Neon cascaded, as it had a tendency to do so. He flew down the paved streets on his Harley Davidson, even as the hoverboards and flying cycles and sedans passed and gathered, over his head and all sides. And the neon washed over him in waves. The light layer of water from the morning’s rain didn’t react much to the throw-off from the motorcycle. And he didn’t know why, but he felt that like today would be different. Like something monumental would happen. He’d opened his mind to the idea, only last night. He felt he would meet, today, the love of his life. But he knew it must be wrong, because he felt lonely and desperate these days and not at all himself. You have to be yourself. And better. In a world that wants you to be someone else: where environment and cause-and-effect and any number of random things can knock a person’s psychology askew. For whatever reason, he’d never read William Blake, but he’d decided to visit the Blake Museum today. For last night, everything had changed. He’d been standing on the balcony above McVicar Street, looking at the digital clock that reigned in the center of the square, higher than all buildings but for the Christian cross mounted on the spire of the church that stood taller than the rest, highlighted in red. The Neon City. The timestamp announced the year: 3032. He took out a cigarette and smoked it and stared and fell into another world. He fell into new worlds often. He didn’t understand those who saw the world only in one dimension. And while he was in this world, he saw her: All dazzling and dark hair and dark clothing and wrapped up in something that seemed like darkness but he knew the truth: there was much to her, something great, even. But no one else could see it. In the crowds that crowded around the vision, only he could see her. Colors washed past on all sides. As people came and went, maybe individuals, maybe nations, he didn’t know. He didn’t know much. But he saw the woman there, the girl. She turned around suddenly and her hair waved in front of her face to obscure it and she saw him through a gap in her hair and shrieked and turned and ran and he ran after her. “Wait,” he said. But she slipped into nonexistence, disappeared. He often had visions like so, and many of them had come true, but he’d never had one of a woman. He wondered if it was because of his state of mind. Only two weeks prior his girlfriend of two years had left him, had cheated on him, in fact. Not only that but he’d walked into the taco shop and had seen her with one of his friends: they were kissing and hugging and holding onto one another. Devastated him. He hadn’t done much but drink and cry and smoke the last two weeks. He was a struggling hip hop artist. A rapper. A poet, he considered himself. He was overextended on his motorcycle payments. And he owed a credit company a decent amount, too. “You have to be yourself,” said his friend, words ringing in his ears as he tore down the concrete in the Harley. “But you can’t just be yourself: you have to be better. You have to be in your masculine frame. That’s why alphas get all the women,” said the friend, chest puffed and out, almost as if he were trying to lead his way through this world with his nipples. “Power positions.” But Bill only laughed. Lit his cigarette. Took a drag. “What? You don’t believe me. I get all the women.” “Why am I even friends with you?” said Bill. “You’re the one come crying to me about your silly breakup. Move the fuck on, Bill.” “I was with her for two years.” “Women will eat your heart out. It’s hard being a man.” “But I don’t believe that about women,” said Bill. “Then you are naive. Worse, you’re deluding yourself. You don’t know reality. Women only like men who are higher status than them. They like men with money. That’s why you gotta go into sales and stop all this artist bullshit.” “I don’t do art to get women,” said Bill. “Of course you do,” his friend said, throwing up his hands. “Everything we do is for women. That’s why we grind.” Bill shook his head. “You belong to another world. Come live in mine if you want women, and if you want women to respect you,” said his friend. “I don’t want women. I want a woman . A connection. Don’t you want a connection? Something real.” “There is no such thing. If you want your wife to cheat on you with the milkman or the pool boy or some little shit, then go right on the way you are. Sentimentality doesn’t pay the bills. Nor does it keep the woman.” Bill ultimately believed his friend was a whackjob and didn’t agree with much that he said, but in his lowered state of mind the words stuck. Perhaps that was why he’d lost his girl: he hadn’t been going after the money. In their breakup talks, his girlfriend had mentioned things to that extent. But even as Bill drove the Harley down a tight alleyway, he had a vision of the girl of his visions standing in his way and he saw himself too. This time she was wearing all white and he was holding her around the waist and as he cut through the vision, she spoke to him: “Don’t give up on me,” she said. I would never give up on you. Only on myself, he thought, pitying himself. In this world, you will have trouble, but take heart, I have overcome. These words were splayed in high-banner in neon bright white over the gate that led into the greater part of the city. Bill drove faster now, leaning into the wind and the chaos of driving a motorcycle and allowed a flow state to take over him and by the time he got to the museum he was relaxed. He bought a warm mocha latte at the little cafe just outside the museum’s steps and then he dared rise up the steps to the Blake museum. No expense was spared in the design of the place. He entered another world. Leave Behind The World of Single Vision and Enter Eternally True Reality, announced a signpost. Within the building was decorated by things and with things Bill had no names for. Creatures from myth that had sprung from the mind -- or had entered the mind -- of the man Blake. : the spiralings and musings. : the loss and the love. : the sick and the healthy. In grand display and enlarged against one wall was his painting of Newton, sitting there in the sea of enchantments, but otherwise lost in what Blake had dubbed single vision. Bill understood the dramatic painting intuitively. The further he wandered through the exhibit, the more he got lost. Until finally he came to the theater. Seated among the small crowd, he laid back in the chair that was tilted very far back and watched the stars -- in the grand screen that took over the entire domed ceiling and stretched far to the corners -- throw themselves down like spears in grand display as the powerful words from Blake’s poem ‘The Tyger,’ played. And the tears ran down Bill’s face as the words pierced his being. What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp. Dare its deadly terrors clasp? He was haunted now. And lost in some other world. Neon cascaded, in this world, as it had a tendency to do so. The words had entered him and he was only hearing them but no longer hearing them. They were passing through him as he passed through this other world. And a cock crowed somewhere. And birds flew past overhead. And other animals, indistinct sounds, called to one another. And the moon shone bright and fell like silver across the endless field of green. And Bill stood by the lone tree, right there in the middle of the eternal field. And a tire swing hung from the tree, gently moving with the gentle wind. And he approached it and held the rope and stared at the tire. And there was only peace here. But what of struggle? What of challenge born? What of pain? He only saw this thing, and the sublimity struck his heart so hard that he could hardly breathe and the waves of light washed through his soul and he fell to his knees in pain and grief -- of the good kind -- and he longed for this moment never to end but it did. And when he came to, he was in the theater and it was dark. Everyone had left. Then the doors opened to let the newcomers come inside. And he needed to smoke. He found the smoke room in the exhibit. Everywhere had smoke rooms these days. The darker side effects of nicotine and tobacco had been conquered a long time ago. Smoking was all the rage, as it should be. The drug induced great feelings, and greater feelings followed greater feelings. What man of greatness never smoked? Bill thought to himself with wry smile. That said, he didn’t consider himself to be a great man, nor did he want to be one. He just wanted to be right here, with his cigarette, with this world, in this time. “But don’t you want more?” said William Blake, appearing to him on the long bench seat beside him, holding a pipe in his hands. “Not really,” said Bill in gentle voice. “But aim and challenge are certainly the twin giants of change, no?” Bill shrugged. Another man appeared on his other side. Bill beckoned to him. “That’s George. Macdonald. A man who could see. And fly.” “We can all fly now,” said Bill. “But even when you are in the skies, you are brought low by pride and longing,” said George. “Shall I not long?” said Bill. “Depends what you are longing for.” “Nothing at the moment. I’m quite happy with the cigarette.” The nicotine buzzed in his head. George also lit a pipe. “Hard-earned learning and achievement. These things are of great value.” “But what shall I long for? I just saw the fields of eternity.” “Her,” said Blake. “Your heart is too great. You need her.” “He’s right,” said George. “You must give her your heart. You must give her eternity and all that you have. Your heart is too small to contain it all. You must give. ” “But where is she?” said Bill. And suddenly serpents of a thousand doubts snuck into his mind and he got mad at the gentlemen for popping his perfect dreams. “I am not ready.” “Neither was I,” said Blake. “I was a poor soul,” said George, “when I met the woman I would love forever.” “I’m desperate,” said Bill. “I’m lonely. I’m broken. How can a woman love me?” “But can you love a woman?” said George. “Can you sing until her soul comes alive? Can you press deep into her spirit until you find not only yourself but her also? Can you pour yourself out and set yourself aside at the same time?” “That’s poetry. That’s silly. Not real. Will only lead to heartbreak.” Bill waved it all off with his hand. “Who put such weak ideas into your mind?” said Blake, rising up from his seat and voice rising. “I will put them out with the scorching flame of truth: reality is deeper than you can possibly imagine. Your silly constraints are not real. Your preconceptions are shattered with this one thing: True Love.” “There is no such thing,” said Bill. “We marry, not for Love, but for status and for power. For protection and safety. Love is covered by a thousand more real things. The poets got this all wrong. They value love higher than it ought to be valued.” “It is the opposite,” said George. “They do not value Love enough. No one does. It becomes weakened and diluted with every