my stomach trying to force itself out of my mouth. “I’m really sorry, but you, you are not going to die you know, it tied it very tight. You shouldn’t even feel anything”. “Are you out of your mind Patrik?” I want to start screaming but I also want to reason the whole situation. I cry. “Why didn’t you just kill me in my sleep Patrik?”. “I cannot kill you Fred, if I kill you...” he hesitates. “If I kill you the meat won’t last as long...” I want to say something but I can’t. I open my mouth and I scream, he crawls on the corner and covers his ears shouting “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry...” And I scream even harder so I cannot hear him. And then he stops and stands up and looks around. “Did you hear that?” he says. I am coughing from all the screaming, but I hear it. It’s a ship. “We are saved!” I try to say between my coughs, “We are saved!”, “Yes!” he says, and he turns to me and he looks happy, but immediately gets serious, “But no...” he says. “What no?”. “They cannot find you like this, they will think I am a monster.” his eyes are big and glowing, his mouth covered in blood is firm and serious. “Are you serious now? You don’t mean this.” I shout with a trembling voice. “I’m sorry Fred” He gets closer to me and grabs me from the shoulders. “You are not thinking straight, Patrik, please no! Please!” my words are muffled by the water. I fight as much as I can but I am all tied up. I go deeper and deeper, screaming, looking at the bottom of the boat getting smaller and smaller. Hopeless.


New York traffic flowed, as usual, endless on both foot and on the street. A usual day: for most. The next few seconds would change that for the select few who would view the terror. 3. 2. 1. And splat. A lifeless body slapped across the ground hard enough to bounce after impact with the concrete like a rubber ball. Although there was something peaceful about him regardless of the morphed, disfigured corpse that lay across the pavement, if you can visualize this mess as laying. Despite the chaos it created and the trauma it caused others, the jumper seemed truly happy; he had reached peace, although not in the most desirable way. He chose door B. Some try to reach this happiness through other means: through door A. To fill their lifeless existence with money, their meaningless abodes with furniture, their void driveways with fancy cars. Well our victim decided the best way to reach happiness wasn’t by filling a house with furniture, a bank account with cash, or a driveway with cars, no the best way for him was to fill the sidewalk with his teeth. He realized that the only way to end the miserable existence of this long walk we take called life was to take the plunge early. His portal to the next life was to roof of an executive office building; more specifically, where our victim worked. That takes us back some time, where everything began. At first, Tom was taking the regular walk through life. He, like all Americans, went through life doing as society considers, “the norm.” He did well in school and was strong-armed into college. He stuck it out and got a degree, that piece of paper considered essential to make it through door A. And he went out and he got a miserable job. He walked in every day and walked out. Each day worse than the last. And that’s the endless loop he lived; with each day worse than it’s predecessor, that means he always woke up to the worst day of his life. That’s his struggle, the daily grind. And I can’t argue that he wasn’t making his way to door A. He saved up enough to fill his apartment with shitty IKEA furniture, he was able to accrue some money in a bank account, and he got to fill his parking space with a decent car. Although none of these filled the void. He was able to see past the false happiness that we all experience. The image that capitalism creates in our mind, the perfect American society. Life in the suburbs with a subservient wife and the kids, living like the family on Leave it to Beaver. But Tom saw past it all, he saw what life was. Feeding the money machine that humans created, doing the hard work so life for those on the top could be filled with even better cars, more furniture, and the largest of all bank accounts. Now Tom’s position is one of curiosity: is it better to live a life blindly and ignorant, or to truly see what is happening behind the curtains? Well that has no definite answer. Humans strive for answers and Tom had them, so clearly he was in the better position, right? But Tom was the one limp on the ground, not the door A chasers so they live a better existence, right? Well there is no definite answer, while answers are what the human mind pursues and cannot live without; in the real world situation ignorance is bliss.


The smell of everything bagels fills my nostrils. I can taste the seeds on my tongue. Cream cheese would make a wonderful blanket--hot chocolate seems appropriate to be holding. What it would be like to hold hands with serenity, feeling her silky calmness between each finger. I’m ready to sink into linen and velvet upholstery, pull out a good book, and let any daily stressors melt away. Except I can’t do that because an eccentric woman wearing a pink plaid apron shoves a 3-wick candle mere centimeters under my nose. “Our Everything bagel candle is a fan favorite this season!” Her boisterous voice snaps me out of my daydream and invites me back to retail hell. Customers run rampant through the store, leaving various candles where they don’t belong. Shattered glass startles me six feet away, and one of the employees swiftly works through the crowd with a broom and dustpan. In big letters, the name “CHRISTIE” runs across the left side of her chest in bold, pink-and-white letters. “I don’t think my mom would like it,” I exert my voice over countless conversations going on simultaneously around Christie and me. My mother’s birthday is this weekend--her fifth year in a row turning twenty-seven. Does