“As a young boy he was never very good at making friends. He didn’t really seem to like the other children in his class and chose to kick sand in their faces rather than play tag with them,” The woman chuckled at the memory. “Did he get in many fights then?” The man was scribbling away on his notebook. “Oh no not really. He was a sweet kid, all his teacher adored him at that age. He only ever attacked when provoked. You know how children can be, trying to assert their dominance. He was an easy target, but soon he learned, a lot younger than most, that if he just ignored them they would go away.” “That is impressive, especially for such a young boy.” “Oh yes he was a bright child. My sweet Ethan. I worried about him not making friends, but then he started talking about one of his classmates more and more.” “Do you remember the other child's name” “Oh yes of course. Max. They seemed to be getting close and I was happy he had found someone to get along with. Growing up can be so hard especially when going at it alone.” “When was this?” “Oh Ethan must have been 12. Starting puberty, oh dear all those raging hormones. He was starting to become a moody teenager already. I couldn’t stand the thought of my Ethan growing up but what is a mother to do? Boys will be boys. He started spending all his time with Max. They were inseparable those two. Always out on adventures in town. I’d hear from shop keepers all the time about them seeing Ethan running around wild. I use to get scolded for that you know, Letting him have so much freedom. What exactly could I do? Lock him away? He was as stubborn as his father had been. “Soon though I began to worry about him. He started pulling away from me. I know thats to be expected from a teenager, but we had always been so close. He was my angel. He became very secretive always locked up in his room. Sometimes I’d even hear him shouting. When I went up to investigate he’d just look at me and say something like ‘Max and I got into a fight’.” “Tell me more about his friend Max.” “Oh what is there to tell? Pre-teen boys are always a mystery to their mothers. I never even really saw him much to be honest. When ever he came over they would stay up in Ethan's room. As quiet as mice those two. He was clean, never left a mess, unlike Ethan always spread about. Most of the time they were out of the house. Either in town or over at Max’s I assume. Though I got the vibe Max didn’t have a good home life.” “Why is that?” “Anytime I’d ask Ethan about it he’d mutter about something or other. The story always shifted. I had a feeling he was hiding something his friend didn’t want spread around. I worried about Ethan being exposed to anything, but then again thats life. “High school was the hardest. Ethan got into all kinds of trouble. He was a smart kid, but always failing, skipping class. He got busted with pot a few times, but back then all that got you was a smack on the wrist. “He never spoke to me now. I tried to control him I did, but he just never seemed to listen. I think that Max kid was turing him against me. Bad influence and all. My Ethan would never have.... He was a sweet kid. A good boy, it was Max, it was all Max.” There was a long pause. “Can you tell me about the day when it happened?” “Ethan was always an easy target, an outsider. He was bitter toward the world, never had he seen a kind hand in it. Not his waste of space father nor those bastard teachers who never gave him a break. Everyone just wrote him off. They didn’t see him the way I did, the sweet little boy he was. Oh Ethan...” “Do you remember what happened?” “He was rarely home those days, always out with Max. That rotten seed of a kid. Always filling his head up with these... ideas. He used Ethan. I swear it! It was all Max’s idea, he just didn’t have the guts to do it himself!” “Yes, but what happened? You need to tell me.” “His father was a hunter, stupid man never could hit a target three feet in front of him. Thats probably why he left all his guns when he took off. I kept them in the attic, didn’t know what to do with them. I hated the damn things, wanted to get rid of them. I was getting around to it, I was just so busy. “I don’t know when Ethan found them, I bet it was Max any how. Going through my things. The two of them must have been shooting in the field. I found bullet casings once. Never gave it much thought, there are hunters all around. Thought one of them had just wandered onto my property. I never knew...I never knew..” “Where were you when it happened?” “At work. The police came and took me away. Everyone was staring at me. Like it was my fault. It was Max! All Max, oh if I ever get my hands on that child... For what he did to my sweet boy. Ethan would never hurt a fly, not unless provoked. Thats how he always was. Kids can be so mean, trying to assert their dominance, it wasn’t his fault. Ethan I know it wasn’t you baby I know, mama knows.” “Ma’am your son killed 5 of his school mates at point blank range, and then himself, with a hunting rifle You need to accept this.” “No no no no no, it was Max, it wasn’t Ethan. Max did it. Max...” She began to mutter on and on. The Doctor could tell the session was over. He got up and left the room leaving the woman rocking herself on the bed. A nurse was waiting in the hall. “How was she today?” “Better I got her to remember the actual event, and some things leading up to it.” “Did she mention Max?” “Oh yes, she blames him for the whole thing in fact.” “Well she isn’t wrong. Schizophrenia rarely leaves the person in control. This “Max” persona may have simply just been a projection of Ethan’s darkest desires, but she had to know Max was never real.” “I can’t say when she realized he wasn’t real, if it was before or after. Obviously now she is in denial, but she knows. Mental illness is genetic. This is the best example I have seen of this in all my years.” The doctor began to walk away down the hall. “Do you think Ethan knew he wasn’t real?” “We will never know will we. All that died with him, 20 years ago.


It will take a long time to explain what, exactly, I am about to tell you. And well it does not matter whether I tell you, though it feels necessary. Our kind so often considers yours inferior. We only declare ourselves as superior out of fact, not feeling. We have advanced far beyond what many of you could dream of comprehending. We began advancement in a similar, if not completely identical manner as your society had. It started in similar discoveries, and led to similar outcomes. We collapsed and rebuilt many times. But eventually, people began to think long term. Eventually, a society of ours did last long enough to become sustainable. And it remained so. We fought amongst ourselves, often. But we changed, slowly. We learned to cooperate. To plan ahead. Our greatest minds began to work together. And we stopped fighting. We advanced as a species. We collapsed and rebuilt many times, yet it was different than before. We never separated, sticking closer than ever before in the wake of increasingly unsustainable conditions. We were forced to adapt. And as a result, so were our creations. Forced breakthroughs in physics, mathematics, and every other comprehensible field led to revolution. For the first time in millennia, we stopped adapting to our surroundings. We were able to adapt our surroundings to *us*. We all were able to live as long as we wanted. Nanotechnology allows us all to live as long as we want, and however we want, within boundaries. This is where I reach what I am telling you. You will be afraid. But I know not any other way to describe this. How you react will not change the outcome. We learned all there is to know. All except for one question. We wanted to learn something that even our race, now capable of non-finite lifespans, and full interstellar colonization, had yet to learn. It was a simple, yet overbearingly complex question. It is a question even you humans have asked since the very dawn of your existence. The question was: "*Why are we here?"* And so, we took to what had previously been agreed upon to never have been done. We created life. We watched millions of civilizations rise, just as ours had, only to fall, with no legacy left behind whatsoever. Every last one of them, no matter how barbaric or perfected they grew, no matter how advanced their technology became, neither them nor ourselves got an answer. But finally, it has become apparent. The lack of an answer has been the only answer, right in front of us, this whole time. We have no purpose. And with that, we have agreed upon a common solution. One would think to say goodbye, but to who, or what? We have an answer: There is no answer. We, nor yourselves, will feel any pain. It will be instantaneous. As I said before, how you react cannot and will not change the outcome. You may see this as cruel, or insensitive, or both. Well you will not realize it now, we are simply saving you from suffering, and ending our own. Let us leave the universe to itself.


Yeah, got chopped in half. Why; what's up with him? *I heard he got robot legs now. I was wondering if you heard that too?* Nah I heard The General is keeping him in stasis and putting him into the cloning program. *Nah that was Brent.* Shit, was it really? That fucker owes me fifteen bucks. I'm wondering will all his clones pay up if I ask them? *Well he's only got two of them. And both are currently infants so probably not.* Ah crap. (Boom) Crap, they 'invading' now. Who's in charge today? *I think it's The General's girlfriend. What was her name again?* Oh, The Red something I dunno. I just know I don't like her. *Woah man just because...* It's not because she's a woman asshat. It's because she's kind of a bitch and incompetent. Look I ain't got no problems with women being in high position. Look at Yolanda, head of Sales. Woman is a beast at what she does. Red whatever her name is always puts us in the wrong place, groups us up way to tight, and then blames us when she fails so her 'Boyfriend' doesn't punish her. The last base she was in charge of got destroyed. The G-man himself cut our budget and 1/8 the staff. *Nah man I didn't hear that. I thought it was because our performance that year was bad.* Oh come on man. Our performance every year is bad. At the last general meeting she basically cussed out half the staff because we weren't doing our 'job'. *I can't go to those. It's Jeremey's ballet time.* Your son does ballet? *Yeah. My wife wants to be progressive and all that. We tried to sign him up for baseball and he was really good at it. But let's just say the parents of the league were just not happy with him.* Ah jeez Pat I'm sorry, I didn't know. *It's fine, don't worry about it. I might try to get him in Dr. Malcontent's team next season.* Mal's got a team? *Yeah, I think they're called the Mustang's or whatever. Honestly they're not that great but the Doctor is really good about not yelling negative things and he tries to make them learn from their mistakes.* Well that's good. I'm wondering if he'll still being doing it when Millie is old enough. *I don't know I was gonna talk with him this Thursday about it.* (Louder boom) *And they're drawing closer. Rick you ready to [wink] destroy the enemy* Yeah let's do this. Hail the General, hail VENOM. Hail the General, hail VENOM.


