Also this is a very rough draft so excuse spelling mistakes or the overuse of contractions. There were always rumors of a serial killer so evil, so demented, so monstrous, so gruesome, and so evil that he was looked at as more of the hypothetical monster under humanities bed than a real psychopath that needs to be hunted down and exposed. In this short story I am going to describe the infamous and horrible tale of what can be only called as “the monstrosity.” The monstrosity was born in 1945, his exact date of birth is unknown, he was born in Midwestern America; most likely Kansas. His father was a hulk of a man who conceived him when he brutally raped his own daughter, the violence in the monster’s life began before he was even born. His mother lets call her Lesly was only seventeen years old when she gave birth to the monstrosity, who was born about three weeks premature. Lesly almost died in childbirth because the monster’s father (lets call him Larry) continued to beat her during the pregnancy which led to the premature and extremely painful birth. The doctors predicted the monstrosity would not live through the night...oh how wrong they were; looking back if the doctors knew of the evil they allowed to enter the world, they may have had no problem suffocating that small innocent child right there and then. The monstrosity had no serious health problems from the violent birth, except for the fact that he would never grow taller than 5'5 even as a grown man; this monster’s height comes into play later and can be looked at as a curse or a blessing depending on how you read this evil’s story. The monster’s father Larry remarried shortly after he was born, he lied to all about the real mother of the monster. Being a minor still Lesly was forced to continue to live with Larry and his new wife Marie even after all the abuse and pain he had caused her, she wouldn't run away because she felt her son deserved a real mother not a life of lies. So, for the next three-years she worked hard at her job as a waitress to save enough money to move out of the abusive home with her son and get her own place. The abuse of Lesly continued throughout these years but Larry didn’t touch his son the monster because he respected the fact that his son had a keen likeness to himself, and resented the fact that his own daughter Lesly wanted to turn his own child against him. Larry wasn't a sociopath but he was a monster by his own merit, he didn't understand why his daughter hated him and thought he was a useless excuse for a men let alone a father; even though he sexually and physically abused her after her mother passed away from cancer when Lesly was about nine-years old. Larry tried to turn the monster who was about four years old by this point against his true mother Lesly and make him love his wife Marie and him as parents. Now, for a moment let us observe what know about Larry’s second wife Marie...she was about twenty-six years old married to Larry a much older man and little is known about her background or early-life. What we do know however straight from the words of our little monster is that she was an extremely beautiful woman; about 5’9, luscious blond hair, long legs, a nice curvy midsection, and most of all her skin according to the monster was softer than any other woman he ever met. But that all comes in to play later in this story of true evil. I will set the scene for the beginnings of our little monster’s first look at death and real cruelty. Of course the monster was exposed to the beatings of his real mother Lesly from time to time, but Marie did her best to keep the monster away from such things. You may be thinking why would a woman as beautiful as I described Marie as be with a violent man like Larry and allow him to abuse his adult daughter? Well, since little is known about Marie’s personality (at this point in time) I guess we can just say love works in mysterious ways and in this case ends up intertwined with death and unknowingly creating pure evil. Anyway, back to the story...Lesly finally saved up enough money to take the monster away from this hateful environment and get her own nice place. But Larry and Marie didn’t like that idea, they didn’t believe that Lesly really worked for that money and accused her of prostituting herself to make the money. They called her all sorts of names, not knowing that our little monster was hiding under the bed in his mother’s room just taking all this in. Like I said he had witnessed violence before, but never had he witnessed such abuse in a verbal sense they broke his mother down. Lesly wasn't the most emotionally sound woman due to her father’s abuse and it didn't take much to break her, and by the end of the verbal abuse from Marie and Larry which went on for almost an hour she just sat in the corner wet with her own tears and ashamed that she allowed them to do that to her. Then something happened to Lesly as she set there wallowing in her own pain and self-hate...she snapped. This young woman who received awful abuse by her own father her whole life finally snapped. She hated him with such passion, who was he to abuse her and then coddle her son like he was a decent human being when he was the one who raped her and almost killed her from beatings during her pregnancy! Lesly was not a small woman, her father Larry was about 6’6 and 250-pounds and he passed those genes onto his daughter; she was 6’3 but her weight was unknown. She grabbed Larry’s baseball bat that he used to occasionally use to beat her when he wasn't playing on the local softball team with it, and she waited in the room