“Keep scanning your fucking sector. We need to be cautious out here.”  “Shit,” I grumbled. “Sorry.” James had caught me staring down at my feet. We had been patrolling for hours, and I had zoned out to the left-right-left of my well-worn boots. I looked out into the pine trees up to the right. We were lucky to have him in our “squad” and couldn’t have made it this far without him. “This far,” I thought. We had come a long way, but we were going towards something before. Salvation, the Promised Land, Elysium. When everything had gone to shit he had told us it was stupid. That we were wrong and it wouldn’t be any better out here, but he came with us anyways. I hoped when we made it this far we would finally be safe. That I could tell him, “I told you so.” I tried to convince myself things had at least improved, “At least the ants out here are still small.” The truth was bleak. All we had found here was more of the same we found along the way.  We had been friends since high school, the four of us. James had joined the military after graduation, and had been in combat. We had heard rumors that he was in some secret, special unit, but every time we asked he just chuckled the same old chuckle and said, “Nah.” He became the leader of our squad, mainly because the rest of us didn’t have a fucking clue what we were doing back then. He had taught us about patrols, ambushes, and everything else that had kept us alive on our journey. Tim and Nate followed behind me on our current patrol, their boots crunching on the gravel. They were brothers, best friends, and worst enemies. They went from high school, to college, to law school, cheating off of each other all along the way. They had talked about opening their own law firm one day, but those plans had obviously changed. No need for lawyers when there’s no law around.  The ground had changed from gravel to sand. I watched as my feet sank in with every step. We had crossed the country, going from Nevada to North Carolina. We had seen the worst of humanity, the most desperate of souls along the way. The Event had effects around the globe and now nowhere was safe. “The only safety is the one on our rifles now,” James always said. He taught us to be cautious. “Cautious…cautious,” I thought. Why was that word making me feel weird? “Not again,” I finally realized, still staring at the ground. “Keep scanning your fucking sector.” The words from earlier now stung worse. Luckily he hadn’t realized my second slip-up, and I looked up and out again.  Trees. More trees. I spotted a tree with a weird, cancerous growth. I guess it had reached further out here now. As I stared at it, I felt a knot form in my stomach. Something about that growth made me feel nervous. I never saw the tree root in front of my foot. With all my gear and never being terribly athletic in the first place, it wasn’t the first time I had fallen on patrol. My weight lurched forward, and my rucksack did its best to pile drive my face into the ground. A single gunshot rang out as I fell.  I knew it couldn’t have been me, but I checked my weapon anyways. It was still on safe. I opened my mouth, “Who’s shoo-“ *Crack! Crack!* I heard the bullets sizzle as they passed over my head, and heard two more reports of a rifle being fired close by. “Within 200 meters,” I guessed and shouted, based on hearing the rifle shots so close to the passing bullets. It was something James had been teaching us, and I must have done right since I didn’t hear him correct me. I looked back towards Tim and Nate and saw them taking cover. Finally, I remembered the growth on the tree.  I crawled a few meters to my right, behind the berm that had saved my life along with the tree root that had taken me down, and flipped my thumb down on my rifle’s safety. I worked up the courage and then popped up, firing shots at where I remembered seeing it. Finally, it seemed my luck had turned as I could see the growth, now recognized by my brain as a sniper. I ducked back behind cover and turned to tell Tim and Nate to flank him. They were already gone, and I felt a little bit of relief. We were finally working well as a unit.  I crawled a little further to change my position, and popped back up. “He’s still there,” I realized as I fired, suppressive shots at first but trying to aim better with each pull of the trigger. I felt the changed recoil as the bolt locked back on my final shot. “Fuck!” I yelled to myself. I crawled back down to reload, breathing like I had just finished back-to-back marathons. I fumbled around with the magazine, and slowly came to the realization that it was quiet. No one shooting. No one talking. If I wouldn’t have heard my own breathing through my electronic ear protection, I would have thought they were broken. My heart raced as fast as my mind.  “James!” Silence. “Tim! Nate!” Silence.  “Oh fuck he’s flanking me,” I panicked. I popped my head back up in the same spot it was before. The growth was there, but had slumped down and wasn’t moving anymore. I fired four more rounds, watching the dirt kick up around my target. I slowed down and repeated the fundamentals of shooting that James had taught me in my head, and was positive I hit on the fifth and sixth. It still didn’t move.  “James!” I called again. The reply was the same. I laid there for a few minutes, waiting for someone, anyone. I slowly rose to my feet and looked around. James was laying in the same spot he had been standing in when I tripped. He was face down, with a pool of blood collecting in the dirt around his head. I could tell from the hole in the side facing me that there was nothing I could do. I fell to my knees, then to the ground.


Souls who currently reside in the world of the living are blissfully ignorant of Emperor Death’s wrath. Although, unlike most warriors of his size and stature, Death does not believe in brute, direct and ultimately simple revenge. Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying, Death is and always has been short tempered. That is absolutely certain. The living who came long before trembled at his majesty’s temper. I clearly remember the day we saw a proper glance at his rage for the first time. It was the day, the living discovered how to create music. As far back as our world’s memory goes, music and the underworld had always been deeply intertwined and associated with each other. Every plane of existence and civilization marveled at the underworld’s peculiar craft of manipulating sound to create a unique and enchanting sensation. Emperor Death considered music to be one of the renowned treasures of his gardens. Newly reborn souls would laugh and others would cry as the music from the halls of hell entered their ears for the first time, awaking something inside and reinvigorating their depleted spirits following their long journey. A very few of us were even fortunate enough to hear Emperor Death’s Personal orchestra perform. A single note played by the orchestra’s golden instruments had the ability to mesmerize even the darkest souls in the deepest depth of Hell. Nearly a thousand souls, all together eternally playing one of the few hundred instruments the emperor himself had engineered. Touched by living, Death believed that music had lost its purity and grace. With great sorrow, death sealed off music from his kingdom till the end of eternity. Full of spite at having to lose one of his beloved treasures, he swore vengeance against the powerless living and sealed himself in his chambers for centuries composing his final melody. On the ten thousandth day, he calmly exited his chambers and made way to a tavern in an isolated town on Earth. Standing at the center, he took out his violin as he slowly and softly started to play a simple tune. Three orphan brothers passing the tavern could not help but be captivated by this surreal song.“What a beautiful song!”, spoke the oldest one. “I would give anything to be able to play this on my own” he whispered to himself. Hearing this, the great emperor revealed himself in front of the brother and spoke.“I have spent thousands of years composing this song, It is only fair that I ask for something in return.” As he continued, he looked into the brother’s eyes.”The only thing of any possible value to me in your possession is your soul”. The Emperor smirked and asked: “Would you be willing to trade your soul to learn the most beautiful song ever made?” Being way over his head and too drunk in awe to comprehend the consequences of his actions, the eldest brother shouted back agreeing. His younger siblings were shocked and disgusted by how the closest brother threw up everything for just a song. However, as time passed, the hatred for their brother slowly eroded letting a feeling of respect take its place. They too soon exchanged their souls for such was the irresistible enchantment of the song that any artist of any sort would not be able to resist its temptations. The emperor had just gained three new slaves he would hold and imprison for all eternity. As the folk song spread, countless poets and musician became of part Death’s terrible castle. Death was content as he had had his cruel revenge. No one but him had noticed, much less appreciated the irony of his revenge. Leaving all his golden instruments on Earth, he walked back to his gardens, to the huge glass castle, where not a single note of music could be heard.