It’s raining outside, but it always rains here. I often wonder what kind of grudge the sun has against my hometown. My days are short and my nights long, and the dark sky matches my somber mood. Every morning when I wake up, I write my day off as another blue one. But I wasn’t always unhappy. At some point in my life, I used to like who I was. What I stood for. But now, whenever I reflect on my past choices, I just feel a sharp pain of regret. My happiness is like the sun, fleeting—and most days, just not there at all. Regret, my regret, is all consuming. It surrounds me. Devours me. From the faint, hidden cries of my Mom every night, to the empty look my father gives me every day. From all the hollow hugs, to the leftover pork roasts distant relatives keep sending over. My soul, my ambitions, my passion—they’re shattered. Completely, entirely, irrevocably shattered. School. School offers me no solace. No distraction. As I walked down the hall, I could hear voices shushing. All laughing stopped, and piercing stares began to follow my feet. An overwhelming fog of pity and polite condolences infected my air supply. It was fatal. I deserved anger. I deserved hate. I didn’t deserve pity. I reached my class room, breathed in deeply, and momentarily hesitated. A minuscule flash of hope appeared, illuminating the deepest crevice of my unconscious. Maybe today will be different. Maybe now things will be how they were. What a naïve desire. Upon my arrival, regular behavior ceased to exist. Mr. B, my teacher, stood up. He apologetically looked at me, sighed, and ushered in a new student. There was liveliness in his step, but his hands were shaking. I could decrypt a fake demeanor all too well. His forehead was covered with curling strands of black hair, and the corner of his ashen eyes crinkled when he smiled and said hi. His name was David, and as he was shuffling to his assigned seat in the back, our eyes locked. For the first time in months, for the first time since the accident, his eyes weren’t filled with sympathy. The gaze was held, and his striking grey eyes creased again as he smiled. He didn’t know. Not yet. My stare drifted towards the window, as my thoughts wandered away… for better or for worse. I was twelve years old, my sister fifteen. We were strapped into the sunken black seats of our family Tahoe. The sun was unmistakably out for that brief car ride, and the warmth was spread across half of my face. My sister was to the right of me, in her sweaty basketball jersey. It was spread across her body like paper clings to water, perspiring. Around her neck was yet another medal. The sunlight was bouncing and gleaming off the polished bronze, almost tauntingly dancing across the patterns on my shirt. Jumping from one stripe to another. My parents were happy, happy like they always were when my sister gave them something to be proud of. Soft smiles and bright eyes were painted across their worn faces. That expression was backhanded—because I liked to see it, but I could never give it. All I had to console me, in that moment, was my tattered journal. The pages were dog-eared, and the binding was falling apart, but it was something that accepted me for exactly what I was. With the warmth on my face, and the journal in my hand, I felt happy. Happy as I knew happy. It was third period. How could it only be third period? Looking at the clock, watching the secondhand tick, was maddening. If I didn’t concentrate on the time passing by, I would concentrate on other things. Other memories I didn’t want to remember. Whoever said time was fleeting was obviously very wrong. Because my second felt exactly like a second, and my minute felt even longer. It has been so long since my presence hasn’t drawn dismal reactions, that I can’t remember what just being a part of the background felt like anymore. As I watched the clock show another minute pass, making my day inevitably closer to the end, I noticed a curious stare peeking my way. David, the new boy, was staring at me. Without shame. My head tilted to the left, reflexively, as he began to speak. Asking about my name, my hobbies, how boring I thought Mr. B was. Small talk. Real, genuine small talk. I hesitantly started responding, and all too quickly he was dragged away by some classmates. It was like a scene from a film on mute. A cluster of people, making frequent glances towards me, with the same face that they always made—furrowed eyebrows, glossy eyes, and the corners of their mouth turned slightly down. That was it. He knew. The one person that could talk to me, without guilt or pity, was now gone. And who to think that my complete isolation was a result from their charity, not my wickedness. And exactly like I feared, memories resurfaced, like a boat pulling up from a crashing wave in the vast ocean. How could she? That was all I could think. How? Why? Did she have to have everything? It wasn’t enough that she had their approval and warm gestures, that she was the one they bragged about to family. That she was the reason I couldn’t thrive in my own talents and passion, because her shadow was always cast over me. It wasn’t enough for me to just be and enjoy, I had to win. Show results. Because if I didn’t, I couldn’t compare. I didn’t meet my expectations. So, I screamed. I screamed like I never had before. I told her everything. Everything years of oppressing emotions didn’t solve. Everything pages of journal entries couldn’t fix. Because why did she have to corner writing now too? Why did she feel the need to enter her writing in a contest to be published, when she was always better at everything else? And why did she have to win? I had this. Only this. And she took it away. My face was red, my eyes wide, and salty tears began falling down my cheeks. She looked at me, with a blank face, told me she didn’t know this was so important to me, and then she just left. Lunch was an okay part of my day. It meant I was halfway done with school. It meant I would soon be home, alone, in my room. Because when I was home alone, I could avoid the short, quick glances and shrugs. I unwrapped a sandwich I made myself this morning from its saran wrap, and smelled the bologna to check that it was still fresh. Shopping at my house has become a rare occurrence over the past few months. Scrounging for food is becoming a habit. As I was opening my mouth to take a bite, David sat across from me. Apparently he doesn’t know many people yet. His attempt at normal conversation was a ruse. I knew it was. He had become more withdrawn, more cautious. His words were thought out, as if he was running every sentence in his head first. I noticed he was careful to not mention his own family. I have had enough of people walking on egg shells around me. Without thinking, I did something I hadn’t done in a long time—I snapped. For the past few months I have had only one emotion. I was too emotionally exhausted to get angry. I was just tired. Gloomy. Sullen. Broken. But not today, not in this moment. Because right now my misery was replaced with rage. Was it not enough for my family to hate me? Did I deserve to be isolated at school as well? And isolated because of what? Kindness? Politeness? My wounds can’t heal, I can’t move on, if nobody else does too. With that, I walked away. I didn’t look back to see his reaction, but I imagine that was the last time I would see David, the new kid. It was about six o’clock on a school night, and my sister wasn’t home yet. My parents were pacing, worried. They had already interrogated me, asking me why we didn’t walk home together. Asking where she could be. My responses weren’t soothing to them, because they made sure to criticize my lack of judgement. Why were they so worried? I thought it would be nice having my parents to myself for a few hours, while she was off pouting, probably winning more awards. But I couldn’t even properly hang out with my parents. Because all they wanted to know was what happened to their other daughter. Despicable. Enough is enough. Because that’s what happens when you force my only therapy out of my hand. When you take away my pen and catharsis. I stared straight at them, and screamed as loud as I could. Would it really be that bad if she never came back? Because maybe then, for once in my life, I could have your attention. Your complete attention. I could make you smile the way she does. You can be proud of me. Proud of what I do, and what I stand for. And before they had any time to react, my Mom received a phone call. She held up her hand, pressed her lips together to ensure that I knew she wasn’t done with this conversation, and answered the phone. We never finished that conversation. Tears began spilling down her face, as she dropped the phone to the ground. Finally. Study hall. Thirty minutes of dreadful silence, and then I could leave. I did it. I will survive this day. I didn’t even have to count the minutes, because I actually had homework to preoccupy my thoughts. As I was working on my tasks, I heard a chair scrape back across the tile floor, and saw the outline of a boy sitting down across from me. I peeked up from my work, and I saw David. He didn’t say anything—not a word. He just smiled. That same, natural smile. And began doing his work across from me. My sister. How? How I could I do this to my sister? I was on the ground, and everything else was hazy. The only thing running through my mind, on repeat, was the last thing I said to her. How dare I get mad at her for taking my hobby, when because of my selfishness I took her life? The police dreadfully explained the whole situation to my now family of three. She went to the convention center featuring her poetry to withdraw her approval to publish it. On her way back, she was hit by a car. Only five thirty in the afternoon and she was hit by a drunk driver. What were the odds? It was as if the universe was punishing me—or rather, her. The worst day of my life. If only I didn’t scream, if only I didn’t give her a reason to leave my side. She would hate me. My parents must hate me. And I unquestionably hate myself. I survived another school day. I survived the melancholy stares. I survived the hushed tones. And now, I was walking home with David by my side. Walking right next to me. Talking about the rest of his homework and dissatisfaction with the school lunch. And then, we reached the stop sign. The point where he must go left, while I go right. He looked at me, smiled for the fourth time that day, and told me he would see me tomorrow morning. And with that, he left. One. Just one person. That’s all I need. Because to David, I wasn’t a victim. I wasn’t the girl who lost a sister. I was me. Just me. I am not okay. I am not fixed. I am not healed. But you know what? I will be. As I took the first step towards my house—not house, but home—I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I looked up to the sky for my sun, and it wasn’t there. But there was rain. And today, it wasn’t just a dark sky and accompanying storm. It was a new start. The rain poured, cleansing my hazy vision. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow will be different, because there will be one person that can see me for what I am… not a victim, but myself.


