“Olive, maybe we could brainstorm about some normal activities you can participate in. I think you are probably ready. How do you feel about that?’ I am fairly confident she is not supposed to use the word normal in her sessions but I let it slide. Today is our twenty-sixth meeting. I have shown up at her office for half a year. Of course, I did not have much of a choice but I still made the effort to be here on time and never laughed at her ridiculous questions. I had only rescheduled one appointment over the past six months and that was because I had to take my fish to the local veterinarian. In hindsight, I should have just gone to the appointment. The inept vet refused to treat my fish. It died the next day so now the vet was to be blamed for Goldie Hawn's death (the fish, not the person) and my perfect appointment streak. At any rate, I thought Therapist Morgan may do something special for our half-a-year anniversary but there was no sign of a celebration. Maybe she forgot. I need to remember that not everyone is as thoughtful as me. I glance around the office. I take a moment to examine the diplomas on the wall. The writing is overly aggressive swirly letters so I can not tell what school is listed. Looking at the ratty office furniture strategically placed in the small office on the wrong part of town, I am fairly confident those diplomas had been printed off the internet. Not that it mattered. I did not choose this office, I was assigned to go here. But over the last twenty-six weeks, there was a familiarity that had developed. I even began to look forward to seeing Therapist Morgan each week. Each week, she said to just call her Morgan without the Therapist but I still preferred to keep it professional. I realized just how familiar this place had become eleven weeks ago. I walked into that old bookstore on 84th. As soon as I stepped foot inside, it hit me. “Excuse me..” The lady behind the desk had glanced up. She had a red bow in her hair. She was too old to wear a red bow in her hair like that but I did not tell her. I remembered what Therapist Morgan had said. Some people would not appreciate my help. “Yes?” “Your bookstore smells exactly like my therapist’s office.” She had just stared at me. Some people can not take a compliment. Therapist Morgan taught me that too. “Olive?” “Hmmm” “Did you hear me? What do you think of participating in some sort of event? Maybe inviting some people from work? The holidays are coming up. I think this may be a good opportunity to tiptoe back...socially.” I nodded. She was making such an effort so I smiled at her. I have been practicing my smile in the mirror every day. Smiling is probably the most complicated thing we do and most people do not even practice. Of course, it was typical of me to take on more responsibility than most. So, for at least twenty minutes each day, I stand in front of my mirror and work on my different smiles. There is the pity smile, the happy smile, the giving smile, the seductive smile (not that I have any plan to use this one), and the interested smile. I make sure never to show my teeth when I smile. A dog had growled at me when I was seven. It snarled and snapped and chased me half a mile back to my house. Since I do not want to look like a snarling dog, I only smile with my lips closed, as it was intended. I gave Therapist Morgan the giving smile. It seemed appropriate here. “I will think about it.” And then I was quiet. Most people say they will think about things but do not really mean it. They use the words as a way to end a conversation. I have learned this through many of my own encounters. When I say I will think about something, I do it right then. There is no reason to be rude and keep people waiting. Therapist Morgan understood this about me so she was quiet too. Bless that woman. She may not understand anything about the actual art of psychology, but she was trying. “Okay. I think I would like to try it. What normal activity do you recommend?” Therapist Morgan flinched slightly when I said “normal”. I think she realized she should not have used that word. Truly, she learns just as much from me in these sessions. I wonder if she ever goes home and considers how much I have helped her over the past twenty-six weeks. “Umm...well, let’s see. Christmas is right around the corner. What about a gift exchange?” I shook my head aggressively. A gift exchange? Oh, this woman. Just when I think she is making progress. The last gift I gave was to Amelia and that landed me here. It had all been a misunderstanding, an overreaction, really. Amelia was my first friend. Well, I knew a girl named Barbara in grade school but we weren’t really friends. The teacher made her sit next to me. She smelled of peppermint and pencil shavings and had a nose that reminded me of a penguin. Amelia was different. I was working at Mercer’s Grocery in the produce section. The produce section was my favorite because I always enjoyed when the vegetables were watered. It was like a small celebration every thirty minutes which was something that never happened in the meat department or bakery. Since I had been unfairly barred from working in either of those anyway, I now spent most of my days in produce. It was a Thursday at 2:12p.m. when Amelia walked up to me. I like to check my watch when important things happen. I think knowing the exact time of life-changing events is crucial in the scheme of things. “Hey. I’m Amelia. I just started here yesterday and Bob said you could show me the ropes in produce?” Bob. The manager. He had been kind enough. He had not fired me when I threw a steak at that woman (she deserved it) or messed up on the same cake decoration six times (Happy 12th Birthday Samantha is almost impossible to fit on a ten inch round cake). Now, he sent me Amelia so I decided to officially like him. I smiled at her. Happy smile. No teeth. “Okay, well, we do not have any ropes here that I know of but the watering is much more interesting than a rope could be anyway. It should start up in...” I checked my watch, “1 minute and 14 seconds.” She had laughed. I am not sure why but I liked the sound of it so I laughed too. I had not spent enough time working on my laugh since I rarely used it but I barely worried about those details with Amelia. After that, we talked each time we shared a shift. I had to work very hard to make sure I shared all of her shifts. One week, I worked 54 hours to the delight of my co-workers. They were always looking to get out of their responsibilities. But, on top of picking up shifts, I then had to determine which section Amelia was working in and switch with that person. Just convincing Bob I could handle the meat and bakery departments again took hours. Of course, I never told Amelia all of this. I did not want her to feel guilty that I was working so hard for our relationship. We had coffee one time. It was from Mercer’s but we took our cups outside and sat on the employee benches. I had never done that before but I acted like I had so Amelia would feel comfortable. I had felt her becoming more distant lately. She had been giving Pity Smile more than Happy Smile when I saw her. I had wondered if she found out about all the work I was doing to see her and felt bad about it. So, I had decided to cheer her up. “I got you something.” I pulled the package from my apron and thrust it her way. At first, she didn’t take it. The sweet girl was worried she did not get me something. I edged it toward her again. Slowly, she picked it up and held it in her delicate, perfect hands. “Oh, Olive, You shouldn’t have. I mean, really, I don’t...umm....” I laughed. By now I had been practicing and had gotten very good at it. “Just open it.” She had gasped when she opened it. That is how I knew it was the perfect gift. A diamond tennis bracelet. The guy at the jewelry store had told me it was the best way to show someone how you feel about them. I had drained my savings but it was worth it. “I can’t not accept this.” She had pushed the bracelet back across the table. She stared at me for a moment, her mouth slightly open. No smile. And then she left. I had to break into Bob’s office to get her phone number and address. It had begun to feel like I was doing all the work in this relationship but I still persisted. I remembered Mother’s words “Some people just can not accept love right away”. She had said that after she burnt a man’s house down. I think he was the 'some people'. I was sixteen and had not seen her for 8 months after that. She said she was in a place with others learning the same lesson. Some people, the good people, can love right out loud, Some people, the bad people, can not accept love. Of course, I did not think Amelia was bad. She just needed my help to face her feelings. I called a few times to help her. My fingers had hurt from dialing but I kept going. She had been worth it. I went to her home but she must have been out, which is strange for 3:30a.m., but I did not know her schedule very well. She stopped coming to Mercer’s. Bob told me she quit and I needed to leave her alone. This from unmarried Bob! Can you imagine? But, maybe it was time to let her go. I am not one to hold people somewhere they are not ready to be. I am way more civilized than that. Having good manners, I went to her house one last time to say good-bye appropriately. She didn’t answer. Mother had taught me how to pick a lock when I was four, just for a situation like this one. So, I let myself in so I could leave a note. Turns out, she was home and had called the police. I still do not really understand why. She could have just opened the door. After that, I had to enter some sort of plea arrangement. I had an incompetent lawyer that needed more help than he gave. In the end, I wound up with Therapist Morgan for a year, Bob fired me from the grocery store, and I never saw Amelia again. Mother was right, some bad people can not accept love. But apparently, the Great Therapist Morgan had forgotten all this. A gift exchange was a terrible idea. Not everyone is ready to accept the thoughtful gifts of others. Still, she kept talking. “Okay. What about a cookie exchange then?” What was going on with this woman and exchanges? Although... a cookie exchange sounded okay. Mother used to bring me a cookie from her waitressing job occasionally and I remember how happy I would become when I saw the dark blue package and smelled the sweet sugary aroma. My favorite was oatmeal raisin. I was only allowed to eat half because Mother did not want a fat Olive. Interested Smile. No teeth. “Yes, a cookie exchange would be nice.” I work at an accountant’s office now. I answer the phones, take notes at meetings, and organize papers. There is no water show every thirty minutes but I actually like my job. There is a new girl at work - Beatrice. I could invite her to my cookie exchange. My heart leapt slightly at the idea. Maybe this was not such a terrible suggestion after all. Bravo, Therapist Morgan. Bravo. After my session, I went directly back to my house to work on the invitations. I had never had anyone over to my house before. It was actually Mother’s house but only I lived here now. Mother had died four years ago, two days before my 33rd birthday. Since it was just her and I, the house now belonged to me. Not that she would have wanted it that way but poor Mother did not leave a will so this was the way it was. The house still looked as it did four years ago. An afghan thrown over the plaid couch. The dingy shag carpeting. The only thing that was different was I now slept in the four-poster instead of a mattress on the floor. Looking around, I knew what I needed to do. I went straight to the cabinet and pulled out that stupid tennis bracelet. I headed to the local jeweler and sold it for his first offer. Over the next week, I made an appointment for new carpet to be installed, I bought a new couch to be delivered in four business days, and I purchased new dishes. I printed the invitations and handed them out. They had cookies on them to symbolize the exchange. I wondered if others would realize how clever I was. I gave out fourteen invites to people at work, including Beatrice, one to the man at the bank, one to the mailman, three to the garbage men, and one to the woman that walks her dog in the neighborhood. I had also asked Therapist Morgan but she told me she could not make it. Twenty people. Perfect. The day of the exchange was very busy. I had forgotten to make any cookies in my excitement so I had to go to Mercer’s and pick up six dozen. Oatmeal raisin, of course. At exactly 1:00p.m., the doorbell rang. Right on time. I wondered if all the people would show up at the same time. Getting twenty people though the door would be difficult but I will manage. But, as I opened the door, there was only one person standing there - Beatrice. I gave her Happy Smile. However, this one was so genuine, I may have used teeth. I tried to correct the issue right away so I don’t think she felt threatened. I invited her in. She complimented the house. She placed her cookies on the table and glanced around, probably wondering where everyone else was. “Everyone else should be here shortly. Can I get you a drink? I have Hawaiian Punch and hot tea.” After a minute, she chose the punch. I know people like punch at parties. I was doing everything right. She probably thought I hosted parties all the time. At 1:30, it was still me and Beatrice. We began eating cookies. She had also brought Oatmeal Raisin - homemade, though. Out of all the cookies in the world, what were the chances we chose the same one? I knew I had made a good decision inviting her. We began talking about names. She got hers from some books by a lady named Beverly. I had never read them but I guess her mom was a fan. “Do you know how you got the name Olive?” she had asked. “Of course. Well, Olive was not my original name. It was Olivia. Olivia Marie Foster. But, after a couple of months, Mother changed it. She said I was dull like the color olive so now I am just Olive Foster. No middle name. Mother said only special people have middle names. She thought I may be special when she first named me but it turned out I was not. She had two middle names which, of course, made her incredibly unique.” Beatrice stared at me. She did not say anything for a moment. Then, she spoke. “Do you know there are over 500 different varieties of olives? Some trees take over 50 years to produce olives. There is one olive tree in the French Riviera that is 2,200 years old. The olive tree and the olive itself are some of the most unique, interesting things on earth. And you are named after them.” I saw her blush, slightly but enough. “Don’t ask me how I know that. I am a sucker for random trivia.” I studied her for a moment. Beatrice. Wow. I wonder what kind of jewelry she likes.