she burn candles? I convince myself that it’s the thought that counts. Typically, employees aren’t as eager as Christie is to help. “What does your mother like?” She asks me, aquamarine pupils concentrating on me. My mind goes blank as a plethora of scents cause olfactory sensory overload. I don’t think my mom likes anything, or maybe she’s never told me. My mom probably wouldn’t like Christie that much: She’s peppy, loud, and too eager to please. I suddenly grasp onto a thought. “Oh, she likes apple pies!” Whenever my mother isn’t working, you can find her baking some of the most delicious apple pies in front of the oven. The taste of fresh apples and a hint of cinnamon is overwhelming as I imagine savoring a bite. Christie beams, “Let me grab you the perfect candle!” Her ponytail bounces behind her as she races towards what looks like a seasonal table of candles. She returns as quickly as a dog with its favorite stick. Christie lifts the red candle to my face, “This one is called ‘Warm Apple Slice.’ It has Macintosh apples, cinnamon, brown sugar, and sweet vanilla. Smell!” I half-voluntarily inhale and am immediately transported back to my mom’s kitchen. She’s laughing, producing one of the heartiest laughs I’ve ever heard. I witness a beautiful, whimsical dance to no music in front of the stove. She takes both of my hands--at first, I’m embarrassed. But then, I drop my shoulders, let go of judgment, and dance. Our hips move side-to-side in an unsynchronized fashion. The smell of fresh apples with a hint of cinnamon is overwhelming. I jerk my head away from the candle and wipe a tear from my eye. “Maybe we could go with a different candle,” I noted. A slight frown forms on Christie’s face, but it quickly transforms into perseverance. “Tell me something else she likes.” This time, her hand is on the back of my right shoulder. “Watermelon lemonade!” I shouted. I don’t even know if she drinks that anymore. I also don’t know why that specific drink came to mind. But before I can debate what slipped out of my mouth, Christie appears in front of me with a new candle. It’s pink, and the candle’s aroma is a kiss from summer. “We specifically have a watermelon lemonade candle,” she assures me, “a perfect mix of juicy watermelon, freshly squeezed lemons, pure cane sugar, and love.” I’m a tad too eager as I pull the candle up to my nose and am taken to another dimension. My mother is again in the kitchen, messing with the blender. I feel younger and curious, and my mother can sense it. She doesn’t have to turn around to invite me into her culinary workspace. I’ve never heard of watermelon lemonade, as she’s showing me how to make it. “All you need is seedless watermelon, cold water, lemon juice, sugar, some ice cubes, and love.” I hear her voice; It’s velvety and warmer than any fireplace. My mother walks behind me and helps me remove the seeds from each watermelon piece. After the watermelon is pureed in the blender, we pour it into a bowl. She’s guiding my hand as we whisk the water, lemon juice, and sugar. I feel a wet kiss on my right cheek. I realize my mom snuck a couple pieces of watermelon for herself. I stare back at her, and our laughs merge. To get her back for my face being wet and sticky, I grab the kitchen sink sprayer, and a mist of water captures some of the cotton fibers of her shirt. My mom holds a strainer to shield herself. I instantly regret my choice to chase her when I feel a puddle of water soak the bottom of my foot, causing me to fall on my butt. My mother runs over and checks to see if I’m okay. I shove the candle away from me and back into Christie’s hands. What were these candles doing to me? Christie’s ocean eyes reflect that of mine, her blonde ponytail a slightly lighter shade than the shaggy mop on my head. “Who are you?” I stutter. The woman doesn’t answer my question and reveals a candle behind her. “Please let me show you one more candle, Zachary.” She knows my name--Every hair on my body stands up. This candle is gray and somehow overpowers any other scent in the store. “It’s called ‘Forgiveness.’ This candle isn’t one that you smell but that you feel.” I remain silent. “Maybe this is the candle my daughter would like.” “Grandma?” Tears form in my eyes, clouding my vision slightly. “Is that really you?” “You don’t have a lot of time.” She grabs both of my hands, and the warmth feels undeniably comforting. “Go see her, Zachy.” “But what if she doesn’t forgive me?” I ask faintly. My grandmother responds, “A mother’s love is patient and forgiving when all others are forsaking; it never fails or falters, even though the heart is breaking.” “Helen Rice,” I whisper between us. “One of your mother’s favorite writers.” She ushers the candles into my arms. “It might not be her forgiving you that needs accepting, but you to forgive yourself. Go. Be with her.” As I head to the register, I look back and say, “Thank you, and I love you.” No one is standing there, but my grandmother’s love for me encompasses my heart. *** The car ride was silent the entire 30-minute drive. I stand in front of my mother’s house, the same one where all my childhood memories soaked into the wallpaper and floorboards. Leaves cover the walkway; I kicked a few out of my way, trying not to fall and shatter any of the candles. I knocked three times on the door--no answer. Maybe this was a mistake. Before I can decide to leave or knock again, the door opens. My mother’s blonde curls travel down both sides of her face. Her eyes well up, and her mouth makes an O-shape. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I innocently say, tears streaming down my face. She notices the candles buried underneath my arm. “Your grandmother loved making candles--never really liked them.” There’s a pause between us as I feel more regret. “But I love you,” she utters, unsuccessfully holding tears back. I place the candles on the porch and hug my mother tightly. “Happy twenty-seventh birthday.”