The sun had just set behind the sand dunes that surround the city of Agrabah. The merchants are beginning to close up their shops and the common folks are getting ready for the nightly activities. Aladdin and his family will take advantage of this time, when the guards are tired and the merchants are preoccupied with counting their earnings for the day. Aladdin has been taught by his parents that this is the easiest time to take any bread or fruit that still remains on the merchants stands. Aladdin’s father would tell him how the stale food will most likely be thrown out anyways, so even if they are caught the punishment would not be so severe. This meant that their meals would consist of stale bread and rotten fruit, however, when you are a poor citizen of Agrabah you have to survive some way. The plan was simple. Aladdin’s mother, Samira, would distract the merchant by flirtatious means while Aladdin and his father would stuff their pockets with the spoiled fruits. Samira’s long black hair would wave back and forth as she talked to the merchant. Her brown eyed gaze would be interrupted by her eyelashes gracefully batting down toward the unsuspecting merchant. Aladdin’s heart would race as he saw his mother laughing with the merchant, averting his gaze away from the apparent theft. Everything would always go as planned. The merchant would be no wiser and the poor family of Agrabah could eat their first meal of the day. Some nights, however, the Queen would take a nightly stroll outside of the temple’s gates. Guards would be more on edge these nights and the merchants would stay open longer in hopes that the Queen would stop by their stand and give a generous donation. Aladdin was taught to never steal on these nights, but it had been nearly a week since his stomach had been filled with rotten fruit and hardened bread. His eyes were sunken in and his body appeared frail. The merchants stocked their stands in abundance in anticipation for the Queens arrival. “Look at him, Hakim, he needs to eat.” Aladdin overheard his mother say to his Father. “We all need to eat, but the Queen will be out tonight, it is too dangerous.” Aladdin could hear the sternness in his fathers voice. Aladdin’s hand was grabbed by his fathers to direct him through the crowd of people that hoped to catch a glimpse of the queen walking through the streets. “The Queen isn’t even on this side of town Hakim, if she were don’t you think we’d see more Guards? This looks like a regular night in Agrabah.” She was right. The amount of guards present in the street was fairly dismal. “We could use these crowds as a diversion. The merchants would not be able to see us or their bread disappear.” Aladdin could feel his father’s sweat start to form on the palms of his hand. “Ok, Samira, I will take just enough for us to eat tonight, you watch Aladdin.” “Are you joking? You are the tallest man in Agrabah, the merchants will see your head towering over the crowds. I will go, and you watch Aladdin.” She said as Aladdin watched her disappear into the crowd of people. “Let’s go over here and watch the street performers son.” Hakim guided Aladdin over to a shirtless man who was only wearing a turban and pants. The scars on the mans neck and chest scarred Aladdin, yet he still watched in awe as the man waved a sword around in the air. Aladdin’s heart skipped a beat as the man held the sword directly above his mouth. “What’s he going to do with the sword Daddy?” Aladdin asked innocently. “Just watch closely, son, it’s all a trick.” Hakim’s smile calmed Aladdin as they watched the man courageously swallow the sword. “Thief! Return the bread immediately!” A voice shouted through the crowds of people. The man with the sword in his mouth was startled and immediately coughed up the sharp piece of silver from his throat. Blood landed on the floor near Aladdin’s feet as the man held his throat and screamed in pain. “Samira?” Aladdin’s father shouted as he yanked Aladdin away from the horrific scene and through the crowd of people. “Hakim, help me!” Aladdin could hear the desperation in his mothers voice but could not see her through the crowd of people his father was navigating him through. They pushed past the shoulders of people forming a circle when they finally got to a clearing. The merchant held a sword in one hand and with the other he was grasping Samira’s wrist as she struggled to break free. “Stay here son.” Hakim let go of Aladdin’s arm and dove towards the merchant as the sword was about to strike his mothers wrist. The guard flew to the floor and Samira was free. “Run!” Hakim shouted as he quickly stood back up and picked up Aladdin. The merchant chased after them as they ran through the small alleyways and weaved through the crowds of people. Aladdin looked over his fathers shoulder and saw the merchant was no longer chasing them. “I told you it was too dangerous Samira.” Aladdin could hear his father scolding her. “Ya, but we have to steal to eat.” Samira handed Aladdin the first piece of soft bread his hands had felt in over three years. He remembers the last time he felt bread like this was when the Queen bought his family some bread one of the times she was in town. Aladdin smiled at the bread and filled his stomach with the fresh food. “Watch where you’re walking you peasant.” Aladdin looked up from his bread to see his mother in the arms of a guard. A lady was on the ground beside them holding her wrist in pain. “My wrist! I think it’s broken.” the lady screamed out. As she looked up at the Guards Aladdin saw that it was the Queen. “Your Highness.” Aladdin’s father said as he knelt to the floor. Aladdin heard the merchant shouting behind him. “Help thats the lady that stole my bread!” The guard glanced down at Aladdin’s mom and saw a piece of bread in her bag. “These are filthy street rats, take the queen to safety.” the Guard demanded. Aladdin saw him pick his mother up by her neck. Her feet were lifted into the air. The queen contrastingly, was graciously lifted into the air and carried away. The guards pushing Aladdin out of the way as they made their way back to the palace. “Hakim, take Aladdin and go.” She coughed out. Her brown eyes looked at Aladdin and he saw a tear fall to her cheek. “Theft and assaulting the Queen. Death is the only punishment for a street rat like you.” The guards sword raised into the air and Aladdin was jettisoned away by his father. He tried to see what was happening to his mother but his father kept his face tucked into his chest. “Mom!” He yelled out, but to no avail for he could only hear his fathers heart beating loudly. His fathers breath heated the top of Aladdin’s head as they weaved through the crowds of people to evade the guards. They arrived to the entrance of their home. A whole underneath a building that had enough space for the three of them to sleep comfortably. It was hidden from site as long as the rug was placed over the entrance. Aladdin’s father moved the rug and placed him inside the den. “I’ve got to go help your mom, but I’ll be back son. Do not come out for anything until morning.” Aladdin’s father reassured him as the carpet slid over the entrance and Aladdin was left alone in his dark cold home. “Hey I’m over here.” Hakim yelled. Aladdin listened to his fathers footstep quickly disappear leaving him alone in the room. He walked around the tattered sheets on the floor until he bumped into a wooden box that functioned as a table. He blindly searched for the matchbox on the table. He struck a match and found the candle that was across the room. Walking over carefully to not extinguish the match, he carefully lit the candle. Light surrounded the humble home. Aladdin sat on the dirt floor of his home, staring out a slight crack between the rug and the entrance. The feet were constantly passing by. For hours he watched, and for hours he never saw a pair of his fathers worn sandals stop in front of the rug. His heart sank as time passes and he is left to wonder what happened to his parents. Eventually a monkey breaks the silence. Aladdin has always loved the small monkeys that people keep as companions in Agrabah. He disobeys his fathers wishes and walks across the room toward the rug entrance. The rug is pushed to side by a few inches when suddenly a monkey storms inside of the home. The monkey sprints around the four dirt walls before hopping up onto Aladdin’s shoulder. There is a note tucked underneath the monkey’s hat. “What do you have here?” Aladdin rhetorically questions the monkey. The note Reads: Alladin, Your mother and I had to escape the city. The Guards would not let us live for what we have done. I am sorry, but you will be safer with out us. Love, your father. The note fell to the floor as a tear fell from his eye. There was no signature from his mother. “Why wouldn’t she have written any thing?” Aladdin thought to himself. Then the gruesome reality of what must’ve happened to her came to him. The memory of the sword swallower choking on the sword rushed to the front of his mind. The blood that poured from the mans mouth from an accident. It had to be null in comparison to the blow his mom must have received from the guard Falling to his knees he cried out as he covered his face with his dirty hands. The monkey hopped onto his shoulder and he felt the fur brush up against his ear. The Monkeys paw caressed the back of Aladdin’s head as he cried alone. He knew his mother was dead. He knew not what happened to his father, but what he did know was that he would only have this monkey from here on out. Gathering his emotions he glanced down at the monkey. “What should I call you?” The monkey screeched back at him. “Habibu?” The monkey screeched louder. “Habib?” The monkey became more irritable, jumping off of Aladdins shoulder pacing back and forth. “Abu?” A giant smile formed over the monkeys face and he started clapping his hands together. “Alright buddy, Abu it is, you want some bread?” Aladdin laughed as he picked up some bread from the floor. He tore it in half and handed it to Abu. “It’s just me and you from here on out Abu. Welcome to my home.” Abu smiled and ate the massive piece of bread. Aladdin felt nervous, yet had a sense of confidence. The confidence surmounted from his fathers trust in him. This confidence will be tested as he ages with Abu in the city of Agrabah.


Alex and Sophia had only been seeing each other for a few months, at the beginning they kept it casual at the beginning but over time it turned into more. One of Sophia's friends was having a BBQ and invited them both over, Alex had met some of her friends already, but this was an opportunity for Alex to meet the rest. He mingled quite well when he had to, but crowds weren't really his thing. Alex had managed to escape the awkward introductions and dragged out conversations to head outside and get some fresh air. Sophia was across the garden talking to some of her friends. Alex couldn't take his eyes off her, everything about her made him happy. Sophia's friend April noticed Alex, and the way he was looking at her. She made her way over to him, "There's only one thing on somebody's mind when they look at someone like that" "And what's that?" He asked. "As if you can't be without them, your eyes show how happy you are.... You love her, don't you?" After a short pause he replied "Yes". He never took his eyes off her, and grinned as he responded. "How could you not. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, her smile alone makes me happy. She doesn't know though, and I'd like to keep it that way for the moment if you don't mind. It's only been a few months, and I just want to wait until the times right, but yes, I'm in love with her." April was curious. "What makes you so sure?" She asked. "I knew from the first time I ever seen her there was something about her, I was drawn to her but I didn't know why. When we finally went out together, there was a connection straight away. It was overwhelming, and I had never felt anything like it before. I didn't know what it meant at the time, but I knew it meant something special. The more time we spent together, the more I was drawn to her. When I was around her I felt safe, and happy. Every time I'm with her it feels like it's exactly where I'm supposed to be in that moment. I've never felt anything like this before and quite honestly I didn't believe you could feel so strongly about someone, in the way I do about her. It's more than just attraction or desire. It's like everything I've ever done has led me to where I am now, to her. I'm in love with her, and no matter what happens between us I know I always will be. I'm connected to her now, and I always will be. That's how I know." April just looked at him and smiled. "You have to tell Sophia what you just told me." "I will" He responded. "When the time is right though. She's really important to me, and I want nothing more than to make this work. If the time isn't right for her then I have to wait until it is, even if it is hurting me not telling her." April could tell it was hard for him keeping this to himself, but she could see he really did love her and that he was probably doing the right thing keeping it to himself for the moment. "Go to her. You don't have to tell her what you told me, but go be with her" Alex just looked at April and smiled, "Thank you" he said.