It came to me like a dream, when she told me she loved me. Not a convincing dream, but a lucid dream. I was aware of the untruth she was telling me. I had been in love before, so this wasn’t new. My last love, Emma, had truly loved me. We had truly loved each other. It was glorious for a while, but after some time it became serene and beautiful. Like being dropped from an infinite height on a gorgeous cerulean day. When you realize you’re falling, it’s a rush unlike anything else. But once you realize the ground isn’t getting any closer to you, you just sort of revel and relax. You look around, enjoy the act of falling, and before long it turns into something you come to expect. You expect to still be falling when you wake up each day and sigh with contentment knowing you’ll be falling still after you go to sleep. You don’t get bored of it by any means, but you do get used to it. It was this comfortable falling that I thought would last forever. Yes, I am myself in this analogy, but what about Emma? Was she the sky I so admired? Another skydiver with whom I would fall forever? The ground I was falling toward, but never reaching? The clouds, beautifully floating with me in the same sky? Was I a guest in her space? No. There was a codependence. We needed each other. We gave each other purpose. I didn’t know for a while, even though I had been contemplating this metaphor for some time. It took her death for me to realize her role. She wasn’t the ground, she wasn’t the clouds or the sky or another skydiver. No, Emma (and by extension, love) was the gravity. She was the source of my thrilling and comfortable experience which kept me forever falling. When my gravity died, I came to an abrupt and painful halt. I stopped falling. I was stuck. I had nothing coming my way and everything behind me. I was as lost as a man could be. Now the ground and the sky and the clouds all mocked me. They were not falling with me anymore. I was utterly alone. The difference between Emma and Molly, the woman whom I have been with for a few years now, was that I was still stuck after Molly told me she loved me. I didn’t start falling again. I felt no different. The salvation which I had hoped was within her was nowhere to be found. I knew it was with Emma and it would never be with Molly. I couldn’t reciprocate that love. She was not my gravity. So I didn’t say it back. Instead I looked over my shoulder, back at her crying eyes. She was telling me she loved me, over and over again. She was begging me to step off of the ledge, but I couldn’t. I needed to fall again. I needed to be with Emma. So I jumped.


When Uncle Dave lifted me off the plane and set me on the ground, heat waves greeted me, radiating up my legs. It took me a minute to get my balance. After two and a half hours of sitting in twin engine plane, buckled up with my sister, Becci, and squished into the tail of the plane with two other gals, my legs were cramping. I could smell tar and gasoline, comforting smells, reminding me of home. The airstrip at home is made of tar, and I used to rub my hands in the cool gasoline when Daddy filled up the Volkswagen van. Uncle Frank met us. He stowed the luggage in the back of the blue van and we jostled up the gravelly, twisting road, that led to the boarding school. The campus was on the site of General Douglas MacArthur’s Post 7, United States, army base in Irian Jaya, Indonesia. It lay at the base of a mountain. I was relieved to arrive on campus because of the turmoil in my tummy. But I totally forgot about my tummy when I saw the magnificent waterfall flowing down the mountain behind the dormitory, and I took a deep breath of wonder. The kids in grades 4-8 unloaded their suitcases and disappeared into the “big” dorm. Uncle Frank shut the door of the van once again, and after starting the engine, began the short trip up a small hill upon which sat the aluminum barracks for Douglas MacArthur’s troops. This was the “little” dorm for kids in first through third grade, and since I was in second grade, this would be my new home. Aunt Dee and Uncle Jim helped us off the van. Other boarding school kids swarmed around to greet us with a loud buzzing of voices. Jenine, David, and Jonathan, who had been on the plane with me, had been here the year before, so they knew most of the kids. Aunt Dee introduced me to some of my dorm mates: Rachel, Susanna, Shannon, Theo, Harris, and another Johnathan. Although I nodded to each one, I wrinkled my brow in frustration. These were only a few of my dorm mates. How long would it take to learn everybody’s name? Uncle Jim kindly carried my two suitcases to the second-grade girls’ room and said, “Aunt Dee will be here in a minute to show you around.” I sat down on the bunk bed nearest the door and held my doll, Betsy, tight. My tummy was tied up in knots and I trembled with mixed emotions. Meeting the other kids was scary, so I was thankful to be alone for a minute, but I was also curious to see what my new home would be like. I didn’t have long to wait before Aunt Dee peeked in the door. “You ready?” Setting Betsy gently on the pillow, I followed Aunt Dee outside, where a hot breeze caressed my face. “The drinking fountain is over there,” said Aunt Dee pointing at an oblong metal box against the wall of the breezeway. I had never seen a drinking fountain before and wondered how to get water from it. Aunt Dee continued showing me around. “This little room on the right is for the first graders. The living room, where we have devotions before bed, is just beyond that. Uncle Jim and I live in the apartment behind the living room.” “What are devotions?” I asked timidly. “Every one in the dorm meets together to sing praises to Jesus, listen to a Bible story, and share prayer requests,” replied Aunt Dee. “Oh, OK.” That didn’t sound too intimidating. Going back through the breezeway, Aunt Dee continued the tour. “The third graders are in this room next to yours,” said Aunt Dee, pointing to a door on my right. “Behind the second and third-grade girls rooms are the boys’ rooms. The bathroom and the showers are to the left over there. Just beyond the bathroom is the laundry room. There are extra blankets in there in case you get cold.” Getting cold was the last thing I was thinking about. Even with the breeze blowing, it was hot and humid. Leading me back to my bedroom, Aunt Dee said, “Go ahead and start unpacking. You are the first second-grade girl here, so you get first dibs on which bed you want. It’s 11:00 now, and we’ll be eating at noon.” Once Aunt Dee left, I began to feel afraid, and my tummy started to hurt again. What bed should I take? Which set of drawers should I choose? Where are Jenine and David and Jonathan? I hadn’t seen them on the tour. With all the questions looming in my mind, I didn’t bother to unpack my suitcases. I picked up Betsy, the only familiar thing in these strange surroundings, and climbed onto the bottom bunk next to the door where I had sat before. As I lay on the pillow, my tears started to flow again, and this time I didn’t even try to stop them. I was exhausted emotionally. Everything was so new and I had no one with whom I could share my confusion. I missed my home at Sowi and my mommy and daddy. I buried my head in the pillow, so no one could hear me, as I cried myself to sleep. I jumped wide awake when Aunt Dee opened the door. “I’m sorry, Sharon,” apologized Aunt Dee. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’d like you to meet Cindy, one of your roommates.” Setting down Cindy’s suitcases, Aunt Dee said to Cindy, “You’ll need to unpack after lunch. It will be ready in a few minutes.” Getting up, I rummaged in my suitcase for my brush. Where had Mommy put it? Then I saw it: my light blue hair brush. Mommy used it to put my hair up in a ponytail earlier this morning. I grabbed it, took out the ponytail holder, and quickly brushed my hair. I didn’t bother to take the time to try and put it back into a pony tail. Cindy kindly waited for me and led me down the hill to the dining room, a great big building that had windows all the way around the front and the sides. It had been the mess hall for the soldiers on base. I could see long tables laden with food and children sitting on benches. When we opened the door, children’s voices echoed in the dining hall. I wanted to sit with someone I knew: Jenine or David or Jonathan; or maybe one of the ‘big kids’, my sister, Becci, or Lorraine, or Pam. But I hadn’t seen them since arriving. Should I sit with Cindy? I looked around for a familiar face, but there were no extra seats at those tables. Wishing I had sat with Cindy, I finally found a table with room to squeeze onto the end of the bench. The buzzing of voices surrounded me. I knew no one. Fear engulfed me. I sat quietly with my mind frozen, unable to take in anything new. My tummy was hurting again. I was tired of it hurting all the time. It hadn’t hurt at home. I couldn’t eat the peas, mashed potatoes and meatloaf that were served for dinner. They looked OK. Mommy served meatloaf at home and I ate it with enjoyment, but right now, I knew I