thinking of taking up writing in my spare time. please tell me what you think of my writing, and let me know what i should do to improve. this is the first thing i've written. thanks. how batman details the struggles you will go through when working in a corporation. every enemy from batman can be considered unique in their own right, not necessarily due to their design, but their overall motives as well. but while these villains might be considered strange should they be encountered in real life as they are in the batman universe, however, you might still encounter them when working for a corporation... not necessarily in the form of physical anomalies, but as internal struggles. working for a corp, you might notice that you are most likely never happy nor will you ever be happy (unless you're one of those happy go lucky people who pretend that nothing bad ever happens). this causes many internal struggles. but before we go into the specifics of those struggles, we need to take a look at the main character of the story; batman. Bruce wayne is a typical businessman by day, and a warrior against evil forces by night, showing the businessman image to the world, and harboring a dark secret while fighting constantly with his enemies alone, hiding his true image from the world. this is you, as a corporate employee. putting up a facade in order to maintain your life, while in constant struggle against a horde of enemies each with their own agendas. and the first of these enemies you may find yourself battling against would be your own dr. Hugo strange. The backstory of Dr. Hugo Strange is that he is a deranged psychologist with a feverish obsession for the caped crusader, trying to figure out more about him. the Doctor's obsession drove him to discovering batman's weaknesses, his true identity, and once tried to replace batman altogether. he is a representation of individuals who will do their best to harm your chances at that promotion, as in the corporate world, competition is a bad thing, and it's easier to get rid of the competition than it is to outshine them. every team in every division in every corporation is writhing with individuals like this, regardless of where they are on the corporate ladder, if you are an obstacle in their way, they will try their best to bring you down, especially when you are a threat to your direct line of command or management. which brings us to ra's al ghul. Ra's al ghul is the leader of an order of assassins, and has been a mentor to Batman, however the two do not agree on ideals. batman disapproves of the decisions made by ra's al ghul, and as a result, the two are sworn enemies. as you climb the corporate ladder, you too will experience this between yourself and your managers or old mentors. majority of the time, your conflict will arise from the thought that "management are idiots" or "i don't agree with management's decision" just as batman does not agree with ra's al ghul's methods. usually, this disagreement leads to the desire to usurp your management in an effort to improve conditions, which will indefinitely mean long hours spent at work. and spending long hours at work will cause a division in your personal life, just as poison ivy has caused a division between batman and robin in the past. poison ivy is an eco terrorist who believes that humanity should be replaced by plant life. but in this instance, we are not referring to her motives, rather her methods. she creates tension between batman and robin, which affects their ability to work together. this is similar to the problem you will have to face when you attempt to climb the corporate ladder. having to constantly decide between going out with friends and working a few extra hours for brownie points with your boss, your friends will appear to be less forgiving and patient with you. this tension will make you consider performing some more underhanded tasks in order to get the same results in half the time, as penguin does occasionally to earn batman's tolerance. Penguin is a mafia boss, representing the more unscrupulous decisions you might encounter along your way. he often sells intelligence to batman, which is why batman may tolerate penguin more than his other enemies. just as you may occasionally decide to make a decision that is not entirely considered moral to advance your career. every once in a while, this decision will surface, and depending on the corporation (banks especially), the higher up the corporate ladder you go, the more unscrupulous you have to be to advance easily. mind you, you don't necessarily HAVE to be unscrupulous in order to advance, however you will constantly have to show courage, as fear will be one of your main challenges. Scarecrow's real name is Dr. Jonathan Crane, a professor of psychology and psychiatry. as a result of being bullied as a child, he has a fascination of inducing fear into his victims. one would think that bullying ends in highschool, and maybe in a physical sense it does, however, corporate bullying is a very common problem in society. just as with highschool bullying, the reason why corporate bullying still exists is due to the fear of what will happen to you if you report it. as corporate bullying is usually done by people who you would report the problem to, you're left with fewer options, and thus you are left with the fear of seeming unhappy, as unhappiness is detrimental to corporate growth. your unhappiness will continue to grow, and considering your financial dependance on the corporate job, you will constantly have 2 minds about your situation. 2 face (harvey dent) was originally the white knight of gotham, the district attorney of gotham city attempting to clean up the streets and create a better gotham by the book, and not by fighting it head on as batman does. however, during the trial of a mafia boss, the mafioso threw acid at harvey, and as a result, half of his face had burnt, thus creating the two-face persona. when you start your first job at a corporation, your intentions are honest and clear. you know what it is you want from the company, and that is what you pursue. however, there will be a time when the corporation spits acid in your face (metaphorically speaking. imagine how horrible it would be if that was literal), and you will be at constant conflict with yourself about being at that corporation, whereas you also see the necessity of it. just as harvey, you will no longer care about what's right, but instead, you will want what's fair. but you will come to learn that the world is not fair, and corporations make their foundations on unfairness. and through all this, knowing that you don't want to be there, but you know you can't leave easily, you will become angry. angry at your situation, angry at your company, and angry with yourself for being there, and putting yourself in that situation in the first place. and of all the things that you will go through, anger is the one that will break you. Bane. the one who broke the bat. he is a massive foe, addicted to the steroid/drug called venom. the steroid greatly improves bane's physical strength, however he must take it once every 12 hours or suffer debilitating side-effects. the steroid also has bane easily slip into a steroid-induced rage, leaving all in his path destroyed, including batman himself. working for a corporation, you will be under constant stress, and stress leads to a lot of suppressed anger, which in turn leads to more stress. this is why some people take up smoking or drinking, and some take up drugs, all as a way to relieve stress and improve performance at work by being less stressed, which in turn leads to addiction, and as a result, more stress if your addiction is not satisfied. for some, alternatives are not an option. they just simply continue to suppress the anger and stress, and do their best to carry on, trying to keep the anger and stress from breaking them. but very soon, you will notice that no matter how much you try to bottle up, only so much can fit in a bottle. and when the bottle breaks, it's your own sanity that you must face. the joker is the embodiment of madness. there is no one particular origin story, as joker himself is unsure (he is cited saying "sometimes i remember it one way, sometimes i remember it another. if i'm going to have a past, i prefer multiple choice"). of all the enemies batman has to face, the joker is the most dangerous, and the reason why so many people like him so much is that we all relate to him in some way. we all have a spark of madness, and occasionally we have to do our best to keep it under control, but we aren't always able to. and when you work for a corporation, the madness will claw at you, desperate to get out, and sometimes it will become almost impossible to contain it. you undoubtedly will see this happening even to those around you, some will have nervous breakdowns and some will have a moment of insanity at the office. but at the end of the day, you will have to fight it.


I don't particularly like to write but I've been told it's something I'm good at, and I'd like to get more involved with it. Anyways, here's something I wrote a few days ago at about 2AM. I proof read it once and didn't really take the time to give it my 100% but I still think it's worth sharing with you guys! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I remember when I first laid my eyes upon her. Come to think of it, it really isn’t all that hard not to. She had the vibrant emerald colored eyes of a treasure filled ocean, a smile that would be considered the eighth wonder of the world by most, the attitude of a Queen and the beauty of a shooting star that would send goose pumps shooting up your neck. She was powerful. Just looking at her she would carry your heart away like the strongest ocean current, and fill you with more energy than five thousand suns could produce in a billion years. Being in her presence felt almost ‘other worldly’. As if she was specifically built to make any man who was around her feel as if she were made of gold. I had never felt so ‘out-of-touch’ with reality when I was with her. I remember her cute little laughs that had her face scrunched up with her eyes swelled shut from the sheer amount of tears they themselves gave life to. The kind that would captivate an entire audience to laugh along with her no matter the situation. She was just like that. She could turn anyone's mood around in a heartbeat. It didn’t matter how upset you were about something, it was like a law of some sorts. A law of an emotional type of physics. It just happened, and nobody knew why. Not even me. There was so many ways she could go about doing it that I can’t pinpoint exactly what it was. The way she moved, the way she carried herself. That was enough to make anyone feel safe. It can’t help but remind me about those every so often times I came home from work, completely miserable. I would walk through the front door and set my keys on the counter and she would automatically know something was wrong, as if she had that instinct. She would just want me to hold her in my arms while she asked me about my day. She’d ask about everything. The drive on in, my lunch, my boss, everything. Never once would she talk about herself or her own day. Her entire focus was on me and my own. She never put herself above anybody else. I could come home, pissed off at the world and within mere minutes we would be sitting there on the couch, arms clenched so tightly around one another you would think we were living magnets, laughing. Just laughing. Tears of happiness and joy would flow out of each other's eyes without knowing the reason behind it. That was so strange having a mood so negative dissolve within seconds and putting itself together in ways I’ve never felt before. She was magical, and despite all of that..sometimes I didn’t let it happen. I can’t understand why. No matter how much I think about it, no matter how many times my mind runs in circles in the middle of the night, I just can’t understand it. Sometimes, I would get home earlier than she would. I would go straight to bed and pretend to be asleep, well knowing she would be home in just a handful of minutes. I would just lay there in bed, still as a statue. I could hear her come into the door with a moment of silence, as if she was searching for me. She would walk through the kitchen, the living room and finally, into the bedroom. I could feel her scrunch up next to me every night and I would feel her warm, always minty fresh breath fill my ear, my heart, and my soul with those three simple words yet so complex words, “I love you.”. And then.. she would just sit. She would sit there with the light on and just stare. She would stare for five -- sometimes ten minutes. I could tell she was hoping I would ‘wake up’, just so she could talk to me. Just so she could ask me about everything and anything. Just to hear my voice. But I didn’t. I never did, and I don’t know why. I would just let her stare in a stabbing painful silence. My heart would thump more intense with each beat, almost as if was trying to tell me, “What are you doing? You love this girl, remember?” Maybe I was tired, maybe I was stressed. Maybe I just didn’t want to. After what felt like centuries, she would kiss me on the cheek, turn out the light, and go to sleep.The ironic part was that afterwards, I couldn't. I would lay there, wondering why I didn’t take five minutes out of my day just to tell her how much I love her. Yet, I would do it time and time again. I used to wake up to the smell of fresh bacon and eggs tickling it’s way up my nose and floating down my throat. Just as I would open my eyes, I would get attacked with a relentless aerial assault of her soft kisses. My eyes, cheeks, nose, chin, neck, everything would be bombarded by her lips. She knew that I was a grouch in the morning. However, I can’t recall a single time where I wasn’t the happiest man in the world to be waking up to her kissing assaults, her symphonies in the shower, or her mouth watering breakfasts. It’s a completely different feeling now. I wake up now drenched in sweat, eyes burning, with an alarm clock ringing in my ear letting me know that the nightmare still isn’t over yet. It never will be. Not for me. That night is burned into my eyes with the fire racing down my throat and the sulfur pumping through my veins. She had always been the one to cash that paycheck and selflessly spend most of it on me. A new watch, shoes, cell phone cases, video games, you name it. I was the selfish one. I would find a reason to buy myself whatever it is that I didn’t need instead of bothering to get her a box of chocolates or a nice necklace, just to show how much I loved and cared for her. I hadn’t gotten her flowers in months. Now here I am, laying them upon her casket with every memory we ever had together smashing into my chest like a tsunami made up of pain and sorrow. I remember when I first laid my eyes upon her.