generation. But in every generation there are a few who dare to rise to grasp its wild wildness. It will destroy you and remake you if you let it.” “You will never see the same way again. When you meet her.” “Stop,” Bill yelled, throwing up his hands in either direction, and the men disappeared. And he finished his cigarette in peace. Why should anyone love me? I’m a broken man. I am not ready. They are not real. And I am undesirable. No matter how desirable I become, there is no girl who will always desire me. I must become everything. I must become the best of all time, the greatest there ever was, and then I can settle down for love, because love is not held together by flimsy promises and wedding bands, it is held together by a thousand other contrivances and sacrifices and offerings. And I must build, work, build, work. I must get over my pathetic self. I must produce a strong masculine frame with which to serve my woman from. Hell, I cried today. I can’t cry in front of my woman. Bill roamed mindlessly the exhibits, lost in the headiness of the nicotine and the tears and the aftermath of his vision of the field. What did it mean? How could it be so? How could it be so that love was so? Love was an antiquated notion, and only suckers believed in it. Only losers. Only those who weren’t willing to see reality. They were the ones who got hurt. They were the ones who wasted away. And no one ever heard of them. Surely they were fools. Surely they had been bluffed into lies by life. Surely perfect love couldn’t be so. Not in this wretched world. As surely as the neon cascaded. As it had a tendency to do so. But then he saw her, standing before Blake’s painting of Nebuchadnezzar. She was wrapped in black, black dress pants and black blazer and black hair and he got the feeling that if he were to approach her he would have to approach as if he were coming towards an easily-frightened gazelle. Not a delicate thing. But something swift and focused. Something sharp. Sharper than him, perhaps. But only his words were sharp. He could hardly pay his bills. And as he walked across the expansive room towards her, with each step, the weight of a thousand faults filled his mind and bled through his every corpus and weighed him down but he felt a pair of hands pushing him and he knew it was George and he knew it was Blake. And he saw a glimpse, overlaying the concrete reality of the room, of the eternal fields of green and. Then he reached the girl and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder but he withdrew, and the words from his most alpha friend came to him. “You must be masculine. If you encounter the girl otherwise, she will never have you. She will never, ever respect timidity.” She would sense his timidity, he thought to himself. Her instincts would weed him out. After all, we are products of thousands of years of evolution. But then he saw past her, saw the painting and, in the painting Nebuchadnezzar came alive, chewing on the cud and it seemed so unnatural and without even realizing it, fully, Bill touched her shoulder. She turned and her hair glistened under the high lighting and her dark eyes met his. And she didn’t smile or turn away, not like his dream. She only waited for him to speak. “Well,” she said. “If you have nothing to say,” then she turned away from him and began walking away on heels that clicked against the tile. Don’t give up on me , he heard in his imagination. But she was getting farther and farther. But then he saw her in the long fields with him. She stood on the other side of the tire swing and he peered at her through the center of the tire and she smiled a wild smile and she was a wild thing. And he ran towards her, and she began to run away. And in the real world, he did the same. He ran after her. “Wait,” he called. She turned back on her heels and he almost stumbled into her and he had to catch himself by catching her shoulders and she caught his. “Sorry,” he said. Never say sorry to a woman , his friend’s voice said. “I,” he said, but then he stopped, just looking into her eyes. She seemed concerned at first but they maintained eye contact and he felt something well up deep within his soul and somehow tears came to his eyes. “Are you okay?” He shook his head. “No.” “You look so sad.” “I am lost,” he said. “And broken.” Never express your emotion around a woman. “Why are you telling me?” He didn’t know how to tell her. Finally, he said, “Do you pity me?” “Yes,” she said, with a slight smile and looking deep into his eyes. “I love you for that,” he said. “Well,” she said and her smile ironed out and somehow she saw into his soul. “And I love you.” She rode on the back of the Harley that day. All the way into the neon and beyond, and it was always cascading for them. As it had a tendency to do.


The city was silent. Lights twinkled in the dark like the stars in the night sky. The window sill wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it allowed Devlin to relax as she admired the view. She drew on a cigarette blowing the billowing smoke out the open window. The soft wind taking it away. As she pulled the burning stub from her full lips, her blood stained hand was shaking. A charm bracelet slipping down her arm. Although she was skinny and wore nothing more than lingerie, she was immune to the cold. Her mind was on other things. Her eyes were glazed over, blood dripping from her face. She flicked the cigarette butt out of the window and slipped off the sill with ease. As she made her way across the studio apartment she glanced over at the carnage she was responsible for only a few moments ago. His head was almost gone and what remained was unidentifiable. His naked body was drenched in blood and soaking the silk bed sheets beneath. A spray of pure red up the headboard and wall. Devlin entered the bathroom, flicking on the bright light. She stared into the mirror and thought back to how she got here. Devlin sat at the bar of a busy club, the synth-pop competing with the many voices chatting away. She was sipping at a glass of wine staring longingly at a photograph of Roxy and herself, happier times. She stroked the glossy image with a gentle finger, memories flooding her brain. Days spent together shopping, dinners out, every moment together was a gift. Her mind drifted from one to the next, a subtle smile growing on her face. Her cheerful reflections faded away when she remembered it all ended on one particular night. There was a strong chill in the air. Devlin and Roxy were waiting on the street corner in provocative clothing trying their best to keep warm. Clients were always harder to come by in the winter months. As they hugged themselves, rubbing their arms, a car pulled up beside them. Roxy wasted no time approaching the vehicle and leaning in through the window to talk to the hidden driver. Devlin watched impatiently before Roxy turned to her and smiled. She pulled the passenger door open and the internal light lit up the face of the driver. Devlin got a short, but clear look at the sinister man before he disappeared back into darkness as Roxy climbed in and slammed the door shut. She didn’t know it at the time, but as the car drove away that would be the last time she saw Roxy. Several days of stress and worry followed. The police were no help and Devlin was beginning to lose all hope. She didn’t have the energy to leave the house, eat food and sleeping was an impossibility. She spent many hours of the day staring at the front door of their small apartment hoping she would step through and all would be okay again. That moment never came and she realised it never would when she flicked on the news one morning. They were reporting the discovery of a body, a young girl severely beaten and dumped in a field. Devlin’s fingers gripped the arms of the chair as she watched with bated breath. As the photograph of Roxy flashed up on screen, Devlin felt her entire body relax in despair. Tears welled in her eyes as she slumped forward onto the floor. Her blood-curdling scream echoed around the room. She was back in the bar, still staring at the photograph. She glanced down at the charm bracelet around her wrist. It belonged to Roxy. Among her personal effects given to Devlin as her only next of kin. Something to remember her by at least. She heard his voice at first ordering a rum and coke, soft and soothing, nothing like what she had imagined. As she turned to look at him she almost froze with fear when she saw his face. Strong features with kind eyes and a charming smile, the complete opposite to the night she saw him in the low light of the car. Could this really be the same man? Of course it was, she knew it was, but doubt sometimes sets in even when you’re sure. He caught her staring at him and offered a gentle smile and a wink of the eye. Her heart was racing, but she had to maintain her cool. She returned the friendliness and slipped off her stool. Taking her small handbag she glided over to him oozing sex appeal. Devlin was back in the bathroom washing the blood from her hands. She scrubbed them furiously to remove every last trace. She splashed some of the water over her face to remove the red staining clinging to her skin. Each drop a reminder of what she had done cast aside as if to erase the crime. As she stared into the mirror her dark eyes reflected back at her, upon the face of a demon she no longer recognised. She reached up and pulled a black wig from her head to reveal golden blonde hair with pink streaks through it. There was the girl she knew. Suddenly she came over nauseous and turned to the nearby toilet. The vomit burned her throat. She had not eaten in a while, so it was mostly bile laced with vodka and coke. Devlin collected her small handbag from the bedroom and returned to the cold bathroom with anticipation. She sat down on the toilet lid and removed a small tin from her bag, flipping the lid open to reveal her “survival kit”. It consisted of a syringe, rubber tube, spoon, lighter and a small plastic bag of white powder. The needle pierced her skin with ease, the rubber tube tight around her arm helping locate a protruding vein. As she slowly squeezed the plunger the liquid rushed into her body sending a chill of elation throughout. She drew the needle from her arm dropping it to the floor, then pulled the rubber tube loose to allow the flow to reach every part of her. She sat back against the cistern and let it take hold. Just as she had expected it didn’t take much to persuade him to take her back to his. Within half an hour they were entering his lavishly decorated studio apartment. As he made his way to the kitchen to fix them both a drink, Devlin analysed the decor. Modern furniture neatly placed, shelves lined with antiquities and artistic photographs of nude women on the walls. He returned with two large glasses of red wine, passing one to her. They clinked glasses and both took a sip, staring into each other’s eyes. He with passion and her with retribution. He gestured for her to sit