wouldn’t be able to swallow a morsel. I was thirsty and took a sip of water. It was warm. When we were finally dismissed, I went back to my bedroom and began the arduous task of unpacking my suitcases. I was randomly putting socks and underwear and shirts and pants in every drawer. When Cindy joined me after lunch, she asked how I was doing. Hesitantly, I shared with her the confusion I was having in trying to arrange my clothes in the dresser. “Here, let me help you,” Cindy offered. Coming over to my open drawers, she helped me reorganize my drawers, showing me how to neatly put my socks and underwear in the top drawer, and my shirts and shorts in the second drawer. Then together we hung up my dresses and I finished unpacking by putting my shoes on the closet floor. Thanking Cindy for her help, I helped her unpack her suitcases. It felt good to be working together. The afternoon was quite an adventure as more kids arrived. Aunt Dee introduced me to my new roommates: Alice, Chris, Viviane, Joleen, Tosha, and Heidi. I already knew Cindy, but I had trouble memorizing everyone else’s names all at once. I was quiet, holding Betsy tight, watching my roommates greet each other. I seemed to be the only new girl. Cindy invited me to walk down to the dining room with her again for supper, and we sat at one of the long tablels with several other second-grade girls. Now, I didn’t feel quite so alone. I mostly listened to what the other girls talked about. But my tummy didn’t hurt quite so much, and I was able to nibble a slice of bread without the peanut butter and jelly. After supper, Aunt Dee knocked on the door and called us for devotions. We sang, Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so... and Deep and Wide and Climb , Climb Up Sunshine Mountain . Although I knew the songs, I couldn’t sing. My mind began to wander back to my home, where I would sing these songs with Mommy and Daddy. I started to get that lump in my throat again and the familiar knot in my tummy as I imagined what might be happening at home. Mommy and Daddy are probably having ‘devotions’ together, too, before bedtime. I’ve got to stop thinking about home. I just can’t start crying again. My dormmates started leaving the living room, and I realized that I had totally missed the story and the prayer time. Devotions over, I made my way to the bathroom. The toilet stalls were on the left and they smelled like someone had peed on the rough cement floor. The open shower stalls were on the right. There weren’t even shower curtains. I decided not to take a shower. As I was leaving the bathroom, I heard a buzzing overhead. Looking up, I spied huge black moths flying around the ceiling lights and humungous walking sticks hanging from the rafters. A large space between the top of the wall and the ceiling allowed the bugs to get in. I almost stepped on some pincher beetles in my hurry to get away from the walking sticks. A couple of the beetles were flipped on their backs, hissing helplessly and wiggling their legs, trying to flip back over. Before I could escape the buggy bathroom, I overheard one of the girls saying in a taunting voice, “Look! Those huge walking sticks are still hanging from the ceiling. I wonder who will be the first victim to have one drop down on them this year.” I’d never really been afraid of insects before, but the thought of a walking stick dropping down on me made me shudder. I had already exited the bathroom when I heard another voice, a kinder voice, say, “Don’t tease the new kids like that. You know that has never happened!” Feeling a sense of relief, I made my way back to the bedroom. Even with seven other girls in the room, I felt so alone that first night. After tucking myself into bed, by holding Betsy tight, and pulling the top sheet up over my shoulders, I laid in bed trying to sleep. I could hear the familiar chirping of chichaks, and although I hadn’t seen any of the friendly little brown lizards, I felt comforted. But it didn’t take away the feeling of fear that gripped my heart about what tomorrow would be like. When I woke up that first morning at boarding school, I didn’t know where I was. It all came back to me in a flash: the good-bye, the plane ride, supper, devotions--and ugh--the bathroom. Then I remembered it was the first day of school. No one else was awake yet, so I snuggled in bed with Betsy. It seemed like just a few minutes passed before there was a knock on the door. Aunt Dee poked her head in and said, “Time to get up!” We were required to wear dresses to school, so I went to the closet and picked out my favorite. Most of the girls seemed to know each other and were chattering merrily. Not knowing what to say, I dressed in silence. I brushed my hair and parted it down the side, but when I tried to put the barrette in my hair the way Mommy had shown me, it just didn’t want to go right. I finally gave up and parted my hair down the middle. A slim brunette approached me. “Hi, my name is Viviane. What’s yours?” “Sharon,” I replied. She watched me intently as I made my bed and tucked Betsy under the covers. Her eyes were kind and tender. I felt no fear or shame. “That’s a cute dolly. What’s her name?” “Betsy.” “That’s a pretty name. Would you like to sit with me at breakfast?” “Oh, I’d love to! Thank you!” I was excited Viviane had asked me to sit with her, because I didn’t want to have to figure out for myself where I should sit. “You looked really tired last night,” said Viviane. “Everything is just so new and different.” My voice got shaky, and I thought I was going to cry again. “It won’t be long and this will feel like home.” Viviane reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Let’s go.” We managed to find places at the table where my flight-mates, Jenine and David, were sitting. There was oatmeal for breakfast with cold toast. The oatmeal tasted strange. “The oatmeal is yucky, isn’t it?” commented Jenine, when she saw I was not eating mine. “They don’t put salt in it. This goat-meal isn’t fit for animals.” I watched as David put peanut butter in his oatmeal. He glanced up and saw me staring. “The only way I can eat this goat-meal is to put peanut butter in it. You should try it.” “Maybe next time,” I replied. It felt good to be greeted and talked to in a kind way. It gave me a glimpse of hope that maybe I would learn to like it here after all, and that this could become my new home.


“Hey, Bill.” “Hey, George.” My patrons greet each other. Nothing has changed, wives are a pain, jobs suck, and the world is crazy. I hear it day in and day out. Same drivel, same nonsense, but shit, I get paid to listen. “-What I’m saying is, if he gives you the eyes, you can’t show you’re afraid!” George exclaims. I loathe business talk. It always riles up the customers. I can’t seem to go a night without somebody trying to start a ruckus. “Well what was I supposed to do? I’m not gonna argue with one of the brokers, they give me the heebie-jeebies.” Bill shivers with the thought. “Do I have to explain everything to you? I swear the bloody sun has more sense than you.” George sighs, “If you go to a meeting expecting entrails, and you get offered eyes, you have to explain to them diplomatically that eyes won’t cut it for what you are trying to do. Don’t fucking argue with them you dolt. Gotta be diplomatic, like them preachers.” Religion! I think. That’s even worse than business. I want to steer the conversation away, but there is no stopping people when they get going. “The preachers? They don’t know shit. They are always saying that the bleeding sun is a sign of the end of the world. The sun has been bleeding for over a decade! I don’t see any end times!” Bill shouts with exasperation. “Just because the sun started bleeding and the brokers showed up, deciding they ran the world, doesn’t mean I have to put up with one of them squidfaces welshing on their end of the deal!” I set down the glass I was cleaning and turn the men. Trying to convey a jovial appearance I say. “Can I get you gentlemen a refill? Can’t have any dry throats in my establishment!.” My voice cheerily interrupts their conversation. “Fuck off squidy, just because you own the place doesn’t mean you can speak unless spoken to.” Bill says. “See this is my problem with all of them squidy’s who aren’t brokers. They think that just because their freaks of a kind run all of the black magic they have the right to speak to us real people. I can’t believe that mankind owes a debt to these lot. They are pathetic.” I can’t stop my tentacles from squirming in agitation. These so-called “men” think that I wanted to be summoned into this world? I was dragged here by the foolishness of “men” like these thinking they could harness greater power. I will not be spoken to in such a manner, I will show them the power I hold. These puny “men” couldn’t fathom the worlds I have seen and devoured under my undying shadow. But I have instructions, and I will follow them. “Well I’ll be here if you need me!” I assure them. Yes, I will be here. Waiting for the time when I can serve them. Waiting for the time where I can wet my own throat.


