I’ve had an effect on people ever since I was a child. I can’t explain it and it’s driven me to the brink of insanity. I never asked or prayed for it. In fact, I don’t even know if I believe in God. But the circumstances around my unique condition aren’t natural, or even human. There was a time when I thought I had been cursed with some kind of spiritual intervention. Even if that were the case, I don’t know what purpose it would possibly served. I first noticed I was different when I was in kindergarden. I was engaged in some minor dispute with another boy in class. I don’t even remember what we were fighting over. But I got angry and punched the kid in the face. He went down, clutching his mouth, and began to cry. His lip began to bleed. Instead of just lying there though, he got up, wiped his eyes, and gave me a hug. A teacher saw it happen and I thought I was going to be punished, as I should have been. Instead, she praised me for doing the right thing and the next day my class had cake, in my honor. Even at that age, this confused me. I had always been taught to do the right thing, respect others, and listen to your elders. Television, media, literature, and outside social interactions built the same constructs of normal human behavior we were all supposed to abide by. I saw others getting in trouble for acting out, for talking back, or for being violent. But never me. I was always the exception. Whenever I did anything bad, I was applauded, admired, and rewarded. This led to a very confused upbringing, as you can imagine. The constant positive repercussions of my bad behavior seemed to exist in a bubble, and were judged by a set of rules that were not only alien, but incomprehensible. As I grew up and went through school, I began to test the limits of what I could get away with. And no matter what I did, my seemingly immortal morality remained unstained. I was gifted countless things, praised by other parents, and admired by my teachers and peers. It was madness and I had the self awareness to realize that. One time in fourth grade I wanted to trade lunches with one of my friends. He refused and so I knocked his food to the ground and stomped it to mush. Terrible, right? Well, some teachers saw that and what did they do? They went out and got me exactly what I wanted from the store and presented it to me in front of the whole class. They all clapped. They all smiled. Even my friend, the one I had attacked, told me he was glad I was his buddy and invited me to his house after to play Xbox. In seventh grade there was a girl I had a crush on. I tried to kiss her, but she told me she didn’t want to. So I grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her against the wall and screamed in her face, told her she was ugly and I didn’t want to kiss her anyway. She started to cry, but after a moment, she wiped her eyes and told me she didn’t deserve someone as great as me. A teacher had seen the whole thing and pulled me to the side. She told me I had been brave and acted with maturity. She led me into an empty classroom and showed me her tits. Then she let me touch them. I knew I could do whatever awful thing I wanted to her and so I twisted one of her nipples as hard as I could, digging my nails into her soft flesh. She started to bleed and I could tell she was in pain, but I didn’t stop until she began to sob. I should have been locked up for something like that. My teacher kissed me on the mouth afterward and told me I was a good boy, that she wished her own son would be more like me. And the insanity of that statement is that if her son did what I did, he’d get into a hell of a lot of trouble. He’d be sent to counseling, pumped full of medication, and shipped off to a school for troubled kids. I saw it all the time. People doing things I did everyday and getting punished for them. Highschool hit and I turned into a monster. I felt invincible. The moral bridge I had been trying to balance myself on completely collapsed during that time. I stole whatever I wanted, skipped class as often as I pleased, beat up kids I didn’t like, and fucked whoever I had a passing horny thought about. I was a tornado of unrest, angst, and carelessness. Why? Because I never had to deal with any kind of fallout. I was always slapped on the back, given a toothy grin, and told what a swell guy I was. During my first year of college, I hit celebrity status because I ran over one of my professors with my car. I hated the guy. Not because he did anything to me personally, but because he always smiled at this Junior I had a crush on. So I waited for him one night in the parking lot and ran him down. It took a couple passes, too. I heard his bones break beneath me, his screams, and the awful whine of my car as it struggled to get over his mangled form. Before he died, I went his side to watch him take his last breath. Around a mouthful of blood, he smiled and thanked me. I caved his head in with my heel. The next day, there was an article in the paper about what I had done. What was the headline? “Local hero stands up to biased teacher!” Sure, they buried him and people were sad, but there was never any anger. Even the professor’s family held no ill will. In fact, they called me soon after and told me they respected what I had done and apologized for the dead man. It was then, that night, that I began to wonder if I was a god. By the time I hit my twenties, I was almost always in the news. My face was plastered to hundreds of billboards. My name was on the cover of dozens of magazines. Everyone looked up to me, praised me, practically worshiped me. I was given money, cars, houses, boats, whatever the hell I wanted. All I needed to do to get these things...was something terrible. Didn’t like my Miami mansion? No problem. I kidnapped a popular pop star at one of the clubs I frequented and tortured her in front of a webcam. I broadcasted it live on my website, something that had been set up for me for just such an event. The next day, a billionaire from Italy called and told me I had inspired him. That my actions had moved him, brought him to tears. He gave me a twelve bedroom house on a forty acre plot of land. When I was twenty-five, I lusted after a famous movie star. We’ll call her Fran. I met her at a high society party I had been invited to. Flashy cars, expensive clothes, cigar smoke and plastic smiles. When I was introduced to her, I thought we hit it off, that she was into me. But during my follow up afterwards, she made it clear she wasn’t romantically interested. Sure, she respected and thought the world of me, but so did everyone else. I couldn’t make people love me. I couldn’t make them want to be with me, share a life with me. I was an icon to her, nothing more. Her rejection sent me into a spiral of depression and hatred. I wanted to kill her for turning my affection aside. Because that’s just what I fucking did. That’s how I dealt with things. That’s how I had obtained everything I had ever wanted. Destroy, kill, steal, fuck, rape and watch the masses bow down before me in admiration, watch them shower me with every material thing I could ever want. So what did I do? How did I cope with this loss of connection I so desperately wanted? I went to her parent’s house and put a gun to her father’s head. I made him call Fran over to the house. When she arrived, I made her take off all her clothes and pretend she was a cow while I jerked off on her back. All the while, I kept the gun to her father’s head and made him watch. After I ejaculated, I made Fran’s mother lick it off her skin. And they thanked me the whole time, eyes shining with sickly veneration. Even Fran, who held no desire for my attention, smiled at me and for a second I thought I saw a shadow of love in her expression. Or whatever I thought love was. I misinterpreted it. I mistook it. I thought I was winning her over by being the monster everyone wanted. So I shot her father in the head, blew his brains out all over the floor. Screams followed, but were cut short as glistening eyes widened and glorified expressions of worship took over. I went to the kitchen and got a knife. I thought I was on a role. That look in Fran’s eyes. It was growing brighter. Perhaps I just had to push things even further. I sat down in a chair and got Fran’s mom down on her knees. I pushed her head into my lap and sawed it off. I never broke eye contact with Fran, who just watched, mouth agape, her eyes glowing with absolute wonderment. When I was finished, I pushed the headless corpse away and asked Fran to marry me. She just shook her head, saying nothing, tears running down her face with a smile so big I could have shoved her mom’s severed head into it. I left, overwhelmed with a sense of loss so great I thought I would die beneath it. I spent the next month locked in my LA mansion. I drank myself half to death and injected every kind of poison I could find into my veins. I blanked out, zoned out, took off to another place. When I came out of my daze, weeks later, the president wanted to meet me and shake my hand. A film crew wanted permission to make a documentary about me. My mailbox was flooded with money I didn’t need, items I didn’t want, and praise I didn’t desire. It made me sick. It made me enraged. Why was I like this? Why was I able to get away with this? Why didn’t anyone punish me for my actions? Why did I sit at the top of the world and feel so goddamn hopeless? Why didn’t anyone fucking love me? What was I doing wrong? It may seem obvious to an outsider, but to me it was chaos. It was around that time that I noticed the man with the bandaged face. I was coming out a store I had just robbed, my pockets stuffed with cigarettes, junk food, and energy drinks. He was leaning against my car, arms crossed, dull eyes poking out from white cloth. His appearance stopped me dead in my tracks, a sudden tremor running through me. He was wearing a black button up, jeans, and looked completely normal except for his wrapped features. He apprised me without any expression, our eyes meeting and locking. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, he simply reclined casually against my car, as if waiting for me to do something. And something told me...something warned me...whispered...that I needed to stay away from him. So I turned down the sidewalk and strode in the opposite direction, heart inexplicably racing. I chanced a glance over my shoulder and felt my blood turn to ice. He hadn’t moved, but he was still watching me. As I put distance between us, a horrible familiarity began to emerge from the depths of my memory. I had seen this man before. In that moment, I couldn’t place it, but I knew I had seen him before. His presence jarred my memory, dug at it with insistent certainty. It was like a layer of my past suddenly unfolded, revealing a trail of hidden encounters. I ripped open a pack of cigarettes and lit one as I walked, racking my brain for some clue. It wasn’t until my second smoke that I remembered. I stopped and stared horrified into the middle distance. Pieces fell into place. Memory rebuilt itself. They were so fleeting, so minute that I almost lost them again. My sixth birthday party. I was at a pizza parlor with my friends. The man had been there, sitting alone at a table in the corner. Twelve years old. Going to the movies. He had sat a couple rows behind me. It had been a horror movie and I thought it was just some weirdo who had dressed up for it. I had made fun of his bandaged face to my friends. We all laughed loudly. High school. During the bad times. My neighbors dog had been barking all night. It kept me up. I had gone down that morning and killed it with a shovel. When the deed was done, I looked across the street, my hands splattered with blood. The man had been there. He was across the street, hands in his pockets, watching me. He stayed like that until I went inside. Twenty-two. Drunk as hell, stumbling through a bar, punching anyone who got in my way as I staggered to the bathroom. I had thrown up. Blearily, I remember he had been sitting in the adjacent stall, door open, hands resting casually on his knees. He never said a word to me. And now this. Here. He was back and I had no idea what the hell he wanted or who he was. I just knew, felt, that he was a danger to me. I managed to get back to my apartment without another sighting and made an impulse decision to fuck off to Europe for a couple months. Within the day, I was on my private plane throwing back expensive bourbon, and staring out at the Atlantic Ocean. The alcohol didn’t have the desired impact I wanted, but I kept pouring anyway. I let the drone of the engines fill my head, but it wasn’t enough to stop the insistent thoughts, the memories of the bandaged man. As the hours passed, I uprooted more of them, like snippets of film, little flashes of previous sightings. I wanted to stop thinking about it so I closed my eyes and fell asleep. When I woke up, we were landing. I was groggy, cranky, and a little hungover. I just wanted to get to my hotel, close the blinds, and keep sleeping. The limo driver was a little too chatty on the way over so I told him to shut his goddamn mouth and slammed the divider closed. The next couple weeks went by in a haze. I was irritable the entire time, never seeming to get what I wanted out of whatever experience I sought. I pumped a ton of drugs into my system, went to every club and party I could find, drank daily until I threw up, and caused enough property damage to put a country in debt. I also killed four people. In my wake, I left the usual trail of wide eyed adoration. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. I was becoming violently restless and I had no idea how to suppress it. My baseline for sobriety plummeted, my head vibrated, and my fuse was at an all time low. By the end of the fourth week, my knuckles had permanent scabs. I would often come back to my elaborate residence to piles of packages - gifts from my admirers. I didn’t even open them. I burned them. But this perpetuated the cycle and they kept coming. One time, a couple years past, I had tried to stop my rising fame. I had controlled myself and mellowed out my behavior to a place that bordered normality. After about a month, people began to forget about me. It wasn’t as if I were disappearing, but there was a noticeable dip in attention. The money stopped coming in, the cars, boats, and offers began to dry up. All because I was trying to do the right thing. What I knew I was supposed to be doing. But after a lifetime of attention and freedom, this new reality was both alien and terrifying to me. I was becoming invisible. And so I did what I knew how to do. What I was rewarded for. After six weeks of clean living, I went on a horrible spree. I picked an apartment building at random and went inside with a knife and an axe. Not many people made it out. And if they did it was usually because I shoved them through a window. These weren’t people to me. That was an outlook I had parted ways with long ago. These were paychecks I was cashing in. These were the bricks I needed to lay to continue down the path I had been set down. I didn’t really know how to feel bad for being...bad. When I walked out of that building, sweating, exhausted, and covered in blood, I found myself facing an ocean of police lights. When they saw it was me, they lowered their weapons. Their shoulders relaxed. They began to smile and greet me. They talked like they had just witnessed a miracle. In that moment, I wanted explode. I wanted to detonate myself and cease to exist. If I had been a braver man, I would have. Sitting in my bedroom, the European countryside expanding out my window, I felt like I had that night outside the apartment complex. I felt like I had reached the end of another chapter and I wasn’t sure my book held another. I looked around me, at the empty liquor bottles, the needles, the self-destruction. This was who I was. This was what I had built for myself. The world lay at my fingertips and all I had to do was punch it hard enough to bleed. I covered my face with my hands, feeling hollow. A knock came at the door. I looked up, eyes bloodshot. Without thinking, I walked across the room and opened it. The man with the bandaged face stood in the doorway. My eyes went wide and I took a step back, almost tripping over an empty tequila bottle. “\*You\*,” was all I whispered before he came in, closing the door behind him. He didn’t ask for permission. He soared across the room and settled onto the bed, sitting quietly at the edge as if waiting for me to gather myself enough to hold a conversation. I just stood staring at him with my back against the door. Finally, he turned his head enough so that our eyes met between his bandages. “Been looking for you,” he said after a moment, his voice all edges and canyons. I didn’t move from the door, my heart slogging past the shit in my system, “Why are you following me?” “Because we need to have a conversation.” “I have nothing to say to you.” “Well, I have things I need to say to you. So come over here and sit down. I’m not going to hurt you.” Hesitantly, I skirted the corners of the room and slunk over to a chair opposite him. Our eyes never broke connection. He didn’t seem threatening. But he also wasn’t smiling beneath his bandages. We stared at one another for a moment before he spoke again. “I’m pretty disappointed in you.” “Excuse me?” “I said, I’m pretty disappointed in you. You’ve gone completely off the deep end.” I shook my head, confused, “The hell are you talking about?” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together beneath his chin, “They expected better.” My eyes turned to slits, “Who?” “The Old Horns.” I sat back, cocking an eyebrow, “I’m afraid I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re talking about.” The man with the bandages didn’t move, his voice low, “But you know that you’re different than everyone else, correct?” “I feel like that’s pretty obvious.” “They chose you,” the man continued. “Picked you out of a metaphorical hat. And what have you done with your moral freedom?” The fear I had felt earlier began to ebb away, replaced by a rising anger, “Look pal, you better start explaining this nonsense quick. I don’t really have a whole lot of patience these days.” His eyes went empty, “Clearly.” “Who the fuck are you?” I snarled. “Someone who’s been gifted the burden of watching you all these years. I can’t tell you how many times you’ve let me down. You haven’t made this job easy.” “Well I’m sorry if my heart doesn’t bleed for you.” “Can I ask you something?” The man asked suddenly. “Oh Jesus...” “You’ve been given something no one else has ever been given. Complete lack of moral boundaries,” He quickly shook his head, “no, not just that. They made it even harder on you. They decided to reward your bad behavior. You’re...you’re evil. I’m not blind to how difficult it must have been for you at times. I only watched you from a distance, I wasn’t witness to whatever warfare went on in your head. But I’ll tell you this: as an outsider? It didn’t look like you even tried to be a good person. Once you saw the benefits of being a bastard, you went hard and heavy and never looked back. Except for that one month, but you made up for that didn’t you?” He placed a hand to his wrapped temple, “But I”m getting off topic. My question is this: given the chance to do it all over again...would you do anything different?” I kept my tongue locked behind clenched teeth. My hands were shaking and I balled them up into fists. My head thundered beneath a mountain of stress, despair, and anger. My body buckled beneath the years of chemical abuse I had put it through. My thoughts sloshed together as I ripped them apart searching for answers. Finally, I stood, towering over the bandaged man. My voice hissed from the furnace in my chest, “Who the fuck are you to judge me?” I managed to gasp. “How the hell could you possibly lay blame at my feet? I never asked for this. I didn’t want to be like this. I’m not responsible for the way people react to my actions. This is simply how I get by. This is how I’ve learned to live. I mean Jesus, this is how I’ve been conditioned! My whole life I’ve gotten a pat on the head for things I knew weren’t normal.” I pointed at my shuddering skull, “And that’s not something that goes away. If no one tells you what you’re doing is wrong, then is it really?” The bandaged man stood, facing me. I could smell something sour beneath his wrapped face. “Of course it is,” he whispered, “and you’ve known it this whole time.” “Get out,” I snarled, pointing toward the door, “I don’t ever want to see you again.” “I’m not going anywhere.” I bared my teeth at him, “I’m not someone you want to talk to like that.” The man grunted, disgusted, “Don’t act like you’re invincible. I’m already disgusted enough by you.” “I could throw you out the window, right now,” I threatened, heat rising, “and in the morning someone would throw a party in my honor.” And then he said something that froze the inferno in my throat. “Yeah? And how much longer do you think that’s going to last?” I stepped away from him, faltering, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He sat back down on the bed, exhaling wearily, “I think the Old Horns have seen enough.” Something twitched in my neck, “The Old Horns. That’s the second time you’ve mentioned them. What is that? What exactly are you talking about?” “You’re not a religious man, you wouldn’t believe me.” I stood where I was, “Why don’t you try me.” He ran his hands slowly over his head, his fingers running over the white cloth bound to his head, “They came out of nowhere. They destroyed everything. Whatever theories you have about death and what comes after...they’re wrong. The Old Horns wiped it all out. They’ve taken over. It’s just them now.” I sat down, feeling my stomach begin to buckle, “Afterlife....?” He raised his eyes to mine, “They’re testing you. All of you. You’re a new curiosity. One of the last. They’re debating whether they should eliminate your entire existence. And not just yours...everyone’s.” My throat tightened, “Do you mean...?” He smiled sadly, “You’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.” He looked down at his hands and his voice sank, “And I’m afraid you’ve failed...” “This is insane.” He looked back up at me, “I know it is. Trust me, I wasn’t ready for this either.” I squinted at him, leaning forward, “Who...are you?” He just smiled that sad smile and touched his bandaged face, “Someone who is being punished.” I spun around slowly, raking my hands through my hair, shoulders tense, “What if I don’t believe you?” “Then just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s probably too late to change things anyway. I’m afraid they’ve already made their decision.” He covered his face with his hands, “And I don’t think they like what they’ve seen.” I went to the window, mind reeling, and pressed my forehead against the glass. The sun was setting. “How can I believe any of this?” “I’m not asking you to. I just needed to warn you. I’m going to die for coming here, but I think I’m ready. They’ve already done so much to me...” his fingers traced his face. I closed my eyes against the glare of the sun, “I think...I think you should probably leave.” I heard the bed creak as he rose, “Can I offer you one last piece of advice?” “Yeah...” He reached for the doorknob, “Try.” And then he was gone, leaving me in the impossible silence of my own thoughts. The heat from the window sank into my skin and rippled across my mind. The insanity of what I had just been told stretched the very fabric of possibility. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. But...I had always known something was wrong. And where did that leave me? What was I supposed to do with this conglomeration of nonsense? I peeled myself away from the window, head splitting. I felt sick, tired, and completely empty. I looked around my room, letting my eyes linger on all the false promises of happiness. A thought entered my mind without warning and with all the force of an avalanche. Where had all this gotten me? I was miserable, alone, and depressed. In the material sense, I had everything I could possibly want or desire. Why wasn’t that enough? What was I lacking? A partner? Friendship? Love? Family? Were those things someone like me could even begin to hope for? Could I really abandon all this wealth and power in pursuit of something that might not even exist for me? Was being a good person worth giving up everything else for? The bandaged man’s last bit of advice echoed back to me. \*Try\*. I say down on the bed, hard, and sank my head into my hands. A half empty bottle of bourbon lay between my feet. I reached down and picked it up. I unscrewed the cap and raised it to my lips. Suddenly, beyond the walls of the sky, a low horn echoed over the glowing landscape. It came from the heavens, a single, long note. Eyes wide, I put the bottle down.