until she heard Marie go into her room and fall asleep. She left her room, and shortly after the monster (without her knowledge) followed her into the hallway and watched her. She saw that Larry was passed out on the couch and she snuck up behind him, only his head was exposed from under the covers. Lesly raised the bat above her head and slammed it back down with all the might and power she had within her body. The sound of Larry’s skull cracking was sickening to the soul of a normal person...you could hear the skull break apart into small fragments and slice through the brain matter. You could taste the blood in the air and feel the lack of Larry’s existence within it. Even though our monster was only four or five years old, he describes the event with such vivid remembrance as if it was his first memory. And maybe it was, because in my opinion this moment and what happened next is what creates our little monster as he really is or will be for the rest of his so called life. Larry was near dead after the first blow, but Lesly didn't know that and probably felt more powerful and in control than she ever had before in her entire life. She kept hitting him over and over, she destroyed his face so completely that it would take a ton of work for the cops to identify his body without just assuming. The monster describes hearing the life leave Larry’s body but instead of like it is in film he described it as just a silence within the room as if Larry’s soul or whatever made him alive had just been removed from the area. The silence as he described it was quieter than anything he would experience for a long time after. Than the silence was broken by Lesly yelling at the monster “go to your room, you shouldn't see this baby.” Her voice wasn't the same though it sounded different than the mother the monster though he knew, it sounded emptier as if the love Lesly held for him had exited her. And even at five years old the monster says that he felt the difference.


Derrick Martin’s shoes clicked rhythmically down the stairs of the Park Street subway entrance in downtown Boston. He knew every step, every brick out of place in every wall, he viewed the imperfections as checkpoints; this place was an extension of the office that had become his true home. He was later than usual. Hours earlier he had discreetly glanced at his watch as his clients mulled over details that didn’t need to be mulled over. He would have stopped them if he wasn’t being paid so handsomely in six-minute increments. He usually left the office around eight-thirty. Today, he reached his subway stop at ten-fifteen. He was starving, but the Dunkin Donuts that was usually bustling with customers had pulled its gates shut. In fact, the whole station seemed incredibly quiet. There were only two or three other people in sight at the other end of the underground terminal. The footsteps of his Italian Faragamo shoes echoed through the underground terminal. The grit on the tile floor sounded like sandpaper as his feet swept to a stop. His train wasn’t due for four minute so he decided to sit on the worn wooden bench facing the tracks. The streets and subways of Boston were much neater than those of New York, Chicago, and definitely LA. This was one of the reasons Derrick had decided on Boston when he uprooted his family from the home they had loved in rural North Carolina. It was simple, the money was better in the bigger city. He felt he was wasting his Ivy League law degree on the petty cases he’d been working on at his father’s firm. He felt out of place at his Yale reunions. “But, we’re happy here, the kids are happy here,” she had said. He checked his watch. He loved checking his watch because it reminded him how much he had paid for it, which in turn reminded him how successful he was. Ten-seventeen, two more minutes. He wondered if the racket coming down the stairwell only seemed loud because the subway stop was so quiet. The old shoes coming down the stairs squeaked with every other step. A ragged looking man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Don’t come this way. Don’t come this way. Derrick thought. The homeless man looked left, towards the long, dark tunnel where the train would soon appear, and right, towards Derrick. He began to shuffle towards Derrick. Derrick pulled out his iPhone and began to scroll through emails he knew he had already read. Fires he had already put out. He pulled his briefcase closer. He could feel the man looking at him. Giving in, he looked up and found the man standing directly in front of him. “Look, I don’t have any money, okay? I’m sorry. Move along.” Derrick attempted to sweep the man’s existence away with the brushing motion of his right hand. He looked back down at his emails. “Well how’s a man with no money got his ass sitting in an Armani suit?” The homeless man countered, showing a victorious grin with only a spattering of teeth. Derrick had to forfeit a smirk, it was kind of clever. “What makes you think this suit is Armani?” It was, but Derrick was curious. “What makes you think I didn’t used to own one, son?” The man quickly countered, and Derrick felt his heartbeat quicken. “I’m sorry, it’s not that…never mind. I didn’t mean to assume. Here, I think I have some change.” The man wasn’t moving. “Now Why’d you go and do that?” He asked. His patchy beard moved with the contours of his face. Bits of dried food were visible. Derrick was annoyed now. He stopped digging for change. “Why did I do what?” “Y’Got all tense when I was just tryin’na make a joke.” He began to move towards the bench, he was going to sit down. He smelled