Fred, at twenty, is the owner/operator of a successful lawn care service. He started this service as a means to make extra money during the summer when he turned fifteen. He would go around his neighborhood asking the people if they would like him to mow their lawns, rake their leaves or trim hedges and bushes. He soon developed a loyal following. But there was one house at the very far end of the lane that he was told to stay away from. All the neighbors claimed that a cantankerous, witch like, old lady lived there. And so, Fred avoided going over there that summer. One day, the next summer, Fred observed a woman, who looked to be only in her sixties, mowing her grass. In all good conscience, Fred could not bear to see her mowing her own lawn when he was more than capable of fitting her into his schedule. One morning he walked down to the end of the lane, and he knocked on her door. It took a moment, but the door finally opened, and a much older woman appeared. “Good morning maam,” Fred said with a smile. “My name is Fred and I do yard work; lawn mowing, leaf raking, hedge trimming and lawn thatching. I was wondering if I might mow your lawn for you.” “Oh!” she exclaimed. “No. I have my daughter come over and mow my lawn for me. But thank you for asking young man.” “Okay then. Here is my phone number. Please don’t hesitate to call me if the mowing and yard work gets to be too much for her,” Fred stated as he handed her a business card. “Thank you young man,” she said. “You’re welcome. Have a nice day,” he said and then he turned to walk away. “Yes. You have a nice day also,” she said before Fred walked off. A few weeks later Fred’s phone rang. It was the daughter of the old woman down the lane. She asked if he was the young man that did the lawn mowing. Fred explained his services to her, and she hired him to mow her mother's lawn from now on. It would seem that as soon as she found out about Fred’s service, it suddenly became too much of a chore for her to mow her mother's lawn now. Whenever Fred would mow the old woman’s lawn, she would watch from the window. One day, after a month or so, the woman was waiting out by her front door when Fred finished mowing. “Young man! Do you have time to come inside?” she asked. “Yes I do maam,” Fred replied. He put his equipment away, cleaned up his hands and headed for the front door. The woman showed him in. She led him to the kitchen where she had a pitcher of lemonade and a couple of glasses. She poured him a glass and then she poured a glass for herself. They sat down and chatted while they drank their lemonade. “How old are you young man?” she asked. “Sixteen now maam,” he replied. “The name is Almae Johnson. You don’t have to be so formal,” she offered. “Thank you. My full name is, Frederick Williams,” he stated. “But my friends and family call me Fred or Freddy. You can call me Fred if you like.” “Yes,” she agreed. “Mary, that’s my daughter's name. She told me that she was going to call you up when she found your number. I guess she can’t be bothered to come over and visit anymore. That’s the only reason I had her mowing my lawn. So that she would at least come over once a week.” “Well... I’m sorry, and I wasn’t aware of that. I certainly didn’t mean to cause any trouble between you and your family,” Fred stated. “You had no way of knowing. I just have to call her now, if I want to talk,” Almae stated and then took a sip of her lemonade. “If you don’t mind maam. I can visit when I’m through with your lawn. I don’t mind it at all,” Fred offered. “Why would a young one such as yourself want to be bothered by an old lady?” she asked. “And please, call me Almae. I insist.” “Thank you. It’s no bother, really,” he explained. “I used to visit with my grandparents every day until they passed away a few years ago.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Were you close?” “Thank you. Yeah, we were close,” he said. “They used to tell me stories of how it was back in the day. I loved listening to their stories. I miss it, and them.” “Yes. Well, I have lots of stories to tell as well,” she offered. “But I’ve kept you long enough. Thank you for accepting my daughters request for your services. I hope you can find the time to chat with me again.” “I would like that,” Fred said as he downed the last swallow of his lemonade. Almae walked him out and then he thanked her once again and then got in his truck and drove off. Within a couple of years, Fred’s business grew. He had about four employees now, but he always made it his business to go over and do Almae’s yard work. She would often have home-baked cookies, pies, cakes, and even a few times, she had a full meal ready when he was finished with her lawn. Almae thought of Fred as a grandson and Fred considered her as a grandma figure. All-in-all, they had found a friendship. Then one afternoon Fred saw a police car drive down the lane and stop in front of Almae’s house. He ran down the lane and then an ambulance drove up. He asked what was going on after he explained his presence. The police officer told him that Almae had a stroke. He asked him if her daughter had been notified and he said that they would take care of all of that. As they were wheeling Almae up to the ambulance, she told the police officer to give Fred the keys to her house. After the ambulance left, Fred went inside and started putting things in order. He made sure that the stove was off, the coffee pot was unplugged and drained. He checked all of the lights and only left one on in the living room and kitchen. When Almae was released from the hospital, she was taken to an assisted living facility. She passed away six months later. A few weeks later Fred received a letter from an attorney directing him to come down to his office. When he got there, Almae’s daughter, Mary was there. The lawyer had Almae’s will and he read it to them. It would seem that she had left the house and most of her belongings to him and a few thousand dollars to her daughter, Mary. After Mary left the office, Fred was given a letter from Almae. He sat down and read it. Dear Fred: You must be wondering what’s going on by now. I have come to enjoy it when you would rake my leaves and mow the grass. Well, as a token of my appreciation, I’m leaving everything to you. This old house, the cars in the garage, the bank accounts and all of my other possessions as well. You have been a most wonderful friend over the past few years, and I wanted to thank you. I know that you will take good care of this old house and someday make it a home. Love, Almae. Fred was a bit taken aback and it took several minutes for him to realize what was happening. The lawyer assured him that everything was proper and legal. Then he had Fred sign some paperwork and it was made official. When all of the paperwork was completed, Fred went back home. He allowed Mary to come to the house and pick up any of her mom’s personal items that she would like. After that, the old house belonged to Fred now.


“My husband didn’t commit suicide. I poisoned him,” said Mary Farber to Detective Ruth Barnes a week after her husband Bruce died. Mary knew she had to protect Bruce beyond the grave in whatever way she could. Her beloved husband was a proud man; reputation was everything to him. He built a successful career as a financial advisor and served on the board of the Greater West Chester Chamber of Commerce and the Chester County Board of Commissions for years. People in his community knew, respected, and genuinely liked him. When she arrived home from work a week ago, she discovered Bruce lying on the floor of their bedroom. She immediately sprang into action, called 911, and continued to administer CPR. When the medics got him to the hospital, though, he was pronounced dead. She was told he’d had a heart attack. Mary collapsed and sobbed uncontrollably. How could she go on without her precious Bruce? He was the love of her life. During their 12 years of marriage, their love for each other never waned. If anything, it intensified. He could be a bit too introspective at times, but she knew that when she married him. Nearly every evening, they made time to enjoy each other’s company by sharing a meal, talking, or just cuddling on the couch while watching television. And in the bedroom, they could still cause thunder and lightning! Her husband was one of the fittest people she knew. He went to the gym almost every morning and was an avid hiker, biker, and runner. His favorite food group was vegetables and salads, and he only occasionally ate dessert. How could a 39-year-old man in this good of shape drop dead? Truth be told, Mary was more apt to develop heart disease. Sure, she only 33 but was 20 pounds overweight, and her preferred foods were anything with the word sugar at the top of the ingredient list. Finally, giving into Bruce’s strong suggestion, she had recently started to walk in the neighborhood with a couple of her girlfriends three times a week, but they spent more time working their jaws than getting their heart rates up. Not Bruce though. He was serious about his exercise. How could Bruce have been the one to have had a heart attack? Then, Mary got her answer when she received a request from the West Goshen police department to come down to the station. Detective Ruth Barnes closed her office door. “Mrs. Farber, the forensics report came back. I regret to inform you that your husband’s death has been ruled a suicide.” Mary felt like she was experiencing Bruce’s death all over. The blood drained from her face, and she felt like she was having an out of body experience. “That’s impossible! Why would he do that? He loved life.” “I’m so sorry, but I checked your husband’s medical records. He was on an antidepressant, wasn’t he?” Mary took a deep ragged breath. “Yes, he takes, I mean took, 20 mg. of Prozac daily, but it was more for the stress of his job than depression. There’s no way he would have killed himself.” “Mary, we detected a large quantity of Fentanyl in his system. You were adamant the other day that your husband barely took an aspirin, let alone illegal drugs.” Mary nodded. “You can understand how we reached the only conclusion that makes sense, and unfortunately that is suicide. Was your husband under any additional stress lately?” “No more than the usual everyday stress from his job.” “Did you notice any signs of depression or unusual behavior recently?” “Not really.” Mary couldn’t tell the detective that sometimes she’d find Bruce sitting in his favorite chair staring into space. “Earth to Bruce,” she’d say. Bruce would snap to and smile at her. “Sorry, just deep in thought. You know how I am.” She couldn’t talk about all the other things she’d noticed about Bruce lately, or the cops would maintain that he committed suicide. Her husband had been edgy these days, snapped at her for no reason, then apologized later for being short with her. Numerous times in the past few weeks, she’d turn over in the middle of the night to hug him and would find him gone. Often, she’d find him reading on the living room couch or pecking away on his computer. When Mary questioned him, he just said he was having trouble sleeping. “A lot going on at work. Nothing I can’t handle though. Go back to sleep, Sweetheart.” But, two days ago, he came out of the bathroom with red eyes as though he’d been crying. “Baby, what’s wrong,” Mary said rushing over to him. “It’s my allergies. All this pollen has gotten the best of me. I’ll take another Zyrtec.” “Are you sure that’s all it is? You look so sad.” Bruce put his arms around Mary and smiled,” You’re such a worry wart, honey. Everything’s fine.” Mary supposed she was in denial about her husband being depressed, so she believed his excuses. Abruptly, she realized how blind and gullible she had been. How could Bruce be so overwhelmed that he felt his only recourse was to take his own life? Why didn’t he talk to her? Mary had to put those thoughts aside for now and think fast about how to protect her husband’s reputation. She couldn’t let people know that Bruce committed suicide. If she was to preserve his character, she only had one viable option. If she told the detective that she poisoned her husband, people wouldn’t think less of him. They’d think he’d had a crazy wife, but she could live without that. The authorities could believe she killed Bruce because it was on her medical records that she was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder years ago. It was managed well with various medications, but no one needed to know that. She’d tell the the detective she had been hearing voices telling her to kill Bruce , and she finally did. She knew she wouldn’t get the insurance money, but they had enough money in their savings accounts and stocks to sustain her. She also made decent money as an assistant editor for a small publishing company; although, she’d probably lose that once she confessed to murder. Still, that was the chance she’d be willing to take. She’d find a good lawyer who would advise her to plead temporary insanity. She would most likely be committed to a mental institution for a few months, but then she’d be released, and she would live comfortably, although never happily again without the love of her life by her side. ************************************************************ Bruce held the lethal dose of Fentanyl, purchased on the dark web, in his shaking hand. He knew from his research that this dose would cause cardiac arrest and death. Since Bruce never even smoked weed, and was an athlete, nobody would think to investigate a drug overdose. Besides, his father died of cardiac arrest at 60, and he certainly wasn’t a drug dealer. It was important that his death looked natural so Mary would get the insurance money. Lord knew, there wasn’t much left in their savings account or stocks. He really didn’t want to die, but he saw no other way out if he wanted his wife to continue to live comfortably. Mary didn’t know Bruce had lost his job at Swanson Financial two months ago because of embezzlement. He kept up the façade that he was still working though. On the days he went into work, he’d leave for the gym at 6:15 am as he’d always done. But instead of showering and dressing for work after his workout, he’d gotten to know all the parks and walking/running trails within a 50-mile radius of his home in West Chester, Pa. If it rained, he’d spend all his time reading under a pavilion. Then, he would change into his work attire at the end of the day. To say the least, he’d gotten to know park and fast-food restaurant restrooms better than he’d wanted to. Mary often worked from home as an editor, so on the days he worked from his home office, he’d keep his door shut, with something “work” related