The Vidal Sassoon killer is not a story of a simple killer. On the contrary, this is the story of an artist, a visionary, and a person who understands beauty more than all of the Renaissance artists put together. Oh, the person is a complete psychopath, but the brief moment when you don't realize someone is dead is like a gift for your eyeballs. The Vidal Sassoon killer struck first when roadkill was discovered on the side of the road, with a messy two-tone bob and superb use of hair dye and sculpting mousse. Drivers would stop and stare in awe as they passed by the roadkill. "I never had unnatural feelings for roadkill before, until today," one passerby was reported in the local newspaper as saying. When a ferret was discovered dead with a new, intriguing take on the bob in the early 1990s, the Vidal Sassoon killer upped his notoriety. A young Jennifer Aniston passed by the dead ferret and couldn't take her gaze away from the ferret's gorgeous locks. The next month, Jennifer Aniston got a role on the hit television show "Friends," and this haircut became known as "the Rachel." It wasn't until the year 2000 that the Vidal Sassoon killer finally escalated to human corpses. The police never confirmed whether the Vidal Sassoon killer was ever present at the site when Betty Connors, 84, died of natural causes. Nevertheless, the style was exquisite, using chunky highlights with colored extensions layered in what would become the hairstyle of the early 2000s. Only the Vidal Sassoon killer could make the dead look this gorgeous. According to Betty's obituary, "Betty had no style nor grace her entire life, but in the end, she was a work of art. When she died, it was the best she ever looked." A few years later, Sandra Tattersall died in a car accident after hitting a tree in the middle of the night. Who would come along just 10 minutes later? The Vidal Sassoon killer, that's right. This time, they would take some risks and use dreadlocks to accentuate her face. Even though her face had been crushed by the steering wheel, you couldn't deny that her hair was stunning. The "period of the dreadlock" began in the following years. Celebrities, teenagers, pot-smoking uncles, and Labrador Retrievers all began wearing their hair in dreadlocks. Over the next 10 years, the Vidal Sassoon killer would be killing it... at the salon. The dip dye ombre', the beachy waves look, and even the more casual half-up bun we're all stumbled upon at funerals. When Greg Mitchell fell off a roof while trying to fix a leak in 2013, the Vidal Sassoon killer went to work on what became known as "the return of the ponytail." While Greg Mitchell was on display, a young pop singer named Ariana Grande drove by his house. It wasn't revolutionary by any means, but it was just absolutely beautiful. For the rest of the decade, her ponytail would be her signature style. Many in the industry would bow to the Vidal Sassoon killer by 2015. A stylist in Los Angeles went on the record to say that if the Vidal Sassoon killer came into her salon tomorrow, not only would she not turn them in, but she would let them style her hair. It was late in 2018, and the Vidal Sassoon killer had not struck for quite some time. Late one night, there was a call that came in that a homicide had taken place. The police arrived on the scene and spotted a person in the shadows creating what they would be called a masterpiece. It was called the shag cut. Not only did it inspire celebrities such as Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift, Billie Eilish, and Lizzo, but the police refused to relocate the body, leaving it on display for two weeks until removing it due to the smell. Everything, however, would come crashing down in 2022. Ethel Lancer had died of a heart attack in the cardiac ward of New York-Presbyterian Hospital. The nurses had closed the door to her room for mere minutes, but it only took the Vidal Sassoon killer a few seconds to complete their next piece. It was an attempt to resurrect the beehive, but it failed. One nurse threw up in her mouth a little bit at the thought of wearing a beehive. The industry pounced on the Vidal Sassoon killer. "The Vidal Sassoon killer is a monster!" was a popular headline. "You've lost your mind, the beehive!" "Vidal Sassoon? More Fantastic Sams; when will the police arrest this person?" According to sources close to the case, the Vidal Sassoon killer may have hung up the scissors, dipped that comb in the blue water for the final time, and turned off the light in that mirror for good. The story of the Vidal Sassoon killer was one of beauty and horror, of art and spectacle. It was a story of a person who had been driven to the brink by their obsession with creating something beautiful, no matter the cost. However, I don't think The Vidal Sassoon Killer ever killed anyone. The works of art were performed on people who had already died. Is it a crime, then, to style the hair of a dead person against the will of their loved ones? Oh yeah, it's totally a crime; if caught, the Vidal Sassoon killer would serve major time.