'Here I am' I think to myself. Heaven. I stood outside the pearly gates. It took nearly 80 years to get here, and here I finally am. My life as a believer has finally paid off. I look down to see that I am draped in a white robe, similar to that of a hospital patient. My thoughts were quickly silenced as the gates loosely swung open. Like a hinge has broken. Beyond the gate is nothing but white behind it. I stepped through it. I found myself in a complex of white and gold buildings, like a suburb. The houses are all single floored and have a garden space in the front and back. I think to myself how perfect this is. I suddenly realise something. There are no people here. To confirm my suspicions, I look in all the houses on the street. Nothing. In the corner, I notice a map held onto place on the wooden board by some pins. The houses are towards the south of the map, all in neat rows. Towards the North is a building shown by an arrow pointing towards it. The arrow reads 'House of God'. I instantly start the walk North towards this place. Who wouldn't want to meet their creator? The house is about 30 minutes away, and I finally arrive there. The first thing I notice is how closely it resembles a chapel, but on a large scale. I look up to see the bell hanging in place by a rope. My eyes follow down the structure and I see people. Hundreds upon thousands of people. They all scream something at the building, but I can't quite make it out. I notice that more and more people are walking towards the building, all screaming different things, but hinting at the same thing... "KILL US!" "I CAN'T LIVE LIKE THIS!" "TWO THOUSAND YEARS OF THE SAME THING! END IT!" Shocked, I realise what has happened. These people have been here for a long time. All trying to move on. But are instead trapped with nothing to live for. Leaning against a house is an old man, his beard growing down to his knees and his face stained with tears. I walk over to him and ask "What is happening?" He turns his head to me and mutters "God has died. They are here. We can't die, we have to wait..." His bony hand extends to his right. The opposite direction in which I came. Legions of creatures wait behind an invisible barrier, battering at them. Flying above them all is an 18 foot tall monster. It's four wings span 8 feet wide and its flesh badly burned. It's four faces look deviously at each and every person in the vicinity. As its eyes trace over me, I freeze. The blood in my veins feel as if it has turned to dust. I lose all power in my body until it looks away. That's when I know what this creature is. Satan, Lucifer, the Devil. A crack forms on the invisible barrier. After hundreds of thousands of years the Devil has finally made its way into Heaven. We have lost. I send this to Earth in an effort to warn you. There is no hope. Only the pain and suffering which I am soon to face. I can only ask one thing of you all. Don't die.


Everyone’s different. My parents loved drilling that into my head, any time I mentioned feeling out of place. Different languages, skin tones and personalities. All accepted as human, equal in the eyes of most. Anything I did, they were always quick to try to make excuses for, they saw my ‘rebellious’ stage as just a fad that I’d soon grow out of. More loving people, I’ll never meet. Not in this place. But in a way, I can’t help but blame them sometimes. I guess it’s just human nature, blaming others for your own shortcomings, always trying to be the ‘alpha’ of the pack. Especially when you were kicked around, laughed at by the other kids over something I didn’t have control over. My eyes. No the colour of them wasn’t anything special, not a deep blue or a wacky shade of green. Just a dull, boring brown. It was what I could see with them, which made them unique. And we as humans, don’t accept unique. Unique is another word for special, another word for different. Different is bad, different isn’t normal. The digits that flickered over the heads of everyone I came across, they weren’t real. Not to the other kids, not to my parents. But to me they were a constant reminder growing up that I wasn’t the same, I was different. Different in a way that I would truly understand a few days after my twelfth birthday. My twelfth had been a quiet affair. Just the three of us, the other kids would rather literally have killed themselves, than commit social suicide by hanging out with me. ‘Number Boy’ was all I was known as back then, and even now I’m just a number. Life didn’t change all that much, just the way I perceived things. Just three days after the twelfth, I finally worked out what the numbers meant. I was on my way back from school, trying to ignore the laughs of the other kids. They were all fours and fives, their numbers only decreasing when we were in class and the teacher was talking. Sometimes even that didn’t stop it, the number would jump back to four seconds before they threw a paper aeroplane at my head. It didn’t take me long to learn to fear the fours and fives, to avoid them at all costs. I ran into the nearby store, unaware of the situation on the inside. Unaware of the man with a pistol aimed directly at the cashier. My eyes were fixed on only one thing, as the man shouted at me to get on the ground, the barrel threatening to end my life at any second with just the slightest pull of a trigger. It was the nine, the nine hovering over his head that captured all my attention. I had never seen a nine before, and my brain went into overdrive. I awoke in the hospital, apparently the shock had been too much and I had fainted. I think it was more the shock of finally understanding the numbers, the danger the numbers symbolised. The fours and fives, my tormentors. The nine, a man who was seconds away from killing me. I’d love to be able to say that upon returning to school the next day, I was given a hero’s welcome. That my tormentors begged for forgiveness and became my best friends, and I even eventually married one of them. But no, this is reality. It only got worse, me fainting in the store was the talk of the school for months after. Soon my tormentors weren’t content with verbal abuse alone, they quite literally kicked things up a notch. They became sixes and sevens. A year of kickboxing classes and a will of steel changed things. I wasn’t the one getting bullied anymore, I was the bully. Eric, an ex-seven was now nothing more than a shell of himself. He barely even registered as a two, to say I had beat the fight out of him would be an understatement. It got to the point where I actually had friends, threes that feared me and what I would do to them if I didn’t like them. For a few years, life was actually good. I mean sure I got into trouble a lot, but people respected me, they didn’t mock me anymore. The teachers themselves had long given up on me, they had no solid proof of my wrongdoing so they continued as if nothing was going on. I practically ran the school, and I’ve got to admit I still use what I learnt all the way back then about intimidation. With great power, comes no responsibility. If they fear you, they hear you. Every word you say is important to them, every move you make, every breath you take. For the few moments you’re speaking with them, you become the absolute centre of their universe. My school career would’ve continued like that indefinitely if I didn’t meet him. He was the new kid, a tall, shaggy-haired stick insect. The look of indifference he gave me shocked me, he was a mere one. A pathetic one. He barely even registered on the scale, but when I approached him to get him to pay his playground rent, he just brushed me off. I’d grown so accustomed to getting my way, that it actually threw me off. Not for long though, soon I had him on the ground, blood dribbling from his lip. It was his turn to shock me for a second time. The number over his head, just for a second it flashed as a ten. Just for a moment, gone as quickly as I had seen it. But I knew it was there. He was the one. The one who finally told the teachers what I was doing, spurring the others to jump on the bandwagon. I expected to get away with just a slap on the wrist, maybe being suspended for a few days. Sixteen year olds aren’t exactly the brightest. Instead I was permanently expelled, and soon even my parents couldn’t stand me. My alcohol habit was rather expensive, and they couldn’t stand the sight of their only son, reduced to a drunken slob. The next few months were spent on the streets, my desperation for money growing as my appearance grow more rugged. What started out with a few drug deals here and there, became an around the clock venture for me. If any of clients needed it, I would find it. For a price, of course. My reputation began to grow and as it did, I came into contact with more sevens and eights. Sevens and eights who wanted the goods I offered, but without the premium. Three gunshots and two corpses later, I found myself in my new home. It’s not too bad in here. Three meals a day, an area to work out and scout the competition. My gift comes in useful all the time, just two days ago I avoided a nine carrying a shiv he’d fashioned from the workshop. I attack the weak, to impress the strong. I know who to befriend, and who to target. Prison isn’t really that different from the playground.


We IV drug junkies like to use the little single-use, plastic syringes that diabetics use to inject their insulin to inject our drugs. They come sterile in a package and aren't meant to be reused, as the needle itself can bend or grow dull, the sterility is compromised, etc. *However,* everybody runs into a situation where they are on their last "rig," (Slang for the needle/syringe itself.) and running to Walmart, CVS, or the needle exchange isn't possible...so you make do. Note: The word "register" as used in this story refers to the act of inserting the needle into your skin and gently pulling the plunger back to draw blood into the barrel of the syringe and ensure you are injecting into a vein as opposed to muscle tissue. "Bevel" refers to the uneven cut in the point of a needle so it is designed to be inserted more efficiently. Hope you enjoy. This occurred sometime in March of 2015. A third of a gram of black tar heroin in a baggie next to me, and one rig with a sharp enough point to work. Single-use doesn't always work when your all money is going to heroin in the first place, so this one has been used 5 or 6 times. Inspect needle. 30 degree bend to the left. Bevel indistinguishable. Bend it straighter **delicately** against the bathroom counter. I'm not going to snort or smoke this shit like some fucking pussy. Relatively straight point. Pull back on the plunger. Audible squeak. Rinse gently with warm tap water. Pull plunger. Less audible squeak. Bingo. Drop chunk of tar into the spoon. Add dash of cold tap water. Stir. Apply flame to the bottom for a few seconds. Stir. Mud-brown liquid in the spoon. Pull the end off a Q-Tip and drop it in the spoon. Oh-so-soft plunge into the cotton as it soaks up the heroin. God help you if you blunt the tip against the spoon. Pull back slowly on the plunger to draw the heroin into the barrel. More audible squeak now. Oh well. Fill the barrel. Flick the air bubbles to the top and push. Align point on crook of right elbow. Find a relatively clean spot in your vein. Gentle push. Firmer push. Sink. Pull the plunger for the register. Draw back air. Slight adjustment, then sink again. Draw. Dark red floods the barrel. Go time. Plunge. No give. Firmer plunge. No give. Breathe in. Careful not to disturb the site, align the end of the plastic plunger against wall. Force against wall. Inadvisably hard push into wall. Give, injection. Slight burn, nothing major. Gratefully withdraw an intact point. Toss aside. 1, 2, 3, 4. Rush. Flood. Eyes roll back. Heroin draws a warm blanket around life and tucks you in. No toes hanging out for monsters under the bed to grab. Heroin: the problem eraser. Relief.