FAT BOY When we got to the beach that Saturday, the sun was still weak and a man was drowning. My mother made me wear rubber sandals; the little dirt road that led to the beach was paved with broken glass. There was tall grass on both sides, taller than I was, with dragonflies buzzing above it. I asked my mother where the glass came from and she said, “Bottles. Bums come here during the night. They get drunk and break the empty bottles.” At first, nobody noticed he was drowning. He was deep in the sea, waving his arms, desperate for help, but his family - a large family - waved back at him and laughed. They didn’t know. Not too many people were swimming; the water was cold. My mother said I could take off my sandals now, and she spread out a big striped towel over the warm sand. We sat on it. She took an apple out of a canvas bag that she had packed with food, beach toys, and some money from the coffee can where she kept her waitress tips. I didn’t feel like eating. The sun was beginning to burn through the filter of clouds. We looked at the sea again, and now the man’s head was a little dark spot lost in the hugeness of blue where only boats and seagulls are allowed to go. It sank for a long time, and then it rose again. His family was standing up quiet and tense, beginning to understand. Two of them broke away from the group and ran to the sea. I looked at my mother, chewing her apple and shading her eyes with the palm of her hand, and asked if she though he would die. She shrugged. We watched the trail of foam left by the two rescuers, and the water splashing around their bodies as they swam fast toward the drowning man. They stopped for a moment and faced each other, letting their bodies float. Then they began to swim in circles and dive, and before long they were swimming back with effort, pulling something heavy behind them. The rest of the family waited inside the shallow water, waves breaking against their chests, spraying salt in their frightened faces. We saw them pull a man with blue skin out of the water. Quietly, the procession made its way to the sand, where they lay down the dead body, covered it with a striped towel just like ours, and sat in a circle around it. It took a long time for an ambulance to come and take the dead man away. And then it took a long time to leave, because its tires got stuck in the soft sand and the whole family had to push it. Finally, they all walked out of the beach with small, confused steps. I asked my mother why hadn’t any of them cried, and she said, “ Because they’re Asian, and the Asians are different from us.” A tall man, who had been watching it all, came walking toward us. He had the thick tanned skin of someone who had spent his whole life at the beach; it was hard to picture him wearing anything else other than trunks. “Sad thing,” he said, and my mother agreed. He sat beside her, but not too close, and told her that he had seen a lot of drownings on that beach. She said that it was her first time. And soon they were telling each other all about their lives, my mother talking about me as if I weren’t even there, saying how hard it was to take care of a child without the help of a husband, how much she wished I’d grow up soon, and how lonely she had been, for the longest time. He invited her for a swim. She accepted, but warned him that she wouldn’t go deeper than her waist: “I don’t want to drown like that man.” They both laughed, and he said with authority, “Don’t worry, I’ll save you.” He did have the body of a swimmer and the slippery skin of a fish. My mother opened her bag and took out my beach toys. “Look what I brought you,” she said, as if I the toys were a big surprise, maybe trying to show him what a good mother she was. Then she told me to stay where I was, while she went for a swim with her new friend. I didn’t feel like playing, but I started digging a hole. I watched them laugh and run to the sea, their bodies forming long and comical shadows on the sand. The clouds had scattered and the sun was high. Here and there, people were closing umbrellas, folding chairs and shaking towels, getting ready to leave for lunch. I took some bread from the bag and ate it with cheese. Then I ate the whole loaf and finished up the cheese, even though I wasn’t hungry. My mother and her friend were giggling and splashing water on each other. When they came back from the sea , he had his arm around her shoulders. They sat down, breathless and shiny, and smoked cigarettes. My mother turned around and looked at me a little surprised, as if she had forgotten of my existence. She smiled and rubbed her cold dripping arm against my back, making me shiver. The man spoke to me for the first time; he said that it was a nice hole, the one I was digging. They seemed so happy. My mother said that the sun and the sea always gave her an appetite. He admitted that he was hungry, too. She winked at him and pointed at the bag, proud of her womanly competence. But when her hands found only crumbs in the bottom of the bag, she became very upset. “You always eat too much,” she said. “That’s why they call you ‘fat boy’ at school.” She said other things, too, but I couldn’t understand her because the seagulls were screaming, and it sounded like their screams came out of my mother’s mouth. The man said it didn’t matter; he could get some oysters for them at the oyster stand. My mother said that she had never tried an oyster in her life, that she thought oysters were disgusting, and that I was the one who should be punished, not her. I kept digging my hole as if it were serious work, avoiding to look at them. My mother’s bad mood kept her quiet for a long time, until the man finally found a way to amuse her: he took my pail and covered her legs with sand, leaving only her toes sticking out; every time she moved them, they burst out laughing. “Let’s go for ice cream,” he said. She pulled her legs carefully out of the sand, leaving two neat tunnels. They were gone for a long time. The beach filled up again, this time with people who looked like they had eaten lunch and taken showers. A small girl let go of her father’s hand and came running to see the hole I was digging; she had a huge swelling in the back of her head. She asked me why I was making a hole. I said I didn’t know. Her father approached me, as if he owed me an explanation, and said that the swelling came from an operation she had had as a baby; the girl and her twin sister had been born connected by their heads. Only this one had survived. She kept looking inside the hole, untouched by her father’s words, and then she lost interest in it and ran after a dog. The afternoon went by quickly. The sun lost its fire and allowed a gentle wind to cool down our red bodies, the sea changed from blue to dark green, our shadows stretched as far as the rocks at