on the white leather couch. She sank into it as it creaked beneath her. They placed their glasses on the coffee table and he threw an arm over the back of the sofa, a charming smile on his face. She could see in his eyes he wanted her and she would let him think the same of her. She leant toward him, hinting at him to do the same. They kissed passionately, their lips pressed tightly. His venturing hand reached out to cup her breast. She pulled from his lips and smacked his hand away playfully. The tease excited him. Devlin collected her handbag and slowly standing so he could see every curve in her body, made her way to the bathroom and disappeared inside. He knew the protocol. It was something he had experienced many times before and he wasted no time getting to the king-sized bed at the other end of the apartment. He sat down on the edge of the silk sheets and leant over the bedside table where a small mirror holding several lines of cocaine waited. Taking a rolled up bank note he snorted a couple of lines with relish before hurriedly ripping his clothes off. Devlin stood on the cold tiled floor looking at herself in the mirror. She took several deep breaths before slipping her leather jacket from her shoulders. She then unzipped the pink cocktail dress hugging her slender body and let it slide to the floor. The black lingerie, stockings and suspenders leaving very little to the imagination. One last breath and she felt ready. She had waited so long for this moment and now it was finally here. She couldn’t back out now. She had to do it for Roxy. Devlin collected her handbag and exited the bathroom. She found him lying on the bed in his underwear, hands behind his head, waiting in anticipation. She slinked over toward him and placed her handbag down on the shag carpeted floor. She caught sight of the lines of cocaine and felt the need for some boost in confidence. She bent over ensuring her plump rear was shoved in his face and snorted a line. She felt the rush through her veins and the power it gave her. He extended his grasping hand to take hold of her right arse-cheek, but she pulled it back from his reach and slapped his hand away. He grinned devilishly. She spotted a couple of ties hanging alongside a suit on the wardrobe handle. She whipped them off and smirked as she climbed on top of him, legs straddled, and bound his hands to the bed frame. He found it hard to contain his excitement and she could feel it. He watched as she kissed his hairy chest delicately, then shifting her focus to his piercing blue eyes reached up and gently teased his eyelids down. She continued to kiss his chest as her hand searched the nearby handbag. She lifted a rusting hammer from its containment and slowly raised it above her head. He couldn’t help but take a peek, but found himself looking up at the hammer high above him. The metal glistened in the light. His eyes widened with shock as the heavy steel head crashed down into his face. His nose broke immediately caving in to the cavity of his skull. Devlin proceeded to raise the hammer and bring it down four more times until there was nothing recognisable about him. The amount of blood was immense redecorating the walls and drenching Devlin’s hands and face. Bits of bone and flesh scattered like jetsam. Exhausted she stared at the mess before her, hands shaking, breathing heavy. Her grip on the tool released, letting it drop to the floor with a thud. She climbed off his corpse and took a packet of cigarettes from her handbag, struggling to light one with nerve shredded fingers. She made her way over to the window. As the heroins power wore off, Devlin opened her eyes and remembered where she was. She sat up on the toilet lid and looked around with glazed vision. For a moment it seemed like it had all been a dream. She picked up the crumpled cocktail dress and slipped it over her hips, zipping it up tight. She then threw on the leather jacket and collected her handbag before stepping out to view her carnage again. Devlin couldn’t help but stare at the hideous sight once more. A sense of relief washed over her. She picked up the stained hammer from the blood soaked carpet and wiped it down with the bedsheet. She placed it back inside her handbag and slung the strap over her shoulder. Her eye was drawn to a brown leather wallet sitting on the bedside table. As it flipped open, a large wad of notes wedged inside revealed themselves. She plucked them out and shoved them into her pocket, tossing the wallet back onto the table. She then headed for the front door and quietly pulled it open, taking one last look back at the scene before ducking out into the darkness. Days passed and she still struggled to sleep. The action she took that night didn’t give her the sense of closure she hoped it would. Revenge was not what she had been led to believe. It stuck like a thorn in her side. She found herself sitting up late watching television every night, hoping the relief would eventually come, but it didn’t. Then one day something she saw on the news made sure that sweet emotion would never come. Police were reporting they had arrested a notorious serial killer. He had been arrested attempting to murder another girl and subsequently confessed to several others, one of which was Roxy. Devlin had killed the wrong man.


I am not allowed to be angry, but you are. You always are. I am the source of your anger, but at the times when I am not, I am the one who receives it. You do not think of the times I remember your screaming, your face turning red, sucking the spit from your teeth so that it may not fly from your mouth, the way you hit everything around you except for people, and leave me to wonder when that will change. I remember it all, because how could I forget. The marks of your anger are scratched onto my brain, even though my skin is clear and free. I feel anger, but again, it is not an emotion for me to feel. That was your decision. "Stop that," because of a furrowed brow, and "I've had enough of your disrespect!" At a frown. Just a normal frown and brow. Something that every human experiences that is not inherently disrespectful, but again. I am not you. Apparently, I am not allowed to decide what is normal human behavior. Normal human behavior. Something that has long eluded me ever since I was a child. I have spent days and nights wandering within my mind what that is because where else can I express an emotion such as anger. I stare blankly at a wall. "What if it knows?" A question I can ask no one. Not even out of fear of sounding ridiculous enough to question the listening abilities of inanimate objects, but because I can ask no one but myself about the impossible possibility of the walls expressing my anger for me. The consequences I would live with, my anger always has consequences. But yours does not. I can speak of your anger because I am not the wall. I can remember. I can remember being told I was an utter disappointment for the way I spoke to my sister after she hurt me. She received consequences without the insults. Just a simple plea, "Don't say things like that" when she is only reflecting the anger that I cannot. I am not allowed to be a mirror even though I am. If I am to be acknowledged as a mirror, it is one that remembers the old wives' warnings of a soul departed trapped. Or maybe one that heeded their warnings and draped itself in thin cloth so that the spirits may be confused. Any living being would know, however, that a mirror still resided under that cloth. Anger cannot be hidden by my practiced blank expression. That is the issue after all your demands. I am left with no true resolution once again. The anger cannot go away. I am constantly angry. My anger is as consistent as the brown in my hair or the hazel in my eyes. I am filled with what I have received from you. What am I supposed to do about it? How is one meant to exist with no outlet? Everything is trapped behind the blank slate that you hate. Even to hide one's anger is against the rules. Because then I am heartless. I am cold. I am refusing. When I have been ignored. I follow the rules and I am wrong. I break them and I am wrong. My anger resides. It waits. Its prey is near. The only acceptable prey can be hidden away. A villain in a video game, who has done countless wrongdoings, hurting thousands-no millions with their cruelty. Aggression is permitted because it is fictionally righteous fury. Righteous fury expressed in reality is wrong because it is unfounded. I do not know enough to truly understand when righteous fury is permitted. But you do. You always do, my rulemaker. Whenever your idols have been wrong or your values questioned, your anger is warranted. You would fight the world if it told you your anger was wrong. I cannot fight you. "What if someone knows?" I ask my keyboard. For once writer's block is my enemy. My challenge. My fight. My anger is contained within words that you now read. The you in question is no longer aimed toward the rule-makers. The rule-makers will never read this. Well, one would hope. But if they did, they would learn that my anger lurks. It eats away at me every single day. My soul losing itself to the mirror where I see more than a furrowed brow or a frown. I see white-knuckled fists with no target. I see gritted teeth that threaten to break under my might. I see the tears through the red. I suffocate under my own wrath. I punch the soundless pillow. I imagine a recipient. I submerge myself, only the water hears me scream. What else am I supposed to do? I am not allowed to feel angry. That is an emotion reserved for everyone aside from me. The rule-makers do not know about the pillow or the water. They will never see my fists or my teeth for all the times they have seen my tears have been enough, "Stop fucking crying. Get the fuck over it." They reprimand. Always swearing. I am permitted to curse, but only in matters of pain and joy. Never anger, which should be obvious at this point. It's always so fucking obvious. So fucking obvious that I don't want to live with this shit. I am tired of using delicate pretty words to make my anger seem lesser. It's not lesser. I need that to be known. I'm tired of this shit. I'm tired of these shit-fucking rules that I don't understand. Why am I not allowed to be angry? Give me a fucking answer. Anger is not meant to be quiet. It's either reckless or calculated. It's reckless when you force crappy rules down someone's throat with the vain, idiotic hope of forcing them into submission. It's calculated when the rules are forced upon you, but you won't submit. A part of me yearns to be reckless, but I couldn't hurt someone like that. I couldn't destroy someone like that. The rule-makers programmed me to care in ways they did not. I don't know if there is an end to my story, my anger. My choice to be calculated, rather than reckless, is the only ending I can imagine. Maybe it is the only one I am allowed until a sequel permits me to ask, "Why am I not allowed to be angry?"