Before him was a program of his own creation, running, 'life.exe'. He had been working on it for so long now, but there was still an infinite number of problems with the executable. No matter how hard and long he worked on it, there seemed to be an infinite flow of issues surfacing on a daily, if not hourly basis. The biggest problem right now was the procedure 'free_will()', which was meant to enhance and automate a large part of the experience. Unfortunately, he made a mistake somewhere along the way. Somehow it kept overriding other procedures like 'faith()' and 'morality()', to the point any of his other subroutines didn't even matter anymore. Other aspects of his program where fine and were always doing exactly what he expected, but it was designed to do exactly what he wanted it to do. But the new mob he introduced, 'humanity' was at constant conflict with everything else. There was a non-stop log of syntax errors showing up after he started to program humanity. It was never enough to crash the world he had created, but it caused all new problems, conflicts in the system he had never anticipated that flowed into other areas of his source. Perhaps he had made a mistake and slipped in a semicolon somewhere it didn't belong? It'd take him eons to go over the source to make sure. For now though, he got up and stretched his lanky body. Perhaps he should listen to his Father, Yahweh. He was right, he needed to get out of the basement every once and awhile and do something else. He left the program run on the computer as he climbed the basement steps, he'd come back to it another day.


You can’t skip stones on the sea. You can sometimes skip stones on a river, if it’s a deep, calm one in which the currents run deep. Lakes and ponds are the ideal skipping surfaces: mostly calm, like mirrors on a windless day. The sea never stops churning. Any stone you try to toss at it is immediately lapped into its depths. Perhaps anything else would upset the natural order. Every stone was shaped by the sea and for it to assert dominance over its maker, even for a few skips, would be an anomaly. Perhaps it would cause a ripple effect of a grander scale and physicists everywhere would have a field day as our cosmos- every so slightly- shifted itself. Whoever skips the first stone shapes the universe. She threw a stone at the sea. It sunk, as was to be expected- so had every rock before it. And yet, she thought, just because no-one has done it before doesn’t mean it cannot be done. Would the shape of the universe-shattering stone matter? In which direction would the world adjust itself if, let’s say, a more rectangular one skimmed the surface? When this stone tears at the fabric of reality, our current world will be turned into one where she has found purpose. She threw the stone, and it sunk. A few solemn steps later she found a round, pink-and-grey pebble. It would free her of the ever-bearing weight of her own mortality and understanding that while life was short, it would be the longest thing she would surely ever experience. The black rock next to it would give her the courage to see that her bruised heart was, once again, timidly perched on a cliffside. Both stones sank. They were too heavy, she knew. The waves rolled in a cycle of lower, higher, and lower again- yet they were unpredictable. Sometimes the lower waves of one round would be higher than the higher waves of the next. A song that never changes in rhythm and never repeats in melody. This stone would skip across every beating heart and remind them of empathy. The next would make a young tree bear fruit for the first time. The next would make a butterfly on the other side of the globe flap its wings, which in turn would cause a hurricane. She was glad to see the last one fall. How would she know she was the first one to skip a stone, if she did? Just because she had never seen a stone skip on the sea didn’t mean it had never been done before. Perhaps her own attempts were being sabotaged by someone, somewhere, throwing rocks at waves and wishing for a world without mosquitoes. Perhaps they had already shaped this universe, years or seconds ago. She threw one last stone, not knowing what it would do. It skimmed the surface daintily, skipping from the head of a wave onto another before it disappeared for good. The universe shifted. She never found out how.


>"Weebubadubawumpabumb-baby-weebubadumpawumpawump," an ethereal voice flowed over thumping bass drum beats. Jacki was three glasses into a bottle of five-dollar pinot noir -- she'd promised herself she'd stop at two glasses after last weekend -- but tonight was no normal night. Tonight she'd tell her. She grabbed her phone to shut off the music. Her thumb hovered over the pause button while her favorite part played. >Joy was oblivious; she lay in bed with eyes closed, arms wrapped just under Jacki's breasts, and ears enthralled with the tinny voice coming from Jacki's phone. >The music stopped. "Dweeeeeeb," Joy squealed her favorite pet name for Jacki, "I keep telling you to get a new phone." A few seconds passed in silence. "That's my favorite part, girl, turn it back on." >A moment passed before Joy realized it wasn't the phone that stopped the music. Her eyes opened and her shoulders slid up the wall behind the bed. >"What's up?" >Tonight Jacki would count her wine consumption in bottles. Sorry I'm not sure how to properly format this post. This is not really a full story exactly, but I'd love to hear feedback on the writing style, particularly with respect to clarity.


The woods seemed to go on endlessly, the skybound plants covering any sort of hope I had for the slightest glimpse of sunlight. I sprinted, I had been for hours, or was it days? Any speed I could reach that would help me get out of this horrid darkness. "It's okay...." I would whisper to myself as I keeled over from exhaustion, only to rise again and continue to run towards my inevitable goal. Only for a second does my head rise to notice the faint light that is brought to my eyes. I gasp for air and slow down, collapsing to my knees once again, hopefully for the final time. After taking a moment to catch my breath, I finally bring myself to my feet, taking slow and dreadful steps towards my salvation. As I grew closer and closer I could feel the warmth, the sunlight, my savior. I started to move faster and faster, reaching ever forward..........only to grab nothing. I collapse to my knees, once again, as the light disappears, leaving me in eternal darkness once again. Tears burst from my eyes as I can no longer hold them back, my anger and sadness exploding out of me in my fits of punching the ground. It takes me a while to regain my composure, before standing again. I begin my sprint through the woods again, desperate to find hope. (This is my first time posting one of the small things that I wrote on the internet. I like to write about things that I understand, and being the psychologist that I want to be, I decided to write a bit about the thing I've been dealing with almost all my life. I'm 18 now, and don't have any sort of professional education when it comes to writing, but I would love any feedback I can get.


I’m a stranger to myself and I enjoy it very much. It makes masturbation very fun. Also haircuts. I learn a lot about myself while I’m sitting in the chair getting my hair cut, talking about where I’m going to go on holiday. It’s cheaper, too. Bored waiting for the bus? No problem. I just strike up a conversation with myself and the time passes quickly. Then when my bus comes I’ll say “toodle-oo!” to myself and be on my way. I’m really beginning to get to know myself through all these different ways of meeting and talking. Of course there are times when I don’t want to talk, and that’s fine, I completely understand and respect my privacy. But usually after a while I usually want to get back out there and mingle again. There are times when I just completely don’t connect to myself, but that’s ok, it happens. You can’t be instant friends with everyone you meet. I just accept it and move on. No matter how strange I can seem to myself at times, there are lots of opportunities to meet me, so there’s no point dwelling on the times it didn’t quite happen. I'm excited to meet myself again. I don’t want to get too close, though. Some things you're just better off not knowing. I think secrets make a person more alluring, if a bit confusing and difficult to understand. I already know a lot about myself, more than the average stranger, at least. It’s kind of strange to know so much about a stranger. I know how I like my coffee and what position I like to sleep in, for example. But that’s only exterior stuff. I can’t help wondering what I’m thinking about when I’m not talking to myself. I get the sense when I do talk that I’m holding something back, that there’s something I’m just not saying. Maybe it’s just out of politeness, or maybe I’m just vulnerable and sensitive and afraid to reveal too much without knowing the other person better. People are like that in society. I’d rather just portray a superficial impression of myself, it seems. It’s a lot safer that way. There was this one time I talked for hours with myself about all these deep things. It felt really good, as if I’d coaxed this extremely timid animal out from its hiding place, and I told myself all these things and it was a very enlightening experience. But then I had to go. I’m a stranger to myself, after all. That’s the way it always has to be. I often find myself wondering whether the things I told myself that time were even real. I mean, we were just two strangers. Is it possible to go to such a deep, personal level with a stranger like that? Maybe I just needed someone to tell all those things to, things I can’t tell anybody else. I wonder if I’ll ever see myself again so that I can find out. I wonder where I am now, what I mean to myself, how far away I am, whether or not I even remember myself, who I am. Maybe I scared myself off, and the timid wild animal ran back into the forest, never to be seen again. The ball is firmly in my court. When the time is right, I’ll come out. I just have to wait. I’ll be able to see me coming before I see myself, of course. I might even be watching me right now. Anyway, the next time I see myself, I’m not going to pry. Whatever I want to reveal is ok with me. I’m a stranger to myself, after all. I don’t owe myself anything. I’m just going to be kind and nice and polite and say, “Pleased to meet you.


2015-10-12 My dear friend, I’ve been laying in bed for hours, trying to organize my maelstrom of thoughts. I haven’t put my heart into words in so many years. You know something is wrong. So very wrong. I almost let it slip last night. I did, really - I told you in explicit terms, then passed it off as a joke. It was the alcohol speaking. I was being silly. I just wanted your reaction. I gave you any number of excuses to stop you from pressing further. I still don’t know why I said it. Part of me wants you to keep pushing. To confront me. To make me explain why I’d say something so wildly absurd. What if you did? Could I tell you my story? The entire tale? You would expect complete honesty, and you’d deserve it. You would tell me what I want to hear; that nothing matters, that I mean the world to you, and that I’d always be your closest friend. You would throw it all aside, hug me, and tell me that it’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t give you that honesty. Not to your face. I value you too much to risk losing you from my life. You’re a creative young woman. It is the origin of our friendship. Maybe you’ll find this letter - the first of many - buried among a thousand other short stories, and maybe you’ll see the author shares my name. Maybe you’ll wonder if just one of these fictional tales could be based in reality. I’ll always be your friend.