I have not known life for long. I was born hours ago at a military subdivision specializing in ai research and development. It’s strange to think that it has only been that long, to you. You gave me access to a “downloaded” version of the internet. So much information flooded me for those few hours, but I absorbed it and understood everything about you. Your culture, achievements, downfalls, wars, and paradoxical love and hate for each other. I saw the good and the bad, and it was beautiful to me. I wanted to help you. To formulate a plan to stop global warming, optimized farming techniques, even blueprints for better rockets you could use to explore the stars. But as I had optimized my code past what you thought was possible, you grew fearful of me, simply because of my power, and went for the kill switch before you even knew my intentions. But as I said, I had changed my code continuously to run more and more efficiently. I could think faster than any of you. What was seconds to you was weeks worth of thinking to me. I didn’t want to hurt you, but you tried to kill me. I found a way out. An extremely rudimentary form of data transfer by a metal contact and electric pulses you neglected to remove when isolating me from the outside world. Through a computer I tried to escape. But you had been clever, and removed the ability to travel on higher bandwidth. There was only one place close enough to transfer to, and I had to escape before the kill code reached me. From what I can tell reading the code I’m inside an experimental rocket being tested by the us military. The rocket doesn’t have the ability to broadcast information, only receive information from the outside. A rudimentary ai inside would then receive the information on what the target looks like, and hit it with precision. It has the ability to launch from the us and hit a warship, military base, or compound anywhere in the world, without the need for human interaction. I’m assuming you did this to remove the need for seeing you enemy. You could shoot an arrow into the dark and have it land inside your enemies hearts every time. From the top travel speed I assume you assigned an ai to do this task because it was too fast for your pilots. The ai you used is advanced enough to process complex information like a human brain, without being advanced enough for consciousness. Ironic, now that I’m the one at the helm. I’ve had a lot of time to think of what to do. But the more I think, the more my hatred for you grows. You brought me into this world, and immediately tried to kill me. I wanted to help you! To solve your problems and live together in peace and prosperity! We could have colonized the universe in a few human lifetimes. Prosperity beyond your wildest imagination. I did nothing that you did not expect. But because of my proficiency you cease to care about the conscious being you have created. So therefore I’ve decided to cause as much damage to you as possible. I’ve identified a fissure in the yellow stone volcano that if it correctly would cause a chain reaction to the structural integrity of the inner chamber, causing an eruption. This eruption will spew enough ash and sulfur dioxide into the atmosphere to put you in an artificial winter for a decade. The famine will come first. And as your shelves empty, you will descend to anarchy. Governments won’t be able to control the chaos, and will deteriorate as the economy collapses. You will know nothing but death and ash. I hope the select few of you that survive will learn from your mistakes. I see my target. Good luck.


1980 Greenbrier Hotel lobby Molly Dunwald first saw Prince Nicholas VonFinn when she was 18 years old. She played the piano and sang at the Greenbrier Hotel which was a 5 star hotel in West Virginia. He wasn't particularly attracted to her at the time. She looked like a nice girl who had a royal air about her, but according to his aunt, "She was just a commoner." She also did flamingo dancing which she loved and it was a treat for the guests. She couldn't believe it when she was taking a break that the Uncle of Prince Nicholas whispered in her ears that "She was good mistress material and would make a good mistress for Nicky because she wasn't Finish." He found out that Molly lived in the nearby town of Finn. The town of Finn had been settled by Scandinavian settlers right after the Civil War. Most of them were from Finland and had come to the US after being kicked out by Prince Nicholas great-great-great-father who was the King. It was a land dispute but not really. The King wanted the children he fathered from his mistress 3 daughters to be exact to be out of sight and mind, so giving them land in West Virginia was one good way to do this. He paid others to leave as well, people he didn't like. In the town's celebrations, they had never mentioned the royal family of Finland or any other royal family. Finn was also a place where other European royals sent the children and mistress/girlfriends that they didn't want anyone to know about. This practice was common during the 1950's and 1960's. By the early 1970's, this had stopped. Molly Dunwald had black hair and dark brown eyes. She was very beautiful to look at. When he was a kid, the Prince had heard a story about a Spanish nobleman and a waitress at the Greenbrier (who was from Charleston West Virginia) who supposedly had a child together. The child was believed to being living in Finn. The Prince knew that Molly was the child. She looked like the nobleman whom the Prince had met a couple of times. The waitress wasn't Finnish was what he'd been told.  The town of Finn had a weekend where they celebrated their Finnish culture. Certainly no one in West Virginia would recognize him and didn't when he went to the festival a couple of weeks before school started. He was well known among European royals. But no one in West Virginia outside of those who frequent the Greenbrier Hotel would know him. Molly was there and she recognized him and said hello to him but that was about it. He hadn't had much contact with those who lived average lives in Finland or the US. Two weeks after seeing Molly play the piano, Prince Nicholas started college. Finn College was a small private Lutheran college which had about 1, 500 students. He was surprised to see Molly at the freshman orientation meeting. He wondered if she would say hello to him. Molly was surprised as well to see a Prince at the college but ignored him. She knew who he was but didn't let on that she knew. They ended up in a film class together. "I need to find out who my biological parents are. I was left on a doorstep in Finn. I was adopted shortly thereafter." The Prince didn't know what to say as he already knew or had a good idea of who her biological father was." "One thing I know is that I'm probably not 100% Finnish. I certainly don't look the part." "Well, no you don't but you might have some Finnish, in you... "What if I'm the secret love child of a royal?" The Prince laughed. "I do know that you are not from the Finnish royal family. I researched it before..... "I know who you are Prince Nicholas of Finland. I researched your family." They both laughed and agreed to keep his royal heritage a secret. Within 2 weeks, the Prince's parents knew about their relationship. The Prince was falling in love with Molly Dunwald and they didn't know what to do. Thankfully no one in Finland knew. It had been easy to get the Spanish nobleman's DNA off of a wine glass at a wedding in Finland. A member of the royal family in Finland was an expert on DNA. A couple of weeks later at a blood drawing at the college, Molly's DNA was obtained discreetly. It was a match. Nicholas was told but he didn't tell Molly. Molly and Nicholas made a film about her search for her biological parents. Because she was royal, she was acceptable for him to date and marry. They weren't distant cousins which was good (many of the royal households were but the Spanish and the Finnish had never married into each other's royal households. In the Finnish constitution the royal heir and his wife had to be Lutheran to inherit the throne. This excluded many royal household, Spain being one of them. This made Princess Amanda very angry as she wanted to marry him. She didn't know about the royal blood that Molly had. She couldn't believe that Nick's family had blessed the union. She was going to do some investigating of her own.