like the sewer. Derrick quickly thought of the day in the gun shop when he decided he didn’t really need a gun in Boston and walked out empty handed. “I didn’t mean to get tense. Don’t sit. I’m just trying to get home, alright?” Derrick tried to hide the nervousness in his voice and thought he had done a pretty good job. He pulled his briefcase against his side. The man laughed. “Boy, you must not be from around here.” He continued to laugh as he pushed up from the bench. He walked closely alongside the tracks away from Derrick. He was singing now. A song Derrick had never heard. Why was he so fucking happy? Derrick felt at ease as the man’s singing became more and more distant. Just then, more noise came from the long staircase the first man had come from. These footsteps were lighter, softer. “Julian! Where in the hell’d you get off to now?” It was a woman’s voice. Raspy. She was smiling as she turned the corner, as if life was some kind of joke. Her teeth were yellow, rotting. She looked much like the first man, who Derrick now realized was the Julian she was after. She was filthy, her hair was matted. The lining was falling out of the bottom corner of her stained winter coat. As she approached Derrick, he once again wrapped his arm over his briefcase. She didn’t even look in his direction. Julian was what she was after. Derrick wished the train would hurry. “Baby, come back!” She yelled after him. Julian was still singing, happy as ever. She caught up with him, wrapped her arm around his waist and began to sing along with him. Their song filled the terminal. The lights of the train began to illuminate the tunnel. Derrick checked his watch, ten-nineteen, right on time. His hair fluttered as the train pushed a wall of air into the open expanse of the terminal, he fixed it right away. The brakes screeched loudly as the long train came to a stop. Derrick got on and chose a window seat. He sat down making sure he didn’t touch the railings or the handles on the seats, no need to waste Purel. He put his briefcase on the chair next to him so that no one would sit there, even though the car was practically empty. As the train began to pull away from the Park Street stop, Derrick looked back at Julian and the woman. There they were, still singing, blissful ignorance Derrick thought. Derrick walked up to his house, his black Lexus was just where he had left it in the driveway, such a beautiful car, he thought. He wouldn’t dare drive it into the city and risk having it stolen or vandalized. He punched his randomly generated six-digit code into the panel on the door. He always scoffed at people who used their kids’ birthdays for passwords and codes. Derrick walked into the quiet, breathtaking complex he called home. He left his shoes neatly by the door. The kitchen was immaculate, almost untouched. The state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances were more for decoration now than anything. He grabbed the cold styrofoam take-out container from the top shelf of the fridge and walked upstairs. He passed his son’s room on the right, and then his daughter’s on the left, their bed frames sat in the darkness. He entered his room, and turned on his mounted plasma television. He didn’t care what was on, he needed the company. He sat at the foot of his bed and put the takeout on the floor in front of him. He sunk slowly into the custom-made, specialty fit, king-size bed he had ordered when they moved in. As he began unbuttoning his tailored dress shirt, he smirked at the idea that Julian and his filthy girlfriend would never know such luxuries.


Passing all of the road signs I've failed to notice. Hitting all of the bumps where new pavement was laid. All of the trees I've glanced at, but never saved. Every store, restaurant, boulder in the median, everything I’ve looked at but never actually seen. All present to me now, even more to miss. Funny, how we tune out the little components in life until we find a reason to look back. I look out the window at all of the scenery that I’ve glanced passed in the past. I take out the coin, one side a bronze steer-skull, with a backdrop of Texas painted in glossy red. On the back side, a sheriff star. The coin was given to me by my uncle. An agent in the Secret Service; he gave it to me right before he moved from his location in Arlington, to D.C. How the irony is strong. He gave me this coin and said to bring it wherever I might feel frightened. I’ve never felt so frightened in my entire life than in this rusty, faded white Honda Civic coupe. Two Berretta PX4 Storms lay in the trunk, in a useless gun case that I will never get to use again. I have never been one to cry, one to cower, one to fight. The driver, dressed completely in black, sped down the highway, almost there. I flipped the coin once more. Heads. Nobody can beat the coin toss, than why is it so hard to beat now? My motives are clear. I have grown tired of all of the unnecessary competition, the bragging, and the dominance. The coin toss is fair game. Nobody is better at flipping the coin than the next clown in line. I flip again, for good fortune, maybe this time things will change. Heads. I really didn't want it to come to this. I've never been violent in my past, always looking for the best in people. I flip. Heads. Looking at the steer, I tremble. Thirty heads, zero tails. The irony is that my uncle gave me this coin, under the impression that it would give me the motivation to do something great, to make a change, to do something great. Here I am, in some car, with someone I found on craigslist. Things are about to change. Heads.