Packwood Bogie (Full name William Bogart and no relation to Humphrey) was an I.T. guy who had worked for Flame Optics since 2012 and had moved up the corporate food chain far enough so that he occupied a corner office with a view of Sixth Street. There was a big window which hinged wide open and as the office was ten stories about the street Bogie loved the luxury on fair days of closing his door, turning off the a.c. and breathing the fresh air wafting up from the harbor. But like so many semi successful people, his personal life was a mess. Two ex-wives, three excommunicated children and a debt load which rivaled that of Rwanda was only the tip of the iceberg. On paper his income looked good but Bogie lived alone in a middle class neighborhood in a one bedroom apartment having lost a house to each wife. He had maxed out three of his four credit cards, was months behind in child support payments and soon to have his car repossessed. At the age of fifty he also had a bad ticker, a swollen prostate and creaky knees. Pale and flabby, he pointedly avoided double mirrors that revealed the back of his balding head. Ironically, the pandemic had offered a sort of economic reprieve because rent forbearance allowed him to go a full year without eviction while he tried to juggle his other debts. Money was like water it seemed, always slipping through Bogie’s fingers. And because Bogie had a growing addiction to gambling, what trickle of cash was left at the end of the month was soon sopped up on the tables of a near-by Indian casino or the racetrack or an on-line sporting book. The constant debt collection calls went straight to voice mail. As he sat at his desk one Thursday afternoon when most of his colleagues had slipped away for an early happy hour or were making their way home, Bogie stared at the screen of his Packwood 900 Series computer and drummed his fingers on the desk. How to avoid financial ruin? Sure, he could turn hacker and get the drop on some suckers a thousand miles away. Maybe with time he could slip past the firewall of a bank or brokerage and at least nibble on the cheese wheel, but this strategy gave Bogie uncomfortable visions of men with big shoulders and badges pinned to their blue suit lapels walking down the corridor to his office, so he discarded the idea. And at that precise moment his Packwood 900 desk top with its crowd of icons went completely blank. Without any movement on his part there suddenly appeared the following garble: Powanga Casino tomora night. Secund placktack table neer cashier. Too hands then yu wawk away. Can’t lose. Bogie grunted. It wasn’t funny. Bill, a couple of offices down, sometimes liked to play cyber cute and was familiar enough with Bogie’s woes to pen something like this. Bogie rose and went into the hall. Bill’s office was closed and dark. One thing for sure, whoever it was didn’t know syntax or how to spell. Bogie put his fingers on the keyboard and played along: How much am I supposed to bet on each hand? And the screen replied: Whuddever. Bogie rubbed his chin and thought for a moment, then typed: I’m broke. What do you mean ‘whuddever’. And almost instantly came the answer: Whuddever you bet your konna cleen up. *** Friday Bogie went home, made sure his Shatanga (Not ‘Powanga’, another massacre of language) ‘Fantastic & Frequent’ players card was tucked inside his wallet and drove to the casino. He used his card to buy himself a discounted buffet dinner which left him over-full and burpy but offered time to think about what he’d read on his computer. It was ridiculous to think somebody toying with him in cyber space had actually prodded him enough with god-awful spelling to get him to the casino to try his luck. Weird, yes. But desperate as he was for money, Bogie simply thought to himself what the hell. For his stake he’s scrapped together three hundred bucks, a hundred of it borrowed from his dubious downstairs neighbor Harry who said “be sure to win” before forking over the cash. Bogie surveyed the casino from the carpeted steps of the restaurant. The ‘placktack’ (blackjack) table nearest the cashier’s cage had three people seated on red upholstered stools: One was a guy who wore an expression which crossed somewhere between boredom and disgust. The second person was a middle aged woman, a bleached blonde with an ample bosom and a low cut top, and the third a skinny older man who rested his hand on the blonde’s shoulder to let everyone know they were together. The dealer was an attractive young woman in crisp whites with olive skin, her black hair pulled straight back from her forehead and clipped in twin braids down her back. Bogie settled himself at the table and his three hundred bucks were rapidly exchanged for twenty dollar chips. He took a deep breath and pushed the entire pile forward which elicited a little smile from the dealer. The other players raised their eyes from the green felt where their much smaller wagers sat, silently considering the move. In house-banked games, it was each player versus the casino. The cards came out clockwise, each player getting one and then the second both face up. Bogie’s first card was an ace. He waited. His second card was a ten. The dealer paid off four hundred fifty dollars for the three hundred bet. Bogie kept his lips tightly pressed together, an artery starting to pulse in his neck. Two hands. Bogie pushed all seven hundred fifty bucks forward. Any motion, any noise in the casino evaporated and time itself stopped. He forgot completely about the other people at the table, about the smell of food wafting out of the restaurants, the tinkling of slot coins. Out came the second hand. The King of Hearts stared at Bogie. Then another ace. Blackjack again. The dealer looked at Bogie, then at her own inferior cards, and then back at him. This time as she counted out the chips and placed them in front of Bogie, incredulity shading her features. Two hands. Bogie caressed the stacked chips in front of him and thought: What the hell. A grand and a half up in two hands. Go for a third. When you’re hot, you’re hot, what the hell. But this third time for Bogie it was going to be an act of defiance aimed at whoever was behind Packwood. One more hand and then walk away. Bogie pushed out fifty dollars in chips. Two cards landed in front of him: A four and a three. He hit. The dealer sailed the card across. Another four. She had a nine and a seven. Bogie drew a face card and the fifty dollars in chips disappeared from his side of the table. *** Monday morning Bogie was pushed back in his leather chair, the wide window in back of him cranked wide to a pleasantly mild spring day as he read through his emails, deleting ninety percent of what showed up in his ‘in’ box as unimportant. A genuine alert from one of Flame Optics customers who had been hacked over the weekend prompted him to open another window on the screen which displayed the procedures to be followed to wall off any further incursions and repair the damage. Then everything disappeared and he was again staring at a blank screen and a blinking cursor. Yu lidn’t dissent tu me. Yu won. But betted thurd time. Bogie bolted forward. Had he been followed to the casino? Weird cyber stuff was one thing. But if he was being stalked by someone... He typed: Look, I don’t know who you are. I appreciate your good guesses but I’d really like you to i.d. yourself so we can talk about this face-to-face. I am dentufyed. Yu lookink at me rite now. Namz Packwood. Bogie decided no matter what the truth, he’d treat the computer as if it really was acting on its own. His return message read: I might have lost. So, o.k. smarty. Think you can do it again? Prove it. (Bogie pursed his lips, then continued): I don’t think you can. I think that was dumb friggin’ luck, Packwood. And what do you want? Lotto numberts. Nensday Wight. Yu play 5,10, 11,30,40. We see whooze smarty on Therrsday. Tu early to tel yu whad I wont. Bogie bought a single lotto ticket with the prescribed numbers during Wednesday lunch hour and stuck it in his wallet. Oh, the odds, he thought. Only cost me a buck to have the last laugh on Packwood or whoever. Bogie ate dinner and threw himself on his couch at 7:57 that evening to watch the drawing live at 8 P.M. On cue his flat screen filled with glitter and lights. Happy music swelled in the background. A huge unattended glass orb sat front and center with black numbered ping pong balls lying at the bottom like unborn offspring. From stage right popped out a stunning brunette in a tight dress with a smile wide enough to reach the international border. From stage left emerged a slender, clean shaven man in a tuxedo with slicked back hair, both of his hands waving at a wildly applauding unseen audience. “So here we are!” he boomed. “Nobody won the Lucky Loot drawing last Saturday or the week before that. Can you imagine?” In fact Bogie could imagine. He knew the odds of winning were about the same as the odds that a pebble from planet Mars would survive entering earth’s atmosphere and lodge in his anus. But OK, the pleasure it would give him the next day if his cyber benefactor should have the guts to show up. “Darla, start the spin!” And so Darla did, the ping pong balls ricocheting inside the glass, the drama building until the balls were sucked one-by-one out of the orb and along a glass arm, the numbers showing at the bottom of the screen. “ Five! Ten! Eleven! Thirty! Forty! And the Bazillion Bonus number, forty three!” Bogie loosened his collar and sucked for air as he stared at the lotto ticket on the coffee table in front of him. “Oh, my