the end of the beach, the seagulls retreated to the islands, and my mother didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day. When the sky began to darken, we collected our things and walked to the food stand. The sand was soft and still warm. My mother bought them beers in tall red plastic cups. They were thirsty and drank them quickly. My mother paid for another round, even though her friend had complained that the beer was warm. I sat on the boardwalk and watched them drink until their movements slowed down and their voices melted. By the time they ran out of money, the beach was dark and deserted. A pack of stray dogs had appeared out of nowhere, attracted by overflowing trash cans. Most of them were in terrible shape, some with limbs, ears, or tails missing, others with big patches of bare skin and maggot-infested wounds. I could tell one was blind; a white veil covered its eyes. They snarled at each other constantly, fighting over food and females. The place now belonged to them. My mother asked her friend where he lived, and he told her that right now he didn’t live anywhere; he had lost his job and had been staying with a friend. But on that same morning, they had had a fight - he didn’t explain the reason, and my mother didn’t ask. After the fight, his friend had apologized and even begged him to stay, but he felt very offended and declined the offer. He had no intention of going back; as far as he was concerned, the friendship was over. He had left his belongings in a locker at the train station and gone to the beach to calm down - the episode had left him very tense and upset. His plan was to relax at the beach for a couple of hours and then look for a room somewhere, but the beautiful day and the nice company had made him forget all about it. My mother listened to the story with exaggerated interest, and as soon as he became silent she said, “You won’t find a room at this time.” I stared at her furiously, knowing what was coming. We both knew it was wrong; we were painfully aware of our own vulnerability. But she avoided my angry eyes like a stubborn child and continued: “You can stay with us, just for the night.” He refused her offer weakly, but she insisted. With obviously false embarrassment that even I as a child could notice, but my mother chose to ignore, he looked down and thanked her. And down the dark street we went, my cheeks burning with resentment, my mother and her friend walking ahead of me, a short walk that seemed to take hours, with all the stopping and the kissing, the drunken laugh, the stumbling and the falling. When at last we arrived, my mother got rid of me as quickly as she could: she tucked me in bed securely, kissed me mechanically with a sour breath, switched the lights off, and closed the door. I could hear her rushed steps going back to the living room where he waited for her, half-asleep in the sofa. In my dark room, I let the weight of the day push my head deep into the pillow, and surrendered to the blessing of unconsciousness. \- Early morning sunlight leaked through the holes and cracks of the window shades, projecting irregular shapes of light against the walls and the furniture. My mother stood alone in the middle of the living room, amid faint vapors of alcohol and tobacco. “Where is he?” I said. She turned to me and her bloodshot eyes were the heartbreaking answer. I could hear a fly trapped between the windows and the shades. She walked to the kitchen area and began to cook breakfast, but today there was no music under the beating of the eggs and the whistle of the kettle. I looked at the window ledge and couldn’t find the radio in its usual place, nor anywhere else. Cabinet doors were open. Drawers had been pulled out and turned upside down. Intuitively, my eyes searched for the coffee can where my mother kept her tip money; there was only an empty space on the shelf, like a missing tooth, where the can should have been. It stood, open and empty, inside the sink. My mother had made no effort to hide the situation from me. It was her way of admitting her mistake and seeking penitence. I didn’t say a word, knowing that her shame couldn’t be deepened any further. When breakfast was over, she faked a smile and said, “So, it’s another beautiful day. Shall we go to the beach?” I didn’t feel like it, but even if I had been dying of the most terrible disease, I wouldn’t have declined her offer. So to the beach we went, me flapping my sandals over the broken glass and the dog shit, her bending under the weight of the canvas bag, and when we arrived I saw that my hole hadn’t been washed away by the tide, nor filled up by the wind: it was just as I had left it. My mother lay down the striped towel right next to it. I thought about tomorrow, Monday, when I would go back to school, and my mother to work, so we should make the most of our Sunday together. Yet, I couldn’t think of anything else to do but dig that hole deeper and deeper, and the bigger it got, the more children came by to marvel at the darkness of its bottom. And all Sunday I worked on it, and it turned out to be so wide and deep that anyone, even a fat boy like me, could easily get inside it and disappear forever. As for my mother, she spent the day watching the sea - not really lost in thought: attentive - as if something hideous and truthful could emerge from its depths at any moment.


Most of my adult life, I’ve been told that home ownership has its quirks. That there’s always more work to be done, more problems to be solved, things that need fixing. When I bought my house, I found a few arcade game style coin slots on the walls. I figured, of course, that the previous owner must have been really into the whole "retro aesthetic" and maybe that they had some arcade cabinets to go along with it. I only ever saw the house after they moved everything out, you know, an empty home, but I don't remember seeing these coin slots on any of the walls. A few days go by, and my wife and I have sorted through all most of the boxes of important stuff. I crack open a beer (pretty much the only thing we had in the fridge so far) and a coin slot, just a little past the fridge down the front hall, catches my eye. It looked to me like it was glowing. I chalked it up to being some sort of trick of the light, because I would have noticed a glowing coin slot there before. I went over to inspect it, really get a good look at one of these things. Once we were all settled in, the other coin slots would get my attention and I'll get about removing them, but at that moment, I decided I needed to focus my attention on this one in particular. The coin slot was glowing alright. There was no weird light reflection as far as I could tell. I took a long sip of my beer and then touched it. I don't know what I was expecting. The coin slot had the exact same