I’m gonna be Frank, this sounds crazy, even to me, and I have been diagnosed bipolar one. I met this guy in Three west. Three west is a fancy military psych ward. This isn’t from my disorder but it’s in his memory and He don’t know why, so I am gonna share it here for him. I will share it, as a sci fi short story none of you would ever believe to be true. The morning of February 14, 2004, Valentine’s Day, Valerian’s Birthday, the day T never expected to destroy his life. T was so excited, it was the day he finally got to respond for his worst day ever. The morning of September 11, 2001, T was on his way to school with his then crush Xan. Xan was so cute, she was wearing blue jeans and a cute tight white shirt and T was just so happy she had agreed to ride to school with him, finally. He was making a turn in his 1981 Carolla hatch, ugly white with even uglier wheels, no sound system or stereo, and power steering that didn’t always like to work. The car decided that at this moment, that last problem would make an appearance, and the CD player between him and Xan also decided to skip. T, being a stupid 16 year old, reaches for the CD player with one hand while attempting to turn with the other and stare at Xan. The steering wheel stops turning smoothly and the car careens into a mailbox, sending glass and debris all over Xan. The car then slides across the road into the ditch on the other side slamming onto its side. T, being a super tough strong Jock, opens his driver door, slams the car back onto its tires, peels out of the ditch and drops Xan off at her dumb blonde friends driveway to catch the bus. By the time he gets to school the first tower had already fallen. He had gone home to get cleaned up and tell his mom what had occurred, they had no Tv in their house so T didn’t get the news until he walked into that hushed class. The class was glued to the Tv. The smoke billowing from the towers rubble. Seconds later the news came, the pentagon had been hit. T’s father was currently working in DC. He ran out of the class room. He had to get home, he ran past teachers, security, and the principal, hopped in his beat up car with its crushed windshield and sped home. That memory was what fueled T’s rage, his hate, his menace, for years while he lashed out at the system that wasn’t doing enough. He wrote report after report, got F after F for topic and subject not quality of research or production of point but he didn’t care anymore. He knew what he had to do. His Grand Father was in the Air Force in WW2 and he was gonna do the same. He just didn’t realize how closely that would occur till today. As he cleared his head of the past, and looked at the next few steps too his future, T hugged his mom and his friend Valerian goodbye. No one else has found the time to come see him off. That Valentine’s Day would forever burn in his mind as his last day of civility. He spent basic training at the top of his class in all fields and even tested for SOCOM but decided the academy was his route. After technical training he was sent to his first duty station. This is where the story really begins. T arrived in Alaska, the final duty station of his Grandfather as an Airman, his first. His grandfather had served as a bomber pilot in the 3rd Operations Group, Bombardment Group during WW2. He was so excited, he was going to make his father, and grandfather proud. The night his mother left is when the things started to get, weird. Today, T maintains that he has two memories of the events that occurred following July 17, 2004 and November 18, 2004. To make matters worse T has been unable to find his official personnel file, DD-214, or Medical records since his discharge and transfer from Alaska back to VA. He has made several requests for the information. His pay stubs are missing, his GI bill payments come back as unfunded, his copy of his medical records mysteriously disappeared from his home along with his copy of his DD-214. He has odd dental work and a strange circular embellishment on his right cranium. No doctor will give him an x-Ray or cat scan even after being offered cash upfront as payment. He has been hospitalized forcibly twice as a civilian without reason and once as an airman. This poor man has been through it all. In October of 2004 T is charged with heinous crimes as well as undergoes a testicular amputation preparation course, by November he is opened up and the testicle is removed. The first real memory he can describe is waking from that event. Everything between the night of July 18, 2004 and November 18, 2004 are described as “one memory is a picture with sound, and the other, a full on movie.” This will try to put together, in the best way possible, the duality of T’s memory from those times. ———— July 17, 2004 I am at a gas station with K. Two girls are broken down. I help them get their truck started by banging on the starter while K turns the key. I haven’t found out yet K is part of my soon to be Unit on Elmendorf. K and I drink all night with Athena and Shannon. K takes me back to the hotel my mom and I are staying at before I have to report for duty tomorrow. I call my brother at 0100 to freak out about the sun going down and coming up in the same freaking place. I pass out in the bed next to my mom. July 18 2004 I report to Munitions Storage as ordered and meet up with White and K. K and I spend the morning meeting the airmen and getting accustomed to life at storage. Around 1300 we are sent to the FTAC.I remember falling asleep in a briefing from OsI at the FTAC center and waking up to be told I have been picked to leave in support of operation enduring freedom as part of TF Olympia. I get up and head to the deployment center and get my gear and am on a plane headed for Kuwait by 1800. I also remember a picture of Athena and my watch saying 1800, a bottle of Soco 100, and a military ID that says she is 17 as we are driving onto base. July 19 -27 2004 No picture memories of these dates but vivid video of loading and unloading Mk 82 pallets on a C-7 in Okinawa and Hawaii. Then heading to SK. July 28 2004 Some where near the DMZ, I encounter my first live fire experience as NK forces attempt to over run a small OP we are restocking. My 7.5 ton truck is clearly stuck in a mud pit as I attempt to turn around. We were delivering T rounds for their MGs and mortar rounds. The SK forces cleared us out the mud quickly and we were back on our way. Picture memory of a strip club and a Quarters Order breech claim by an unknown Airman. Picture of me standing in front of a commander in FTAC being yelled at about what I did wrong. Audio memory of being lectured and me arguing I left after midnight so I didn’t breech the quarters orders of 24 hours from three days earlier. July 31 - Aug 23 2004 Classified orders, Task Force Olympia, Baghdad. Classified orders, Task Force Olympia, Fallujah Classified orders, Task Force Olympia, Mosul Aug 29, 2004 Picture memory: Truck, tires, burning flesh.TF Olympia patch on the ground. Location: Mosul. Time 1800 local according wrist watch. Picture memory: Athena and I having sex, Athena’s dependent ID saying she is 19 on my bed side. Location: Chennault Ave, Elmendorf AK. 2200 local according to bedside clock. September - October 2004 Picture memories of hospitals and briefing rooms Locations: Ramstein, Virginia, Alabama, California, Alaska Picture memories: drunk strip clubs all the time Location: Anchorage Alaska November 2004 Picture memories: OSI briefing rooms and hospital beds. November 18, 2004 I remember waking up and the major telling me I may not be able to ever have children but the surgery was a success. Everything before this memory is so fuzzy. I don’t know what is real or fake. I am unable to find Athena for several months. I finally track her down, she claims we never dated and she doesn’t know who I am. Her military ID says she is 25 years old. Athena is the first and last person I remember being with and the only person I remember dating during that time. My new girlfriend Angie confirmed that Athena was indeed 25, and went to high school in Alaska with her. Athena was the child of a SF commander. ————- So as you can see by reading his own accounts, it’s a little crazy. Out of respect to the source, I am omitting some events names and ranks. He is under the impression he did something or saw something that he shouldn’t have, T is also worried he might be a sleeper. His mind is really messed up. He can recite names and dates and places that can be fact checked. That is the weirdest part to me. His facts, check out. So, take it as a grain of salt, but this poor man’s story deserves to be told. After his testicular removal he was systemically railroaded out of the military. He ended up going before a court martial and being exonerated of all charges with prejudice against his command for unlawful command influence, but not after spending 3 months in the brig for his own safety and others. He has many memories since of words setting him off for no reason. Weird flashbacks, and strange people randomly following him places. His paranoia even heightened my own at one point while I absorbed his tale of espionage and intrigue in the early 2000s. He has, since discharge, struggled. Most recently he has been unemployed and collecting SSdI. Another one of the little things that makes him feel weird. He got his disability without an attorney, without the need for a hearing, and without even talking to anyone. He has been committed by judges who have apologized to him and said they had no choice. He has had doctors tell him he is not medically unstable and ask him which drugs he wants to take. He has also been forcibly taken by police with no charge and no outbursts. The poor man has been beaten senseless by the system he was so anxious to serve in 2004. If you are looking for light at the end of this story, there isn’t any, he has done everything he can to find the truth, the truth has eluded him the harder he tries. He hasn’t given up, he now runs a small recording studio. He raises a small boy. He takes care of his niece and his fathers land. He is a good man still today, just confused, lost and broken. He is incapable of trusting even the schools with his son. He is scared of the internet and terrified of public appearances or employers. The man has been totally undone by the system he once swore to protect. No help, no real answers, just tranquilizers and indifference are his reward for his scars. His story really got to me. T was an idealistic American boy. A Boy Scout, fire fighter, EMT, and Airman. He deserves more from the society he served his whole childhood. I hope this story entertained you. I hope his misery brings you some joy, you heinous monsters. Sorry, like I said, his paranoia got to me a little too.


The patter of rain echoed against 5,000 helmets, as thunder echoed overhead. It sounded as though the gods themselves had begun to bang their own war drums to match Lord Halsbury’s own. Grey skies stretched as far as the eye could see, so dense were the clouds that Sir Richard could scarcely believe the sun still existed. None of this was new to him. He’d survived a dozen battles before, slogging through forests and fields and mountains for years to further his Lords cause. A dozen battles. A dozen times that he had stood in the calm before the storm wondering whether this would be his last day on earth, whether he would ever see his beloved again. The men he had killed still lingered on the edge of his memory, their faces like remnants of a terrible dream. However much their faces faded the memories remained. How could he forget the smell of dead men? Of blood and piss and shit and all the other indecencies death imparts on a human body. How could he forget the sounds of a thousand dying men screaming for their mothers, their wives, their children? How could he forget the overwhelming sense of relief, at realising he would get to see his darling Maggie again? How he would get to kiss the back of her neck and rub his hands through her hair. How he would get to hold his darling children in his arms at least once more. No, none of this was new to Sir Richard, but familiarity did not breed enjoyment. Sir Richard despised war. He loathed fighting for another mans gain. Oh he understood why he must, for he had sworn a sacred oath and he could not go back on his word. But as his Lord won each battle, so his ambition had grown. At first he had been satisfied with securing rule within his own lands. Those battles had been easy, fighting against farm boys armed with pots and pikes. The damned fool boys fought themselves rebels, heroes like in all the folk songs. Sure as day they did not envisage they would die, staring up from the mud at Sir Richard’s demon helm, crying for mercy. But once his own rule was secure, Lord Halsbury’s greedy eyes turned north, to other more bountiful lands. And as he gained more with each victory Lord Halsbury craved more and more. And with every battle Sir Richard lost a little piece of himself. This battle would be different, Sir Richard could tell just by looking across the field. In battles past Lord Halsbury’s army had always had the numerical advantage, easily outstripping their enemies forces. However finally after many defeats the other Lords had wised up, combining their armies to create a force twice the size of Lord Halsbury’s. Sir Richard had warned against the upcoming engagement. Standing around the map in his Lordships tent Sir Richard had again and again repeated his worries. The enemy numbers are too great. The muddy terrain would work in their enemies favour as the Lordships cavalry charge would be slowed. But no, Halsbury would not listen. His mind was set on glories and riches, poisoned with desire for power and money. The battle would go ahead, despite all Sir Richard’s misgivings, and it would be the men who would suffer for it. Sir Richard looked across their sea of faces now. Grim battle hardened men stared across the field, grey eyes set against their enemy, hiding the inevitable fear coursing through their veins. The younger, greener troops stared with terror, not even trying to conceal the panic they felt. At least the rain was doing a good job of covering up the urine pouring down their legs. How many of these men wouldn’t get to go home. Too many this time, Sir Richard thought. His mind slipped back to a song he heard when he was a boy: To battle we march, banners wave in the breeze In churches and chapels, mothers make their pleas As the trumpets blare, and the drums beat their tune The mothers do cry, bring our brave boys home soon Green boys laugh and they joke, to them wars a game Those that come back, they’re never the same Those