(This is my first real story I've written. My brother writes horror type stuff and I wanted to impress him because his is so good and cool and I love him to death. He is way better. Please be nice)   \[HR\] The Banshee Where am I? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Ok just do what they always said. Ground myself. My name is Jessie Demerov. I am 23... no... 24. I was volunteering at the labs and... HOLY SHIT WHAT HAPPENED!? I’m in the research room. I have to find the lights. Follow the wall. FUCK that hurt. What did I trip over? Doesn’t matter. There’s the lights. Oh... my... god... there are bodies everywhere. What happened? Think gods damn it think. Project Banshee was going great. We finally figured out, transfiguration. We had the demon. The demon. The demon. Phase 1 was done. Phase 2 under way. Soul transfer was making progress. ***We have to go in now!*** ***Who knows how long we have until it finds a way out.*** Ok Jessie. Just step over the bodies. Ignore the wounds. Wait a minute. Those are deep. Who did this? The demon. It has to be. I need to leave now. Hopefully Ellis is still alive. I need her to be alive. Please if the gods are listening let her be alive. ***Just hold on the rest of containment will be here soon.*** ***CONTAINMENT!?*** ***WE NEED A FUCKING SCORCHED EARTH TEAM!!!*** Ok. Remember and focus. Check the sleeping quarters for Ellis and leave. Down the hall. Make a right. Keep going. Keep going. I’m gonna pretend that whatever I just stepped in is water and not blood. FUCK. Stop looking down. I don’t want to see their faces. We brought this on ourselves. ***Son put down the gun.*** ***No we need to kill it.*** ***And put a billion dollars down the drain?*** ***What was that scream?*** Fuck someone is still alive. That wasn’t Ellis. There’s the door. “ELLIS YOUR ALIVE!!! No no no. Stop screaming I think the demon did this. No its me please stop screaming”. ***SIR WE NEED TO MOVE IN NOW SOMEONE IS STILL ALIVE IN THERE!!!*** ***Fuck but its your ass getting court marshalled.*** “Ellis it’s just me stop shaking. Please”. I know. I’ll kiss her. It always calms her down. “It’s ok. See calm down. Its just me. I’m here now. I love you. Its ok. I love you.” “Just take my hand I’ll lead and stay silent.” Ok fuck. This is good. I don’t know how she is alive but she is. That’s what matter. Ok. Step over the bodies. Ignore the severed limbs. Ignore the blood. Block it out. Move. ***We breach in 10, 9, 8...*** It’s just this way I think. Yes, there’s the door. ***7, 6, 5...*** “We made it Ellis, we made it. We’re gonna make it out. We will go get help. The commanders will know what happened”. ***4, 3, 2, 1...*** Just a few more feet to the door. I can hear them. The containment teams are already here. ***BREACH*** OH MY GODS THANK THEM ALL ***WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!!!*** ***OPEN FIRE!!!*** What? ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ***Was that the Banshee sir?*** ***Yes, it was.*** ***It’s dead now.*** ***Or is again.*** ***I don’t know.*** ***I can’t believe everyone is dead.*** ***It was a massacre.*** ***It’s worse the deeper you get in there.*** ***Why was it dragging a body?*** ***I don’t know.*** ***But we did good.*** ***We did our job.*** ***We should see it closer.*** ***Start looking to see if you can find out what went wrong.*** ***Give the cleanup crew a head start.*** ***Fuck, the face is just gone.*** ***The whole chest is collapsed.*** ***The hand is hardly attached.*** ***Must have been dragging it around awhile.*** ***That poor soul still have her ID badge?*** ***Yeah.*** ***Says Ellis S.


That’s the thing about this city. No matter how many times I drive through it or traverse it by foot, I get the same impression. This metropolis of the Southwest values style over substance. Straight south of us, about four hours away, is Houston, a place I don’t particularly care for, but one that does have a certain distinctiveness and flair. For one, officials decided long ago not having any zoning, which means, arguably, you could see a slaughterhouse right next to a senior citizen’s home. It’s the kind of quirkiness for which a number of Houstonians are quite proud. However, the city is also grounded in the oil and shipping industries, which give that city something of a blue-collar feel. Also, south of us, one will find Austin and San Antonio, two metropolitan communities with connections to Texas’ present and past. The former is home to the University of Texas and the state capital, and its life revolves around the burnt orange of the Longhorns and the “Eyes of Texas.” Thrown in a thriving music scene, and one will see what makes Austin tick. Within San Antonio, there remains what’s left of an old Spanish mission called The Alamo. It was there, the legend goes, that more than 180 Texians fought to the last man against Santa Anna’s invading army. Never mind that Texas was part of Mexico at the time, and in Santa Anna’ eyes, as well as many of his compatriots, the Texians he invited to settle the land were trying to steal it by force. Visit the Alamo City, and one will witness Texas pride at its peak, as well as a blended Tex-Mex culture. About an hour to our west is Fort Worth, also known as Cowtown. Don’t laugh, the residents of that city embrace the name, for it’s there are the Fort Worth Stockyards, to which cattle are brought for sale. It’s a link to Texas’ past, where, at least according to Hollywood, where the Lone Star State was home to nothing but cowboys and bandits. Fort Worth also has a true blue-collar feel, where getting one’s hands dirty and earning a living via back-breaking worked is not looked down upon. If you haven’t already guessed, my city is Dallas, commonly known as “Big D,” a metropolitan landscaped consisting of numerous streets, endless buildings, along with an Amtrak station. Yet, for all it has, Dallas truly has no substance. When one mentions my city to outsider, usually their first thoughts are of the long-running television series “Dallas,” in which oil men walked around the city wearing finely tailored suits and 10-gallon hats, and “Walker, Texas Ranger,” which featured a senior citizen beating up criminals much younger and bigger than him. In the more than 20 years of living in Big D, I have yet to encounter anyone matching the descriptions of either J.R. Ewing or Cordell Walker. Since its incorporation in 1856, Dallas has grown into a major metropolis that is home to a federal reserve bank, a major newspaper and multiple business and residential high-rises. However, even with all that, there is an emptiness to Big D, one that doesn’t exist in places like New York or Chicago. There, as well as in other small and large metropolises through the nation, one can feel their heartbeat and sense the fabric that ties the citizens together. Not so with Big D. Sure, Dallas has a lot going for it. There is the Texas State Fair and the original Cotton Bowl stadium, the latter of which hosts the annual Red River Shootout between Texas and Oklahoma. The stadium used to host the annual Cotton Bowl Classic every Jan. 1, but now that game is played in nearby Arlington at the home of the Dallas Cowboys. In a way, though, the Cowboys have been a good metaphor for Dallas, in that throughout their history, the so-called “America’s Team,” has placed more emphasis on style over substance, whether it was the polished looked of Tom Landry’s teams or the current regime of Jerry Jones, which features an emphasis on making money. Even their current stadium is pure Dallas, as it was built to house more than 100,000 people who can watch a contest in what’s best described as an athletic amusement park. The fact it’s located near Six Flags over Texas, an actual amusement facility, is quite appropriate. The Cowboys have much success during their more than 60 years of existence. However, more often than not, they’ve failed in crunch time because they had no solid core upon which to draw, much like the city they supposedly represent. In the 1960s, and in subsequent years, Dallas’ opponents often said if you figuratively “punched them in the mouth,” the Cowboys wouldn’t know what to do. There was truth to that, because the Cowboys, were more interested in looking good. They had to maintain their “style” above all else. Other teams, understood the final score was the most important thing, not how you looked getting there. While a one- or two-point win satisfied most competitors, Cowboy players and coaches, most of the time, viewed such triumphs with disdain, because they did not look perfect in achieving victory. Such is the way life in Big D, where being seen with the right people, wearing the right clothes and shopping at expensive restaurants and stores are musts if one if to be a true Dallasite. Let’s just say that Dallas does its very best to a southwestern version of Hollywood, although those television and movie portrayals would believe one to think otherwise. If you look good, stand tall and present yourself in an acceptable manner, you can make it in Dallas. Your true self is irrelevant. That’s why celebrities and athletes who speak their mind, or could care less about appearance, would never cut it in Big D. Here, one must look and act and certain way, not be true to one’s self. I could never imagine the late, great Ted Williams working or playing in Dallas. A solid celluloid example of Dallas-based thinking can be found in the Norris film “Lone Wolf McQuade,” arguably the inspiration for Walker Texas Ranger. In it, Norris plays a Texas Ranger willing to do what it takes to catch the villain, including the bending the rules. Most of all, he doesn’t mind being bloodied and getting dirty along with way. This latter point doesn’t sit well with his boss, who wants his Rangers to have a certain “style,” one that is presentable to the public. Results don’t matter, it’s how one looks doing them that counts. I’ll give credit to Dallas’ leaders, all the way back to the ones who were here before the city became incorporated. Over time, they made sure Dallas obtained everything necessary to make it major metropolis. It presents a skyline that’s impressive whether viewing it from ground or air. However, that’s all there is, because there isn’t much beneath. Perhaps that’s the way Dallas’ founders wanted, and, if so, they got their wish. After all, its style, not substance that counts, and Dallas lives by that motto every day of the week.