God.” *** On Thursday morning Bogie handed off a couple medium-important assignments to other members of the team and made excuses about needing to work on a critical security issue. Then he sat back and drummed his fingers as he stared at the Packwood 900 computer screen. At 9:35 the desk top went blank. Hullo snotso smartie. How much yu win? Bogie’s hands trembled as he typed: $25,000. Thanks. I don’t know how you did it. But you didn’t give me the Bazillion Bonus number. If you had I’d have walked away with millions. Yu churt my fellings. No rig beeward this time. I wont sumting. Bogie rubbed at his bald spot then typed: OK, I apologize. My bad. And I am grateful. But I’m in a deep financial hole and I want to get out. How about one more big payoff? I won’t insult you. I won’t doubt you. We’re pals. What do you want ? The cursor on the screen froze. Bogie held his breath. Then: Upgrate to Wavoci 1300 series. I need moar rume. Kramptin hear. Bogie’s fingers moved like lightening: No problem, you got it. All files transferred to the W-1300 after I score. All the RAM you want. But its got to be big. REALLY big. The cursor blinked as if thinking. Saturrday is Kantakme Durby. You bet all on horce too win. Yu ket rich. I get Wavoci. Deel? Back came Bogie: Deal, Packwood. What’s the name of the horse? Hardeepy *** Bogie went to a website-- his bible-- when betting on the ponies. Fourteen horses, a big field in Kentucky and none had been scratched. And there it was right at the top, ‘Hardplay’, the name naturally butchered by Packwood. The odds were fantastic, a long shot at seventy-to-one. Bogie swung immediately into action. His first call was to the lone credit card issuer where he could use what remained of his credit line. Bogie grabbed it and transferred it to his account. Then he called his financial adviser. Against his untapped retirement he borrowed everything. Then he ordered the broker to liquidate the college funds he’d established for his three children when they and their mothers were still speaking to him. “You sure about this?” The advisor asked. “What’s going on?” “Don’t worry,” Bogie said. “It’ll all be back next week.” His third call was darker. It went out to Louis L, a bookie and loan shark Bogie had come to know through some friends. He’d managed to stay clear of Louis even given his desperate financial situation, vowing that Louis, a dangerous man, was the proverbial line he’d never cross. Now he crossed it. “What you need?” The bookie asked. Bogie told him and Louis whistled. “That’s a lot. And you got to pay the ‘vig’ on top of that, you know?” Bogie said he understood. “And you got a week to get the money back to me, that clear?” Again, Bogie agreed. “And you know what will happen if you don’t, right?” Bogie told Louis it was a sure thing. By Friday afternoon the entire flood of money had been routed to Bogie’s bank account and from there the bet on Hardway to win. Bogie calculated he’d first pay Louis back and eliminate the risk to life and limb. Then he’d re-fund his retirement. The kids? Maybe, maybe not. Depended on whether they’d be nice to him. All the other unpaid debts would be settled, he’d buy himself a house that no ex-wife could get her hands on and he’d take a nice long vacation-- maybe the south of France, maybe Spain-- and decide whether he wanted to return to work or simply live off his investments. These thoughts, sweet as sugar, held him on the drive home. *** Saturday afternoon Bogie went to his office which was empty except for a janitor collecting some trash bins from a distant row of offices. Next to his Packwood 900 he turned the small t.v. mounted on a wall swivel so he could watch the race from his chair. He closed his office door, opened the big window to the breeze, flipped the computer and t.v. on and waited. Five minutes later the monitor glowed with a presence. Didn spect yu at the offace, thot you hom for this. You’ve got a Wavoci 1300 in your future, Bogie typed. O guddy. After forty five minutes of exasperating build-up narration from Churchill Downs the command ‘riders up’ was finally given and it was post time. Bogie’s eyes zeroed in on one horse, that horse wearing black-and-white stable colors with the name ‘Hardway’ printed on the saddle. The horses pranced toward the start and one by one the track hands coaxed them into the gates. Bogie’s heart beat a tattoo in his chest. “And they’re off!” Hardway started square in the middle of the pack. At the first turn he gained ground and moved to the outside. “He’s gonna do it,” Bogie said out loud to nobody. Hardway swerved left and went a nose ahead of the nearest horse, then stretched that and was just a few lengths behind the three lead horses bunched in front of him. Bogie dug his fingers into his thighs. It was happening. Hardway almost reached the flank of the next horse... and then faded. Four, then five, then six passed him. He was all in. Down the stretch he was dead last. Bogie opened and shut his mouth like a fish gasping for air. He watched in shock as the winner bearing the stable colors of purple and red entered the flower-lined circle. The jockey dismounted to hugs from the owners and the trainer while a stable hand took the bridle of the animal and started to lead him away and the name ‘Cardplay’ in blazing white slid by on the screen. “You sonofabitch of an ignorant cretin computer,” Bogie hissed as he typed the same words. The cursor blinked. Wel, sorrie sbout speling, not reel gude at it. It was ‘Cardplay’ not ‘Hardway’. Thus dis meen no Wavoci?????? Bogie got out of his chair, reached for the power plug behind the computer screen and pulled it. He thought he heard a buzzing come from the Packwood 900 as it disconnected but would never know. Then the other plugs one by one he tore from their moorings until the tower was isolated and mute. He turned to the open window. Using both hands, the monitor was first to drop followed by the keyboard and then the speakers. Last went the tower. Ten stories below he watched with a grim calmness as the cement was littered with glass and shattered plastic. Then Bogie stood on his chair, stepped onto the ledge, spread his arms like a bird about to take flight and leaned forward. ### 2881 Words.


For the last 3 weeks, every single night I had the same dream. As soon as I fell asleep, I arrived there. Nowhere. Just fucking nowhere. White. And in that nowhere there he was. Waiting for me. The first time I saw him he was like a speck. A smudge on the lens. Maybe not even human but some kind of restless animal or tree or something in between. Then night by night he got closer. Each time I arrived back there he had closed the distance just a little, but would move no closer once I was there. He gesticulated wildly but didn’t move from his spot. At this point all I could see was a figure, silhouetted against the blinding white nothing. He waved at me as if drowning, or falling from a high building. But stationary. Rooted to the ground. After a week or so he had swum into view. I could make out a short man, with long white arms and dark eyes. The waving seemed desperate, frustrated, maybe angry. One night he got close enough for me to see his face. His skin was dry, cracked, pulling itself to pieces over his skull like a jigsaw. A riverbed in drought. The next night I could see the whites of his eyes, such as they were. They bulged as he waved his arms in agony, or frustration. But they weren’t white but black, the whole eyeball glossed black like a pool ball. His mouth writhed in his head like he was screaming, but I heard nothing. The night after that I realised he was waving his hands to reach me, To touch me. His face was twisted as he screamed, tendons straining down the side of his neck, spit flying from his silent mouth. Last night I was almost within his reach. His black eyes looked straight at mine and his fingers grasped at my face. I still couldn’t hear him. Something pulls my gaze downwards away from the vast black eyeballs, and I feel the blood drain from my face. I realise that his arms aren’t long at all, not relative to his size. His legs are cut halfway down the shin, severed cleanly like a butchers cut. No blood. From the stumps stick metal rods, driven into the ground. Fixing him there. Like a scarecrow. He wasn’t the one moving closer to me. It was me that moved closer to this desperate flailing thing, night by night. I couldn’t make myself stop. It’s been more than 24 hours since I last slept. I know that the next time I arrive there I’ll be close enough for him to touch me. And I know for absolute certainty, that once he does I will be able to hear him. I know it with every fibre of myself. I don’t want to know what he is saying. I can’t know. I have tried not to sleep, but I keep nodding off. Every time my brain melts into sleep I hear his breathing, like its in my ear. Like a death rattle on repeat, before I shake myself awake. He’s waiting right next to me I *can’t* sleep. *I can’t -* I feel him next to me and I turn to look. I hear the rattling breath like it’s on my neck. Something tells me to reach out for his hand, an emaciated claw. But when I do he rips his hand away, evading me. He’s not trying to touch me, but trying to keep me away. He doesn’t want me here. He’s still screaming silent, bloodcurdling screams. Silent. But I still hear that rattling breath. I realise two things in an instant with terror: 1. That sound isn't coming from him. 2. In all of these weeks I had never once looked behind me.   \- this little one came to me in (yes I'm serious) a dream, and was fun and quite disturbing to write.