feel that it looked like it should. I wrapped my fingertips around the edges and tried to pry it loose a bit, give it a wiggle, but it wouldn't budge. There didn't seem to be any obvious way to uninstall the coin slot without doing serious damage to the drywall. A task for later, I supposed. I pushed the plastic coin return button a few times. An intense sense of satisfaction washed over me, or maybe that was just the beer after a long day of unpacking. I'd get to it tomorrow. The morning came, and I walked downstairs to find my wife pressing a coin slot. A new one, right there in the kitchen. I was sure we would have noticed it yesterday while putting away all the dishes and kitchenware, but obviously not. She was standing there, coffee in hand, just pushing the button over and over again. She hardly noticed I had even come into the kitchen. I grabbed her by the hips and asked what she was doing, and it was like knocking her out of a trance. She told me that she just noticed the coin slot and she was just having fun pushing the button. I told her how they're going to be tough to remove, but she said I don't need to get rid of *all* of them. That leaving this one around at least would be fine. I had to admit that pushing the coin return button was pretty fun. We spent the day straightening things out around the house and it seemed like every time we moved some furniture, or put something away, we'd find another coin slot fixed to the wall or the floor or in a cabinet or under a sink. It felt fun. We'd call out to each other each time we'd discover another. "PLAYER ONE!" I'd yell when I found one and "PLAYER TWO" when my wife found one. Then we'd press the button in several times, even though she seemed to get a little carried away sometimes. This went on all day and we really enjoyed finding these coin slots, until the day was over, and we sat back to relax. It started to really hit us how weird it was to have a house with retro arcade coin slots all over. I tried to shake the spooky feeling crawling up my spine. Surely, they were all there before and we just hadn't noticed them all with the excitement of a new house, our first house by the way. Again, I wanted to celebrate the hard work with a beer and my eye was immediately drawn to the same coin slot as the night before. Still glowing, maybe even brighter this time. I called out to my wife, who was idly pressing a coin slot button on the floor while watching TV and asked her if we had any quarters anywhere. She perked up and ran upstairs. My eyes remained on the orange glow of the coin slot as I heard her rummaging through who knows what upstairs. She came thumping quickly down the stairs with a quarter pinched between her fingers. I grabbed it. This wave of nervous anxiety kind of washed over me and I didn't know why. Maybe this coin slot led nowhere. Maybe I was about to drop a coin into my wall and never see it again. Why was I apprehensive? I held my breath and dropped the coin in. The house was silent as my wife and I stilly waited and listened. We heard the coin clank down some unseen path and for far further than just to the floor. My wife ran upstairs to find more quarters and I hurried downstairs to see if the coin landed somewhere in the basement. The basement which I remember being unfinished and totally empty. I would be able to spot a quarter if it had dropped down there. My heavy steps stressed the unpainted wooden stairs. I pulled the strings of the exposed bulbs to shed some light on my situation, but the bulbs were not very bright. I was amazed and a bit frightened to see the basement walls and floors covered in retro coin slots. All the same. All the same orange "Insert to Play" style coin slots. I walked slowly through them trying to set aside this strange fact and find the quarter. The buttons illuminated under my bare feet with each step, so it I stepped cautiously. I don't know why. I felt like I needed to be delicate and quiet. Overhead, I heard my wife drop another quarter into the slot. I listened for it, could hear it shuffled through some path, but I couldn't pin point the direction. The clinking and clanging echoed from every direction. Disorienting. Then I heard more quarters, much more quarters. The coin slots all around me were flashing now. That orange glow felt harsh and alive. These quarters weren't emptying here. Not at all. I stumbled a bit as I made for the stairs. There were coin slots on each step now as I used my hands for balance and climbed up the stairs. I opened the door to the main level to find my wife shoving quarters into coin slots all over. Not just the one from before, from just a few minutes ago, but all over. There were coin slots blanketing the wall, on the railing, on the ceiling, on the floor. My wife's arms were overflowing with quarters. Where did she get all these? We've never had this much change. She was muttering to herself, "ready player two, ready player two, ready player two." She squatted low, dropping coin after coin into the slots and pushing the buttons. The rigid edges of the plastic buttons dug into my bare feet. I stumbled over to my wife and put my hands on her shoulders to turn her around and face me. Her eyes were vacant. She kept muttering her words, the coin slot's words. The only light around me was the erratic and blinding orange glow of thousands and thousands of retro arcade coin slots. I squinted and slapped the side of my head trying to focus on my ailing wife. All I could hear was the quarters, so many quarters, slinking through slots to some unknown destination. When I opened my eyes, I saw my wife no longer sinking her coins into the floor and walls, but into herself. Her thighs had coin slots now, no different than the walls. Her arms had coin slots as well. She kept muttering and muttering and dropping in coin after coin into the grotesque coin slots fused to her flesh. The words, the muttering, the coins, the clinking. Where were they going? What happened to my wife? I just got up and ran. Every surface, every square inch of my new home, my once beautiful new home, was covered in flashing coin slots. My feet were bloody now from stomping across the coin slots, but I didn't care. I reached for the front door and noticed a coin slot on my own forearm. As disgusted as I was, as frantic as I was to leave this house, as scared and worried about what my wife had become as I was, I just couldn't help but press in that glowing orange button. I suddenly realized I was holding a quarter. Letting go of the knob to the front door, I fell to the ground. The coin slot. The quarter. The coin slot. The quarter. The clinking of the coins through the house. The mutter of my wife in the background. The flashing orange glow surrounding and overwhelming me. I slid the quarter into my coin slot, and it felt so good.