Murray Stinson didn't like Fridays. Mondays were better-he never had to lay anyone off on a Monday. Layoffs at MultiCorp happened on Fridays. The meetings were quick and soul crushing, usually scheduled for the end of the day, involved a fair amount of crying, the occasional flurry of invective, and left him feeling like a destroyer of worlds. It was for that reason that Bill Morris, Analyst, would be his final layoff. Ever. After nearly thirty years with the company, the destroyer of worlds would retire. Murray pressed the call button for the elevator and studied the poster on the wall next to the doors. LEE WILSON. MISSING. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING HIS WHEREABOUTS, PLEASE CALL 917-555-9495. Beneath the text, the smiling, stubbled face of Lee Wilson, mail clerk, stared back at him. The poster had been up for a week. Lee had gone out for lunch and never returned, and Murray's favorite theory was that Lee had simply walked away and started a new life somewhere. Murray wished he'd had the guts to do that, to walk out into the sunshine, throw his tie in the garbage can, and drop off the face of the earth. He'd fantasized about opening up a little bar on a beach somewhere, where he would serve happiness to sunburned tourists instead of grief to overstressed, pasty-faced cubicle dwellers. The elevator doors opened, and Jim McKittrick, Vice-President of Sales, flashed a smile. "Murray." "Jim." "What floor?" "Ten." Jim pressed the button for ten, and the doors slid shut. "Bill Morris, huh?" Jim asked. Murray nodded. "He's going to play the discrimination card." "Probably. I can handle it." "Better you than me. I can't stop looking at it when I'm around him." "It wouldn't be a problem if he kept that sack on, but he won't." The elevator slowed and a chime sounded. A glowing red 8 filled the readout. "Good luck," Jim said and exited the car. The doors slid shut, and the elevator resumed its slow, rumbling climb. *Luck,* Murray thought. If he'd been lucky, Lewis Pike, who was barely thirty and had been stuck with Bill's portfolio because nobody else in human resources wanted it, wouldn't have called in sick, and he'd be down at his desk planning his retirement. Lewis was probably faking; kids had no work ethic, these days. The elevator chimed and the number 10 popped onto the readout. Murray turned left out of the elevator and walked down a row of empty offices. Most of the staff had been relocated to the lower floors when it was announced that the company would lease its upper floors as part of its Right Sizing Program. Only Bill Morris remained on ten: a hermit who needed to be kicked off his mountain. Murray reached the end of the hall and stopped in front of a closed door. It was strange that Bill kept his door closed when he was the only person on the entire floor, but then Bill was a bit of an anomaly. He knocked. "Come in." Murray turned the handle. The door opened with a click, and Bill Morris, seated behind a desk overloaded with thick binders and stacks of paper, frowned at him. "I've seen you around. HR?" "Yes." "On a Friday afternoon." "I'm afraid so." Bill leaned back in his chair, his shoulders drooping. "I usually deal with Lewis." "He called in sick." Murray forced himself to keep his eyes on Bill's face and not look at the tentacle. It wasn't easy. The eye wanted to focus on it, wanted to linger on the thick, gray-green, suction-cupped appendage where Bill's left arm should've been. The tentacle tapered to a round point that Bill slowly tapped on the desk, the way one might drum one's fingers if one possessed any. "May I sit?" asked Murray. The tip of the tentacle flicked toward a chair placed against the wall near the door. Murray rolled it over to the desk and sat down. "I'm sorry to--" "It's my arm, isn't it?" *That ain't an arm, pal,* Murray thought. "Not at all. Your position is being--" "Just say it. It's the arm." *Don't look at it,* Murray thought again. *Do your job and go home.* He cleared his throat. "Your position is being made redundant. The current state of the economy necessitates--" Bill leaned forward. His left shoulder moved under his short-sleeved dress shirt, and the tentacle rose into the air and swished back and forth in front of Murray's face. "Just. Say. It." Murray swallowed. A trail of slime glistened on the desk where the tentacle had been resting. "Okay. Unofficially it's the tent..." He paused as Bill's eyes narrowed. The word tentacle had been deemed offensive and its use discouraged when in Bill's presence. "Sorry. I meant unofficially it's your arm. Yes." "That's discrimination." "It's making people uncomfortable, and by refusing to wear the, um..." He pointed to a leather sleeve folded on top of a filing cabinet. Everyone called it 'The Squid Sack", but the delicacy of the situation required a more politically correct term. "...the apparatus, you're violating the conditions of your employment." "My arm cramps up when I wear it. And it's hot." "Regardless, you agreed to the condition." "I only agreed to it because I needed the job. I'm not going to hide anymore. Travis Cooper has a mole on his nose the size of a watermelon. It's disgusting and no one's forcing him to wear a bag over his head." "That's not the same, and if I'm being completely honest," Murray said, glancing at the slime trail, "the excretion issue has become a problem." "Oh that's ridiculous." "There have been complaints." "Would you fire someone for having excessively sweaty palms?" "No." "Same thing." "Bill--" "Save your breath." He pounded the desk with the tentacle. Mucous spurted from one of the suction cups and splashed across Murray's shirt. His eyes widened, and he blushed. "Oh. Shit." He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a box of tissues. "Ok. Maybe it's getting worse." Murray dabbed at his shirt with a tissue. Hot bile rose in his throat, and he choked it down. *Think of your retirement. Think of your retirement.* Bill pushed away from the desk and walked to the window. The tentacle dangled at his side, while his right hand slipped inside his pocket. He stared at the office building across the street, a wall of windows behind which an army of regular, non-tentacled people went about their day. Murray wondered how often he stood there, watching, maybe wishing he were like them. Wishing he were normal. "I didn't ask for this," Bill said, raising the tentacle. "I didn't get a say, you know. There wasn't a voice in the womb that said, 'Hey, kid. You'll be coming out soon, and you can either have a normal arm or a really neat, totally original tentacle. Your choice.'" Murray dropped the slick wad of tissue into a wastebasket. "Can I ask you a personal question?" "Why do I have a tentacle for an arm?" Murray nodded. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for someone around here to ask me that? To show a little interest?" "I think people felt rude asking." "Did they think it was rude to ask me about my weekend? They never bothered with that, either." "People can be jerks." *Myself included*, he thought. It had never occurred to him to ask Bill about his weekend. Bill was Bill. You saw him, you nodded, maybe waved, and moved along, mostly in an attempt to not stare at the tentacle. Unlike a prosthetic limb, which gradually, over time, one became accustomed to seeing until one stopped seeing it altogether, the tentacle never ceased to revolt. "What did the doctors say when you were born?" "I think the general reaction was 'What the hell is that?'" "What about your parents?" "My mother died giving birth to me." "Did she--" "No. She had two perfectly good arms. She had perfectly good everything. She was beautiful." "Your father?" "Took off. Never knew him." "Family?" "I have an aunt. She agreed to take me in on condition that they amputate. So they cut it off." Murray felt the bile rise again. "It grew back?" Bill nodded. "It grew back thicker and longer." "And your aunt?" "Guess." "I'm sorry." "She sent me money every month, though. I guess the checks made her feel less guilty about donating me to science." "Do you know if there's anybody else out there with your condition?" Bill shook his head. "I looked. I'm alone." Something twitched deep inside Murray, a pang of sympathy for this man forced to go through life as a human squid, this man whose job most likely provided a note of normalcy in an otherwise lonely and alienated existence. And here he was taking that away from him. The destroyer of worlds strikes again. "I really am sorry, Bill." The tentacle shot out and pointed at Murray. "I hate that word. 'Sorry'. I lived in a lab until I was eighteen, and I heard that goddamn word every week for 18 years. Doctors were sorry, nurses were sorry, the techs were sorry, but they kept me there. Everyone was sorry, but at the end of the day, they all went home to their families. Not one person had the courage to back up that sorry with a little action. No one wanted to give the freak a home." Murray usually felt like an asshole after one of these meetings, but this was different. He'd reached a whole new and depressing level of assholedom. Not only was he taking away Bill's job, he was adding to the long list of people who had disappointed him. He was just another boot pressing down on the back of a man trying to force his way out of the mud. Bill took a step towards Murray. "You can't take this job away from me." The anger had left his voice. "Do you know what it's like to be rejected your entire life? It took me fifteen years to land this job. Fifteen years of showing up for interviews, and rejections, and watching people's eyes bug out of their heads. I can't wait another fifteen for someone to take pity on me again." "There's nothing I can do." "I need to work. It takes my mind off..." He paused and searched for the right words. "...the changes." "Changes?" The tentacle made a wet, squishy sound as Bill leaned on the desk. "Help me out. Please. I can understand if I wasn't performing, but--" "I'm sorr-," Murray caught himself. *Don't say sorry.* "I'm just the messenger." Bill sighed. His expression hardened. "Then what good are you?" "Excuse me?" "You're just one more guy getting in my way. Just like that asshole Lee Wilson. Did you know he made a private Facebook group about me? " "No. I didn't." "Someone screenshot a bunch of the shit he'd posted on there and emailed it to me from an anonymous account. Memes, comments, theories, pictures he'd snapped when I wasn't looking-he even had shots from inside my apartment when I wasn't there. Selfies. On my bed, my toilet, went through my fridge. I don't know how he got in, but he did and he was careful, too. Nothing was out of place. And then he put the pictures in an album called In The Belly of the Beast." Murray tensed, the fantasy he'd had of Lee boldly leaving his dead end job for a brighter future crumbling under the weight of suspicion. Did Bill have something to do with Lee's disappearance? It sure as hell sounded like it. The springs on the chair creaked as he got to his feet. "Maybe we should reschedule." Bill loosened his tie. "What are you doing?" "You asked about the changes." "It's okay. You don't have to--" "You know what they say," Bill said, pulling his tie over his head, then undoing his collar. "'If you can't join 'em, beat 'em.'" Bill ripped open his shirt. "Jesus Christ!" Two tiny eyes bulged from the tips of Bill's swollen nipples, round, red-veined balls the size of chickpeas. "I just wanted a little compassion, Murray." Murray's gaze shifted from the eyes, the impossible, blinking eyes, to the rigid black scar running from the base of Bill's chest bone to his belly button. "Oh God..." The scar split down the middle, a slow, moist unzipping from top to bottom. "What...are...you?" The words, barely whispered, tumbled out of Murray's mouth. His brain screamed at his legs-- Move! Run!--but his legs ignored the command. "I wish I knew," Bill said. The scar had turned into black lips behind which Murray glimpsed two vertical rows of teeth and a flash of pink. A tongue. There was no time to react. There was only the tongue, a pink streak, lashing out. It wrapped his head in wet, foul-smelling muscle and jerked him forward. He tried to scream, but there was no air, only the pinch of teeth around his neck and the sudden intestinal dark. Murray Stinson didn't like Fridays.