Logline: A man is devastated after his girlfriend of ten years, wants to take a break, after a year, will everything be the same? \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Lena Delgado and Dennis Dixon have been dating for ten years, ever since they went to an 8th-grade middle school dance together. Today, Dennis arrived at their shared apartment, and there was a moving truck, packed with boxes to the brim. Dennis enters the apartment where Lena has been waiting for him. "We need to talk," Lena says. "Sure, what did you want to talk about?" Dennis asks. "I'm moving out, and I think we should take a break," Lena says. Dennis is surprised; he thought their relationship had never been better. "What? Why do you want to do that?" Dennis asks. "I want to see other people and have different experiences," Lena says. "I don't get it; I thought we were in love?" Dennis asks. "It's not about love; it's about experiencing different things, you should too, go out, see other people," Lena says. "But I love you? I thought we were going to be together forever?" Dennis asks. "We still can be, I just want to take a break," Lena says. "How long of a break do you want to take?" Dennis asked. "Well, I haven't thought it out that far, but, why don't we set it in one year, we'll take a break for one year, and then we'll come back, and re-evaluate," Lena says. "Why are you doing this? Why are you hurting me?" Dennis asks as he begins to tear up. "Look, this has more to do with me than it does you," Lena says. "I think it has a little to do with me," Dennis says. "One year, give me one year to figure things out, and then we'll be together again," Lena says as she picks up her coat and exits the room. Dennis didn't wholly understand why Lena decided to leave, but he held out hope that after a year, she would be back, and they would pick up where they left off. Dennis fell into a depression, he took a week out of work, started to exhibit antisocial behavior, and didn't return any phone calls. One day, out of concern, his Uncle Barry came by to check on him. After several attempts to knock on the door, Dennis finally answered. "Where have you been, you missed your sister's birthday party?" Uncle Barry says. "Lena and I took a break, I've had a tough time dealing with the separation," Dennis says. "Oh, I didn't know, you got to get back out there, plenty of fish in the sea, no need to get hung up on one," Uncle Barry says. "No, we're getting back together in a year, it's just a break," Dennis reiterates. "Look, I've been in a lot of relationships, and a break is never just a break. Trust me, Lena is not acting like this is just a break, she's out there looking to replace you, you should be doing the same thing," Uncle Barry says. "What about the old saying, If you love something set it free, if it returns it was meant to be, if it continues to fly let it soar, and believe there's something better in store," Dennis says. "That's hogwash, that's just a fancy way of saying that you broke up," Uncle Barry says. "No, I refuse to believe that, we'll be back together in a year, you watch," Dennis says. "Take my advice, move on, get back out there, she is," Uncle Barry says as he heads to the door, turning around one more time to say, "just pick up my calls!" "Alright, I will," Dennis says. Dennis was determined to live his life with the belief that Lena would be back and in love at the end of the year. He didn't join any dating sites; he didn't even change his relationship status on social media. One time, while out at a bar with a couple of friends, they connected with a group of three women. They played pool, darts, and drank the night away. It was the most fun that Dennis has had since the breakup. At the end of the night, one of the women asked him, "Do you have a girlfriend?" "Yeah, I'm sorry," Dennis said. "Oh, that's too bad; we could have had a lot of fun," the woman said. On the drive home, one of his friends questioned why he told her that he had a girlfriend when he didn't. "Lena and I are getting back together, she said one year," Dennis said. "Dude, have you even talked to her since she moved out?" His friend asked. "No, but that doesn't matter, we were meant to be together, it's destiny, just you watch," Dennis says. Every so often, Dennis goes to see Doctor Cantar, a chiropractor who works on his back. One time, while sitting in the waiting room, a woman by the name of Eliza was frantically looking through her purse and all around the waiting room, Dennis has no choice but to interject, "Are you looking for something?" "Yes, I lost my phone, I can't find it anywhere, that thing is my life," Eliza says. "iPhone or Android?" Dennis asks. "What?" oh, I don't know, ah, iPhone," Eliza says. "Why don't you use, find my iPhone? Here, you can use the app on my phone," Dennis says. Eliza takes the phone and puts in her information, a map pops up, and it appears that the phone is heading to the south side of the city. "Oh my God, my phone is moving!" Eliza says. Dennis laughs. "It probably got stolen," Dennis says. "Yeah, but it's only a couple blocks from here, do you think I should go and get it," Eliza asks. "I don't know, the people who have it could be dangerous," Dennis says. "Would you come with me?" Eliza asks. Dennis pauses. "Come on, never turn down a call to adventure!" Eliza says. Even though Dennis had an appointment in five minutes, there was something about Eliza, a sweetness, a naivete that Dennis found appealing. Since his back wasn't hurting too bad this visit, he decided to help Eliza find her iPhone, and the hunt was on. Dennis and Eliza followed the app until it finally stopped at a sketchy flea market on the south side of town. They walked around the market, following the signal like the x marks the spot on a treasure hunt. Finally, they're close; it took them to a booth right in the middle of the flea market. Dennis and Eliza approach two men who are running the booth, "Hi, we're looking for an iPhone, we used the find my iPhone app to track it to this location?" Eliza says. "We have no iPhone here," the man says. "Come on, the find my iPhone app doesn't just randomly bring you to flea markets, hand it over guys, and we won't have to get the authorities involved," Dennis says. Eliza sees a bin of technology partially hidden under a blanket and interjects herself right into the booth, "Maybe I'll just have a look myself," Eliza says as she goes over to the blanket and removes the cover, she immediately spots her phone right on top, "Oh, would you look at that, here it is!" Eliza says. The two men quickly pack up their gear and run from the flea market, not before Dennis got a couple of photos of them with his phone. On the way back to the chiropractor's office, they called the police and sent them the images. Dennis and Eliza continued to be friends; they hung out occasionally and would get dinner if both of them were around. Dennis was upfront, though, telling her that he would be getting back together with his girlfriend at the end of the year. She was okay with that; she just wanted to be friends anyway. The one-year mark of the Lena and Dennis break was rapidly approaching, Dennis wasn't counting the days, because he didn't want to rush Lena in any way. Everyone warned him, they would say, "She's not coming back, she's forgotten all about you," a friend said. "I think she's dating the lead singer of a band," another friend said. "She definitely moved to Nova Scotia, I heard it from my cousin who is best friends with her neighbor's babysitter," a guy at the deli said. Despite all of the doubt surrounding Lena and Dennis getting back together, Dennis held out hope. Then one day, there was a knock at the door. It was Lena. "Hi, can I come in?" Lena said. Dennis opened the door, and they sat in the living room. "I think it's time to get back together," Lena said. Those words, Dennis had waited so long to hear those words, But they felt a little empty, though, something wasn't right. "It's going to be so great; we're going to move back in together, maybe we can even talk about getting engaged," Lena continues. "Why didn't you call? You didn't call me once while we were on this break," Dennis asks. "I didn't want to take away from the fun you were having, plus my phone was stolen, what a nightmare," Lena says. Dennis smiles. "Actually, I have this funny story about a stolen phone, we spent all afternoon tracking that thing down, I was scared, but she was brave," Dennis says as he reminisces. "Who's she? Are you two dating?" Lena asked. "Not really, we're just friends," Dennis says. "Oh good, cause she would have a fight on her hands, otherwise. So, when can I move my stuff back in?" Lena says. At that moment, Dennis had realized that the love that he once had for Lena had faded a bit, and he couldn't stop thinking about Eliza, "You have to go," Dennis said. "What do you mean, what about me moving in?" Lena asked. "It's not going to happen, Lena," Dennis said as he left her in the living room, exited the house, and drove to Eliza's place. He rang the doorbell, and Eliza answered. "Lena came by," Dennis said. "That's great, you were right, you were meant to be, it was destiny," Eliza said. "I told her to leave, I was thinking about someone else," Dennis said. "Who? Oh," Eliza realizes. Dennis smiles. "Do you have any plans for dinner?" Dennis asks. "Oh, I know this new place that serves meatless jerky! I put it in my phone, where is that thing?" Eliza says as she starts looking all around.


Tourists Alicia knew she should have broken up with Darren before their trip to Hawaii, and the fact that she was standing at the edge of a Native burial ground, in the middle of the night, telling Darren to come back to the hotel property line, really reinforced that she should have followed her instincts. She heard Darren’s drunken laugh as he turned on his phone’s flashlight to see the map he’d purchased yesterday at a musty thrift and antique store in Lahaina. Alicia thought that Darren was going to have the map framed for his office back home. It was a great souvenir because it was unique, not a t-shirt or plastic conch-shell jewelry that said “Hawaii” but was actually made in China. The map had yellowing, curled edges and faded black lettering that looked like it came from quill and ink centuries ago. “Damn, Alicia, this is sick. I swear to God the shit on this map is moving. Freaking GOAT, I am telling you. God damn ,” he said. “Come here and look.” “Darren, we’re not supposed to be here. There’s a fence for a reason. It says to keep out, and the woman who checked us in told us repeatedly not to cross the fence line for any reason,” Alicia said. Maui was beautiful AF, and she could hear the ocean crashing on the shore, and see faint white caps of the Pacific’s wild beauty against the black night, but she was still creeped out. The moment Darren had set foot on the burial ground, Alicia swore the sky turned darker and the wind coming off the Pacific stilled. “If there was anything dangerous here, they would’ve put up more than a four-foot fence. That fence is almost short enough to step over. Come on,” he said. He had not stepped over the fence, Alicia thought. He had done a drunken hop, and almost fallen. She was already rehearsing her break-up speech to Darren. She had been going to wait until they got back home to Rochester Hills to break up with him. Now she thought she’d break up with him on the plane, maybe an hour before they landed in Detroit. She couldn’t do this anymore. Darren was a tool. But she wouldn’t say that. Instead she would say, “I’m sorry, Darren. We’re just too different.” “It’s not just about danger, Darren. I don’t think they want white people here. It’s sacred,” she said. “I am two-percent Black,” Darren said. Alicia rolled her eyes at him, even though he couldn’t see her do it. He had been so happy when two-percent Nigerian had come back on his 23andme DNA profile. He had immediately started saying the N-word when he sang along with rap songs. That was when she should have broken up with him. Right then. But she had never been to Hawaii before. And Darren, well Darren’s father, was paying for their vacation, and she had thought Well, I’ll go see