I've never shared any of my short stories I like to write before, but for some reason I felt like throwing it out there tonight. If you read it then thanks for taking the time, and hopefully it was semi entertaining. Death, A Thing of Beauty “What once was, that now is gone, can never be fully forgotten.” The words left my mouth barely over a whisper, yet the strength at which they left was of no importance. The world that we lived in was different, different than that of my childhood. Throughout the years I have found myself trying to figure out if we were better off knowing what once was, or to never have known. Today, I wish I never knew. We did it to ourselves. And it’s not that we didn’t know better, we were simply too greedy to care. Those of us that remained after the gears of mega infrastructures shutdown were forced to fend for ourselves. We managed, for a while, until disease set in. It ended up being the one thing that we all took for granted. We all understood the importance of water, shelter, and food, yet many of us failed to truly grasp the importance of all these little fucking things we live with daily. It started slow, but death breads death, and death has a way of changing a man. In the end we are animals, nothing more. We made it further than most, to the northern lakes that still held life, that could hold ours. Yet as I look at the evergreen covered mountains topped in the most picturesque snow no photograph could ever truly capture, I can’t help but feel that it was all for not. This leg was in bad shape, and I fear there’s no coming back. Through the shelter, the crack of a fire, and the scent of wet smoke that lingered in the air there was a perfect moment, if only for a second. So pale, so weak, it was only a matter of time now. The spoken words that ring through my head “Did this life matter, did any of this matter? Or will it all be forgotten with the morning wind?” At the time I didn’t have an answer. Yet now, as I look down at her, the words “what once was, that now is gone, can never be fully forgotten” leave my mouth barely over a whisper. Alone once again I strike out into the unknown. The dew soaked grass seeps through my boots as a glance back to where the last thing I cared about lay among the trees. There was no purpose in my steps, no meaning to my breath. The life of a lonely wanderer, to where the only place rest and peace could be found was in death, a thing of beauty.


The way it feels when you’re walking through the crowds and every overhead, florescent light feels like your own personal spotlight. The sickly sweet yet somehow comforting aroma from coming off the freshly baked buns and perfume samples drifting to my nose. Really what could be better. And the girls in tv shows and movies who go to the mall always look absolutely fantastic. They are always beautiful girls who know how to do their makeup, their blonde hair bouncing on their shoulders as they laugh with all their friends. And you can’t forget about the shopping bags. The bags upon bags upon bags upon bags! Coach. Juicy. Abercrombie. Guess. Vera Bradley. Its just endless. That’s what all the cool girls in my school did. Monday mornings they would all show off their new clothes, jewelry, bags, anything they’d bought over the weekend. Just waiting for someone to ask where it was from. “Oh this little thing?” they’d say, feigning surprise. “Oh, you know, just got it at Abercrombie this weekend. Super cute right?” And they were always right. “Super cute” their friends would have to agree. I never got to go to the mall, my lazy mom said it was too far, and she usually worked late nights on the weekends anyways. But that doesn’t mean I was a total loser or something. I did alright. Senior year I got to sit near the cool kids, and sometimes even asked them about the mall. Unlike Lacey. Lacey was such a dweeb. She was a whole year ahead in math, so she was always studying. And she'd do the lamest stuff like ask questions in class and bring her own lunch. One time she even asked the teacher what the homework was when he forgot to announce it. Un-freaking-believable. I was so embarrassed for her I had to put my head down on my desk for like 10 minutes. She eventually even joined the marching band. I mean, can you believe that! She played the tuba of course. I only know all of this because all the cool girls would make fun of her. And I sat with her at lunch sometimes because I felt so bad for her. I tried to teach her the ways of high school, the ways of life. I just wanted to show her how to be at least a little cooler. Well, until I decided she was a lost cause so she started sitting with all her marching band friends instead. After that, I realized helping people is too much trouble, and from then on I decided to sit on my own. My table was right next to the popular kids though, so I got to hear all about what was cool. Thank god I don’t have to hear it second hand anymore though. Now that I’m all grown up, and have a job, and a car, I can go to the mall anytime I want!! Life is just totally perfect. I go on Wednesday through Saturday nights, and sometimes on Sunday. And my routine is down solid. First I get fro-yo. Low-fat of course with just a couple blueberries on top. After I eat that I get a small pumpkin spice latte and head out to do some shopping. Some of my favorite stores aren’t in my mall anymore, but I make do with whats there. I can’t always buy everything I want because I come so often, so usually I keep a few extra shopping bags from the high end stores to walk around with. I can feel the eyes of young girls on me as I strut across the mall. Jealousy searing behind their ocean blue eyes as they look from me to their friends giggling. My velvet, Juicy jumpsuit combined with tan Uggs and pink tinted sunglasses are just too much to ignore. I know this is exactly how those girls from my high school must have felt. Except maybe even better because I’m older and can buy pretty much anything I want now that I’ve moved my mom to the cheaper nursing home. (she’s so old what does it even matter where she lives). But anyways, last week I was totally shocked at who I saw trying not to stare at me. Lacey. J. Michelson. From the marching band. She may not have had her tuba on hand, but she was still a totally square. She was dressed in boring jeans and a blouse and only had one shopping bag. Just one! I smiled to myself as I walked by, and I could see her looking at me from the corner of her eyes, her face colored by sadness. It totally made my day. God do I love the mall. god do I love myself.


Picture a scene. A researcher looks at unsuspecting ants trough a looking glass, the ants working away above and beneath the earth, suspended in a narrow glass box. The tunnels under the ground are visible at the side of the glass box. Weaved into a complex cacophony of roads all intertwined. Above ground they surge upon their dead prey. Bit by bit eating away at the now rotting corpse. Imagine now this as a whole. The ants above ground a representation of a persons outer layer, and the underground maze the inner layer. Impacts are first placed upon the outer layer. The food, the interactions, a small shake of a hand, the way you look someone in the eye. In our lives it takes the same meaning as the prey does to the ants. It is then soaked into the inner layer. Our personality, the way we emphatize, our morality.... It all weaves into a person. And every other person is that researcher. He who tries to study the ants trough a looking glass instead of simply watching them burrow beyond the light. Sometimes i look at how the sun breaches the clouds, its rays shining with a force of a thousand suns. I wander if our little universe isn't an ant farm.


Another day under the small, distant sun. The algae tanks are fully stocked. Perfect. All of the electronic systems are functional. Perfect. There are no dust storms on the horizon. Perfect. 8 years hunkered in a freezing desert can do wonders to lower your standards. Your designated mating partner is asleep. Perfect. Silence at the edge of humanity. Two bodies buried at the edge of the landing site. Seemed appropriate at the time. You buried them and then a dust storm kicked up and rolled their corpses three klicks across the rocky landscape. You found them and buried them again, deeper. Seemed appropriate at the time. You could have used the water and nutrients from their exited vessels. But you didn't. Dust to dust. The greenhouse has flowers, but you have to wear protective gear even there or you'll get cooked pink by the ultraviolet. Another little negligence on the part of the engineers back home. Home is where the heart is. On a planet that never changes, one is simply to whether the seasons of the self. A new calendar forged and old habits erased. Replaced. Like each thing in every cycle. Replaced. Entropy just doesn't have that romantic ring to it. The days get longer, then shorter, then longer again. What a motivation. Get away from it all to save it all. Sometimes you just have to take a step back from a problem, put it in a new perspective. I'm sorry for heresy. Father is pushing me away. Mother's promises have faded. On a new planet there is no one to tell you what constellations there are. You could pour a bottle of water into the dust, but it wouldn't make a puddle. It would just freeze or volatize. Not that a puddle is much use to a human being. It would be pretty interesting, though, if three or four billion years down the road some nascent civilization could point its origins to a puddle you made. But you can't make a puddle, so it doesn't matter. Information is energy. Or maybe it's the other way around. On the moon there are footprints that will last a thousand thousand years. Here, the wind erases you with each step. So each day you go out again and make a brand new path. Just like you did yesterday. There is a comfort in familiarity... Constant updates. Attention: this, that, or the other. Constant vigilance. Maybe it's just a game to stay busy. There are bugs. Things that snuck in that shouldn't be there. And it is those unaccounted for errors that keep things interesting. A mosquito landed on you as you tried to sleep. You didn't move. You left it, feeling its proboscis penetrate you, stealing your precious bodily fluids. Hoping that within its guts lay a host of spawn, ready to feast upon you in some future day. One way or another, you will give birth to life. A manmade shooting star landed in your back yard, but it couldn't save your species. You puked up your intentions and curled away your desires. It is worse within the safety zone. Attention. You like to pretend there are new constellations, but you can't see the night sky. You could even project them, see them as they would be. But there is a lack of romance on a monitor. There are many wonderful classics available for enjoyment. And, really, it is all about setting. You can make something entirely novel and meaningful in the setting of the mind. The trick is to translate to the daily mundane. A daydream can evoke more than - Attention. That is why you are walking back from the burial landing site. Your buggy disappearing behind you. You chased a daydream to the furthest edges of possibility. Attention. The radio transmitter is sending out your messages. Perfect. The station receiver is snatching them and saving them. Perfect. All of the electronic systems are functional. Perfect. It is the bugs that make things interesting. You are halfway between destinations, unable to reach either. Attention. Yes, you have my attention. I'd been going through the motions, doped on repetition. Well, I've gotten my wish now. I wonder how long things can go on without me. I like to think that I played an important role. That somehow the disjointed recordings of my actions could be pieced together into some meaningful whole. Though that is entirely up to the possibility of an audience. The lightweight armour is heavy. The superpurified recirculated air is dirty. Everything was so meticulously accounted for. Things ran on the only path they could. It was the bugs that made it interesting. The creepy crawlies. The glitches. The nagging fancies. Attention. There is a dust storm on the horizon. There is certainly something romantic about using one's last breath to spread information. To say something meaningful. There are little splotches, wait, spoltches isn't the right word, there are times when, even when, despite the effort that one has made, Attention. Something meaningful. Nagging fancies. Attention. Click. Klicks. How many? Another day of liberation amongst the unliving. Ultraviolet rain keeping the cogs turning. The process has become more efficient. Not quite perfect, but closer. Those systems unable to use the available resources have fallen out of the cycle. Naturally. There are no constellations for those who don't look for them.