MANY PEOPLE BELIEVE THAT MIRRORS REFLECT BACK OUR INNER SELVES. To some extent, they’re not wrong.            There was so much blood. So much blood, and none of it my own. Well, save for the gashes on my arms from both my would-be victim’s nails and from the shards of glass blanketing the floor around us.            The woman on the floor stared back at me, wide-eyed. She edged backward, the glass slivers chinking against one another as she shoved them aside in her haste. In another world, the sound might not have been unpleasant, reminiscent of the sound made when making a toast at a friendly get-together, or party. This situation, however, could not have been more dissimilar.            “H-how did you do that?” She glanced fearfully beyond me to the now-empty sliding closet door; all that remained was the wire frame, bent from the impact. I took a step towards the woman, arm outstretched; an offer to help or a barrier to slow her progress, I wasn’t sure. “No!” She shrieked; her movements increasingly frantic in her attempts to put distance between us. “Get away from me!”            “I’m not here to hurt you!” I protested, my arm dropping even as I did so, somehow knowing deep down that my situation was hopeless.            She -a stranger to me- looked worse off than I, deep cuts across her torso that had torn through her sequined, halter top dress. Tears streamed down through her heavy makeup, smudging the kohl that lined her eyes. My -no, his - blood was caked under her nails, painted plum to compliment her dress. As a side note, I hadn’t known cuts could hurt so damn bad. The deeper ones throbbed, while the shallower nicks stung, as though I’d poured lemon juice into a papercut. It was somehow both exhilarating and terrifying, all at once. And the fact that it was exhilarating was terrifying too. I knew now why he enjoyed this so much, and I hated it. Sirens yelped outside. Time seemed frozen as I stared back into unfamiliar eyes. Harsh lights, red and blue, spun into the room, casting sinister shadows through the blinds onto our faces and the floor, akin to prison bars. A voice squawked outside, loud and robust over the speakers from the police cruiser. “Marcus Danbury! Come out with your hands behind your head!” Only then did I even realize that I still clutched a switchblade, the fingers of my left hand curled around the knife tightly. No wonder the woman was panicked. She had no reason to believe I wasn’t the same man who had stood in front of her only moments prior, ready to kill and filled with the thrill of the hunt. I threw it away from myself, heart pounding loudly in my ears. I’d left crescent moons in the palm of my hand which now bled freely along with the cuts on my arms. The feeling of being trapped was subtly creeping back in. Adrenaline still surged through my veins, and I searched for escape, throwing myself into action. Through no effort of my own, I’d broken free of my prison at last. By no means on this earth was I going to allow myself to be dragged into another, shackled for another man’s crimes. I moved like I was running through molasses, my legs seeming to catch every edge of furniture, my fingers feeling numb with disuse as I fumbled with door handles. The woman didn’t budge another inch as she watched my crazed behavior. “Marcus Danbury,” the voice came again after there’d been no response on my end. I froze again to listen. “You are wanted for the murder of Alexis Cole, Michael Smith, and Melissa Roberts. Drop any weapons you have and come out with your hands behind your head, or we will be coming in after you.” I decided then that I hated the name “Marcus” too. But, perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind back to the beginning. My name is Marcus Danbury. I am an echo. A reflection. Some might even go so far as to call me a doppelganger. The former words have a more pleasant connotation, implying that I am merely part of what is already in existence. Doppelgangers, however, are often associated with evil, like being the bad one out of a set of identical twins. There are many stories about doppelgangers and their origins. Only one is true. Doppelgangers exist in what I like to refer to as the “mirror-realm.” We walk the same path as our alternate selves, forever doomed to an empty, silent space like that of an asylum’s padded room. Unlike the doppelgangers in stories told around the campfire, we are unable to act on our impulses, and our desires, left alone instead to our thoughts and our loneliness. Whether we wish to take our opposite’s place or not doesn’t matter, for we are trapped, for all eternity. The only time where this differs is when our counterparts encounter a mirror. Mirrors allow us a glimpse into the real world. We can hear and see what our counter sees, “meet” other people, and dream of a life outside. My dreams, like many others, involved escape. I wanted to take real Marcus’ place, though, not only for myself. He was a terrible man, a murderer, and I felt a burning need to prevent any further harm done by him. For so long, I had watched him hurt others, with his words, and his actions, unable to do anything to stop it. Then, today came my chance. I watched -not for the first time- as Marcus backed into the hotel room, his newest conquest in tow. She pulled at his clothes, and mine wrinkled in the places she grasped, though I could not feel the warmth of her hand. Marcus’ hand was twisted up in her shoulder-length hair, his lips crushed hard to hers as though breathing her