ready to pull up on his computer screen if Mary knocked on the door. He’d planned on returning the money he’d siphoned from Swanson Financial, but he was caught before he was able to do that. His boss, Brett Swanson, the owner of the financial firm told Bruce he’d been more than fair letting him pay in increments, but he was done. Bruce only had until tomorrow to pay the rest of the money back, or the Brett would prosecute. There was no way in hell he could round up that much cash to pay Swanson Financial back in a day. Bruce had invested most of his savings and stocks, and $100,00.00 from Swanson Financial into Brismet Corporation, a semiconductor chip company. Mary didn’t know anything about any of this, of course. She had her own banking account which she used for groceries, pet care, household items, and personal needs and, most of the time, that was the only account she dealt with. She claimed to be mathematically challenged, so she left all other banking matters to him. She had no clue that Bruce hadn’t paid the mortgage for three months. Their mail never arrived before 5:00 pm, and he made it his “job” to retrieve it. So far, he’d been able to intercept the foreclosure and late bill notices before Mary could see any of them, and the phone calls always went to his cell. Brismet was an ·e-commerce company, that outsourced product development, material sourcing, inventory, shipping, and manufacturing. They sold their products online via an e-commerce website to customers, and a third-party manufacturer handled the order fulfillment and shipping. Initially, Brismet was doing well, but four months ago, due to supply chain shortages and rising inflation, the third-party manufacturer put all the orders on hold, tying up most of Brismet’s and, consequently, Bruce’s money. Bruce had depended on getting a hefty paycheck from Brismet at that time, so he could at least replace the money he’d “borrowed” from Swanson Financial and replace his and his wife’s savings and stocks. Then, he would start making beaucoup bucks and could finally quit working at Swanson Financial. Although he was skilled when it came to gambling with other people’s money, he hated the high stress of it all. Once he replenished all the money he’d used to invest in Brismet, he would confess to Mary what he’d done. He’d assure her that he didn’t tell her anything about his investment into Brismet because he knew she would have been besides herself with worry and would undoubtedly freak out. He was only protecting her because he knew how tenuous her mental health could be. Once they became multi-millionaires, though, he knew she’d eventually see that everything he’d done was to benefit them and would forgive his deceit. Yesterday, though, he’d drained the rest his and Mary’s savings account to pay Swanson Financial back, but it only amounted to $23,000.00. He had hoped his boss would continue accepting the repayments with the promise that he’d replace all the money by the end of the month. He felt sure that Brismet would be back in production by then. But Brett had become an asshole and told Bruce he’d given him more than enough time and would take matters to the police unless all the money was all paid back by tomorrow. Through tear-filled eyes, Bruce stared at the pills in his trembling hand. He loved life, and it had been pretty good to him in many ways, but he loved Mary more. He was sure that if he went to jail, and most of their hard-earned money was gone, Mary would go off the deep end. She’d worked so hard to be mentally healthy, and he couldn’t let her spiral out of control because of him. She would grieve, but she’d persevered through her parents’ death two years ago. She was young and pretty and would soon find another man to love. Bruce had reviewed their life insurance policies, and there was enough of a payout for Mary to live comfortably for the rest of her life if his suicide wasn’t detected. Bruce would miss her terribly, but he had to protect his dear wife from beyond the grave in any way he could. Bruce was trapped in a strong box, and there was no way out other than his death, so he swallowed the pills.


Author's note: The world that Chocolate Kisses started in, despite being the same place, is very different from the modern, twelve-years-later one, and you don't even need to read the first, unless you want to catch up on details like who Emilia is, how come Ellen and Joseph are married, and why their daughter is named Chocolate. The original was very sentimental and sweet, but as we go on, I decided to branch into a sort of mystery-crime-adventure genre, with lots of humor to balance it out. If you would like the story to become a little nicer, (romance, friendship tests, determination to do good, etc.) then please message me in the comments and I'll be sure to respond and remove some of the creepiest elements of this story. Thank you for reading, and if you have any ideas for what could happen next, please tell me! -- Emmie Greensgate I haven't heard from Sherry, that weird twelve-year-old girl who followed me everywhere, or Chocolate, who cleared my name when Samantha-Jae accused me of stealing Ellen Abbot's secret spice. I haven't heard from Emilia, the town's resident author, since last night. Actually, I haven't heard from any of them since last night, when we "rescued" Samantha from her stepbrothers and stepfather, who had taken her away from out little town of Bridgebrook, for reasons she tried to explain, but flew over my head. I haven't heard form any of them... We exchanged numbers after "rescuing" Samantha-Jae, and I scroll through my texts. Nothing from them. They're all offline and have been offline for about eight hours. Well, that's normal, right? It's not like they've been on their phone all day, every day. I'm overreacting. They're okay. Right? Right? I send them a quick text through the group chat that we set up yesterday. Hey guys. Are u okay? I haven't received any texts from you 4 a while. Please tell me if there's a problem. I wait and look at my phone. Nothing. That's normal, though. They probably have their own issues. Maybe they have their phones on airplane mode. That shuts off texts, doesn't it...? Sherry always has her phone on her, though. She is always texting. Sherry would not ignore a text from me. Not unless... maybe something's wrong with her...? Is she okay? Sherry is like a little sister to me. I have been like a brother to her, too. We're inseparable. I think it comes from growing up right next door, sharing our yards and snacks and lives with each other. I couldn't bear anything bad to happen to her. "Oh, Sherry," I say. Emilia: The door shuts with a loud, metallic THAAAANK! Locking us in the room. I roll my eyes, looking at the high, stone walls. I could climb them. They're about fifteen feet high, with lots of toeholds in the gray, rough stone. The ceiling is made of the same stone blocks, like a dungeon, and wooden boards crisscross below it, holding it up. The door is wood, but here's a big, heavy, locking mechanism of some sort inside of it, that makes it so heavy that it would take ten elephants to make it budge. It locks from the outside, as far as I an tell, so there's no way we could get out through there. The walls, upon closer inspection, are so rough that you'd bleed if you tried to climb them. There are no windows, either, and the wood beams are full of splinters. We're basically trapped as trapped can be. Sherry keeps thanking me because of something I did, even though it's kind of random. I smiled at one of the boys in a way that I thought would make me look like a gremlin about to kill him, but apparently it looked cute and he got a crush on me, if Sherry is to be trusted. "He likes you, I swear," she says, pacing around the room. "He thought you were hitting on him so now he likes you." "I'm a grown adult! He's, what, sixteen?" I say. "Eighteen, it looks like. but you look really long, like maybe nineteen? I think he thinks you're in his age group." "Well, if he really is 'hitting on me' then maybe he could let us out, huh?" "I think he did his part by not tying us up." "Whatever. Where's the kid I lied to? he can get me out of here before the stepfather in question comes back." "I think he's coming... now." I snarl. My phone dings. Uh... Oh right! I hid my phone from them, saying I was anti-tech. They had Sherr's, but they didn't have mine. I get a really good idea. I pick up my phone and begin to write... Words pour out of my f i n g e r t i p s and create a message that I send to everyone. "Hello, John Kazzer." I yell, jump around like a deer, and turn towards the speaker, a look of rage in my eyes. He is a tall, thin man, dressed in a black trench coat. Who even wears those anymore? "How do you know my name?" I ask. "That weird girl with the long black hair and the tendency to punch kept yelling about you." "Samantha-Jae?" "She didn't give her name, so we're calling her 'Project 45'." "Project 45?" "Our forty-fifth catch." "Catch?" The man looks at me like I'm mad. "You mean to say that you've never heard of Project Stockholm?" "I've heard about some guy called Stockholm, but I didn't know he was a project already." "He isn't! It's named after Stockho-- I'm not telling you. This is top secret. Even the president doesn't know about it." He is creeping me out. A lot. "I'm giving you an offer." I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. "An offer?" "Consider this," the man says. "You could work for my boss. Simple jobs at first; backup guard for hunting, patrolling the borders, figuring out the details of our missions, if you are good at that sort of thing. Driving our catches to the base. Then if we still need to get a few more, you can get into the higher leagues. Take down a few targets. Bring back information on their reactions. Maybe play the role of Keeper. " "What does that mean?" "I'm recruiting you for a job." "What kind?" "Experiment dirty work." "I am not killing anyone," I say, loudly, to make it clear. "You won't have to. All you have to do is make sure that the experiments stay put." "Are you cloning alien life or something?" "No... simply..." He reaches for his pocket. I flinch. I think he has a weapon in there. "Keeping it." "Keeping what?" "Life forms. The highest, most complex one of all. We have forty-six in total, but we'll need fifty to round it out more. What do you say?" "What life form are you working with?" "Sir, what are you? " Sickness churns inside of me. Humans. He means humans. Other intelligent, living breathing beings. For science. "I'd suggest you agree with me," he says in an ominous tone. He smiles in a creepy way. "... if you want to see Chocolate again." "Are you threatening me with food or people?" "The man reaches for his belt. There's something under his cloak. I can see it. I can tell that he is trying to scare me into saying yes. But the people, the forty-six people who are all being experimented on by whoever his boss is! And oh no, Samantha-Jae must be one of them! But at the same time, I need to protect Chocolate! And on the other hand, Emilia and Sherry could have been taken, too! "I'll give you twenty-four hours to think it over." the man says, turning away from me. "Twenty-four hours before we so much as look at that girl. Twenty-four hours for you to make your choice." He walks away. I remain rooted to the ground. A human experimenter. Someone whole experiments on humans. I need to be one to get Chocolate back. A horrible, twisted darkness rises inside of me. Would I be willing to do something like that for her? For Samantha-Jae? But there could be-- no, there have to be people out there who want the forty-six back. The're girlfriends and boyfriends. Brothers and sisters. Friends, teachers, cousins, football champs, wrestlers, and readers. People-- ordinary people who ended up in this somehow. "What should I do?" I ask myself, my voice nearly freezing away in a gust of cold wind. The message has to have sent by now. There's enough signal, but hardly any. It doesn't take a lot, usually, but I think they're shutting off the WiFi or something. I hear footsteps coming down the halls. Closer and closer. "Sherry, on my command, beat up whoever comes through that door. Ready? three-- two-- one--" The lock opens, the latching mechanism popping open. A man who looks like an adult form of the boys behind him scowls into the room. "Them?" he says. "You think they were the ones who kid napped Samantha?" "We didn't!" I say at the same time the boys shout "One word, dad!" I nod to Sherry, who in turn, nods back. And we leap. The "message sent" alarm dings happily as we punch the boys and man uselessly. One new message! My phone says. I open it. To whomever gets this: I know now that it isn't the stepdad in question who's taken Chocolate and Samantha-Jae. He thinks we did it, I bet. We're trapped in a creepy room in his basement. Don't come for Sherry and me unless you have to. I don't know where they are, but I know where they aren't. Please come as soon as possible-- but only if you know where Samantha-Jae and Choco are. I wish I could help you. But you're on your own here. They're trying to Steal Samantha-Jae back because she's the inheritor of her multimillionaire mother's wealth. I'll try to escape, but that's a pretty risky move for us. We'll have to wait until they clear our names and realize that we only took Samantha-Jae because we thought they were the evil ones. Tell me if you know anything, but keep it encrypted. Not too hard, just enough that no one besides me can interpret it. Thank you. --Emilia. I hold my phone tightly. then, I text: I know where Chocolate is. I was threatened with her. Some guy tried to get me to join his big boss's H3uM@n 3xP3r1m3nTiNg project by dangling her over my head, not actually, just told me I had Tw3nTy4 hours to join his side or she was theirs to 3xP3r1m3nT 0n. I'll tell you more later. I'll get you out of there a$ $o0N @$ p0$$iBl3. --J0hN k2zZ3R. She'll be able to uncover my message. It's not even that good, but I'm hoping that she keeps her phone on her at all times. Chocolate woke up, a bleary feeling filling her body. She though about opening her eyes or moving, but she was just too tired. "...all clear, sir." "Very well... the..." the voices w a r p e d away. then they returned, Who were they? Chocolate didn't know them. "...Noticing that, I can..." "Sir, yes sir!" "Get ready for..." she couldn't make out what he said. "...Obsidian." Obsidian? she thought. Where have I heard Obsidian before? Chocolate lapsed into another round of deep, dark sleep, not even noticing the needle injected into her arm or the chains on her hands and feet. Obsidian.... Thank you for enduring this long, weird story. Who wants the sequel?