Maui, and break up with him when I get back . And this was her punishment for her delay. “DNA results don’t lie, and basically I’m Nigerian,” Darren said. “Come on, ‘licia, you’ve got to see this. It’s like... animated.” Alicia heard a rustling near the cliff, a rustling not related to the sounds of the waves. She had seen all the iconic horror movies and there was no damn way she was stepping foot onto a burial ground in the middle of the night with her drunk-ass boyfriend. She turned on her phone’s flashlight, and pointed the beam at the ancient black stone with its large, chiseled shelf that faced the ocean. The shelf was large enough to hold a small person. It had been battered by the elements, and was stained with something rust-colored. Countless notches ribbed its edge, all the way around its perimeter. “Do you honestly not see that thing?” Alicia said, motioning to it. “Don’t you see how creepy it is? Darren, come back. Let’s go back to our room, and we can look at the map there,” Alicia pleaded. “Don’t you think it’s weird that we bought this map just because it looked cool and it turned out to be the map of a burial ground right by our resort? What are the odds of that, Alicia? And now, I’m telling you, shit is moving on it.” He looked down at the map again. “Right here,” he moved closer to the cliff, the ocean, and the ancient black and rust-colored shelf. “It looks like there used to be some sort of palace!” Even in the dark she could see him squint his eyes. Nope, Alicia thought . No way in hell am I moving . Alicia heard the rustling again and suddenly Darren shrieked. He was shoved sideways, with great force, was he tripping? Had he tripped? And there was a sickening thud as the side of his head hit the ancient shelf, and he collapsed, the map fluttering out of his hand and landing next to him. “Shitshitshitshitshit,” Alicia said as she lifted her right foot up and grabbed the fence with both hands to pull herself over. She ran across the lush grass to reach him and saw blood oozing from his head. “Shit! Darren? Darren?” she shakily pulled out her cell phone. Dammit, she had no service here next to the ocean. She rolled Darren over and took off her sweater and pressed it to the side of his head to try to stop the flow of blood. She needed to get help. “Darren?” There was no response. Not even a groan. Her fingers moved to his neck. He still had a pulse. She pulled herself over the fence again and then checked her phone. She had a tiny bit of reception. She pressed 911, but it didn’t go through. It was just dead air. Shit. There was no alternative. She was going to have to leave him and run to the lobby and get help. She took one more desperate look at Darren, and then took off at a full-out run to the resort front desk. She felt the shrimp salad and the two glasses of wine she’d had slosh in her stomach and felt sick. Well, at least, she hadn’t had the God-only-knew how many gin and tonics Darren had. She wouldn’t have been able to even find the lobby then, let alone run to it. She rushed into the lobby, and saw a handsome Native man, probably in his late 30s, at the desk. “Please,” she gasped, breathless from her top-speed, half-mile sprint. The resort was huge. “Please. My boyfriend tripped. Or fell. He hit his head. 911, please.” The worker looked concerned, nodded his head, and picked up the phone. “Where is he?” he asked. Alicia felt so embarrassed. “He jumped over the fence. He’s on the burial ground at the edge of the property.” A panicked look passed over the man’s face. “I’m sorry,” Alicia said, helplessly. “He got an old map at an antique store in Lahaina. And he drank too much tonight and...” he’s a tool , Alicia almost added. No, no, no... she and Darren were different, that’s all. Just different. So, so different. The man picked up the phone to dial 911. He gave the pertinent information to the police and then called security as well. “The police will meet us out there,” he said. “We’ll see if there is anything we can do in the meantime.” “Thank you,” Alicia said, gratefully. They jogged back out to the burial ground. Alicia could hear the distant police sirens, and see a security guard in a golf cart ahead of them. The security guard was a Native woman. She pulled the golf cart to the edge of the fence, got out of her cart, and vaulted over the fence easily. Alicia and the man who had been working at the desk, Makani, (she had finally been able to read his nametag) reached the burial ground moments later. “Where is he, miss?” the security guard asked. She was short but powerfully built. Her long dark hair was braided and pinned to the back of her head. “What do you mean?” Alicia said and then she saw her sweater, and somehow strangely, the map, which should have blown away, right? She’d made no effort to secure it, or put anything on top of it. But it was still in the same place Darren had dropped it. The security guard shined her flashlight all around. “I see the blood here,” the security guard said, pointing by the sweater. “But where did he go?” The security guard looked at Makani, and then walked closer to the cliff. “Oh no,” Alicia said. She moved to hop over the fence, and the security guard turned to her. “Stop. Were you in here with your boyfriend when this happened?” the security guard said. “No. He wanted me to come in but I knew we weren’t supposed to. And then... he tripped. Or fell, or something. I did hear...” Alicia trailed off. She didn’t want to sound crazy. “What did you hear?” Makani asked. “I know it sounds like I’m drunk, but I swear I’m not. I heard something, okay? There was a rustling and it was almost like something shoved him into that shelf,” Alicia said. “Someone,” the woman security guard said. “Anna,” Makani said. “Don’t.” “What?” Alicia asked. “Nothing,” Makani said. Anna gave Makani an angry look, shadowed by her flashlight. “A long time ago, a very young princess, daughter of Chief Hoolae, no one even knows the poor girl’s name anymore, was forced to marry King Pi’ilani, so that the east and west sides of Maui could be united. She ‘rests’ here. If this can be called resting,” Anna said, off-handedly, still searching around with her flashlight. Anna sounded almost like a recording, like she had told this princess story a lot. Over and over again. “Ghost tales,” Makani said, trying to smile. But he was so pale. “So like, she... haunts this place?” Part of Alicia wanted to laugh at what Anna was saying. The other part had seen the strange angle at which Darren had fallen, and heard the thwack of his head against stone. “Are you going to go look for him?” Makani asked Anna. Anna bent and picked Alicia’s sweater off the ground. “If you weren’t in here with him, how come your sweater is here?” “I ran in after he fell. I put my sweater around his head to try to stop the bleeding.” “You came in here?” Anna said. “Just to try to help him.” Makani turned even more pale. Alicia heard the police car’s door slam, and heard the ambulance siren cut out as it entered the parking lot. The officers jogged toward the burial ground. One officer was Native, one was a white man. The white man stopped at the edge of the fence while his Native partner hopped over it to join Anna. “Where’s our trespasser?” The Native police officer said, motioning to the ambulance. “We brought the stretcher.” He got his flashlight out, and leaned to pick up the map off the ground. “Who’s is this? It looks old.” “It’s my boyfriend’s. He got it in Lahaina yesterday... or the day before.” Alicia was confused by what day it was now. A tiny bit of light was appearing at the edge of the mountains and ocean. “So, the princess has been at it again, eh?” The police officer said, shining his flashlight over the edge of the cliff. “I don’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean he’s not down there.” “Listen,” Makani said. “You’ve got to find him, okay? We can’t keep... losing guests. Eventually the tourists are going to notice and then no one is going to want to come here and we’ll all lose our jobs.” “The only guests who ‘get lost’ are the ones who can’t follow directions and stay on that side of the fence,” Anna said. “Wait. What are you talking about?” Alicia asked. “How many people have died here?” The white policeman looked down at his fingernails. “You seem nice,” Anna said. “And I’m really sorry you crossed the fence to try and help your boyfriend.” “What do you mean?” Alicia asked. “We should call in some backup. But I bet you anything the body washes up tomorrow. Just like last time,” the Native police officer said. “Does anyone have a granola bar, or anything? I’m starving.” “There’s some snacks in my golf cart,” Anna said. “Last time? Do you mean... is she like, going to come after me?” Alicia said. Alicia couldn’t really believe what was going on. Was she dreaming? Was she going to wake up soon next to Darren in their bed here at the resort? Anna looked at her with pity. “We’re a little different here in Hawaii,” Anna said, turning off her flashlight. Light was filtering up over the mountains in an incredible ray of pinks, red, oranges, and yellows. The native police officer turned to Alicia. “Look, this is going to be a lot of paperwork. Why don’t you head back to your room, we’ll call in backup and keep looking for your boyfriend, and then we will come get you and get the paperwork started.” Anna nodded in agreement. “Got get some rest, miss. You should enjoy the time you have left here.” Alicia felt her spine contract in fear. “Wait, do you mean enjoy the time I have left here on earth, or here in Hawaii?” The Native police officer nodded. “Quick, this one.” Makani gave them all anxious looks and then took Alicia’s arm. “Let’s get you back to your room.” Alicia allowed herself to be led away. She looked back over her shoulder. Anna gave her a sad little wave goodbye.


Just a short little thing i was inspired to type up, NF and can apply to RF. Thanks for reading! When I was younger, I would often go into the unused room in the house. Eggshell white walls, one ceiling light, nothing else. I would turn bring a small blanket into the room, close the door and place th blanket infront of the bottom of the door, turn off the lights and stand in the middle of the room. After a few seconds I would start to lose focus on outside noises, hearing my slow breathing reverberate off the walls. My eyes would slowly and effortlessly shut out the darkness of the room and brought forth a new one; one that I possessed through my imagination. The black box I stood in would transform colors, shapes, and sizes. One second a brown bed frame with a mattress masked in white would form in the corner of the room, the next second it wold be a leather couch. Endless combinations flew in and out of this darkness. As I got older, life slowly crept up its driveway; my first and only girlfriend, my grandfather dying, graduating highschool, going off to college. The room grew a skin of dust that covered the tiled floor, the hinges of the door grew old and weary after Father Time had moved in. My girlfriend had stayed over the night when she saw the aged door, pestering me with what was behins the door I simply said "Nothing, it's empty." When I got back from work later that day, I walked up to my room for a change of clothes when I looked at the door once more and thought of the combination of colors and shapes that would come forth from the darkness. I opened the door and was welcomed by the scratchy voice of the door and the blanket of dust it handed me, the blanket I had used years before lay untouched. I inched forward into the room before reaching for the blanket, my body acted on its own accord and soon I was enveloped by the darkness. My eyes silently closed and were greeted by the darkness, the darkness was dull, almost as if it had aged alongside time. I waited, waited for the darkness to grow black and neverending, for the colors to splaah back into my mind, for the shapes and sizes to break free of ther captors and appear from the neverending shadows. The darkness stood silent, no colors nor shapes and aounds stepped forward from the darkness and i knew at that moment. I knew that I had lost it, my magic to rewrite my world. Dedicated to Kirsten.