in. But I could see the glimmer of light that hit the metal of his switchblade, could feel his malicious intent. I tried to shout, tried to do anything to alert the woman, but could only watch, helplessly underpowered, as he turned his back to the mirror and raised his knife. Maybe it was the hiss of the blade, or she’d opened her eyes to see the reflection behind him, but the woman gasped and pulled away in time to avoid the disastrous trajectory. During the fight that ensued, she clawed at Marcus and he slashed back, both parties breathing heavily as they fought for the upper hand. Then, with a mighty shove -they say adrenaline can often help you accomplish feats you otherwise could not achieve-, the woman shoved Marcus into the mirror. I mean, literally. I couldn’t tell you how it happened, only that, one moment, I was in the mirror-realm, cheering the woman on, and the next, I had replaced my counter, the mirror shattered behind me. And now you’re all caught up. “Is there a back door?” I whirled on the woman, dark hair falling into my eyes. “A-a back door? In the Lexington? We’re… in a hotel room.” She stammered in confusion, as though I might have lost my faculties. That left either the main door to the room or the window, both of which were likely covered. Still, I figured the window was my best bet of the two. Halfway to it, I realized I had a hostage. I knew that I would never hurt the girl, but the police needn’t know the same. “I’m really sorry about this,” I apologized sincerely, moving swiftly to cross the room. Shrieking again as I grabbed her roughly by the arm, I pulled the woman so that her back was flush against me, retrieving the knife from where it had skittered under the bed. As I bent to scoop the weapon, I saw myself reflected in the mirror shards. I knew what many did not, however. It was not really me that showed in the reflection, but the real Marcus. Somehow, I could feel the burning ire in his gaze, though it varied not from my own in appearance. Still, I stood quickly, not daring to look again. The blade pressed against her throat, the girl could do little more than whimper now as I lifted the blinds and pushed the window open. As I’d expected, the police waited in the parking lot beyond. I had not expected to be on the second floor, overlooking the pool area, which was enclosed by a white vinyl privacy fence. A maid, drawn by the sound of the sirens, was at the end of the fence, peeking around the corner to watch, her laundry cart left abandoned outside the fence. Shouting to be heard, I called out to the officers. “Go around to the front of the building and stay there, or I kill the girl!” Geez, I felt guilty even insinuating I would do it. “Release the girl and come out peaceably, Marcus. You don’t want this to get out of hand.” The officer, a middle-aged man with a stereotypical handlebar mustache, responded, holding the receiver for his cruiser’s speaker. “Don’t pretend to understand what I want!” I answered, unintentionally giving them the impression of the unhinged murderer that they expected in my desperation to be free. “Do as I ask, and I’ll release her!” The officers talked amongst themselves a minute, but must have deemed me serious enough. “We’re going now. Release the girl.” True to their word, the police locked their vehicles and circled the building, at least far enough that they were out of sight. I had no doubt in my mind that they were ready to rush back in and nab me the minute I emerged, but I had no better ideas. “Go.” I whispered as I released the girl, again dropping the switchblade to the side. Needing no convincing, the girl rushed out of the room as I mounted the windowsill and jumped, wasting no time. If I wasted even a moment to consider my actions more carefully, I worried I’d lose my nerve. The pressure and chill of the water was nearly crushing, but I clawed my way to the surface and then free of the pool, splashing like a half-drowned dog. Already I could hear the officers returning, their sounds of pursuit like thunder. I leapt the gate, making a split-second decision as I saw the maid had followed the officers in all their intrigue. The clothes around and atop me began soaking up the moisture from my skin, and I felt the maid begin wheeling me away from the pool area, likely instructed to get away and resume work by a harried policeman. As soon as I heard the crowd of officers round the bend to investigate the pool, the gate squealing shut behind them, I vaulted free of the hamper, earning a shriek from the maid who’d wheeled me past. “Sorry!” I hissed loudly, breaking into a run. I found Marcus’ motorcycle easily, and jumped astride it, turning over the engine. The man had left his keys in the ignition. ”Cocky bastard.” I thought as I roared free of the parking lot. Hearing shouts behind me, I knew the police would not be far behind, and I revved the engine, picking up speed rapidly. I knew I needed somewhere safe to hide out till things cooled down some. Somewhere to shower, change, and find a less conspicuous ride. Luckily, it was easy to get lost in a city like New York. Perhaps it was because I’d subconsciously walked and ridden the way so many times in the mirror-realm, but, that, pieced together with the snippets I’d caught from passing reflections in glass buildings and windows, helped me pick my way through the streets, ending up at the door of Kowel house, an apartment building on Manhattan Avenue. Pulling my bike into the alley next to the building, I saw a small planter