Chris had always been a cautious man, careful not to slip into the abyss of risks or uncertainties. He had his life planned out like a meticulously crafted blueprint--until the terrible day when everything went south. An important business venture had failed miserably, taking with it his life savings, his reputation, and worse, the trust of his family. Just as he was contemplating the shattered pieces of his life alone in his home office, there was an abrupt knock on his door. It was 12 p.m., an odd time for visitors. “Who the hell is here at this hour?” He swung the door open angrily to find a peculiar man standing there. Dressed in an incongruous blend of styles--Victorian ruffles meeting 22nd-century synthetics--the man grinned hauntingly, revealing an unnervingly perfect set of teeth. "Chris, isn't it? How would you like a chance to fix your mistake?" he asked. "Who are you?" Chris questioned, trying to not explode with anger with skepticism etching his face. "Name's Cal, short for Caliban. I'm a... let's say, a time-traveling salesman." Chris would have shut the door right then if it wasn't for the glint in Cal's eyes. It was as though he knew something, something profound, something that intrigued Chris deeply. “Listen, Cal was it? I don’t have time for B.S. at this hour, I have enough of my own problems to deal with.” Chris said as he started to close the door on Cal. “WAIT, just one second!” said Cal. "I really can offer you a trip to your past to amend that one choice that ruined you. You get to fix it, live it differently. But of course I get to take something in return," Cal clarified. “As with any exchange of goods or services” "Sure I’ll humor you Cal, what's the price for this impossible service you provide?" Chris smugly questioned. "A memory. A good one. You'll never be able to relive it, think of it, or even know you had it," Cal said, his voice quivering with an almost insatiable excitement, like a predator looking at his prey. Drooling. Just one memory for a fresh start--it sounded almost too good. Yet, desperation clawed at Chris. Thinking of his hopeless financial situation and how he really has nothing left to lose he said “Fine. I’ll agree to this. It’s not like anything is actually going to happen anyway and I’ll be able to go to bed finally.” Cal’s eyes seemed to light up like flames in the distance of his pupils. Dilated with excitement. With a flick of Cal's gilded pocket watch, they were there, in the boardroom where Chris had made that dreadful business decision. Chris rubbed his eyes. It felt surreal, watching his past self, trying not to scream out the correct answer. As his past self left the room with his head held low in disappointment, Cal nudged him to go and take his place. Chris did. He relived the whole meeting and made all the right decisions he didn’t before, invested where he should have, and abstained where he needed to. It felt like winning a long-lost battle that had been playing in his mind for a long time now. With another flick of the pocket watch, they were back in the present, but things had changed. His apartment had transformed; luxurious décor replaced the earlier modesty. Sitting in amazement Chris looked about and reached into his pocket. A quick check on his phone revealed his accounts brimming with money, more than he could ever need. Everything was as it should have been. This is incredible Cal! I don’t know what to say to you. "Payment time," Cal announced, gleefully. Then he closed his eyes and the joy seemed to suck right out of the room. A jolt of pain ran through Chris's head as he felt a piece of him, something warm and comforting, yanked out. Cal smirked, "Pleasure doing business with you," and vanished. Chris laying in his bed awoke suddenly from what seemed like a crazy dream, but as he looked around his new fancy apartment he knew what transpired last night was no dream and it worked. I can’t tell my family about this, they will just think I’m crazy. Weeks passed and Chris found himself surrounded by the luxuries that money could buy--yet an unexplained emptiness haunted him. He had his loving family, but couldn't shake off the feeling that something precious was missing. Every laugh felt hollow, every hug incomplete, as if a crucial element of his happiness had been excised surgically. After a long time of feeling like this Chris decided to consult a psychologist, Dr. Anderson, renowned for his work on memory and consciousness. He could now afford the best help available and being the cautious and careful man he’s always tried to be, didn't want any stone unturned. "Chris, you are living what most would call the American Dream. Perhaps it's the sudden shift that has you feeling like this," the psychologist reasoned. Chris knew better. "No, it feels like I've forgotten how to be happy, like something integral is missing." They conversed like this for the rest of their session together, but he didn’t feel it was going anywhere that would help. As he was leaving, he noticed a photograph on Dr. Anderson's desk--a little girl, presumably the doctor's daughter, blissfully riding a bike. "Do you ride bikes with her?" Chris asked. "Every weekend. Those are the memories that make life worth living," Dr. Anderson smiled. Memories. The word stung Chris. It was like a phantom pain that he couldn’t put his finger on. On his drive home, he started to realize the weight of the price he had paid for his 'perfect' life. A single, priceless memory could hold the essence of joy, love, or friendship--emotions that made life complete. That warm something that a person holds onto to ensure them that it’s all worth the hassle of the terrible things life throws at you. As he pulled into his luxurious home driveway he realized that he could amass all the wealth in the world, yet he would remain bankrupt in the only currency that truly mattered. Cal had taken more than just a memory; he'd taken a piece of Chris's soul, a slice of his humanity, a sliver of his core. And so, Chris found himself forever wealthy but continuously incomplete, successful but broken--a man who had traded the very essence of life for a hollow illusion of happiness. Cal the “time-traveling salesman” had indeed lived up to his name, a modern-day Caliban disguised as a savior. And Chris was left to ponder if fixing a past mistake was worth a lifetime of incomplete smiles and hollow laughs. For the first time, Chris wished he'd been less cautious, less eager to mend the unfixable. For what is life if not a series of choices, mistakes, and memories, each irreplaceable, each invaluable in teaching us how to live, love, and perhaps most importantly, how to be human.