7 A.M December 21st, 2010. Time 7:00 am I wake up with you in my arms and lay there silently as you dream the peaceful dreams that matched the calm state of your face. The way the sun shines on your skin and makes you almost as bright as the winters first snow. I breathe slowly, not to disrupt your sweet dreams. I love you. December 22nd, 2010 Time 7:00 am You stir to my fingers brushing your hair, softly, just like one would through a child's. You open your beautiful green eyes to start the beginning of your new adventure. Our fingers interlocked, the spaces filled perfectly. I couldn't ask for a better feeling. I love you. December 23rd, 2010 Time 7:00 am The scent of warm hot chocolate fills the room. Your favorite. A smile spreads across your face, the smile that tells me you feel what I feel. Breakfast in bed was my early gift to you. A gift I could give you for the rest of our lives. I love you. December 24th, 2010 Time 7:00 am The excitement of our first Christmas together excites you. I hold you close, feeling the warmth and comfort of your body against mine. A small kiss makes everything perfect. You make me feel complete. I love you. December 25th, 2010 Time 7:00 am You wake me up with a warm kiss on the lips. Merry Christmas my love, our very first holiday together. You're as excited as a child. That makes me smile. I give you your gift, it's small, but I know you'll love it. You open it and immediately know the answer. I love you. December 26th, 2010 Time 7:00 am The ring sits perfectly on your finger. I stroke the top of your hand and kiss your shoulder. You have to work soon but I don't want to wake you from your slumber. I don't want you to leave. I never do. I love you. December 27th, 2010 Time 7:00 am You're restlessly tossing and turning. I do my best to keep the blankets over you. I lean over and put my arm across you and place my body against yours. You settle. I worry. I love you. December 28th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I wake up to the sound of you softly crying. The tears roll off your cheek, I pull you into me and you rest your head on my chest and quietly sob. The darkness has engulfed you again. I won't let it hurt you anymore. I love you. December 29th, 2010 Time 7:00 am You're awake before me. Staring at the ceiling, caressing my hand softly. I kiss your cheek softly and you give me a warm smile. I see the pain in your eyes. It shatters my soul with every second I look at you. You have to leave for work soon. I want you to stay with me. I love you. December 30th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Your breath on my neck wakes me up. You look like you've been crying for hours. I hold you close and listen to your soft rhythmic breathing fill my ears. I'm afraid. I love you December 31st, 2010 Time 7:00 am New Years Eve, you tell me that you don't want to get out of bed today. The darkness is getting worse. You take your medication and lay back in bed. I bring you tea and some scrambled eggs, just the way you like them. You only eat half then stare blankly at the television. I take your plate to the kitchen and wash it. When I come back in to the bedroom you're playing with your ring. You tell me that you love me and that you're gonna be okay. I know better. I love you. January 1st, 2010 Time 7:00 am You've become pale, the dark circles under your eyes tell me that you are awake when I'm sleeping. You're eyes are bloodshot from all the crying. It kills me to see you in pain. I love you. January 2nd, 2010 Time 7:00 am No smile. You look at me and I know that you're fighting it. The darkness is stronger this time. I'll get you help, I promise. I love you. January 3rd, 2010 Time 7:00 am You take the new dosage doctor gave you. You've lost interest in everything. Your kisses are soft but have a chill to them. The warmth is gone. The sun in your soul is surrounded by a darkness that is darker than the midnight sky. I hope this dosage helps. I love you. January 4th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I try to wake you up but you don't stir. The room is silent. The pain in my chest is excruciating. I shake you and your pill bottles hit the floor. I fall to the floor. There is nothing I can do but cry. I dial 9-1-1 but I can't speak, I cry so hard that I lose my breath with every sob. The sobs are loud. The ambulance gets here and they put you on a stretcher. I follow holding your hand tightly. It's so cold. D.O.A. I love you.. January 5th, 2010 Time 7:00 am The bed feels empty with you gone. I cried all night. The tears are stained on my pillow case. Your scent fills my nose and I cry. I could have saved you. I'm empty without