I remember the moment I was born. It was beautiful. Floating there among the stars, in the void with my brothers and sisters; we were so free. We floated for what felt like forever, eventually growing thin in numbers. The elements were harsh out there, but I made it. I fell upon this - blue ball, third from that yellow star. It was beautiful. If only they could see it's glory. It pulled me in the closer I got. I fell from space, from the stars, from my family. I hit the water hard, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. It was - refreshing. it was like I was floating again, but different all the same. There were so many beautiful creatures, majestic and frightening - new friends. I tried to communicate, but they never listened. I got close to one, what they call a seal. As I gazed upon it with my single eye, I could sense a feeling of understanding. it was more curious than afraid, so big yet so gentle. It let me - touch it. without thought, I wrapped my limbs around its face. A hug, from what I understood, was commencing. But no - no hug for me. The seal thrashed about violently, I could only hold on for dear life. I gripped harder, my tendrils wrapping around its maw, slithering across its face. Then something - happened. I found myself - in its mind. I could hear its thoughts, feel its pain; it was in so much pain. Another discovery I made is that I could - control it. It moved where I needed it to. overtime I could no longer feel what I felt at the beginning. eventually it got cold, and the pain went away. I could no longer keep my grip, so I floated away. That's when I met him. This being that floated before me was unlike anything I've seen in the sea. bipedal, no visible gills or fins or any appendages like the life I've encountered. his gold and green suit glittered in the light. He looked down upon me with - with disappointment. That's the only way I could describe the feeling. I looked upon myself, and to my surprise, I had gotten a little bigger, almost double in size. But when I looked back, he was gone. I could only float on in hopes of meeting him again. So I did what I could, I'd meld with the minds of any sea creature I could wrap my tentacles around. Their voices added up, growing louder and louder in my head, languages all so different; it was maddening. He came to me again, and this time, I was much larger. I saw fear in his eyes. I think it made me feel - good. I followed him, all the way to the shore. He stood on the beach, other beings like him staring at me in horror. I was bewildered, it was so different from under the waves. I was forced to stand, staring at this exciting new world; they did not feel the same. The humans began to attack, hurling words and objects alike. It hurt me a great deal. In the moment, a new feeling arose - Anger. I could feel my skin literally burning, I could only let out a sound humans would describe as a scream. I shut my eye. When I opened them again, the world around me was silent. Upon the humans' faces were - smaller versions of me. I had given birth, in a word. He was gone, the man in the gold and green suit. But then the voices came. screams of terror ripped through my mind as I did with theirs. I absorbed and swallowed what I could in terms of thought. I grew larger, stronger, smarter even. The power and sensation human thought gave me was tantalizing. I needed more, so I produced more - me. They jetted out from behind me and began their harvest. The screaming only got worse, but I grew stronger; a small price to pay for greatest. Within moments, dozens of human beings were mine and mine alone. Every thought was absorbed into one, horrifying soup. In the sea of thoughts - a word appeared. A title. A name. I liked it. As I took my first actual step, I saw them standing there, not too far from their city. In a line was the league, six figures, guardians, gods. I recognized them now, their names and stories came to me like I've known them for years. The first one, the dark knight, looked upon me with distain. He was disturbed, from what I gathered. Before the league he was almost nothing but a myth, a legend that struck fear in the hearts of criminals everywhere. However, he was merely a man compared to the six that surrounded him. My eye moved to her, the only woman in the group, a true wonder herself. She was older than the rest yet had the youth of a twenty-year old. She radiated strength and true power - I was a little frightened of her. To her left was the red man. He was jittery yet focused, and he radiated bravery. I needed his mind, it was calling to me. I could make excellent use of this red blur. Then there was the green guardian, floating above with his fist in the air. A creative, from what I can gather, and a hero to believe in. I don't believe in him. below the guardian was the king of the seas, the golden swimmer I had already met. I could almost understand his hatred towards me, I did wreck havoc in his kingdom. in my defense, I only wanted to love. The Martian intrigued me. He was different from the rest, from all of them, yet he was hailed as a hero. As soon as the humans saw me, their reaction was to destroy. I wonder if they had shown him the same treatment? As we had our little standstill, something above caught my eye. only one word had entered my mind in that moment. perhaps, he was truly the most alien of them all. The Superman. He was the hero of all heroes, the founder of this league. I could feel rage coursing through me like a thousand tidal waves. He was a god to them, a savior from the stars, the last son. From my ocean brain I could feel the inklings of love try and push themselves through my barrier of hate. more than the rest, I felt nothing but pure hatred for him. He floated right in front of me, we were almost touching. It could be so easy to just - crush him. Part of me couldn't, so I just stood there. He crossed his arms at me. I could see his league behind him ready themselves for battle. perhaps there was no other way. If it was a fight they wanted, it was a fight they'd get.


###Please take note of the new feedback rules! #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: **Summer Constraint Mashup: Use 1 thing from at least 2 different categories in the table below (2 constraints total).** These constraints are all suggestions from your fellow writers! **THEME** | **SENTENCE** | **OBJECT** | **MISC. CONSTRAINTS** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | Waterfall | It was my bread and butter. | sunscreen | story is all dialogue | Below the Surface | A fine line separates them. | a lost letter | use at least 3 of the 5 senses | | Customer Service | There are no secrets here. | fog | circular narrative | Calm Before the Storm | Can you hear them? | a pro-con list | features an unusual weather event **Bonus Constraint:** Use 2 or more additional constraints from the table below. Remember you may interpret the themes any way you like, as long as the connection is clear. All stories must **follow all post and subreddit rules**. Sentences should stay intact, but you’re welcome to change pronouns and/or tenses. Your story does *not* need to be summer-related. The bonus constraint and use of the included images/song are not required. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #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. - **Authors are required to leave feedback on at least one other story each week that you write.** 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** (one required) | 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 for - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/NotMuchChop - - u/This_Wicked *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The eleven year itch. TV has a different quality when you’re sick. It’s not as comforting as it usually is. It drags, hurts her with every commercial. She watches Dr Phil, then Maury, then Entertainment Tonight. She flicks through channels, trying to find something to distract her. TV’s big promise is that it can be your friend, you can laugh with it, cry with it. She doesn’t own Netflix or Hulu. She is old fashioned in that way, she doesn’t have the internet either. She uses it at work, but doesn’t necessarily trust it. With the internet there’s no filtering process, everything and anything could be thrown at you. Pornography, beheading videos, gambiling websites, viruses. All this scares her, the randomness of it all. She remembers clearly her niece telling her a story of a time when she had been playing a game online and a scary face had flown out at her. This scary face had flashed with no warning and just filled the screen. Kelly knows that if that ever happened to her she would die inside, she would scream and scream until she ran out of life. If there is going to be a scary face on TV, there will be a warning. A stern voice will tell you that “Parental guidance is recommended” or that this show “ Is for mature audiences”. With TV, although there is no control, the programming has been designed by someone. A programmer has considered what will play. She is in the most marketed to age group 18 to 35. With the internet you have no control, and no one has planned it, the internet just keeps going whether you want it to or not. When she gets out the vodka bottle she has to dust it off. She rubs it clean with a dish rag, grey specs fall off it to pile into the sink. She pours a small glass, then drinks it straight. The moment is over quick, no graduality to it. She feels like a bridge, a big steel bridge with exactly one beam missing, every day cars drive over her, these cars are the general pressure of life. All the tiny but monumental tribulations and humiliations of being a human. These include but are not limited to periods, traffic, headaches, stomach troubles ( Being too full and too empty, the twin pains), acne breakouts, clothes making her look fat, awkward silences, random eye contact, laughing too loud at someone’s joke and much, much more. All these annoying little niggles, that everyone deals with are like cars driving over her. And as the TV commercials got too boring, the bridge collapsed. With one vodka comes two, then three, then the whole bottle, then the sponsor breaking the door down after seeing you through your window, then the ambulance ride, then the stomach pump. When she wakes up in the uncomfortable bed it feels like someone has shoved a fire poker down her throat, she coughs and realises that she’s drained and dehydrated. She can hear her brother near her, he’s on the phone. “ The dumb cunt’s only gone and fucking killed herself.” he says into the phone. “ What?” “ No she’s not actually dead it’s an expression, she’s alive but she’s still out, Soph I thought we were past this.” She should be offended by this, her own brother calling her that, but it isn’t the first time and in a way he is right, it’s all her fault, no one else's. Technically she could blame her neighbour, for giving her the bottle which did her in, she could blame the cold that made her stay home from work, or even blame the television programmer for putting such boring ads. But the neighbour didn’t know better, she had given it to her as a moving in present and she hadn’t thrown it or poured it down the sink. She probably could have gone to work, sure her throat was sore and her nose was blocked but what was that compared to this. Maybe if she had just adapted, gotten a netflix account, then she wouldn’t have been bored by those ads, those horrible monotonous ads. As they are driving back from the hospital her brother tells her so many cliched things that she’s dangerously close to rolling her eyes or sighing. She fights the urge though, cause that would make him explode, he’d call her a cunt, a drunk, a waste of space, time and energy, a waste of life and talent, and he’d be right. These things he would say wouldn’t hurt her, she had accepted those long ago. She knew that he would feel bad though, he probably had never called another woman a cunt, she never saw him so full of rage. The reason she doesn’t sigh or roll her eyes, but only nods and looks sorrowful is because of him. If he explodes, he will feel terrible, there will be the horribly awkward silence on the drive home then the few days of respite, before he calls her. He will cry on the telephone, tell her sorry, how sorry he is for hurting her and calling her