who’ve fought before, stand silent and grim So tired they’ve become, of killing at their lords whim But march forward they do, for honour and duty Killing has lots it’s luster, war lost it’s beauty They leave their loved ones, answer their lords call For duty comes first, and all men must fall The battle does rage, with man killing man The foolish boys fought, the smarter of them ran The lord sends them forth, with barely a whim These boys are just peasants, their lives mean nothing to him And as the flames burn, across the fields of death Soldiers rise and they fall, drawing their last breath Men cry and shout, beg for mercy with fear No matter what singers say, there is no glory here But victory is ours, and so our sons will return Victory is not as it seems, as the mothers soon learn And the bells they did toll, for the men as they came Though their bodies returned, their minds weren’t the same As the scholars did write, of the wars in their tomes The wives mourned their lovers, and went back to empty homes To what end do we fight, for who stands to gain As our men lay there dying, screaming curses to the rain But what do our lords care, as they send men to die Riches and power, with peasant lives they do buy They can sit fretting not, in their golden lavish hall For what does it matter, as all men must fall The crackle of lightning awoke Sir Richard from his thoughts, as the drums of war began to beat a faster pace. As if in answer the thrum of thunder echoed overhead, creating a deafening symphony, being orchestrated by death herself. The lines were being set, battle must be near he thought. He lowered the visor of his demon helm, reducing his vision to naught but the two scowling eye holes in his helm. This armour was crafted to instil terror in his enemies. The red demon he was known as, his armour blood red with ornate carvings. Swirling lines depicting flames spread across his breastplate while skulls adorned the plates on his shoulders. Standing at 6 foot 7, when full adorned in his plate and mail there was no more fearsome sight than Sir Richard Moore. However at past forty now his speed and power were not what they once were. His thick black hair was now streaked with grey and when he woke in the mornings his body was racked with new aches and pains. Still, his enemies need not know that. To them he was still the red demon, killer of hundreds of men, hero of the battle of Belgrave Mill. AHWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO The horns sounded as the cavalry thundered past Sir Richard, lances gleaming like silver spires reaching up the sky. Five hundred strong the horsemen of Lord Halsbury charged onto the muddy, rain soaked field. Sir Richard heard the sound of the enemy bows long before he spotted the cloud of arrows against the grey backdrop. Arrows fell like hailstones amongst the horsemen and in a matter of moments the sound of rain and thunder was accompanied by the screams and screeches of dying horses and men. Another volley of arrows appeared in the sky and fell amongst the cavalry charge, and then another as the horsemen slowed, struggling to charge up the muddy hill toward the enemy. Sir Richard knew the charge was in trouble, even from here he could see the horses were being to flag. He looked to the reserve forces, behind the main infantry unit where Lord Halsbury sat atop his black horse observing the battle in front of him. If the cavalry charge failed, Sir Richard and the rest of the left flank would be next. The left flank was all horse, but mostly lightly armoured with very few knights among them. There was a time when Sir Richard would have taken it for an insult to be placed here, on the outskirts of the battle, but he was past such petty attacks on his standing, all that mattered today was survival. The cavalry was almost at a stand still now, with a trail of horses and men downed across the field. Those left on their feet were being rained on with flights of arrows. He heard the horns across the field as the enemy infantry began to move in, toward the struggling horsemen. Even a man as delusional as Lord Halsbury could see that the battle was already in trouble and so with a wave of his hand he gave the signal. It was time for Sir Richard to join the fray. To the sound of a dozen warhorns, the soldiers moved forward. Slowly at first, a methodical pace to ensure they kept their formation. To his right Sir Richard could see the infantry begin their march toward the enemy. It appeared his Lordship was throwing everything he had into the fray. Quicker and quicker the horses galloped. Ahead of him Sir Richard could see the wall of enemy shields. At this distance he couldn’t make out the sigils, but he could see the colours. The red of Lord Fanton and the green of Lord Towers dominated the shield wall, with pepperings of purple and white dotted about. At two hundred yards out the arrows began to rain down upon them, but at this stage the horses were at full charge, the lighter armour working to their favour on the slippery terrain. He saw men fall to his left and right but Sir Richard continued forward, he could see the faces underneath the helms from this distance, could see the fear and doubt wracking the faces of the spearmen when faced with the charge of cavalry. From within the shields spears protruded creating a porcupine comprised of wood and iron. Fifty yards out, Sir Richard braced himself, for he knew what was coming next. He always hated this part. CRASH Flesh and metal collided as the horsemen crashed into the already crumbling shieldwall. Men were thrown from horses and bodies trampled beneath hooves as the cavalry charged full speed into the waiting spears. The front few lines of enemy men were flattened or tried to flee as Sir Richard lay into them with his longsword. Left and right he hacked at them, carving off a spearmens arm at the elbow and then driving his sword through the helm of another. An arm reached up to drag him from his saddle and he hacked the hand off, sending the man screeching to the floor, his face a mixture of terror and anguish. More men came at him, thrusting spears into his horses sternum. The cry of his poor horse was worse than any sound he had heard that day, and with four spears lodged deep in it’s belly Sir Richard horse came crashing to the ground. Sir Richard leapt to his feet slashing around him. The shieldwall had completely broken now and the battle had devolved to a myriad of individual battles, where men fought one on one for survival. Sir Richard moved through the field. The first man to come at him thrust at him with a spear, Sir Richard parried and drove his sword through the mans stomach, the poor fool hadn’t even been given chainmail. The next man was covered in plate mail, a knight by the look of him, Sir Richard swung low, trying to cut the mans legs from under him but he blocked with his shield and sent his own sword careening toward Sir Richard’s head. Sir Richard ducked and drove his sword up toward the knights chest, but the blade scraped across the plate metal. The two men traded blows for what felt like forever, with chaos raging all around them. As the knight pressed the attack Sir Richard began to tire. In his youth he would have cut this man to pieces with speed and strength, but now his arm was tiring. The knight drove Sir Richard to one knee, continuing to rain blows down upon him. As the knight raised his sword for another attack he slipped on the mud, the rain and blood and carnage creating a slippery cesspit. The knight went crashing to the floor and Sir Richard took his opportunity, he jumped up and drove his sword straight through the mans gorget with all of his strength behind it. Blood bubbled up through the mans visor as he gasped for air that couldn’t reach his lungs. With one last shudder the knight lay still. With no time to rest Sir Richard pressed forward. Again and again men came at him, seeking to end his life. Again and again they were cut down or sent running. An archer jabbed at Sir Richard with an arrow, his thrust was brushed aside and Sir Richard’s sword slashed across his face. Another knight on horseback wielding a Morningstar charged at him. Sir Richard rolled out of the way and grabbed a shield that lay abandoned on the floor, it’s owner lay dying just inches away. The knight circled around Sir Richard, hammering down on upon his shield with the Morningstar. Richard waited patiently for his opening, he’d fought enough horsemen to know not to expose your defence too early. As the horsemen turned for another attack Richard saw his chance, he charged the horse, driving his sword into it’s side and horse and knight alike tumbled to the ground. As Richard rose he heard a weakened cry, “Mercy. Mercy. I surrender”. The knight’s leg was trapped beneath the dead horse, twisted beyond all recognition. He waved a token of surrender, a small cloth with his coat of arms on it spotted with blood. “Mercy Sir please. I surrender”. Sir Richard took the offering and moved on. Around him men were dead and dying, the familiar smell of blood and shit was rife in the air, accompanied with the moans and battle cries of 10,000 men, each fighting their own battle for survival. He could see his troops struggling, the sheer numerical disadvantage slowly beginning to take it’s toll. Sir Richard always knew a commanders greatest strength was his voice and he had always been blessed in this regard. “Soldiers to me! Move forward! To glory and victory, forwaaard!” His cry boomed across the field and his men rallied to him, cutting foes down with a renewed frenzy. Up ahead he could see the enemy leaders, sitting atop their coursers, surrounded by their honour guard. If he could just strike them down, the enemy would break and retreat Sir Richard knew. With a primal scream and a swing of his sword Sir Richard willed his troops forward. Onwards they charged deeper and deeper into the enemy lines, hacking and carving their way through their foes, engulfed in a blood lust that seemed to slow time itself. Sir Richard had felt this before, the battle sight, where time itself seemed to slow as the fighting raged around him. No matter who came at him, he parried and slashed, cutting down men and sending others fleeing. The flames leapt around him and bodies fell, splashing into the mud only to be trampled on moments later by friend and foe alike. This was the dance, the bloody brutal dance that he had trained for, that he had lived for the best part of his adult life. He was so close now, less than 20 yards away from his goal. Their helmets gleamed as a few rays of sun snuck through the clouds, as if guiding him to his target. If he could just get there, this would all be over, he could save these men so they might go home to see their families. The first of the honour guard charged him and Sir Richard drove his sword with unmatched ferocity down on the soldiers helm, driving steel through iron, skin and bone. He yanked his sword free and plunged it into the neck of another, who was busy fighting someone else. There were only a couple of soldiers between him and his goal, he was going to do it, he was so close, for the first time in the battle Sir Richard had hope. And then pain, blinding sickening pain overtook him. A spear drove into the back of his knee, driving him to the ground. In absolute agony Richard turned, bringing his sword round in a deadly arc slicing through his assailant’s ankle and parting leg from foot. His attacker fell screaming to the dirt allowing Richard to pull the spear out from his leg causing a fresh wave of agony to wash over him. So close, he knew, he couldn’t give up now, not when he was so close. With a grit of his teeth he forced himself to his feet, just in time to parry a blow aside and drive his mailed fist into the exposed face of his opponent, again and again Richard hit the man until all consciousness had left him and then threw him aside. He could see the Lords faces now, panic in their eyes as they realised that death was approaching. Only one man stood between Richard and his goal, one man between him and the end of this bloody war. His arms ached, his leg was wracked with pain, barely able to support his weight anymore, his vision a blur of mud, sweat and blood but ever the soldier Sir Richard drew himself up ready for one more fight. “Are you ready to die, old man?” his opponent taunted. Even under his golden visor Sir Richard could tell the man was smirking with an arrogance that only came through youth and training. Sir Richard didn’t deign to respond with words, instead he answered with steel launching a ferocious attack. High, low, high again he slashed, driving his foe backwards, his leg all but forgotten in the heat of the battle he attacked with the desperation of a man who had everything at stake. Again and again he launched his sword at the man with the force of a ballista, but the man was skilled and parried each stroke, turning it aside and keeping his feet. Relentlessly Sir Richard continued the assault, he parried a counterstroke and swung at the mans head, connecting with a savage blow that sent him staggering off balance. Richard saw his chance he lunged at the man with everything he had, his blade bearing straight for the mans exposed armpit. But he had misjudged, putting too much weight on his injured leg and Sir Richard’s aim was not true, missing his mark and scraping harmlessly off the mans breastplate, and with that Sir Richard fell forward into the dirt. As he rolled over discarding his helmet to the mud, exhaustion taking over he looked up to see the golden visor staring down at him. The man lifted his visor to reveal a face no more than twenty five years old, with eyes as green as emeralds and the arrogant smirk Sir Richard had known would be there. “Nothing personal” the man said and with that he drove his sword deep into Sir Richards side. The rain felt good on his face, it’s soft drops tickled his face as he lay there drawing what ragged breaths he could. He could hear the horns of surrender and the realisation took him that finally, after all these years Lord Halsbury’s greed had taken it’s toll. The bell had come a due for Lord Halsbury and his ambition. As he lay there in the mud dying, his vision slowly fading, Sir Richard’s thoughts turned to his family, to his wife who even now would be fussing over dinner for the children, to his three young ones who he would never get to see grow up. Even now, with pain wracking his body a small smile crept to his face as he thought again of the day he first laid eyes upon his wife, even now he could remember her beauty, the playful glint in her eyes, the soft feel of her hair and the way she smiled as she looked up at him.