underneath the first-floor window. During the cooler months of winter, someone had put a cover over the greenery, protecting it from the harsh frost that accompanied the dawn. Sending out another silent apology, I borrowed the cover, -revealing tiny blue flower buds- tossing it over my motorcycle. My feet carried me the rest of the way to the intercom at the front of the building. A voice came over the speaker, and my heart panged painfully at the sound. “Hello?” I cleared my throat. “Hey, Lindsey. C-can I come up?” There was a beat of silence, and then I heard the telltale buzz of the front door. Taking advantage of her momentary weakness, I found my way in and up to her room, lifting my fist to knock. I didn’t even get that far before the door cracked open, though I quickly noted how she had not removed the chain to let it open fully. “What do you want, Marcus?” She hissed; blue eyes narrowed as she regarded me with distaste. They widened in surprise as she took in my appearance. I imagined I looked like death warmed over. The ride had dried most of my clothing, but the front of my shirt was still damp, I smelled like dirty laundry, and my arms were still sliced like ribbons, my hair shaggy. More than anything else, I hated what Marcus had done to Lindsey. She had been his only real love in this world. The only thing he’d regretted losing. And like him, I too had developed real feelings for Lindsey. From the bits and pieces of life, the snippets I’d gathered, I was able to see that Lindsey was genuine. Kind. A bright light in comparison to Marcus’ dark soul. Maybe she’d thought she’d be able to change him, once upon a time. But when she’d glimpsed his real self, the part he’d tried to keep hidden from her, she’d backed off, running as far as she could have -emotionally anyways- like the smart girl she was. “I know you want nothing to do with me, Lindsey, but I need your help.” I pleaded. Something about my tone, or my appearance, must have convinced her of my desperation, because she conceded, closing the door long enough to remove the lock and allow me entry. “What is going on?” She demanded, her brunette ponytail falling over one shoulder as she re-locked the door behind me. I fell into her kitchen chair, slumped with relief. “I reflected on who I was as a person and I’m making some changes,” I joked, recognizing the irony of my word choice.  “I mean it, Marcus, I want answers, now. Do you know that the cops are looking for you? Your face is plastered all over the 6o’clock news! I’m crazy for even letting you in here!” “Malcus,” I decided. It was a small thing, but it was my first step towards independence, changing my name even by that one letter. “What?” Lindsey hesitated, breaking her tirade as she heard me. I stood again, careful to keep distance between us as I watched her shrink back. That hurt me, to know she feared me. “I know this will be hard for you to understand, but I’m not the same Marcus you knew. I don’t just mean that I’ve changed. I mean that I’m literally not him. You have to believe me… Please. But I have the same feelings for you that I believe you have for me, and I want to be with you.” I added as a side thought, “anywhere but here.” Lindsey, a no-nonsense person, was listening very carefully, clearly torn between tossing me out and hearing what I had to say. Her curiosity won out. “You have five minutes to explain what the hell you’re talking about.” I explained for what seemed hours, even drawing doodles to help her understand, though I realized afterward that my stick people were awful silly looking and did little to assist, more a fidget for my hands as I worked out nervous energy. Finally, I realized I needed to stop, and leave the rest up to her. She was silent for a time, staring at me curiously. “You drew those with your left hand.”            That was all she had to say? After everything? “Yeah?” Then it dawned on me. Marcus was right-handed. Miraculously, Lindsey believed me. My sudden left-handedness, coupled with other definitive differences, helped to convince her. My tattoo of a wolf having switched shoulders, cowlick on the opposite side of my head, phone which showed all the characters backwards -a fun discovery which rendered the device more or less useless-, and my general attitude all contributing factors. We spent the next several hours in preparation. Thankfully, it turned out that she had as much desire to be with a good version of myself as I did her. Lindsey packed, I showered and changed into some clothing my counter had left behind, and she let me nap while she made sandwiches for the road and packed the car. She’d taken the first shift driving also, only switching with me when we’d stopped to refuel in Philadelphia. Lindsey’s head bobbed in her sleep as the sun rose behind us. It brought the hope of a new day, of new beginnings and possibilities. I had sworn to do better by Lindsey, to not become what Marcus had, and to lead a better life. I wanted nothing more than to get the chance to live my own life, and I wanted nothing to do with the path he’d carved. Looking in the rearview mirror, Marcus’ dark eyes gazed back into mine. I turned the mirror away from myself, focusing on the road ahead. She might have taken what I said at face value, but I knew Lindsey still was working to fully understand everything. I wondered how I would convince her that we needed to find a home with no mirrors?


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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