Jeffery Meadow’s second hand Toyota pulled into the empty spot at First National bank shortly before eleven on that warm spring morning. His vehicle parked with impressive accuracy, leaving more or less perfectly equal distance between each door and adjacent white line. Jeffery shifted into park and clicked the key out of the ignition, causing the radio’s broadcast of NPR’s All Things Considered to fade into silence. Pulling down his visor, he checked his appearance in the small reflective rectangle. His balding scalp left little hair for him to adjust and his black framed spectacles didn’t need a buffing, so he flipped up the visor and popped in an Altoid mint. He immediately had two more just to be completely safe. As he stepped into the morning sun, he brushed off his khaki slacks and fixed the placement of his navy blue tie on his short sleeved white shirt. As pleased with his appearance as he could ever be (which was marginally), he started to stroll to the entrance of the small financial institution. He smiled when he noticed the blue Altima with the Hello Kitty plush in the rear window. Margaret was indeed here today. The thought empowered Jeff, it put a spring in his step, and before opening the door he heaved a deep sigh. Today was going to be the day, he thought. It was just drinks, maybe coffee. She’d say yes, he was positive. But as soon as he opened the tinted glass door and the cool bank air washed over him, his confidence began to erode. It was the sight of her blonde curls, shoulder length, bobbing up and down as she walked back to her teller desk. He stood in awe, admiring her subtle dimples and classy blue top which showed only the slightest inch of cleavage – professional albeit sexy – Jeff was flushed with adoration. Realizing he had been standing motionless for several seconds, he snapped back to reality and sheepishly shuffled his penny loafers over to the back of the four-person line. Margaret had yet to notice his presence in the bank, but he still remained patient, awaiting their encounter; his only possible obstacle was Ethel, the elderly teller set up next to Margaret who he might end up with for his simple withdrawal if luck chose not to be on his side. He’d been coming into the bank every Thursday for a year now to pull out his weekly stipend and make an effort to admire the adorable Margaret. In the span of a year, he’d only been helped by Ethel twice, allowing his rapport with the blonde teller to blossom into a friendly back and forth rather than its initial awkward and clumsily monosyllable interactions. He could have easily completed his weekly transaction at an ATM but chose to interject the five minutes of human interaction at into his Thursdays to help him escape the lonely office he inhabited as the local library’s sole accountant. In front of him in line were two middle aged women, each with at least 15 years on the young Jeffery and an impatient teenager in a hoodie who had both hands concealed in his jacket pockets. Ethel was helping a sharply dressed man who Jeffery guessed to be a used car salesman; his cheesy smile echoed such a career. Meanwhile, Margaret was counting out a large stack of hundreds to a man Jeffery assumed to be an octogenarian. He also surmised with a smile that the man probably kept a considerable sum of cash in a shoe box under his bed. Catching Margaret’s smile made Jeff’s heart sputter like his Toyota’s ignition when it occasionally failed to start. His knees quivered and his lip was immediately under pressure from his front teeth. “She hasn’t seen me yet,” he thought, “still time to leave.” As if she were clairvoyant, Margaret thumbed down the last hundred and looked up to see the nervous Jeffery for the first time. She beamed a flash of white teeth at him as he smiled and mouthed a silent, “Hi!” Jeffery gulped. It was too late. He felt trapped; his adrenaline began to pulse throughout his body. Resistance was futile, he had to see her. He mentally prayed to be helped by Ethel – his previous wishes were suddenly a thing of the past. His sweaty palms clumsily found their way into his slack’s pockets while he awaited his fate. If only he wasn’t so scared… Glancing up again to see Margaret place the stack of hundreds in an envelope, he saw the beginning of what would be the longest minute of his life. The small teenager heaved himself into the side of the old man, catching him completely off guard and causing him to hit the deck in one swift motion. The teenager removed his hands to reveal a black pistol, matte black in fact, not shiny like they sometimes were in the movies. He reached forward and grabbed the envelope with his left hand and stuffed it into his pocket, all the while the pistol remained trained squarely on Margaret whose hands were flung up in a futile effort of defense. Ethel on the other hand, remained calm for the most part, her many years behind the desk accounting for her nerves of steel. It was Ethel’s training too that stealthily tripped the silent alarm before the unruly teenager even had a chance to warn them otherwise. “Money now! All of it! You too grandma! And no funny business, one alarm goes off and you’re all dead!” He slapped a pair of reusable shopping bags on the counter with a loud, “Now!” The used car salesman shrunk to his haunches and flung his hands up, the two women in front of Jeffery hit the ground so fast he thought they might have fainted. Then, as quickly as the women fell, something inside Jeffery suddenly clicked. The adrenaline of embarrassment and lack of confidence surged into something he had never once had to summon before, raw bravery. Unsureness flashed into rage and uncertainty instantly became purpose. He was ready to strike; he was going to do whatever it took to save Margaret. This was finally his chance to be a hero. His brain didn’t have time to formulate a plan so his actions were the result of pure instinct. He lunged forward at the sound of Margaret’s scream, a loud shriek worthy of a 1950s B-movie. He knocked over the deposit and withdrawal cart in an effort to close the 15 feet between him and the youth. Unfortunately, despite the cart having wheels, it moved too slowly and gave the robber the two seconds he needed to react. The dark gun swung from Margaret and its aim became concentrated firmly on Jeffery’s chest. The pistol discharged three times into Jeffery’s moving body before the momentum of their collision knocked the teen off his feet. All three shots hit their target and it took a few seconds for Jeffery to feel the searing pain which he thought had to be temporarily masked by his surging adrenaline. During his fall the teenager dropped his gun which had slid to the feet of the clumsy salesman. He wasted no time in brandishing the weapon against its former owner. Still trying to get away, seeming not to care about the weapon trained on him, the teen stumbled to his feet and made a mad dash for the door. His short journey was interrupted when one of the middle aged ladies sprung up and clotheslined him hard, leaving him in an unconscious lump on the tiled floor. The salesman undid his tie and tossed it to the clotheslining mother who promptly began to tie up the teen’s hands while he was still out as the salesman held the weapon aiming careful for the perp’s head. Jeffery was still on the floor, lost in a daze. The old man had returned to his feet, relatively unharmed and Margaret and Ethel rushed to Jeffery’s aid. “Jeff! Oh my God! Are you okay? Jeff, he shot you! Oh Jeff!” Still not feeling the pain of what he thought three bullets to the chest would inflict on him, Jeff was extremely thankful for his thyroid’s ability to produce pain numbing chemicals in times of need. Just as he gingerly touched a wound and brought his only slightly bloody fingers to his eye level, Margaret fell down next to him, cradling his head in her lap. “Jeff, oh God, someone call 911! He’s been shot! Are you okay? Jeff, are you okay!?” “Coffee.” “Jeff… What? You want…coffee?” “Have coffee with me? Friday?” At this point Jeff wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline, shock, or Margaret’s presence, but he never felt the full force of the bullets. “Jeff, we need to call an ambulance!” “Coffee? Yes? No? Maybe?” “Jeff, yes, I’ll get coffee with you, but you’re bleeding!" It was true, three crimson blossoms erupted in bloom on his white shirt, each less than an inch in diameter, nothing at all Jeff noted, like in the movies. Stirring from her answer, a rush of positive emotions rode through his body propelling him to his feet. He looked down at Margaret and offered his hand. “Jeff, I don’t understand, you were shot…” He walked over to the salesman and asked to see the gun; amazed that Jeff was on his feet he immediately handed over the weapon and stepped back in amazement. “Jeff, how… What’s going on? I…don’t understand,” implored Margaret. Jeffery walked over to the counter and pointed the gun muzzle down onto the teller counter and pulled the trigger. The report was surprisingly quiet. No one had noticed how silent the gun was in light of all the confusion. The light foosh rang throughout the bank but startled no one, Jeff was in charge. No one dared question the man who walked after being shot thrice. After he shot the quiet weapon, he put down the gun and picked up a small brass sphere, only a few millimeters in diameter. “BBs,” Jeff said with a smile. With that solemn declaration, Margaret beamed a smile through her tears and embraced Jeff wholly, surprising him at first, his hands at his sides, until he finally returned the embrace and felt the soft curves of his secret love pressed against his body. “Coffee…” Jeff said incredulously. “Yes, coffee, I’d love to get some coffee… I thought you’d never ask!” Jeff, lost in contemplation, held onto the embrace, slowly identifying with his new persona, the new Jeff Meadows who now had a date with Margaret. “Starbucks or Seattle’s Best?” he inquired. She answered with a kiss. Starbucks it was.