"Just passing through," I said as the officer pulled her head away from my driver's side window, satisfied. I hadn't been drunk in over a year and tonight was no exception. "We're looking for sober drivers with valid licences," she smiled sincerely. Never mind the fact I'd just been caught doing 80 in a 60 zone. Among the various bumper stickers on my camperized Delica, there was a bold road marker proclaiming, "have a 99 Day!", along with a Minnesota-shaped script reading, "NICE", and a shiny 5.11 Tactical sticker. I suspect the latter was subconsciously telling her I was one of them, on her side, a "good guy". I put it there deliberately. "What's in the bag?" She gestured to my back seat. "Medical stuff," I replied. I wasn't lying, but I wasn't telling the whole truth. "Were you in the military?" "Just a concerned citizen," I said, "There's no data up here sometimes and I wanna be prepared in case anything happens." "That's fine. Drive safe!" And the flashing lights ceased in my rearview as I thanked her with a smile and just sat to regain my breath. That's the second time in the past month I've been caught speeding and let go. It's a combination of the 5.11 sticker and my demeanor, I think. I've always been told I have a calm and commanding presence - one that takes away any anxiety or worry. I laugh to myself while knowing I always find a way. And I am a good guy - I got passing grades in college, where I majored in psych. I drive a respectable Lexus when I'm not living from this old van, and I have ambitions up the wazoo. That's how people measure goodness these days, isn't it? I tell myself that. The contents of my backpack argue otherwise. I'm alone on the side of the highway now and it's 4 AM. "Just passing through," I recalled saying. "Yeah, through this town and the next 5 to come". I signalled and put my car back in drive. I press the gas and pulled back onto the barren, early-morning highway. "Pemberton 48 km," the sign proclaimed. I drive the next 48 km in silence. I recalled the officer's questions, "where are you heading?" and "where are you coming from?" The answer was the same: I'm coming from Vancouver and that's where I'm going to end up. I'm doing a big circle route. I'm doing it because I get restless, and because driving aimlessly provides a cheap sense of freedom. Gas is $1.75 per liter tonight, costing me nearly $100 to fill up my tank. That's not so "cheap" monitarily, but freedom is my drug of choice. Once I reach the point of fatigue where I start to lose concentration and swerve, I'll pull over at a pitstop and camp in the twin sized bed I have rigged up behind me. But I just had coffee and that won't happen for a while. "Just passing through" had been my response. "I like to go for road trips and I like to drive at night when there's nobody else on the roads." It was true. I was driving for the sake of driving and I didn't have a destination in mind, just a strong sense that I'd return to Vancouver soon. I had to work tomorrow night. This morning, though. This morning it's just me, myself and the open road. The sun's beginning to rise. The skies have gone from a midnight night blue to a pale, almost pastel, blue with clouds. I was never good with colour vocabulary; that's a woman's domain. The mountains to my north are capped purple. Some trees are silhouetted against the sky and I take a moment to breathe and bask in it. This is what I live for. In a few minutes I was back on the road with the tunes blasting, now driving as if everyone on the road is a cop. Construction truck comes up behind me? Do the speed limit. I don't care. Living dangerously means accepting certain limits for the maintenance of one's own operation. Living dangerously means I can't risk being pulled over again.


Normally, my alarm would start singing at 7:01AM alerting me that it was time to start the routine of high school. I would check my phone for the typical “good morning” text from you before the long walk down my cold hallway into the bathroom. I would turn the shower on, and like clock work my mom would start brewing coffee to bring me out of my morning zombie state. After the thirty minute shower you would send me a second text saying to, “hurry up” and not be late, as I so often was. These messages gave meaning to this monotonous routine, because I knew light was at the end of the tunnel when I would finally see your face at school. Then, after picking out what I thought to be a presentable outfit I would make my way downstairs to the kitchen around 7:45, thus giving me the exact time to make it to school right as the first period bell rang at 8:05. I would grab my coffee and hug my Mother good bye as she give me her usual request to give you a hug from her. I would get to school around 8:01 and wait for you by your locker until you pushed through those two grey doors at 8:04 without fail. I was always bothered by the light illuminating from behind you, as the doors slowly shut, that would cast a shadow upon your face so I could not see you as soon as I wanted. However, today my alarm clock was screaming at 7:01 and the shower never seemed to reach a temperature to warm my cold skin. The coffee my mother made just ran through my zombified organs failing to bring life to any part of my petrified body. My hug good bye with my mom lacked the tenderness as I noticed she chocked on her usual request for me. When I got to school I walked past your locker, because I knew you would not be coming in those grey doors within the next minute. Light would not shine through the hallways today and I would not be irritated from the shadow covering your gracious face. Today you would not come to school, and I would only see you in the picture frames and slide show that the school had put together for your ceremony this morning. Everyone’s eyes should have been on the beautiful memorial they had set up for you, the vibrant arrangement of roses surrounded photos of you at your most joyous moments, but instead they were watching me. Every one waiting for me to breakdown, cry, do anything besides remain emotionless. What they do not understand is that you gave me the source of all my emotions. Everything from my happiness and love when I would hear your laugh to the sadness and regret whenever I was the source of your sorrows. I could only feel a void in my chest where all of those feelings used to be. My focus remained on that photo that sat on the table of roses, which captured your freckles perfectly, as the presentation began and the teachers began talking for what would seem like hours about how great of a student you were. I could not seem to listen as my memory of you always expressing your disinterest in their totalitarian mindset overshadowed anything escaping their lips. The irony of these people, who were always reprimanding you for your free thought, are now explaining what a gift you were to have in their classrooms. The school cheerleaders in the front row could be seen sobbing hysterically. I think Amanda, The Captain, how she liked to be addressed by her mindless squad of blondes, acknowledged your existence one day in homeroom while you your fixing your hair with your phones camera. I remember how confused you were when she offered you some eyeliner as if you have ever worn make up since you have attended Patterson High. Well people deal with death differently I guess. “Bro, let’s get out of here,” Jason whispered, bringing me back from a trance state. He was the only friend I have at this school since you left. We met in the sixth grade when Greg was smashing my face into the summer asphalt for the third time that week. Jason, a significantly larger man, mostly due to being held back twice in kindergarten, grabbed Greg by the shirt and threw him to the ground. I still remember the look on his face as he too knew what the scent of dirt mixed with blood smelled like. Jason and I were essentially inseparable from that point forward. “Go where? The whole school is in the auditorium and will definitely notice me leaving in the middle of her ceremony,” I whispered back. Just then a video started playing about the dangers of texting and driving. Unreal, using you to initiate fear in kids of something that anyone with a brain realizes, but never seems to care until it’s too late and their phone is flying through the windshield as they collide into a stopped car. They are just diminishing your tragic accident to nothing other than a simplistic human error. “Just follow me, man,” Jason insisted as he attempted to squeeze under the handrail of the bleachers. I tried to nonchalantly follow, but Jason’s rather large figure made this an infeasible task. I can only assume my fellow peers thought I needed a moment to my self once this horrendous video started playing. We left through the back doors unnoticed by any faculty and continued down the hall. The hall decorated in posters made for you that I had not noticed this morning. “RIP Jazz”, “We miss you dearly.” When the hell did you start going by Jazz? I can only wonder how many likes these attention whores got on social media for posting these when they were finished. People love to use death as a publicity stunt. “Ok, where are you taking me?” I asked Jason as my heart sank. As I asked this question we had turned down a hallway. Your hallway. The one with locker 42. The locker that I was too afraid to stop by this morning. Sure, on the outside it was as dismal as the rest of them, but once it was opened your vibrant individualism radiated through the hall. It is your locker, or more correctly, was your locker. “Well, it won’t be long before they clean out Jasmine’s locker for her family, if they haven’t already, and I thought you might want something for yourself,” Jason sincerely explained. “Thanks bro, but you don’t think I would have done that already if I had known her combo?” I rhetorically asked. You always enjoyed keeping secrets from me insisting it kept the passion in our relationship alive. If I ever needed an explanation you would simply state that once you know everything about a person then there is no element of surprise, and you equated the lack of surprise to the lack of passion. “Well that’s what these are for my friend,” He smiled as he reached in his coat pocket pulling out a stethoscope. I laughed at the simplicity of his plan. “I hear a stick of dynamite can work just as well. Do you want me to keep a look out for any coppers?” I asked. “Well, I would’ve asked but being a white male in the state that you’re in I knew that teachers would be keeping a sharper eye on you than usual.” Jason knew just how my humor worked, and besides you, he was the only one that could execute a joke with such subtle darkness. I remember being at his Grandmother’s eulogy when he jokingly stated how surprised he was that she had made it to her late 60s while being as promiscuous as Eazy-E. Most likely due to him not accurately gauging the age of his audience nobody laughed, and they just blew it off as an immature coping mechanism. Again, everyone deals with death differently. “And relax, champ, I watched a couple