Dear journal, It happened again. It was a normal day, like any other. Quite boring actually. I went home from work, ate a dinner with my girlfriend and after few episodes of our favorite tv show we went to sleep. There it was, in a dream yet clear as if it was right there in front of me. The abandoned observatory, at least that's what I call it. It was a two story cylindrical building with a dome on top. Covered in graffiti. As always I was there with a group of 2 friends, a boy named Matthew, he had short dark hair and blue eyes, he was very energetic and needed to be best at everything he did, and a girl called Isabella, she had very blond, almost white hair tied in a ponytail and hazelnut eyes, she was calmer than Matthew but both were equally energetic and adventurous. They were a rowdy couple always trying to out do each other. I was just happy to be along for the ride. We entered the building by a staircase creeping along side the wall, there a metal door, rusted but unlocked was waiting for us. We entered and started exploring. Inside was dark but somehow the light turned on "Maybe Matthew found a light switch" I told myself as i continued exploring the room. It was a large room, around 10 meters across, rounded and almost empty, apart from the large computer console in the middle of the room,a strange ceiling mounted monitor array above it and a staircase on the opposite side from the main door. It all looked like it was from the cold war era. There were no windows and no color or markings on the wall, just mossy concrete everywhere. I noticed Isabella and Matthew were arguing about who should continue up the stairs leading to the second floor. "You go Matt, you are a man after all, aren't you?" Said Isabella in a snarky tone of voice. "Oh, are you perhaps scared Bella ? Maybe you should go play with other girls with dolls and let us reeeeal adventurers do our thing." Answer Matthew. He knew Isabella hated playing with other girls, and much rather went with us on our adventures. "I will go, you guys cover my back" I said as I started walking towards the stairs. It was very rusted and creaked with my every step. I looked back to see my fellows following me with terrified expressions in their faces. It was unusual but it didnt do much to me. I wasn't scared or anything, I just continued on as if it was nothing, I felt no emotions. When I reached the top of the stairs I heard from behind me "Turn on the lights like you did downstairs" said Matthew". "Hmm, that's weird. I thought you did it" I answered as I saw "it" again, sitting there with crossed legs, head turned to the left like a curios dog looking at me with dark featureless face. You see my dear journal, this is where I would normally wake up all sweating and terrified. But not this time, waking up was not an option. It stood up slowly and started approaching me. It was wearing a gray suit with impossibly dark tie with white dots resembling stars. "Hello again my dead friend" it said in a deep growling voice that boomed in my head "Today is the day you will let me in, my friend, today is the day you free me from this hell" it looked over me, it had to bend so its head would not hit the ceiling and it was comming towards me, but I couldn't move, my legs became impossibly heavy and when I turned my head to my friends, they were the same creatures like the one in front of me, my heart stopped, terrified to beat another moment of life into my body. It reached for me and touched my shoulder. "Thank you" I said as my perspective shifted, my consciousness swapping places with the entity. Then as if I was pulled back at incredible speed, the world around me collapsing and I woke up. Terrified to make a move. And then I saw it. In the corner of my room, the entity was there. Fragile and weak. Then a rushing wave of pressure slammed into the inside of my head. The pain was immeasurable as I thought my head was going to explode. When I was able to open my eyes. The entity was gone. I couldn't sleep anymore tonight. I am terrified of going back to bed. What if I am not so lucky again.


Teetering on the edge had become her specialty. She learned - and learned very well - how to maintain her composure through all situations. She was good at ignoring that gut wrenching feeling in the pit of her stomach and pasting a smile on her face, a laugh on her lips. She made sure to never say a word when her boyfriend stayed out hours later than he said he would. She convinced herself it wasn't that big of a deal because he always apologized and she knew he was faithful so what's the harm in late nights with his boys on the weekend? She never gave it a second thought when that guy who was so good looking it was intimidating came into her pub and took a seat at the bar directly in front of where she spends her idle time. She also didn't dwell on it when the equally intimidating (albeit for different reasons) regulars had too much to drink and let their anger get the best of them. She outwardly handled everything life threw at her with the utmost of confidence and pushed the nerves out of her head. She went to meetings, volunteered with the elderly, spent time with her boyfriend's family (and her own), and even decided to ignore past wrongdoings in favour of current peace with old friends; all the while convincing herself all was good. There she is, can you picture her life? The edge always right there, as a subtle reminder of what was really going on; Quietly daring her to take on one more thing. C'mon, you can handle it. All is good. And she was good. Her balancing act on that edge had become something of an art form. Until that day came. The day she fell. Her weight became too much and she felt the ground give out from under her and off she went. She felt herself free falling through the air with wild abandon. It all made sense now, that feeling of impending doom that had become her shadow. She knew she was in danger. That feeling in the pit of her stomach? It was definitely there for a reason. This reason. She completely and utterly lost control. It was almost exhilarating, once she accepted the panic that took over her completely. It's so much easier to stop fighting. Just give in. All of a sudden, just as she made that decision to let go of all the cares she's ever had in the world, just as she decided none of it mattered, she hit the ground. Now, I bet she feels nothing...except maybe relief. Sweet sweet relief.


(This is my very first short story, I'm hoping to improve) I remember forcing myself to stay up at night just to see dad go inside the tools shed, and come back after almost an hour. I’ve been doing this ever since I was eight--I’m almost eighteen now. Why would I be doing this, you may ask? Well, my dad was known for being secretive, he never liked feeling vulnerable and exposed. But that didn’t stop me from finding out what’s inside the tools shed. I would usually go inside the shed and try finding something--unfamiliar. I would go and check whenever I had the chance, but because I was still a little kid, I wasn’t often allowed to go inside because it was dangerous. But now that I’m older, nothing’s stopping me from going inside, except for the fact that I’m not in our home. I take a look at all the people around, I see them mourning over my father’s dead body. Time flew so fast while I was remembering the past, the ceremony was almost over. Everyone remembers my father as a good, kind, and responsible man, I will always remember him as the man who kept secrets. A few weeks have passed and someone came to my apartment. It was an agent, and he was going to give me something, something that my dad wanted to give me. The entire interaction was pretty boring, but maybe it was because I was more interested in what he was about to give, and not what he was about to tell us. The conversation eventually came to an end, the man handed me a box and told me to open it only in the right place in the right time. The man didn’t seem to understand what my dad meant, but I do. I thanked him and as soon as he left, I quickly pack my things to visit my old house. I arrived just as the sun was setting, I asked my mom if she was given something, too. She said that she only got a CD album of her favorite artist. I told her that I would be staying for the night. She was pleased upon hearing this and we went to eat supper. Afterwards, I went upstairs to my old room and set up for the night... I went to the tools shed with the box I got. I went inside the shed and closed the door shut. It felt too cramped inside than I remembered. I held the box and opened it carefully. All that I saw was a compass, a plain old compass. This must be a joke, I took a closer look at it and it turns out, it was just a legit compass. I stare at the compass, the arrow was pointing at a certain direction. By instinct, I quickly followed the arrow and to my surprise, it led me to absolutely nothing. It just led me to a dusty corner in the shed. I was so disappointed, I was about to slam it down and destroy the compass, then suddenly the arrow started to spin, pointing at everything. It felt hotter but I didn’t want to let go. Suddenly, it felt as if the compass exploded, and I fell unconscious. I woke up, to see myself in a plain and empty space. All that I could see was white, just an endless void of white. But it took me a while to notice that I wasn’t alone in there. I saw my father. I was too shocked, I couldn’t move, he came closer to me until he grabbed me by the shoulder, and hugged me. I felt like crying, but before I could he told me, “I know you have questions, but I will only answer three,” he said. “Why only three?” I asked, “Because four is a bit of a mouthful, two more questions,” he said. I felt stupid for asking, “Wh-what is this place?” I asked, dad smiled, “I never actually gave it a proper name,” he said, “But it is a place where you can find peace among yourself,” he said smiling at me, as if to tell me something... “Last question,” he said. I stared at him, what do I ask? Suddenly, it hit me. “Dad,” I said, “Are you still alive?” I asked. Dad simply smiled as if he was expecting me to ask him this question. “I am what you believe I am,” he answered. “What does that mean?” I asked, “Sorry, no more questions...” he said. We stood there in silence for what felt like forever. “Can I please ask one more question?” I pleaded. Dad giggled, “You just did,” he replied. Not gonna lie, I laughed too. “Is that a yes?” I asked, he started to laugh, “Now that’s two questions,” he said. “Dad!” I exclaimed but I was too happy to say it with a straight face. “I just want to ask you,” I said, then suddenly the tension came back, “Why did you leave so soon?” “Son,” he said, “I never left...” he told me. Before I could ask any more questions, my vision got blurry until I couldn’t see. Suddenly, I’m back in the shed. I stared at my watch, an hour passed by while I was gone. I finally understood now, why dad went here every night, why he was so secretive to everyone. I quickly ran back inside the house, quietly of course. I laid down on my bed, still trying to comprehend what just happened. But I knew one thing, I’ll come back there.