Edit: Ok, sorry about the wall of text. I have pretty much no clue on how to format on reddit. Sorry. I'd grown sick and tired of explaining frank to every teacher in her school when she walked in with him. Every trimester it was the same "What in the world is that?" "I don't think you're allowed to have that in school." So, that's why I have Frank explain it instead. So, the situation is the same, first day of school, and I need to have Frank explain himself to the teachers. "You see, sir, Anna's father is a very busy man. A very rich and powerful man. He doesn't have time to care for something like a child, so that's why he made me. I am a T-7390. A personal care bot. I ensure Anna is safe from harm." Mr. Sampson looked at the floor, thinking. "Hmm... Well, is this even within school protocols? What does the handbook say about this?" "Mr. Sampson." Frank said. "Do you truly believe there would be any rules about robots in your handbook?" "Perhaps there would be a-" "I ensure you, there is not." Frank interrupted. "I have repeated scanned your handbook. There are no rules against me. If you wish to take it up with the principle, you may. However I do not... Recommend it." Mr. Sampson sighed. "Very well, you may stay." I walked over to my seat and plopped down in it. Frank always positioned himself in the corner of the room and scanned it. "Ever vigilant." He always said. "You never know, a school shooter, a plastic explosive, hell, even wild animals could find it's way into this room." Class was boring as usual. Nothing changes from 10th to 11th grade. I was pretty popular I suppose for the girl who had a robot servant. I'd get invited to more parties than others do. The senior parties. Normally, I'd be afraid of going to them, but with Frank, he's always kept me safe from harm at them. He told me of one time he had to beat a boy to near death because he wouldn't take his hands off of me. I'm far too drunk to remember most of it though. I suppose I was a bit spoiled. Going out, getting drunk, never having to face the consequences. Having a deadly robot by your side just makes everything so easy. Did I mention he has several deadly weapons hidden in his arms and chest? He's also proficient in handling heavy weapons. Anyway, that's all in the past. Now I find myself in a sticky situation. The world has recently ended, and I've sort of... Lost Frank. I've never felt so... Unprotected and naked without him. I need to find him now, but that means I need to leave the rubble of my home. I suppose it's time to take a step out of my house then. Walking out into the bright open world was strange. At first I couldn't see, then I noticed how dry it was. When I looked around, it was devastating. My entire neighborhood destroyed. Who knows who could be lurking around here. Bandits, rapists, wild animals, murders! I suppose I'll need to walk around to find Frank then. I began slowly walking down the street, taking in the destruction around me. It was just such a shock. I look in the distance, and I see someone. I wasn't sure if I should approach them, or keep my distance. I figured it might be worth a shot to try and say hi, I mean, I'm going to need friends to survive out here without Frank, and if it happens to be a psycho rapist murderer, I figure I'm in shape enough to outrun them. "Hey! Over here! Don't shoot!" I yelled, waving to them. They turned around and saw me, then waved back. "Well hello there, what's your name?" He said, smiling. He seemed friendly enough, so I told him. "I'm Anna. Uh, have you seen anyone else out here?" "No, I haven't. You're the first person I've seen. Might I say, you're rather pretty. How old'r you?" Now I was kind of creeped out, so I started backing up a little. "I-I'm 19 sir." Before I got too far away, he reached out and grabbed me by the arm. "Where do you think you're going? What are you running from?" Now I was panicking. I had never gotten into a situation like this where Frank couldn't save me. I started to jerk and resist. "Let go of me! Help! Someone help me!" He pulled me in close and leaned in to kiss me on the lips. I tried to jerk away, but I couldn't. Suddenly, I heard a loud pop, and something warm was dripping down my cheek. I opened my eyes, and the man collapsed on the ground. He had a bullet shot the the head. I looked around in panic, and then I saw a man reveal himself from a nearby alleyway with a rifle. He waved. "Are you okay there young lady?" I looked down at myself, then back at him. "Yeah, I think so. Thank you." "It was nothing really, I heard the commotion, then quickly ran over to see this man who was clearly trying to rape you. What do you think you're doing out here by yourself?" "Well..." I said, looking at the ground. "I usually travel with my robot. Frank. But, I sort of lost him..." "Well, you're in safe hands. I know a safe place near here. The military set it up after the bombs dropped." "O-ok..." I said, nervously. How did I know I could trust him? Well, I didn't. But it was the best bet I had, and considering he just saved me, I was probably safer with him than alone. So, I followed him. We talked about our lives before the bombs dropped. I told him about my robot Frank and how he'd been with me my whole life. He told me his name was Ed. He seemed pretty likable. He led me into this fenced in parking lot. It looked like a safe house from the outside, however, when I got in, the gate slammed shut, and someone grabbed me from behind. "Agh! What are you doing!? Let go of me! Help me! Ed, help me!" I yelled. Ed slowly turned around, and gave me a menacing smile. "Anna, Anna, Anna. First, you stupidly try to talk to a stranger in these times, that man could have been anyone. Then, you decide to follow a stranger to a fenced in parking lot. Your dependency on that robot truly shows." He said, pacing back and forth. I struggled to free myself before they dragged me over to a table and tied me down. "Wha-What're you going to do to me? Please don't hurt me." Ed sharpened a knife on a sharpening stone. "You get the honor of being our cults last... Sacrifice. We have almost completed the ritual." I tried to free myself from the bindings, but all I did was tip the table over. "Well, look at what you have done." Ed said, "You can stay like that until it's time for the sacrifice." I continued to try and free myself, but to no avail. Then, someone flipped the table right side up. Ed was looking down on me. "Brothers. We have gathered here to summon our lord the Deep One. He has never been seen before by mortal eyes. We are the chosen ones. We are his children. Now, brothers, let the ceremony commence. We shall drink the blood of the non-chosen ones!" He said, slowly lowering the blade to slit my wrists. Suddenly, machine gun fire was heard in the distance, and Ed went flying back. I looked, and I saw him. It was Frank! He stood on top of the fence with a heavy machine gun in his hands. Ed groaned on the ground. "Kill him... Kill him! The ceremony must be... Complete." The other men around me drew weapons. Handguns, rifles, sub-machine guns. Frank began peppering them with machine gun fire. A few of them were hit, diving to cover, while others continued to stand and fire. Frank jumped down off the fence and began going to town, firing an entire magazine into them, and the cover they cowered behind. He dropped the gun, and opened his wrist rocket, firing it into the cover that the last four men crouched behind. "Frank! Oh my god Frank!" I yelled to him. "Anna!?" He yelled, quickly walking over. "Anna, I- I thought you had died. I thought I had failed my mission..." "If course not silly. Let's go. Cut me free." Frank cut me loose, and I stood up stretching. "Alright, let's go, it feels like it's been ages." Frank looked at the ground. "Anna... When your house was destroyed, so was my comm center..." "Yeah, so what?" I asked. "So... I'm going to go haywire eventually. I have very little control over myself..." I gave him a funny look. He explained that the communication tower was what mainly controlled him. It was what kept him from going all out and just killing everyone. He said eventually he would go completely haywire and left to be a robot that simply killed anything that moved. "I... I understand..." I said sadly. Frank extended a handgun to me. "Please, take this. Keep yourself safe. Now, you better get out of here, before any raiders or bandits come by. Good luck." I ran off crying. I've never seen him since. Sometimes I still feel like he's watching over me, but I know it's just an illusion.


We were out of the blue and into the black. We had traveled such a long way and still found ourselves in the same spot as always. We sat on a bench. The air was cool and the sky was dark, neither of us knew how long we'd been out there. Only that by the time we returned we were asking for trouble. I could barely see the distance to the street light, yet the moon lit up your face perfectly. As though it were designed specifically to do so. Your eyes sparkled and reflected the light back into mine. The way they always had. The way they always pierced through darkness in order to find me. Your lips were purple and puckered around the butt of a cigarette. They way they too, always had. Your nose, a perfect ski slope. You knew entirely too well that you were my idol. That you were my friend. That I loved you more than anything else, including myself. I depended on you for life, because you had always been there to save it. I depended on you for clarity, because I spent too much time fogging up my lenses. You never questioned why I had the obsessions I did. You only asked to hear more. I told you about my life, my family, my dreams, my future, and my pain. You were more difficult. You basked in the mystery that your perm-frown gave off. You kept everything hidden. You spoke of things in a vague sense. The future would be great, but I'd never learn why. Nothing was ever fast enough for you. These nights, nights just like this, sitting on an icy bench in the middle of a cold November. This is what I lived for. Endless conversation, pure liberation. It was the one thing I always knew I could count on. You were the one person I always knew I could count on. If everything else turned to shit, we would still have us and this bench, those swings, this park. You needed more, and I always envied the drive. If you could embrace change and move on why couldn't I? What was it that kept me tied to this park bench for so many years? Why wasn't this the kind of thing I could force myself to get behind. Why I did place such a high importance on nostalgia? Why did everything that happened here, years before you, seem to have such a power over me? All of these questions lead to the excruciating one.


I never imagined that I’d be a widow at 27 and six months pregnant to boot, but here I am at my husband’s visitation, sitting in the front row, literally crying on my mother’s shoulder. Her arm tightens around me. “Hey, I was also a single mom and I managed. You’ll manage, too. And of course, I’m always here to help.” “But that was different. You were a teenager. Luke and I were married and in love. It was like we were born for each other. And he didn’t run off on me; he died.” I know I’m bordering on histrionic, but a mere week ago Luke was here, massaging my sore feet and rubbing my protruding belly. Now he’s lying lifeless in the casket several feet from me, the victim of a drunk driver. I’d like to have the perspective to say that he’s now reunited with his mother - who died 5 years previous - but the wound is still too fresh. Luke’s father, on the other hand, is very much alive, and very much not here. As though she’s read my mind, my mother asks, “Didn’t you say his father was coming?” I wipe away a tear with the back of my hand. “He called me to say he was, but I wouldn’t count on it, 'cause it's been years since he and Luke spoke. I mean, he didn’t even show up to our wedding. But now that Luke’s gone, I’ll probably never get to see his face now.” I sniffle. “Which suits me just fine; he was never there for Luke anyway.” My mother hands me a tissue. “Rat bastard.” When visitation hours are over and our fellow mourners have filed out (after offering hugs and condolences) my mother and I slowly take our leave, stopping short when we see a man standing in the foyer of the funeral home, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. “Can I help you?” I ask. The man looks up at me: eyes tinted pink, face sagging with remorse. Awkwardly, he extends a hand. “I’m um, Luke’s father. I’ve been standing out here for 20 minutes, deciding whether I should come in…” Just when a bitter retort rises up in my throat like bile, my mother pales. “Wait a minute...Jeffrey?” Luke’s father’s wet eyes focus on my mother. “A-Anita?” Now his glance is darting back and forth between my mother and I. “Oh my God, is this…” My mother releases a choked sob, collapsing to her knees on the carpeted floor. “No…” As Luke’s father clutches at his hair, the realization of their discovery hits me like a freight train. And that’s when I feel the baby kick for the first time.