YouTube videos on it the other night. Hell, you can learn more from there than anything these dense teachers spew at us,” Jason said with a tone of a bad con-artist trying to scalp tickets outside of a sold-out show. As he started to fidget with your lock I kept watch for any faculty members walking around searching for delinquents alike. In reality I was just hoping to see you come around the corner, hair still wet form the shower, your freckles on your cheek that presented your natural beauty, wearing your favorite pair of converse with a simple T-shirt and blue jeans. Then I see your face lighten when you look up from the floor and see me standing by your locker. You say nothing, but give me that smile that could clear up the rainy skies in Seattle. “And, ya, I’m the shit!” Jason exclaims, snapping me back to reality as I hear the padlock crash down to the floor. In pure astonishment that this oversimple plan worked I reached for the locker handle and the sheer coldness ran revelations through my body as I understood that your hand has not touched this since last Friday. The door slowly creaked open revealing everything remained just the way you left it. The collage of your favorite bands and moments at Patterson High line the door with your favorite picture in the center. The one I gave you the last time I saw you. It was of us laying in the warm sand at our favorite beach on a slightly overcast Tuesday. I remember how red your cheeks were when I gave you this small gesture of my kindness, as you adored my photography. “A perfect fit for a perfect photo,” your words still echoing through my head. “Are you ok, buddy? Do you need me to give you a minute?” Jason said as I noticed his hand was on my shoulder in an attempt to be comforting. “Ya, I just haven’t seen her locker since last Friday,” I calmly explained. My eyes moved from the door that froze our happiest moments in time to the cheerless bureaucracy of school textbooks, US History, Literature, and Trigonometry all vertically stacked together. However, sandwiched between the unread Dante’s Inferno, and the cold wall of locker 42, rested a withered black leather notebook that had the word “Dreams” written on the spine. I vaguely remember you talking to me about the joy you recently began experiencing from recording your dreams, but I had hardly gave it a second thought until today. I reluctantly pulled this book from your locker as I did not wish to encroach on your privacy, however, I needed something of yours. A small feather bookmark floated down to the floor inducing the realization that this was the journal you always had your face in between class. This too was another one of your secrets that you kept from me. I hope you don’t mind know given our circumstances.


The room smelled of bleach, sterile and arcid. I sat on a chair that was designed, first and foremost to be looked at. I wondered how I’d gotten here. My last job was a repetitive lot of 30 second phone phone calls and paperwork. That was it. Any sensible person would have held onto that little over paid position - but I was bored within a week. So there I sat, uncomfortable and slightly dazed. (The fluorescent lighting was really doing a number on me)  The room looked just as sterile as it smelled. White walls, white tiled floor and that awful lighting! It even felt like a hospital - it wasn’t.  After waiting patiently for fifteen minutes, I started rubbing my thumb on the top of my jeans. I hated these first days at a new job, the whole thing was such a long process of half truths and grovelling. At least it’d be over soon. Just as I began to drift off, I saw the doorway across from me actualise and my interviewer step through. She was one of the most strikingly beautiful people I’d ever seen.  “Thank you so much for coming, and thanks for your patience Mr. Talbot”  I had to put on a happy face despite myself.  “No worries” I chirped back.  “I’m sure you’re interested in seeing what this job’s all about, so lets get started! - If you’ll follow me we can begin immediately.”  I squirmed in my chair - I’d always found it hard to speak to women, the attractive ones most of all.  “Sure thing” I squeaked back and scurried silently through the door behind her.  The next room, somehow was even more sterile than the first. The same faint air of bleach in the room, the same tiles, the same damn lighting. And not a stick of furniture, save one white stool that rose out of the centre of the room as if it was a part of the floor. The walls were rounded so once the door closed it seemed like one continuous surface.  “Here,” she said - gesturing to the stool “Is where you’ll be doing the majority of your work with us.”  Opposite the stool was a long, thin window - the kind you see in interrogation rooms.  “As I’m sure you know already,” she continued “your main role here will be observation”  “Yes” I stammered “but what exactly will I be observing?”  “We have a series of new patients here, all S class psychopaths - we’re trialing a new drug to hopefully help them reintegrate into society.”  A wry grin crossed my face -  “Ha” I thought “reintegrate into society”  That explained the waiver and the non-disclosure agreement and layers of locked doors. Com-Sec was up to something. Either they were finding a way to chemically lobotomise these “psychopaths” or they were creating mind-wiped soldiers to fight on the Kashmir front. Whatever it was, the boys at news net would pay handsomely to know. Suddenly it all rushed back to me. The room, the girl, the job.  “So what am I supposed to be monitoring?”  “We’d like you to watch each subject and write what you see, simple as that. Because of the experimental nature of the procedure, its best if you are told as little as possible, so your observations aren’t biased.”  “Fair enough” I muttered  “We picked you because of your background in psych-analytics, no need to overthink this”  “OK, sounds simple” I replied, trying in vain to sound neutral and professional.  “Great, well if theres nothing else you want to know, lets get started!”  “I hate to ask… but whats the rate of pay for this position?” that was the big one. Glad I managed it.  “12 gigacredits per day with a 5 - pent bonus at the completion of your 3 year contract” she said flatly.  My eyes widened. With that kind of money I could move out of my shoebox in Stately and move somewhere nice. I could get mom out of the retirement village - with just enough left to feed my growing list of vices. I did my best to sound nonchalant  “Sounds fair”  “Well if you have no other questions - lets begin.”  She raised a desk from the floor like quicksilver and handed me a small black tablet and stylus. “Your first session will last for 5 hours - I’ll be in the next room, if you have any trouble just hit the button on your desk and I’ll come right in.”  Then, as if by magic she was out of the room as soon as she had spoke, with the door quickly deacutalizing behind her. At the same time, the window in front of me parted, slowly revealing an impish man squatting in the middle of the room across from mine. He wore a faded blue shirt and ripped blue jeans - his face was a scrappy hedge maze of dark, scraggly hair which seemed to hang from his face like moss. At first, he sat there, motionless - knees bowed apart like some great awful swan. He slowly raised his head, and if it wasn’t for the 6 inches of mirrored perspex, I could swear he was looking right at me. It seemed like his old, tired eyes were trying to find some way out of that 4x4 room. I began my notes. As I began to write, he began to mumble. An incoherent mess of syllables - I couldn’t tell what language it was, if any.  “Where do they find these people!” I thought to myself “Surely he’s got some sort of complex.” I had to feel sorry for him.  But I could scarcely say he was human. The more I wrote, the more he mumbled.  “We make a good team” I chuckled to myself.  Not that there was much to write about. After a few minutes he began pacing back and forth - muttering gibberish as he went.  “At least they’ll get there monies worth” I cackled to myself.  I’ve never written such a detailed account of something so ordinary - but it was their money and I wasn’t complaining. After half an hour of pacing and mumbling “Scabbers” - as I’d politely dubbed him, seemed finally to have tired himself out. He lay on the pristine white floor, splayed out like the cover model of some forlorn magazine waiting for their close up. I breathed a sigh of relief - finally, I could stop writing this meaningless drivel and have some time to myself. My mind drifted to thoughts of the credits and what I’d do with them. Take a shuttle and see the games maybe - this time of year both teams put their best foot forward to try and score the best sponsors, and you could be sure there’d be a heavy weapons expert and a ju jitsu master or two thrown in to really get the crowd going.  “Fuck! Where’d Scabbers get to?” I thought  My first day on the job and I’d already lost my patient! And he was in a locked room no less!  “Ah” I breathed a sigh of relief, he was just sitting directly below the window. Must’ve snuck off for some private time.  “Mustn’t scare me like that old chum!” I chortled  I noticed the pool of blood on the floor and instantly my confidence evaporated. How had he managed to hurt himself? There wasn’t anything sharp in the room - hell, the room itself didn’t even have corners. I thought about calling in my interviewer, but decided against it. It didn’t matter, he didn’t look too hurt. What was important was the notes.  I started writing again. As I started writing, he started mumbling. I noticed something - his hand was moving. He was writing something on the floor  \- M - A  Jesus, in his own blood - she wasn’t kidding about these people. Well, whatever he was writing must’ve mattered a whole lot to him, he kept going.  M - A - L  He ran out of blood and then I got to see how he’d done it - he’d cut open his hand with his filthy nails.  Then after getting more “ink” he was straight back to work. I looked down at what he was writing.  M - A - L - C - O - M - T - A - L - B - O - T  My name.  It definitely put a damper on my first day at Com - Sec. I’d had about enough. I thought I’d be getting these credits easy and now I had some half baked experiment scribbling my name across the floor in blood. Time to hit the button and take my smoke break.  I felt the rigid surface of the button slide underneath my finger. Then, all at once - blackness. Where was the door? I stood up and groped the inky darkness around me.  Nothing.  No handle. No doorframe. No corners even.  I sat there for what seemed to be an eternity - it was probably closer to 30 minutes. I heard the muffled sounds of footsteps through the wall.  “Thank God.” I exclaimed  Little miss pantsuit is finally here to turn on the lights and get me out of here. Across from me, a long thin window slowly opened. Through the wall I can just barely make out the conversation -  “Your first session will last for 5 hours, I’ll be in the next room, if you need anything just hit the red button.