I feel my feet barely touch the rough rocks below the water. I wade only a small distance from the shore in the murky green lake as the thumping in my temples respond to the overbearing heat. I breathe, and yet it feels that the water has filled the air as much as it has my pores, and the soft caverns of my lungs continue to feel its nourishment. The water is still and cool, and I can stand in place on the rock with only a slight feeling of my hips twisting. *Rain has yet to fall.* I close my eyes to the looming willows, intertwined with white daisies and zippering fleas, and listen to the imminent summer storm. Not relentless as one to change the seasons, but one that is thorough and plain. Livable. I feel this emotion come over me, I am nothing in this world. No bigger than a grape woven into the skirts of a mountain and yet I have this power that comes intrinsically to the living thing. I am nothing in this world, and this lake will never remember the feeling of my feet on its bottom as I remember the feeling of its bottom on mine. In ten years or ten weeks or ten days will I remember the rough edges of this rock? The rock on which my whole world stands still. I gently kick with my feet, not letting go of the rock, just enough to keep my balance as the waters around me begin to crack open like ice. The rock nourishes me as I balance on it, as if it can protect me from all the rain to come. And yet somehow, I know I must leave the water someday, away from its protection. But I am not scared, until I had the rock, I never needed it so I will continue living without it. Living, finally. The song of a bird makes me open my eyes. A short call, not one to start a response. And yet the bird decides that it does not require the energy it consumes in calling; it will just call instead. And call it does. And stand I do, looking around for it but without any success. I am marvelously intrigued by the tone and rhythm of the call, and it makes me continue to look around and lose my balance slightly, kicking to stay upright and treading with my hands. I feel the cool waters clashing with the skin around my neck, skin that feels the weight of the dank air. Flies swarm so close I could bite down on them and chew. I feel the bird calling me out, its song continues. Tears beat at the back of my throat and near the bottom of my eyes. Why, I do not know. I should begin crying soon, I know I should. But I cannot until I leave the water, lest my tears fall into this vast basin and be shed in vain. The water picks me up, and slowly drifts me backwards. I trust it, it is not a long journey to shore, it can take me there. And if I should drown because of it, then I let the world make its choice, as I am nothing. Nothing like the snails on the road. Goodbye, rock. *Rain begins to fall*. I emerge and I am something, something like snails to a watchful eye. The lake is more active now, waters moving and pushing, somehow this part’s work is done and yet as a whole there is so much more to do. Oh, the woes of the waters. Life fills me with warmth as the air engulfs me. I feel the lake on my skin, its homely waters resting in bulbs as I lay still. Some are disturbed by the occasional faint droplet coming from the sky. Those are painful tears, tears of something ready to burst, but tears of love or hate only the waterer knows. The rain hurts, and so I let out my tears. I imagine them beating through my skin, and finally ripping through. Not coming from my eyes but from under, a place they come from when they are not mine. These are not my tears I am crying but I feel the pain, fuck I feel the pain. Why do I feel such pain? And then I take my first real breath, and everything comes back to normal. I have a gentle wheeze as I inhale, and feel the real air enter my lungs. Warm and thick, I feel it pressing against my cheeks. I know why I am crying. The bird’s call makes me stand up. Water dripping down my back and down my legs until it reaches the soil, just as the rain begins to wash away the muck left on me. Calm but strong, the bird’s call finally has a location, it has been calling me. I meet its gaze. It is a small bird, yellow in its feathering with red around its eyes, and a tall head sticking up from its round body. And finally I understand that I was wrong. I am nothing to myself, but to that bird I am everything. So what am I... Everything or nothing? I cannot be both, but here both exist. And so I decide I am something after all, and the mountains can have their grapes in their skirts because I have you. I didn’t realize it was you until I could see you, but I see it now. I have you with your brown-almost-black eyes and your ugly toes that you are always embarrassed of, but I find adorable. You sit perched on a rock nearby (did I love a rock once?) and you sing for me to come to you. And I come to follow you forever. Until you find the place you want to take me, somewhere where the rain doesn’t feel so bad, as it enters, my skin.


This is so old, it's got mold. Here we were on the way to clean out the remains of a house trailer that had been stuck in the same location for over eighty years. It's buried like a grave site imbedded in the ground but there was still access to get inside to hopefully find the answers to the questions that have surfaced at family get-togethers over the years. It was an unforeseen moment in time when a hurricane lifted the house trailer only to neatly set it down about a hundred yards away. That was the craziest moment highlighted years ago in daily newspapers across the country. Where the family disappeared to was anyone's guess. They were never seen again. Long ago, the trailer was built in the Carolinas and moved to its permanent location by a team of horses and wagons. It was only a few weeks ago that we found out about their questionable lifestyle and livelihood. This family lived their lives as hucksters, where the selling of items through and around towns along the east coast by wagon became a huge money tree. A new area was needed to serve their purpose, so suitcases were packed up and they settled into a new house trailer. They picked a rural area that had many small towns near the Outer Banks region of North Carolina where they could peddle their wares; shoddy or otherwise to a new influx of the ones settling into this area towards the end of the Great Depression. Cash money was on the upswing. No one trusted the banks. You know what I mean? And now, here we found ourselves in the middle of a family dilemma yet to be made clear. We only knew that the property had seen better days and now it was time to sell. As the story unfolded, we were not aware if anyone inhabited this place back in '35 when an epic seasonal windstorm began brewing up the Atlantic Coast. Its wrath started to unfurl along the southern part of Florida's coast. Then it came screaming up through various coastal regions and turned into the most horrific monster of a category 5 storm remembered to this day as the Labor Day Hurricane of 1935. It was reported that more houses flew around, but there did not seem to be any bad witch that this particular house trailer landed on in the aftermath, oh well. It most certainly would have turned into a different version of the famous scene in the movie as it would be showing a hurricane instead of the tornado. It probably would not have turned into the epic film it still is to this day. You know what I mean? Before we came here