names. And even though she knows this is terrible, it’s non the less true that when she gets these phone calls she is bothered and annoyed. She feels that he shouldn’t get to play both sides, call her a cunt then comfort her. She feels annoyed that he feels so obliged to her, she doesn’t want to let him down, but would rather do that then let him down, then let him apologize to her for it. Kelly has gotten adept at sensing what face people are pulling on the phone. She can tell from people’s tone, the subtle shifts and lulls in their voices, the words emphasized, and the pauses. When she first got out of rehab all the phone calls were outgoing, she would be reaching out to people to talk, to ‘ catch up’ as her mother used to say. When ever the phone connected and she spoke there would be a pause, as if who she was calling had received a call from a ghost. Then they give a hesitant hello, that rises up in tone at the end which tells you that it’s actually a question. Kelly knew her that at this point the person would be rolling their eyes, unsure how to feel. And when you answer back hello the second hello is triumphant and soaring. A hello with an exclamation mark as if to compensate for the question. Their face would remain the same though, The chat is so overbearingly happy that it annoys you, you almost want them to burst into tears and feel sorry for you, almost. This overhappy response is precisely the second worse response someone could have to someone coming out of addiction. But the feeling sorry for you is the worst, the one time this has happened to her confirmed it for her. It had been Naomi, a friend from her public relations degree, bubbly Naomi, always too friendly, like an overeager dog that drools in your lap from excitement. Naomi hadn’t burst into tears, she had felt sorry for her though. “ Oh you poor petal.” She said. At this point Kelly hung up the phone. There’s a thirty second delay and then the phone rings again, and it’s her, Naomi, the overeager dog wants to call back to drool more. She grabs the phone, ripping it straight from the wall, and she smashes it against the wall, smashes it until chips of black plastic fly off. She had slumped to the ground, black phone in hand. As her brother drives her home, she remembers all of this, all the painful phone calls after rehab. When they get inside Sophie is waiting for them. She’s a big woman, not fat, but she certainly takes up space, occupies a room. When her brother first got together with her, she had wondered why. But one night when they had locked gazes she understood. She had warm brown eyes, like a cow’s. Those eyes were always smiling, they would take you in and make you feel wanted. When ever she looked into her sister in laws eyes she feels better, no matter how dire the situation. She feels loved. She just imagines what it’s like for her brother, getting to see those eyes all day and wake up next to them. This is why her brother loves this woman, he may have a hundred other reasons but she knows this is the true reason. Sophie is dressed up, in a lovely brown dress which suits her figure well. She has a job interview. It reminds Kelly f the time when she vowed she would never drink again. She was 21 years old, she and three colleagues Jane, Ruby and Alex had been out celebrating. They had just finished a campaign for breast cancer, and it was received well . They are all dressed in cocktail dresses, Kelly in a peach one. They had just been profiled for a major magazine, under the headline ‘ The New Woman Of PR’. The four of them had stood looking fiercely into the camera, sophisticated and intelligent. They were at an upscale cocktail bar. The bar had ridiculously sexual names for cocktails. Kelly remembers blushing slightly at the titles, but the other girls had ordered them confidently. She was the least confident in the group... until she got some alcohol into her. By the time she had had four glasses of something called a ‘Cocksucking cover girl’. A gaudy pink drink with a high alcohol content, she’s on a roll. She would order more but the girls are hinting they want to leave, and she figures that she can drink at home anyway. As they leave the fancy bar, down a set of concrete steps, Kelly is in the front, rushing ahead laughing. Her white heels crack on the last step and she trips, she lands roughly on her left hand. The pain blooming there is so intense she pukes. She sprays pink all over her peach cocktail dress. She rolls onto her back, and looks up at her friends. As she realises that she has actually hurt herself ( it will later be diagnosed as a sprained ankle and a fractured wrist), she feels it. A stream of urine flows down her leg. She is laying on the ground, in her own vomit,and now piss is streaming down her leg. She looks down between her legs then back up at her friends. She sees the three of them there and she knows that she never wants to drink again, actually that’s not true. She knows that she never wants to be drunk again. Never wants another hangover or drunken stumble, never wants to be bent on her knees over a toilet and firing chunks into the bowl. Alex, who is wearing bright neon yellow, laughs, and she points, actually points like a bully in a cartoon, she grabs her stomach. She's laughing so hard. Ruby, adorned in a cocktail dress the same colour as a ‘ Cock sucking covergirl’ looks down at her and smirks. Ruby has always hated her, Kelly knew it and this proves it. Jane is the worst. Jane is the only one who she thinks of as an actual friend, the only one that she will stay in contact with. Jane looks at her with a mix of pity and disgust. It was after that that she went to rehab, and it was hard as hell, she never tries to tell people how hard it was, because it will sound cliche and self pitying but it was. It was physically, psychologically and spiritually draining, she felt like she was broken down and built up again, several times. At times she thought of suicide, just to end the process. If she were dead she wouldn’t have to worry. Rehab was terrible, but once it was done, about a year after, she felt content. Sure there was the awkwardness of phone calls, and the pitying looks she would get from people, but it was a piece of cake compared to the hell of rehab. But as the years of rehab went by it faded. They often say that long term alcoholics forget how bad it was. She didn’t forget, she couldn’t. How do you forget the worst thing in your life? So this is why as she is fearful when she is sitting on the couch with her brother and his lovely, cow-eyed wife. In three seconds eleven years of hard work went down the toilet. As she was drinking the vodka down she didn’t once think of all the heartache it would cause. This is why she feels a deep despair. Because even if she survives 11 years what’s to say that it won’t all happen again, in three seconds of blind craziness she will drink and be back at the beginning of the horrible cycle. What if she makes it to twenty years? Twenty one years? It’s the same really. She is 99 percent sure she will never relapse, but then again before the boring TV ad and vodka fiasco she had been 99 percent sure. She will always be 99 percent sure. You are always an addict, no one used to be an addict. For the rest of her life the cars will keep coming, she will need to build the bridge and hope all the beams are there, but you never know and you never will.


They walked cautiously toward the door. Upon reaching it, they stood still for a moment, thinking it through one last time before making the decision to bravely open it. They did not do so gently, or with any caution of which they had just been exhibiting. Instead, they took a deep breath, and through open the door, for they knew that was the only way they were ever going to be able to do it. Truthfully, they were scared of what awaited them on the other side. The door flew open, and what awaited them on the other side was no monster, but a man. He was kneeling on one knee in the middle of the room, one of his arms was dropped to the floor, the other propped atop his knee. His face was buried into the one arm he had propped on his knee. His crown caught the light that now shined into the room, allowing it to glow, illuminating the beautiful gems encrusted into its golden frame. There was also just enough light to show off a deep, blood red cape that draped from his shoulders and fell down along the back of his body. He raised his head just enough so that his eyes had room to peer over the ridge of his arm, shooting a menacing glare at the intruder that faced him. He made no advances, no movement. He made no attempt to deter the intruder from him. He let out a sigh before pushing himself to his feet. For a moment he stood still, his eyes concentrated on the ground. “It’s a funny thing really... I’ve been driven insane by ideas. My *good* ideas.” the man said, speaking low at first, as if talking to only himself. He chuckled, “Who knew that *good* ideas could fuck you up?”. He paused, finally looking up from the ground and locking eyes with the intruder. He scoffed before continuing, “I feel I’m on the brink of exploding!”. He had almost shouted his last sentence, as he broke out into a fit of insane laughter. He reached up his right hand and cupped the side of his face with it. The laughter died down and his eyes drifted down to the floor once more, his face becoming straight, and almost grim looking, for a moment. He suddenly broke the silence as he began cackling, his laughter seeming to fill the entirety of the room. But this was not laughter of amusement, but hysteria. His red cape flew violently out in the air behind him as his head shot back, and he raised his arms, clutching at his hair. The harsh jerking motion sent his crown flying off of his head and falling toward the floor. The crown smashed on the ground, cracking the golden frame. He had crazed, bloodshot eyes, the pupils shrunken. He had a maniacal grin spread widely across his face for a moment before began speaking. “I see MILLIONS of empires rise and fall every second! I see the creation of worlds, and I see their cataclysmic destructions! I see every king, every tyrant, every conqueror. I see all of their people- the rich, the poor, the sickly, the strong and the weak! I feel their suffering, their happiness, their fear, their rage. I see the cowards, the ones too scared, too weak to fight back, the ones who side with suffering over freedom. I see the brave heroes, the ones who’ve had enough, the ones ready to take a stand and fight back. I see all the good that people do, I see all the atrocities they commit. I see everything, and I sit here and I dream. I dream about what I could do, what I could create, the things I could become. It inspires me, and yet it destroys me. Every second I feel myself falling in love with it, having my heart broken, but then falling in love with it all over again. It’s nonstop! There’s no end, there is only madness! And I- and I...” he shouted. He felt a strange feeling of defeat wash over him. His eyes became normal once more and he looked down at the ground. His body quickly followed his eyes, as he suddenly dropped to his knees, arms hanging at his sides. He sat there in silence for a moment, his eyes glued to the floor. He said softly, “And sometimes... I just get so tired of fighting it.” The ‘intruder’ who had initially entered the room stood still for a moment, a look of surprise and concern on their face. They finally walked forwards, stopping in front of the man. They extended their arm, placing their hand on the man’s shoulder, a look of sadness now on their face. The man made no acknowledgement of the intruder’s gesture, his eyes still unmoving from their spot on the floor. The man suddenly stood up, without words, and pushed the intruder’s arm away. He looked once more at the intruder, gazing at him with sad, cold, sunken eyes that reeked of pain. He turned away from them, walking over to where his now cracked crown lay on the floor. He bent down, picking up the crown, and held it in his hands. He stared down at it, examining the newly acquired crack from the tumble it had taken. “But despite that, I keep going. I keep fighting it. I am determined to reach where I want to go, and I refuse to let anything dictate that for me.” The man said solemnly. He put the crown pack on his head and, without another word, walked out of the room.