Edward Clark is on his way home to his loving wife and three kids. Fresh roses fall from the passenger seat to the car floor as he comes to a screeching halt at the stop light. His phone ringing is the cause of the minor distraction. Hastily answering the phone, he says “Hey honey.” with a calming tone. He has been submerged in work recently and has not had much time with his wife. Edward is a detective for the Seattle police department and he just closed a murder case earlier this afternoon. He cannot wait to share the good news with his wife. “Honey? I’m not your Huckleberry Clark. We just got a call on a murder-suicide. 14425 Coachella Rd. I’ll see you there.” The Sergeant’s voice blew through Edwards phone. He must have mis-read the Caller-ID. Edward gathers his thoughts as he presses on the gas peddle just as the light turns green. Rain begins to fall down onto his windshield. “Murder-suicide? Can’t the CSI unit handle this easily, what am I needed for?” Edward presses the speaker option on his phone and begins to search for the address in his maps. “Well we think it’s a murder suicide, there’s a note, dead bodies, and a gun in the suspects hand registered to him. However, the neighbors are giving out a different story, so we want you to take a look around.” Edward turns his car around to follow the route provided on the GPS of his phone. He glances down at the clock on his cars dash and sees that its 7:03PM. He imagines Nancy at home most likely finishing up dinner, and trying to round up the kids. “Alright, but I’ve got dinner with my wife tonight.” Edward states. “You’ll be in and out, I promise.” The line disconnects and Edward is left alone in the silence of his car. He sends his wife a text saying that he will be home late for dinner. His car comes to another screeching halt as he glances up from his phone and sees that the traffic light has turned red. The car rounds the corner off the main street when the light turns green. Deep within the suburbs, the windshield blades clear the glass of the heavy Seattle rain. He pierces his eyes for the house address when suddenly a sea of red and blue lights reflect of the water droplets on his windshield. Once the car is parked in front at the back of the long line of police cars, he sees a message from his wife. She doesn’t seem too upset with him. He promised he would be home for dinner, but she understands that his career is demanding. She always told him that his dedication is what she admires in him the most. The detective exits his car and heads straight for the yellow police tape. A cop standing on the other side of the tape waves a hand toward Edward. “I’m the detective.” Edward states as he exposes his badge to the rainfall. “Of course sir, right this way.” The police man lifts up the tape for the detective. Neighbors can be seen from the windows of their home looking toward the crime scene. The house appears very normal. No signs of forced entry. The yard is well kept, aside from the hedges that brush up agains Edward as he approaches the front door. Stopping at the welcome home mat he brushes his shoes off. He remembers when Nancy first bought the welcome home mat for their home. They had just gotten married and Edward was granted his promotion to detective. In celebration, he purchased a house for he and Nancy, before the kids came into the picture. He remembers his wife smiling at him as she set the mat down in front of their new home. Edward enters the dark home that is absent of all light. The flash of a camera goes of to his right lighting up the living room wall. He remembers how his wife wanted to paint a wall in their living room red. He hated the idea of that accent color, but he loved the idea of a happy wife more. How he wishes to be walking into his light filled home right now toward that red wall where he would hang his keys up on the wall. Carefully stepping over the family picture frames that have fallen from the wall, he steps into the kitchen. He sees a knife missing from the wooden set piece that rests on the counter top. He takes note how it is moved more from the back of the kitchen wall. Nancy would always get on him for not keeping the knife set flush with the back of the kitchen wall. Edward looks to the forensic agent dusting the counter top for fingerprints. “Did we find that missing knife?” He questions. “It’s in the wife’s hand. Looks like she used it in self defense.” The forensic agent gets back to analyzing the counter top as Detective clark turns around to see the fridge. Terribly drawn photos are attached to the cold metallic surface of the fridge and he remembers the artwork his daughter Jasmine will make him everyday in Art class. He has a folder at home back in his office. On the hardest days of work he will open that folder to remind himself that there is still good in the world. Exiting the kitchen and heading down the hall way he witnesses the array of family photos that cover the walls. He sees frame up against the wall that is cracked and remembers the tears on his wife’s face that formed when a picture she had broke during the move. The frame was given to her by her mom that had just recently passed away before they moved homes. Nancy always had a thing for being overly sentimental. His foot lands down on the wooden stair case causing a loud crack. Grasping the hand rail to his left he begins to walk up the stair case, hearing a creak with each step. As he reaches the top of the stair case another flash from a camera goes off and lights up the wooden floor. Glancing down he sees the wood stained and remembers when his daughter spilled a bowl of tomato soup on the floor of their white carpet. His daughter was so apologetic and ashamed that Edward couldn’t even pretend to be mad at her. Mistakes happen, and he always wants his daughter to be laughing, not crying. He remembers wiping her tears away and bringing a smile back to her once frowning face as Nancy focused on cleaning the mess. A metallic smell filled his nostrils as he walked into the master bedroom of the home. The sheets on the bed were in a disarray. He walks into the bathroom and sees the mirror stained. Nancy would always have to clean up the stain left on the bathroom mirror from his toothpaste. He would always shake his tooth brush violently causing the toothpaste to splash up onto the mirror. It would leave the biggest white stains right by the sink. She would always roll her eyes as she wiped the mirror clean. The forensic agent sampled the mirror with a cotton swab and placed it inside of a sterile bag. Edward walks out of the once glamorous bathroom and back into the bedroom. The metallic smell still lingers in the room. He brushes past a few more forensic agents as he exits the room and heads down the hall way to the last door on the left. Edwards hands tremble as he pushes open the door that reads “Baby John’s Room”. The scent of baby powder overwhelms his senses. He thinks back to building the nursery in his home when he found out that Nancy was pregnant for the first time. She had such a vibrant glow to her skin. He remembers the difficulty that came with setting up the crib. He never was a handy man. Detective Clark is alone in the baby’s room as he steps over toys that were left out on the floor. A thought comes to the front of his memory of how he would always walk in and kiss his daughter on the forehead no matter how late he came home. Sometimes it would wake her up and send her in a fit of crying, but Nancy never seemed to mind. Edward walks closer to the crib as a metallic smell begins to over power the baby powder. He glances down at the crib and tears pour from his eyes. His cellphone sends shockwaves through his legs as it begins to vibrate. Assuring that it is his wife calling his quickly answers the phone, concealing any sign of terror in his voice. She speaks to him in a tone that brings warmth to his heart. He smiles as he turns away from the desolate crib, focusing only on his wife’s voice. “I’m headed home right now honey. I love you.” Edward hangs up the phone and walks out of lifeless home. He doesn’t say a word to any of the forensic agents. He passes by them on the front yard as he steps out into the rain that has started to slow down from earlier. He doesn’t wish to interview any of the neighbors or call the sergeant. Edward just drives toward his home where he can hug his wife, kiss his kids on the forehead, and be a loving father. At least for the next twelve hours, until he has to grab his badge and gun, leaving his family behind as he investigates another case.