Hans found an old table in the basement. Dust and spiderwebs enveloped its wooden cracks, its joints creaking as he carried it to the dining room. It’s indeed a rickety ancient thing but it’s sturdy enough , Hans thought as his eye gleamed with weary satisfaction. As he brought it to the faint light illuminating the dining room, he noticed some mold forming on its surface. Perhaps it hadn’t been cleaned out completely when it was last used, he speculated. He couldn’t quite remember either why the table was in the basement. As Hans dusted it off and ran a damp cloth over its surface, he turned to the window. It was a lovely night. Behind the dark velvet curtains, the moon rested on the clouds and the stars sprawled over the sky. There was not a hint of stormy weather nor was there any unrest heard about; everything was perfectly placid. The thought of this serenity brought him a peace of mind, which subsequently emerged the thought of dear Bertha. Hans knew Bertha would come home tonight. The strong, beautiful, and intelligent Bertha who had dark and dreamy eyes that enraptured his every time they met. He knew that she would be tired from her journey; preparing dinner for her would surely delight her. He was gladdened at the thought of that prospect. When he finished cleaning the table, a crimson colored tablecloth was placed over it. Two of Hans’ best dinner plates settled on opposite sides along with the cherished goblets the two of them would use only during special occasions. In the center, a midnight blue vase contained a simple bouquet of fresh white lilies: Bertha’s favourite. As dark as the room was at that moment, Hans lighted a small candle, sufficient enough it was to brighten the table’s surface. Once he was satisfied, he sat on his side of the table and waited patiently for Bertha. He knew not the exact time to which she would arrive, but he knew she would, he believed she would. As the hours sunk and as the candle’s fire slowly melted the seeping wax, Hans grew more and more restless. He started pacing, rearranging, and pouring countless ounces of water into his own goblet. He eventually felt drowsy and exhausted and heavy and his eyelids seemed to droop down unto his cheeks and--everything went lugubriously dark. There was a thud. Then came a crash. Hans awakened at the sound. His prized plate was shattered into pieces on the floor, its white uneven fragments scattered on the grimy floor of the dining room. Hans merely stared at it, unfazed. His mind was clouded with longing and misery as he slowly stood up and cleaned the mess. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Hans’ hopes were quickly replenished as he approached the door. Sure enough, the sweet smile of Bertha welcomed him. An overwhelming joy rushed through Hans as he embraced her. He had not seen her in so, so long that his eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh how I’ve missed you!” Bertha said as she sniffed away her own tears. “I’ve missed you too, my dear.” Hans responded as he took her hand and led her to the dining room. The candlelight blazed as bright as ever, painting the flowers with a soft yellow glow. Bertha expressed her surprise as she viewed the dinner table arrangement. “You’ve certainly outdone yourself now!” she commented. “I almost forgot,” Hans approached the nearby window and opened it. “You like it when the windows are open.” Bertha beamed at him, silently appreciating his attentiveness. Hans disliked the windows open but he would open it for Bertha any day. They both settled in their seats and sat for a moment, gazing at the scenery outside. A wild wind was now rushing among the trees, softly and slowly it blew and crept towards the house. The moon was no longer resting; it was now hovered above the earth with the clouds surrounding it like a halo. Stars were barely visible as the clouds covered, further bringing out the moon’s glow. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Bertha mused as she turned to Hans. Hans nodded and stretched out his hand to her. Their hands held endearingly and almost wistfully in the calm glow of the candlelight. They then talked about everything under the sun. Hans talked about how he had been going fishing in the lake like he always did, sharing his fascination with Bertha who gladly listened. Bertha talked about how tiresome her journey had been, constantly travelling by train to and fro. But she enjoyed it, she assured Hans, who always worried about her. “I just noticed,” Bertha said, “Where did you find this table?” “The basement.” he replied. “Well I’m glad you brought it back up, it’s been so long since we’ve last used it.” she continued, “It’s old, ancient even, with all its cracks but still sturdy enough to be used.” Hans smiled melancholically. He now remembered why it was in the basement. He held Bertha’s hands slightly tighter, wishing she would never leave again. “Hans, you should take care of yourself too,” she added, rather humorously “The house looks grubbier than the last time I set foot here.” Hans looked around. Spiderwebs had begun to coat the corners, dust settled on cabinets and door frames, and the floor was “I’m sorry dear, I’m afraid I worried too much about you when you left.” Hans confessed. Bertha gave him an understanding look. “That’s okay. We’ll clean the house together, make it look like it always did.” “Will you stay with me?” “Always.” As Bertha uttered the last word, the wind finally reached them. It entered through the window and extinguished the light the candle cradled. Hans couldn’t see anything but he wasn’t worried anymore. He felt the soft embrace of Bertha’s hand slowly slip away from him. The next time Hans opened his eyes, he found a picture frame sitting on the floor next to the table. The glass covering it had shattered into several uneven fragments. He picked it up and examined the photo. A young couple stood before an altar. The two looked happy and excited, their eyes looking deeply into each other’s with smiles on their faces. The man, standing tall, wore a tuxedo with a single white lily attached to the breast pocket. The woman, beautiful as ever, wore a simple wedding dress that cascaded down the small steps. It was his and Bertha’s wedding photo. Bertha has been gone for twenty years, I remember now. I finally remember. It’s time to go home , Hans thought. He then decided to clean the house.


First of all, I'm writing this note from Hell. The newly added circle of Hell designed for blog boys and clickety clackers. We do have Wi-Fi. I'm not quite sure what my punishment is supposed to be down here. At this moment, I'm outside a coffee shop with a protein infused wild berry smoothie. I'd say it's 75 degrees. Hold on I just pulled up the weather. It's 73 degrees. Hell is kinda tight but that's not what I'm here to warn you about. Ok everybody, quit idolizing Jeff Bezos. He's a straw man in a gold hat. I know that multi-billionaires are the nicest people on Earth, but the exception is Jeff. I know for a fact that the super rich are charitable. Their dicks only go upwards, just like their bank accounts. But know this, the dick of Jeff Bezos is not to be trusted. Ever heard of Amazon dot com? Shop at your own peril. Pay Pal is no pal of mine I'll fucking tell you that right now. Let me fill you in on a little secret; every time you make a purchase on Amazon dot com, you're entered into the Bezos lottery. And that's a jackpot even the saddest farty casino grandma would hate to win. And guess who shopped exclusively on Amazon dot com? It was me, Ok? I was the unlucky candidate to be visited personally by the scarecrow Jeff Bezos. It's been three weeks since I died. At least I think about so. It's easy to lose the concept of time when your days are eternal. And also when you're rolling up the Devil's own Lettuce into a joint the size of an extra value tube of Colgate and smoking that shit with your new long boarding friends. I shouldn't even say when I "died" though. I was murdered. Murdered so good to the point where no physical evidence could be found. I was in my top floor apartment when Bezos killed my ass. I was streaming Fortnite for all my fans when I heard a ruckus and a hullabaloo. Was I get getting swatted? No, it was coming from the ceiling. The sound kept getting louder and louder. My fans were donating suddenly, their comments saying things like, "Your ded now, boy." and "the reckoning draws near" and "Bezos incoming." It was a setup. These weren't my regular Twitch fans. They were all in on it, mocking me before my untimely death. I had hit the dreaded jackpot. The next thing I knew, Jeff Bezos had just cut a massive circular hole into my ceiling with an industrial saw. His bald head gleaming white, it felt as if I was struck with a flash bang. Jeff Bezos repelled half way down, then dropped and did a cannon ball tuck, smashing into my computer desk. He ruined my game of Fortnite, and PC. Jeff Bezos is the ultimate stream sniper. I was taken aback as fuck. I asked him what he wanted. With a business casual attitude he said "I'll be taking all the cells from your body, if that's fine with you." It wasn't. When my flight response kicked in, I forgot how much of a slob I was. I literally slipped on several banana peels attempting to escape out my front door. Bezos lumbering methodically behind, adjusting his tie clip, I started to cry. "Please, Jeff, No! I thought you were one of the good guys!" Jeff picked up my trash can and dumped half eaten Hungry Mans all over me. "Messy messy messy." Jeff snickered and extended his arms out toward me. An aura of power and wealth seemed to flow from his expensive duds, soon manifesting into a stream of bright green ones and zeros. I could feel my brain turning to mush. I was shut off from my human form, and my consciousness floated above my now deceased body. I watched in horror as Jeff Bezos ripped my corpse apart, cell by cell. Now that I was dead, I understood the true nature of all things. There are an average of 32.7 trillion cells in a grown adult, and Jeff was meticulously turning each part of me into Bitcoin. Turns out, the crypto currency isn't something that can be generated at will on the internet. Bitcoin is humans. Bitcoin could have been your dad who you thought up and left your family. Sure, maybe he had a drinking problem, but he also had a Bezos problem. As my anatomy dissolved into cyberspace, I felt nothing but rage. Jeff Bezos looked up in my general direction, like he could feel my presence. He winked, fully took off his shoes and pants and underwear, then shit on my floor. Damn you, Jeff Bezos, you're lucky Hell is way chiller than my life ever was. I beg of you, don't use Amazon dot com, or anything that billionaire monster has ever had a hand in. He's an immaculately dressed warlock who's looking for his next victim. I think he's grown accustomed to the taste of complete and untraceable murder. Even if Bitcoin tanks, and crypto currency is a thing of the past, Jeff Bezos may still be coming for you.