on this interesting adventure, the black and white picture we saw of this place looked disturbed and creepy. Certainly not for the average person to unknowingly agree to take on this task. How we got railroaded into making this whole mess go happily in another direction was another story. Generations change and this family was only known to us through a few grainy photographs and some of the old, saved newspapers. Who and how we were related was still unclear. The three of us were tasked to go on this road trip destination and to figure out how to proceed with the next part of the plan. The property had been vacant for decades and declared abandoned years ago. Our Uncle who was on top of this situation had asked if we could assume the role of managing what was left of the property. We needed to make changes since more development was affecting the town. The train depot and rail lines were along one side of the property boundary for miles so who knew what that meant in the long run. He had more information kept in his file of the family and arranged to meet to let us in on the story behind the story. It was agreed to open, what we charmingly called, Pandora's box, at the town coffee depot in an hour. Before that happened, the three of us opted to stop by the house trailer and maybe get a sense of the mystery of this place and the surrounding property. You know what I mean? As sisters, we've had some pretty amazing road trips over the years. This one had to top the cake. We found the muddy, dirt road less travelled where the house trailer sat, and pulled over to scope out the surrounding area. With windows rolled down, we observed the sunken Albatross in the distance which was overgrown with vines and wildflowers. It had an interesting cluster, though, of metal still attached on the roof. So, freaking amazing! It was an object d'art piece made to be an actual weathervane. I called first 'dibs' on it since it was a family heirloom of sorts and did not care what the others found behind the doors at this place. They looked at me like I was crazy, but this was my winning prize when our job was over! Then the talk went on and on about the who, what, where of it all. Why us? Then we got out and snuck around looking in the windows. The place was filled, floor to ceiling, with boxes of stuff and random odd items like horses from a carousel. Was this a huckster hording nightmare gone through the roof? Time was up to get to our meeting, but the decision was made as we drove away, that the three of us would go back and get it done, whatever that meant. We would be smart, go in carefully with helmets, safety goggles, headlamp, coveralls, boots and a pickaxe, since there was no idea who or what remained behind the 'curtain'. You know what I mean? We pulled over, parked next to the front door of the coffee depot and went inside to find our uncle sitting with the box. He greeted us as coffees were poured and each took a seat around the 'centerpiece of the hour'. Pandora's box had been found blown into a tree in '35 and kept in the town archives. The name on the box was finally connected to the family of the family who were notified of the property. He got right down to business informing us of the contents. "You are not going to like what you agreed to do." The look he gave us was not expected. He reached into the box to pull out only one piece of paper and a key. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." The key was to the house trailer. The rest of the words on the paper stated, "Whomever holds these words are hereby obliged to partake in the windfall of artifacts duly acquired yet fully submerged on the property." We were shocked to learn that we had a distant cousin who had joined up with the hucksters. It was none other than the famous bank robber, John Dillinger! How could we even think about selling the property not knowing if a boatload of money was squirreled behind the walls in the house trailer, under a mattress sunken to the floor with hundreds of boxes on top or randomly buried in a treasure chest somewhere in a field on the property. You know what I mean?


TRIGGER WARNING: This story mentions physical violence, mild substance abuse, and profanity. Watching the time pass by keeps me sane. It helps me cope. It keeps the days, and thankfully the nights silent. I remember when my mother used to use her time to see other men, who only saw her as a sex object. Tip toeing past my door, in an attempt to sneak into her room as if they were stealing food from the fridge late at night. Noises of pleasure beating the wall until it bleeds white powder from its foundation. Waking the world, my world, from its peaceful state of silence. My father used to waste his money on cigarettes and booze. He would bathe in his own tears. Walking around as if he was the victim of his mental abuse. Of his physical abuse. Painting my mother’s face in different colors. Black circles were painted on rainy days. Purple bruises stroked across the arms and neck on stormy nights. Dripping red blood, stained on the ripped shirt and busted lip of the canvas. I was fourteen when my parents first decided on divorcing. Fifteen, when they made it official. On my sixteenth birthday, neither one of my parents said happy birthday. Seventeen was the age where they stopped acknowledging me altogether. Lucky number eighteen, was there ‘I love you’ mute button. Three days before my twentieth birthday, my father died. Five days after my twenty-second birthday, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Fighting to save her life for two years, but gave up after the third. Seven months later, I met my boyfriend. Andy. The love of my life. My drug. He’d make me happy when I covered my cries. Taking me away from the world that was beating me down. Our time together was perfect. Until someone changed him. In times when he should’ve been making me smile, he was the one making me cry. He eventually became the world that was beating me down. But every time I left him, he'd apologize and I would run right back. Andy was a drug lord and at first I wanted nothing to do with it, but then my new friend cocaine came along. Followed by my best friend heroine. They were my rock. My safe haven for when I'm in need of saving. And there was a time they filled my body with happiness so great, my heart stopped for only 4.7 seconds. A new record. His little business in Chicago ended after one of his junkie friends overdosed on his supply. He says that it was so traumatizing, it would be best for him to move in. With me. His failed business got so bad I had to buy a gun just to protect myself whenever I came home from work. There was a time when I worked at a medical clinic. One of the biggest businesses in the world. I was clocking out after a shift, when I realized that I had forgotten my keys at my desk. I didn't have time to wait for the elevator, so I ran up three flights of stairs. I hated those stairs with a passion. It always made me feel as though someone was watching me, lurking in the shadows of the corners I ran past. I had finally grabbed my keys and then stopped. I don't know why, but my body told me to stop and listen. So I did. There was no sound. I was stupid to ignore it because as I placed my heel back down on the hard, white tile, another step that wasn't my own followed. I breathed in. But someone else breathed out. It was a longer and heavier breath. I could almost feel it from where I was standing. My body began to tremble. My knees began to buckle, but my mind told me to run without looking back. Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look back . I ran to the stairs. 1 minute. New record. I kept running, and I kept listening. As my steps echoed, that person behind me had ran two steps closer. But I finally made it out of the building before they could grab me. I heard a thud but I was smart enough not to turn around. I ran all the way home in less than ten minutes. New record . I turned off the lights of my house, just in case they followed me. As I peeked out the window, I heard the door knob shake. “Marlee?” It was Andy. He was supposed to be with his family on vacation. “Andy? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Chicago with your family?” I stood up and opened the door to let him in. “Flight got canceled. I have to leave tomorrow afternoon for the next one.” He sat down at the dining room table. “After I heard about it, I just came straight home to see you. Didn’t take any stops because I was honestly too tired.” He asked what happened and I told him someone had chased me after my shift from work. “WHAT?! Who was it?” He stood up with rage igniting in his eyes. “Andy, sit down. They are long gone by now. Nothing to worry about.” I grabbed his hand and guided him back down to his chair, but he winced at my touch. “Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?” I asked. “Nothing. I’m tired. I'm going to bed”. He got up to leave but I grabbed his wrist this time, so that I wouldn't hurt him. I turned his hand over. I was confused. “What happened?” His palm was scraped up. and bleeding. I ran to get the first aid kit. When I came back, Andy was just sitting there. As if someone casted a spell that made him paralyzed. “Give me your hand. Honey, what happened?” “Well nothing really. Some lady dropped her wallet and as I was running to give it to her, I tripped and my hand broke my fall. It's just a little scratch, no biggie.” He shrugged. I dabbed alcohol on his wound and he wouldn’t stop flinching so I decided to give up on cleaning it, and just chose to dress it. “Was this at the airport?” I asked. “No, it was over on Kinley street. By the bakery. Uh, what was its name? Oh right, Charlie’s Cookie Factory. Such a corny name.” He giggled. He looked up at me. I was staring at him. “I thought you said you didn’t take any stops. Why would you be on Kinley street?” I stopped wrapping the wound, and was now in a staring contest with him. “That doesn’t matter. Are you done?” He asked with a serious look on his face. “Yes it does matter. Why would you be on Kinley street Andy? Why would you be on the same street, my job is located?” I asked, becoming frustrated. He snatched his hand away and stared deep into my eyes. I could feel them burning with irritation. “I said that doesn’t matter, Marlee. Now stop asking questions, and let's just go to bed huh?” I stood there, silent. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for time to start again but it wouldn’t. I couldn’t move. It wouldn't let me. He wouldn’t let me. But I provoked him, and you should never provoke a liar. “You were with that bitch weren’t you? Your new girlfriend. I fucking knew you were still seeing her. I’m done with you! GO TO HELL!-” He slapped me and the air left my throat. So I said again: “Go to hell.” And spit on him. Andy grabbed me by my arm and pulled me so hard, I lost my balance and slammed my knee into the ground. He then grabbed my clothes as I was fighting back, and dragged me into the spare bedroom and beat me. Just like how my father beat my mother. But this time, there was no storm. It was quiet. No sound. No thunder, lightning, no rain. Nothing. Just the wind’s calm tune as it walks through the leaves of the bushes in the neighborhood. After he finished painting his masterpiece, he walked out and locked the door. I sat on the bed. Silently sobbing. I would never let him hear my pain. Never will I ever let him know that he is in control. I didn’t sleep because everytime I closed my eyes, I saw his. His scary, green eyes staring at my soul. I hate the feeling of its burn. So I just stared at the clock. The clock, yes the clock, watching the time tick away. Tik. Tears. Tok. Sniffles. Tik. Silence. Tok. A year went by since that night and it was Andy's birthday. I picked up a couple extra shifts to earn enough money for a new watch he had been eyeing since I met him. But every time I left the house for a late night shift, it seemed that someone else came in. 09:23. The clock read. It was three hours before his birthday so I decided to go home early to change into something more romantic, as I planned on taking Andy out at twelve. 10:12. I finally got home and walked to my porch. Step by step, my smile grew. Excited to make my love the happiest man on earth. Forgetting every somber memory of us from the last three years. 10:22. I hear giggling coming from our bedroom,and as I open the door my heart falls down to my ass. Andy. The love of my life. My drug. Sitting next to a woman. A beautiful woman. The type of woman, to be with another woman’s man. Andy. The love of my life. Our time is precious. Why waste it? 10:45. Silence. For forty-seven seconds. New record. Stares. Tik. Sniffles. Tok. “Leave.” I say to the beautiful woman in my bed. With my man. “Andy, honey? Who is this?” Andy. “Leave.” I say once again. “Marlee? Why are you here? I thought you were working late tonight.” Said Andy shaking. “Honey, why are you shaking?” Said the beautiful woman becoming a little nervous. 11:26. Step. Tick. Fear. Tok. Step. Tick. Begging. Tok. “Marlee don't.” Said Andy rising from his spot on the bed, leaving a rip in the sheets from holding on too tightly. “Don’t what baby?”I said, lifting the heavy, new pistol from its resting place. “Take another step and I'll shoot your toe off.” 11:34. The man in bed with the beautiful woman. Perfect. I've been wanting to end this nightmare, the minute he let me take the fall for his second business. His second business. Number two. Lucky. Number. Two. He got caught selling dope in an alley. He had asked me to hide them in my purse. Of course I told him no. The cops searched him. Clean. They searched me. Clean. They searched his car. Clean. His bag. Clean. Our house. Clean. Everything was clean. My purse. Purse. The purse. My purse wasn't clean. Thrown to the ground. Screams of pain from my lungs rang in his ears like the church bells that everyone loved to listen to. From a distance. Four years. Four long, time consuming years. Taken from my life. Twenty-nine years old. Finally being released from prison. All thanks to good behavior. Isn't that amazing? 11:56. Aim. Tik. “Leave.” Tok. No movement. I slowly move my fingers down to the trigger. Breathe in. Tik. Bang. Tok. Breathe out. Tik. Breathe in. Tok. Breathe out. Tik. Relief. Tok. “MARLEE! NO!” Screamed the man, trembling over the blood painted body of the beautiful woman. I was surprised at how he hadn’t lunged to hurt me like he would before, but i guess he knew he fucked up in the end and accepted what came next. “Barely breathing. Just how I like it.” I giggled. 12:00. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Andy. Happy birthday. To. You.” I sang. A hush fell over the room... and then I heard it. Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. BANG! Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.