Hi Guys, I've written this piece heavily influenced by the amount of western films I've watched recently, combined with a love of fantasy. As always, I greatly appreciate any feeback or thoughts, let me know what you think! Cheers, Lordchimp The bell rang out through the dark, deserted town, echoing through the few wooden buildings with ease. The chime desperately sought to tell everyone possible about the figure striding towards the saloon, but alas, nobody was interested in the old bell’s ringing. Especially at this very late hour of the night. And so the figure clad all in black like a living piece of darkness, moved purposefully through the dust road. When the bell rang quiet, only the sound of his spurs could be heard, the metal ringing gently with each step. Clink. Clink. Clink. Doors creaked when he neared. The flames in the fireplaces began to ebb on his approach. Battered wooden signs swung and rattled on worn out iron chains. The horses that were stabled whined and cried gently as he walked passed. His presence was so repulsive that even the dirt itself seemed to recoil under his feet. Clink. Clink. Clink. There was a dull thud that now accompanied the clinking of the spurs as his boots met the wood of the porch outside of the saloon. The wood, like the dirt before it, grumbled it’s dismay at having to be close to the mysterious man in black, creaking and groaning at his every step. Thud. Clink. Thud. Clink. Thud. Clink. The doors whined as they swung open, the old hinges struggling with yet another customer’s entry. A few lanterns just barely lit the interior, casting yet even more shadows in an already dark room. The dull yellow light splashed over the three men sat inside, revealing their tired, grubby faces. All three of them were just as miserable as each other, preferring the company of their tankards instead of the horrible alternative of human interaction. They barely noticed him enter, not even bothering to turn their heads from the bar counter. They did however, all act at exactly the same time. One of them, the tallest of them all, took off his beaten hat and gently lay it next to his drink. He was built like a stick, thin and wiry. His clothes practically hung off him, all baggy and loose. One scratched his beard and slowly pushed his stool back. He was almost a polar opposite to the thinner one, with a large gut bulging from his waistband forcefully, threatening to pop the buttons off of his shirt. The last one, the smallest, finished his ale and coughed to clear his throat. Where the other two were fat and thin, he was perfectly in the middle. He would have been quite unremarkable, if not for his short stature. Then, they all rotated their heads over simultaneously, to look upon the new guest. A dead eyed gaze was set upon all of their faces, one of bored toleration. “Hello.” The tall thin man said in a monotone voice. “We were wondering-” “When you’d show.” The fat one said, completing his sentence in the same drab tone. The figure stood motionless, his face hidden by his wide brimmed hat. After a few moments of tense consideration, he drew a small metal box from his pocket. Opening up with a practised ease, he took one of the rolled cigarettes and placed it comfortably to rest in between his lips. The match hissed as it gave birth to the small flickering flame, which illuminated only the lower part of his face, the rest was still gracefully sheltered by the hat. A few greying hairs were dotted around his sharp jaw, but the most noticeable feature was a large scar which stretched from ear to ear, making him look as if he was constantly twisting his mouth into a grotesque smile. Before they could see anything else, the flame had lit the cigarette and he had tossed it aside lazily, once again, plunging his face into darkness. Smoke curled into the air around him like a old friend and with every puff he took, the sickening scar was briefly illuminated again. Silence reigned absolute in those next few moments, neither party so much as breathing. The wind seemed to be able to tell that the conversation demanded sincerity and so it politely stopped it’s whistling and howling, almost eager to hear what these strange individuals had to say. The quiet was interrupted by the thin man, who began to speak. Once again, in the same, bored tone. “He’s not here-” “Incase you were wondering.” The fat man finished. The man in black took another deep puff on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke out of his hidden nostrils. He drew a deep breath in and cocked his head to the side, his old bones giving a dull crack which echoed around the room. “Where?” The man in black spoke, his voice as rough as gravel. It sounded like his throat was hoarse, spent, his vocal chords groaning as the words escaped him reluctantly. The thin man took his glass from the bar and wet his pale lips on the liquid within, licking them clean afterwards with a flash of his tongue. “You know we aren’t going to tell you, after all-” “Everything comes at a price...and you haven't paid.” The fat man added, in his drab, lifeless tone. Another drag on the cigarette. “I’ve paid plenty.” The man in black hissed, his words rasping from his mouth, thick with anger. There was a significant pause as the mysterious men contemplated the words he had just uttered. It was as if they were all actors in a great play and he had suddenly, without warning, gone off script. Then, the short man who, up to this point had been completely silent and unmoving cracked a smile. Immediately after, the other two began to laugh, although it was not a laugh like any other. It was a sharp, hollow, emotionless sound which existed out of duty, not happiness or joy. Their expressions remained completely blank, their mouths just opening and closing to let the sound escape. As quickly as the laughter had started, it vanished instantly in a very eerie manner. This, after all, was not how laughter normally stopped. Laughter should ebb, the moment leaking into the past, to be remembered fondly, like an aging whiskey. “Maybe-” The thin man started. “You’re right. We can give you that much.” The fat one ended the sentence with a slight nod, so slight, that any ordinary person might have missed it. The man in black was no ordinary person. Or even a person at all for that matter. He slowly reached up and finished the last of his cigarette with a final deep inhale, savouring the acid smoke entering his lungs. With a deliberate flick, he cast it to the floor, crushing it under his boot with a slow twist of leather. Scratch. Clink. “Where is he?” He growled again, urgency and rage echoing with every syllable he spat out. The shortest man carefully removed an old brass pocket watch from his coat and flipped the cover open with a gentle flick of his wrist. The watch looked like it had been thrown into a fierce river of stones, the surface covered in hundreds of scratches and nicks, it was a wonder the old thing worked at all. The other two followed suit and produced very similar timepieces, all of brass, all decorated with an endless criss cross of damage. They both flicked open the covers with the same practiced ease of the short man. “He’s at Arboretum-” The thin man said softly. “Waiting for you.” The fat man finished calmly. At with that final sentence, they all closed their pocket watches in unison, with a definitive click. There was a sudden burst of blinding yellow light that emanated from the three of them, blazing brightly with the brightness of a thousand suns. It was enough to make even the stubborn man in black raise a gloved hand to shield his eyes, even though they were still in the shade from the brim of his hat. There was a loud rustle, a flapping of large wings and then suddenly, the radiant light died, disappearing in the blink of an eye. The man in black lowered his hand and looked at the bar, which was now utterly empty. Only the slight wobbling of the glasses on the tabletop showed that people had been stood there at all. He stood there for a while, in that empty room all alone, watching the bar carefully. Eventually, the glasses halted their wobbling, the wind’s silence was broken and the ancient wooden planks began to creak in disgust again. The man in black cast his cold gaze around once more and then left the decrepit saloon, his spurs ringing with every firm step. Clink. Clink. Clink.


Three miles south of the harbor there's a small reservoir by the sea. I've walked around that pond no more than five times in my life, but each time there was a kind, older gentleman sitting on the levee that kept the salt water out. When I passed him, I'd smile and nod and he'd do the same in return. He kept a tackle box and a small fishing net with him, but I never saw him catch anything. I always assumed no fish could survive in the grubby water. But the old man had sat there waiting for them as long as I can remember. I pulled my coat tight as the sea spray pelted my back on my walk along the beach. My feet automatically find the path ahead of me, my mind had been focusing on the worries of tomorrow. I realize where I am before tripping over a bucket. The old man by the pond slowly raises his gaze from the turbulent water and smiles as warmly as always. "I'm Josh, by the way," I blurt out. I hold out my hand and he gently shakes it. "I see you out here all the time, catch anything?" "Nice to meet you, Josh," he replies. He gets up off his stool and stretches, I wince at the sound of his old bones grinding and popping. "Ahh, I needed to stand. Care to walk around the pond with me?" I hesitate but nod and we begin our slow meander around the edge. He pulls a small brown paper packet out of his pocket and pours some of the contents into his weathered, knotted hands. It's pungent stench causes my eyes to water. He takes the handful and carefully scatters it into the water below. The surface ripples as the fish come up to the surface and splash and writhe as they fight to get a bite of the food. "Pardon the smell, just a bit of food for our aquatic friends here." He hands me the bag to take a look. The initial shock gone, the food actually smells sickly sweet. "Go on, give it a try." I dump a small amount into my hand and give it a toss. I see the multitudes come up from the depths and again fight for each morsel. I notice the variety of the pond for the first time, each fish appears to be of a different species, but they all love the food equally. The old man smiles and we keep walking "What do you do with them when you catch them? Do you even catch them?" "Well, I wouldn't eat any of these, they're still very immature. This pond is an old farm used to help the young fish spawn in safety so they can thrive out there." He gestures back to the great blue ocean behind us. "That's why I use a net. I'm taking the ones that are ready to go and setting them off along their journey." "How did they get in here to start? Does someone stock them in there?" "Nope, they restock themselves. I put a few in years and years ago and they just went to town. Quite the sustainable system." "But don't all of these different species fight with each other? Don't they see the others as competition?" "Of course, that's why I pull them out when they get too big. If I left them in, they'd kill each other and I'd have to start over." "Very interesting," I say. We continue the walk and end up back at the stool we had started at. He slowly sits back down and gestures for me to sit with him. I sprawl out in the cool grass and we watch the seagulls circle the pond, looking for an easy meal. Seeing none, they eventually abandoned their effort. The muck and algae growing in the pond camouflaged the fish inside perfectly. "How do you keep them safe?" I ask. "Surely someone could come and fish for them or they could be eaten by birds or something." "Well, it's not a perfect paradise in there. Sometimes a few get picked out by the egrets that come by, or occasionally there's diseases or heat spells that can kill a few off before they are ready for the ocean. But the few that make it to maturity and get to the ocean thrive. I can't imagine they would be happy living in small, safe aquariums. They'd never fully mature or be ready for the ocean if they did." "How do you know when they're mature?" "You can kind of tell when you've done this as long as I have. Some of them are eager to go. Some go thrashing and biting the whole way. But once they realize they're in the ocean, they jump for joy. It's really quite the sight to see, you'll have to stick around until I catch a few." "That's amazing! Do they all want to go to the ocean?" "No." The old man wiped a tear from his eye. "Some flat out reject it. As soon as I pull them out with my net, the life drains from their eyes and they go limp. Some get into the salt water and beach themselves, the gulls pick them off quickly after that." "Can't you train them? Or introduce them to the ocean for a little while so they can understand what comes after the net?" "I've tried, it works for a few but most not so much. The best I can do is keep feeding them this krill mix I make to get their appetites going for the next phase of their lives." He picked up his net and cast it into the pond. As he drew it back out, I saw a few fish flick and twist around inside. He quickly put them in the bucket and we walked them down to the sandy shore on the other side. He waded out into the surf until he was knee deep and dumped the few fish into the water. He turned back to me and grinned. "Watch this." It started with a few small splashes here and there, but in a few moments, I saw hundreds of fish jumping out of the waves. A moment more, and it looked like the entire ocean had come to life. Fish of all sizes and types were leaping into the air, as if a great dance had begun. I saw whales and dolphins join in, gleefully singing and splashing. Jellyfish lit up the dark sea with their bioluminescent glow. I had no words, the old man laughed and beamed as he watched the show. As quickly as the spectacle began, it faded away. I took the bucket for the man and we went back to his spot. I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to return home. "I can't thank you enough for that, will you be here tomorrow?" "You can count on that," he said with a wink. "Make sure you bring a thicker coat if you come back, there's a cold front blowing through.