This is among my first attempts at writing short stories, so advice and criticism are much appreciated! Johnny Hall was sprawled on his bunk bed, listening to the heavy rain drops on the train’s sheet metal roof and a faint guitar in another wagon. His former squad mate, now cell mate- Dan Burns, was playing solitaire on the shoddy wooden end table in the other corner of the room. It was kind enough that the handlers had given them a deck of playing cards... too kind for a bunch of no-good dirtbag invaders. This was not an ordinary train, and they were not ordinary prisoners. The door to the coupe opened, letting in the evening chill. It was pitch black outside. A Russian soldier walked in and laid his heavy backpack on the table by the door: “Feeling energized, comrade specialist?”- he asked Burns, who didn’t even look at the newly arriving handler: “The train is five hours away from Houston. There- you’ll be interrogated and, hopefully... recruited.” “Forget that, Ivan.”- Dan answered briefly, looking into the soldier’s eyes: “No amount of tea and *Pirogi* will make me give away my command!”- he followed with a grin. “Well that’s a shame... the war *IS* over. You are now officially considered terrorists and government obstructions! If I were you I’d use the chance to land myself in the new government! And you- comrade specialist... you are presented with such an opportunity.” “Better shoot us on spot.”- Hall joined the conversation. “It’ll come to that eventually, don’t worry.”- the Russian squatted beside the cell bars: “But if I were you I’d play nice. I don’t see how your command would even vouch for you! They’re all terrorists, and so are you! And if you don’t abide, you’ll be dead terrorists by dawn!”- the soldier stared Hall in the eyes. Hall stared back. The rain got heavier. The sheet metal roof sounded like it was being banged on. The guitar in the other wagon faded away: “The lads were so happy we captured you two that they’re probably too drunk to even play the guitar now.”- the handler chuckled: “If you were my soldiers, you’d be there with the others- enjoying the victory! *but nooo*, you’d rather die for a failed government that couldn’t even-“- he couldn’t finish the sentence. A sound Hall and Burns knew too well just resonated in their heads... *flashbang* The prisoners got on the floor and covered their ears. “What the-“- the Russian exclaimed. *bang* *bang* *thud* “Would you look at that! Two more *meat-shields* for my squad of *terrorists*!” Hall knew the voice too well- Colonel Bertram Reeves. He opened his eyes and got up from the floor. The colonel was wearing a waterproof rain poncho under a decked out load bearing harness, and a compact set of night vision goggles. In his hands- a decked out specialist AK-12. He picked up the keys to the cell and tossed them to Burns: “Open it up, Burns, we have to get off this fucking train! Hall- you get the dead guy’s AK.” The cell door opened. Burns hugged his commander and exclaimed: “All hail the mighty god-emperor Reeves- the savior of the unbroken and the bringer of doom upon the invader menace!” “It’s nice to see you too, kid! Now... can you still drive?” “Yessssir! What are we driving?” “A trio of Ural motorcycles is waiting in the cargo carriage. Modded to the bone." "Urals? Not bad, but I heard the clutches are a nightmare to work."- said Hall, putting the dead Russian’s load bearing harness on. "Don’t worry, we’ll spend most of the journey in 5th gear!"- the colonel fired back with a tone of pride and military spirit: "The rain is pretty loud, and no one on board knows that the two rear guard carriages are knocked out. Let’s move quickly and get to the cargo bay!" The three walked out of the prisoner carriage and prepared to breech the next one. The colonel gave a signal to Hall, who was the only one armed of the two captured specialists. Then, he opened the door and threw a flashbang. *bang* "Breech!"- the two soldiers moved into the coupe and mowed down a dozen of stunned enemies with controlled bursts: "Clear! Burns, get a gun!"- Reeves shouted. Burns picked up a Saiga 12 shotgun from the floor and decked himself out with a scavenged harness, while his two squad mates reloaded their weapons and finished off the injured foes. "Next!” They walked out of the carriage and into the next. Same drill, flashbangs flew in and enemies collapsed onto the floor. No one heard the shots in the deafening storm and rattle of the train tracks, so the trio had the element of surprise on their side. One by one, clearing out all the enemies on their way, the party reached the cargo carriage: “Voila!”- the colonel pointed at three motorcycles in the midst of weapons and other military equipment, pulling out a detonator and a plastic charge from his harness: “Hall, plant this in the munitions storage! Let’s see how easy it is for the Russkies to get to Houston on a burning train!” Hall took the charge and planted it in the pile of boxes with RPG-7 grenades, then came back to the three motorcycles and sat on the one beside Burns. Colonel Reeves unhinged the barn door on the side of the carriage and a wall of hail and rain covered their faces. Next, Reeves pulled the brake lever next to the door and the train violently came to a halt in the span of several seconds. Alarms went off in every carriage: “Just in time, Ivan!”- Burns chuckled. The trio revved their motorcycles and, one by one, jumped out of the carriage. Hall felt the wind blowing in his face, the stiff suspension recovering from the brutal jump, the nightmare-inducing clutch that was barely even working, and the angry roar of the engine- the magnificent sound that he grew up with! This was freedom! “Blow it up!”- Reeves shouted once the bikes were half a mile away from the train. Hall pressed the detonator. The train erupted in flames, throwing up clouds of toxic smoke and debris.


Two Good Men and the Four Horsemen “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Bob,” A voice emerged from the darkness, mild and gentle. “It’ll be all right, Fred. There was a reason that we came here.” Another voice soothed, and for a while, they were only accompanied by the hoarse croaking *caw, caw* of the crows. Then a bright, blinding golden light split the quiet, and the portal widened as four figures emerged from it, all of them astride horses. Two men and two women, an even split. And in response, the men waiting in the dark stood up, ready to meet them. “We know who you are,” Bob said, his tone as friendly and affable as before. “But I’m afraid we cannot let you pass, friends.” He smiled at the newcomers, and then he pulled a plastic palette from his pocket, as well as a set of old, weathered paintbrushes. Fred Rogers smiled at them, standing up and pulling out several puppets from inside of the bag he’d set before him. “You are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, aren’t you?” He asked, surveying the biblical threat that stood before him. “I’m Mr. Fred Rogers, and that fine man over there is Bob Ross. And we’re going to send you straight back to the pages of the Good Book, where you belong.” \*\* For their part, the Four Horsemen looked at one another, baffled. When they’d been freed by the breaking of the seals, the last thing they’d expected was opposition, even if this was a very odd sort. These men were quite foolish if they thought they were going to escape this unscathed. The second horseman, astride a reddish, proud roan with flaming golden eyes, stared at the men, eyes narrowed. “You must be joking. Paintbrushes and puppets? Hardly weapons that are ready for battle.” He laughed, tossing his proud head, the sound rich and melodic. He was tall and muscular, with cold gray eyes and dark curls, as well as a silvering goatee. He was clothed in red armor, and in one of his hands, he held a deadly, wicked sharp halberd. “I am War, the Red Horseman, and you are merely two foolish mortals. What hope do you have at stopping the Apocalypse, which has been written in the Holy Book long before your kind ever drew breath?” Much to his surprise, instead of being intimidated, the two men just laughed. “We may be humans, Mr. War,” Bob said gently, smiling, his eyes crinkling up kindly at the edges, “But we are some of the best of them. And we aren’t going to let the whole of humanity be swept away without even a fight.” Fred laughed, and the sound was like a clear, sweet tolling of a bell. “You really shouldn’t underestimate the good in people. There’s a lot of bad things in this world, that’s true. But we know better than most that the good outweighs any evil that this world can cook up.” “We’re the proof.” Bob said. The two men looked at each other, nodded, and readied themselves for battle.


Pretend People are watching you this is the truth. The accumulation, the accolades tell a story that he can. That he has done. Complete and yet he bleeds dying in a bedroom. The cost was steep. Pretend people were out to get him and this time one shot him in the chest. This is his story, the story of Ladle. Could any of this have been prevented, it didn't matter. He was running out of time, his life force was fading, he wanted to do what he had always done and yet there was a resistance. He could feel the energy exhaling leaving through the gaping hole in his chest. He no longer had a heart it was blown to smithereens. Disappointment after disappointment, it brought him here. In this bland bedroom full of his filth his shame. He remembered what it was like to feel a desire, a wanting, it hit him like a brick. If desire were a color, it would be red, and the once bland room was now full of it. Red painted the floors, the bed it covered the trash his clothes and even his body. But was it too late? ========================================= It all started with a brand-new house, a brand-new bedroom. It was an ordinary room but perfect for a bed. It offered a clarity, this bedroom. Safety for the lucky buyer. That buyer was none other than Ladel. He paid in full and bought the house but really only bought the bedroom. He could care less about the rest of the rooms; they were merely there to insulate the one room he cared about. The room he'd do what he always did. He decided to furnish it with a big king size bed, one night stand and a lamp, his bed garnished with red blankets. He wasn't particularly fond of red. But it fit added contrast to the brown walls. This was a humble beginning for an aspiring writer. Ladel was a loner. He did what he had to, to survive or maybe he didn't but who cares. We already know how this ends. Anyway one-night Ladel stared at the laptop that caressed his lap. It sat there only seeming to offer heat to his genitals, and the white screen glazed his eyes. It was bright. Ladel every night including this night hardly ever wrote a thing, He would type and erase, sometimes he'd craft a short story though these were rare, or he'd create a character like a Patty, an elegant woman but lacking in social skills or maybe a Frank an idealist stuck in his head. All the while, he was a living neglect. Over time this neglect was bleeding into all the areas neglect bleeds. His frustration from his inability to write was starting to build. He stroked the scar that covered his heart and moaned "Help meeee" Help meee" a strange vague smile had lit his half dead face. He followed by kicking his legs as if he was swimming under his blanket. He kicked a pizza box off onto his dirty clothes that caked the floor of his bed. "Where are the words? The capacity, the colors, instead I'm gifted with mouth rot and work that resembles the carcass of a dead dog named spork.'' He tried to sound clever but knew that he wasn't. He stroked his scar on his chest once more as time seemed to pass, ultimately nothing. He put down his computer and laid there, he started to ruminate over the negativity, that had struck him. His procrastination, the guilt of unfinished art, stifled him. And yet he dreamed of being great it was in his body in his blood. He imagined now being called a failure he could hear it, much like the stories the ones he loved the ones that always ended in failure. He loved a man coming close, but the man must never make it. He felt this too should be his destiny. "I haven't even come close, disgusting". he said aloud. He could feel the judgment, people are watching me he thought. He pulled his computer out once more and wrote people are watching me. He hoped for the inspiration and howled. "Help meeeee Help meeeee" Another lesser smirk hit his face. This time he heard his calling, he heard it loudly as if it were real. Was it real? "You were meant to fail; disappointment has brought you here". Startled, Ladel was gripped by the text on his computer. "People are watching you". He could feel the honest truth behind the sentence, he tried to soften it he wrote Pretend people are watching. This is the truth. It didn't matter, pretend or not, the man was right he was meant to fail. Ladel closed his computer slightly he sat up turned his lamp on. He thought he was dreaming. The words pretend people are watching he could feel it echo almost to the core of his soul. His heart began to pound. He was breathing heavy now. He looked around his room what was once a home was now a dungeon, it was a place of despair a battle ground, of filth disgust anguish. He knew it, and all could see. He wasn't sure what had happened. He thought for a minute maybe he summoned a demon or the devil. He screamed as loud as he could. "Help meeeeee help meeee". This time no smirk had come only stillness and wide eyes. Every sound the ruffling of wrappers the movement in his bed was heightened by the increased awareness. Ladel could feel the inevitable. He could feel it coming, he had nowhere to go so he immersed himself back into his computer one more time. For once He wrote and he told the story of Ladel, the writer with all his trophies and accolades, the one that can and the one that has. The man who dies coming so close. He then closed his computer, watched the stranger enter his room. The man carried a pistol "I know you know this, but you were meant to fail. Disappointment has brought me to you. Just know I don't feel I have no heart I just simply act." The stranger said he got in real close. Ladel closed his eyes. ================================================================================================================================================================================================================== The accumulation, the accolades tell a story that he can. That he has done. Complete and yet he bleeds dying in a bedroom. The cost was steep. Pretend people were out to get him and this time one shot him in the chest. This is his story, Ladel.