“C’mon it’ll be fun!” Aster smiled, his eyes glinting with mischievousness as they always did. “It’s 6 in the morning and freezing outside. How is that fun at all?” Luna leaned more into her blanket, shivering. “It’s really not fair that you're always so warm, are you a human or a heater?” Aster laughed, throwing his head back and closing his brown eyes. “I believe I may be a heater but I’m not completely sure yet.” He grinned, his one dimple showing. He looked near where the sun started to rise and his large brown eyes widened. “We are going to be late for the surprise hurry up!” “What are you talking about?” Although part of Luna did not want to move, she instinctively did it, walking at a faster pace, still shivering. “Are you trying to race me?” Aster said, easily catching up with his long legs, and even walking backwards to show how “great” he could be. “No I just figured if we hurry this up then I can go back to my warm, comfortable, amazing bed.” Luna sighed just thinking about it, joy filling her mind thinking of all that warmth. However, the harsh cold brought her back. “It’s not even that cold! In Antartica its way colder!” “Wow, you're right. Just thinking about how cold it is in the South Pole is making me so much warmer.” Though her voice was laced with sarcasm, Aster played innocent, like he always did. “Oh really? I’m glad to hear that!” Finally, they arrived at Asters destination, and apparently at the time he wanted to. Luna looked up, her eyebrows raising with the beautiful sight of the sunrise.. Aster smirked, looking at her amazed face, then turning to the beautiful sight himself, not wanting to miss out on it. The sky was a bright shade of pink mixing with dark reds and light purples, the clouds on each side of the rising sun. The lake reflected the beautiful view, making little waves as the breeze flew past them, the ducks quacking and swimming around. “I have declared this to be the best spot to look at the sky!” He beamed. After a moment, he was shocked when he didn’t get a sarcastic response and turned to Luna, who was still amazed and just nodding along in agreement. Aster held his finger to his chin. “Oh Aster you genius! You’re so smart and amazing and incredibly hands-” He was stopped mid sentence by Luna smacking him. He snickered at her glare. “I’m trying to enjoy the view-” She protested. “Yeah you are.” His sentence was followed by another smack as Luna stormed away. He instantly attempted to follow her, falling several times in the process. “Agh! Wait wait! I’m sorry please forgive me oh great and amazing Master!” He begged, grabbing the edge of the blanket. Luna rolled her eyes, snatching the blanket back. “Look at the time idiot.” He quickly checked his watch and frowned. “It’s 6:45?” He questioned, tilting his head as to what her point was. “Yes. And do you know what you did wrong?” Aster backed up, sweating a bit as he laughed, debating what his next words should be. “Ah... I got you up-” “At six in the morning to stare at the sun. The dang sun. Do you know how long the walk is? Fifteen minutes. And when, may I ask, do I get up for school?” Aster backed away some more, understanding that this was a rhetorical question but that she would be more mad if he did not answer. “Um... seven...” “I get up at seven in the morning to make sure I am ready for school. And guess what? By the time I get back it’ll be seven and I can not go back to sleep because I have to get ready.” “Sorry... Can I buy you food to make for it?” Luna inhaled, and Aster quietly exhaled. Food was her weakness after all. Luna silently turned around and continued walking. Aster grinned, jumping up in the air and running to walk next to her. After all, as her best and only friend, it was his responsibility to make sure he was forgiven so that she would not be lonely again. *** Luna faintly smiled at the moon in the sky, alone this time on the hill. It was still as beautiful as ever though, the grass lit in the light of the moon, the color a dark shade of green. The lake was still reflecting, although this time it was the bright moon and the dark sky. She exhaled as she got ready to talk to the stone in front of her. She had to prepare her thoughts and what she would say. She was always mean because she never knew what to say. Aster understood that and would help her get her real words through. “It’s hard to believe a year has passed without you.” Fudge.. Her voice cracked and the tears were already coming out. She didn’t want to cry, she always hated how she cried. It’s like everyone learned how to be beautiful when they cried except her. Although the only reference she had was TV, she could barely remember the times Aster cried in front of her. Memory was annoying like that. Not like she could have soothed him anyway, she always hesitated. She pulled out her notebook and started writing, tears threatening to spill as she continued. But it was better than speaking, and easier too. If she ever had to apologize she would hand Aster a piece of paper with her very formal apology. He would always keep them in his drawers saying how they should be considered works of literature. She wrote page upon page, depending on the moons light to help her see. Aster had passed away because of fatal injuries in a car crash. He suffered for three days before dying. During those three days, Luna was speechless. He kept trying to say goodbye but she refused his acceptance of death. He couldn’t die, he was too perfect. Too amazing. Luna sighed, wiping her tears and blowing her nose with the tissues she brought. She exhaled, making sure she’d hold it in, and after a moment decided she was fine. Her thoughts gathered, she decided to put the notebook aside and speak. “Hey Aster. So it’s been a pretty weird year. Don’t worry though because, although I thought I would, I didn’t act like Bella did without Edward and sit around depressed. In fact, it was just a weird sensation not having you to keep me going. But I guess I still managed because, annoyingly enough, that’s how life works. It didn’t rain like it was supposed to, in fact, it was actually really hot, as it usually is here. I know you always wanted a party for your funeral, because you wanted to put the “fun in funeral'' but there weren't a lot of people on your friend list to my suprise. It was really awkward when it’s just me and the funeral people doing their jobs. I still tried though, and I had some chocolate milk, like you would’ve wanted. At least I hope that’s what you wanted, because I want you to get what you wanted. Although what is even worse is how terrible my memory is. I hate how I’m forgetting more and more of you everyday, and I feel that instead of me remembering you as a person, I’ll remember you as more of a picture instead. And honestly, that scares me. I don’t want to ever let your memory go to your waste, the joy that you spread, that weird dimple that you had, I don’t want to forget it. And I’m sorry if I sound selfish but I don't want to be alone. Ever since we were kids in 5th Grade, you just kind of appeared next to me and never left, no matter how petty or rude I was. I got used to you but now... you’re gone. It’s been a year and I’m still as awkward as a teenager going through puberty even though I’m 30.” She stopped herself, pausing and muttering “dang it” under her breath. She chuckled a bit, continuing. “Sorry I didn’t mean to rant again, that’s all I ever do now. It’s crazy how it’s been 15 years since you showed me this place, it’s still as beautiful as it was, and I assumed you would want to be buried here so I did all I could to make sure you could. Yeesh, it was really cold and you were fine, you mean heater.” Her eyes got bright again as she grinned in remembrance of the conversation they had. “I’m sure you spent at least one thousand dollars on food for me. It’s weird because everyone thought we were dating but our relationship was never like that. I never felt that for you and I bet you didn’t feel that way to me. But now that I think about it, you helped me get over myself and all the hate I gave myself, even if I still do it sometimes. It’s so hard to be nice to myself and others when I leave this place and get back to work. I’ll miss you forever but I’m going to live my life, no matter how terrible it gets. How did I close my letters again? Oh yeah, not that sincerely but still slightly sincere, your best friend Luna.” She stopped speaking, glancing up at the big crescent moon. She then looked down into the lake, with the reflection of the moon. She looked closer, seeing a star glowing brightly near the moon. She bit her lip, tearing up a bit, forcing a smile. “Aster, your name, was taken from the Greek word Astéri, which means star. My name, taken from the Spanish word Luna, means moon. Seems like someones sending a sign from heaven and you know what? I think I’ll ignore it.” She grinned, pretty much seeing Aster’s spirit slump over and fake cry to her about how mean she was. Though it was possible she was just thinking way too much, she kept her eyes on the reflections of the star and the moon as they moved slightly in the nice breeze.