you. I read the note I found yesterday over and over. I'm so sorry baby. I can't take it anymore. I love you so much and I will always be with you. My sobs grow more intense. I miss you.. I love you.. January 6th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I had a dream about you. You looked so happy, so free. You're wings matched your brightness. Seeing your smile made me feel good that you are no longer in pain. I love you.. January 7th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Your funeral is today. I cry as I think of how you are no longer with me. It tears me apart. I feel like part of me has been crushed by a steam roller. I made my side of the bed and got dressed. I love you.. January 8th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Yesterday was hard. Seeing you lay almost as peaceful as you did when you slept broke my heart even more. You had an aura of serenity around you. Your skin glowed like it did when the sun hit you just right. I miss you so much. I love you.. January 9th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I made your favorite hot chocolate and scrambled eggs. I'm coming to visit your grave for breakfast. Even though you aren't here, I will still bring you your favorite things to wake up to. Even though I know you won't be waking up this time. I love you.. January 10th,2010 Time 7:00 am I stayed at your grave for three hours. I poured the hot chocolate on the soil above you and dug a small hole to bury the eggs in. I hope you enjoyed them like you always did when you were still here. I cried when I got home, I hurt so bad. I miss you more than anything.. I love you.. January 11th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Happy 2nd anniversary my love. I miss you. I love you. January 12th, 2010 Time 7:00 am It's getting too hard to sleep in our bed. I slept on the couch in the living room last night with one of your t-shirts. It smelled just like your favorite perfume from the mall. I held it just like I would have held you. I love you.. January 13th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Your mother called me to make sure I was okay. She's so hurt. The pain in her voice was so much to bear. We miss and love you.. January 14th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I'm going crazy without you.. I miss you.. I love you.. January 15th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I visited your grave again yesterday. I hope you liked the flowers. They were the kind I got you on your birthday in August. Remember how happy you were? I love you.. January 16th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I can't stand being without you anymore.. I love you.. January 17th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I visited you yesterday. I just laid by your head stone and imagined that it was our bed and that you were actually in it. Our nice warm bed, with your warm smooth body laying right by mine. It was a nice thing to think about. I love you.. January 18th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I'm scared, but I can't take this pain anymore. I don't know about anything anymore. All I know is that I need you. I can't live with out you. There's a loud snap that fills my ears then a bright light. I see you approaching me, you look as beautiful as ever. Our fingers interlock and you kiss me. I feel no pain, no heartbreak. Just the love that I've felt since I fell in love with you. I'm home now and I'm happy. I love you.


“Look at that couple,” she said, motioning with her head, both hands clutching my arm. “Look at the flowers he gave her. That’s so cute.” “You’re cute,” I said. She blushed. “You know that’s my favorite gift?” she asked. “Flowers?” “Yeah.” “Okay.” “You never give me flowers.” “I will someday. When I feel like it. I’ll surprise you.” She nodded and pulled my arm tighter, content with my answer, confident that I was speaking the truth. I never did. I walked down the sidewalk sheltered by the awnings of angled building fronts. The sun cascaded in golden ropes through the slats of benches, spilling across my shoes. I felt good. I whistled to the music playing in my ears. I had my whole life ahead of me, a life I could live on my own schedule from now on. I’d just skewered the last of my social obligations and was on my way home to my new life of I don’t know what. Books, movies, games, contented loneliness. My thoughts drifted abstractly to the girl in the apartment I just left, crying out on the bed that she was still in love with me, but I shrugged it away, sliding my hand into my pocket and fingering the playing card I’d taken from her night stand moments earlier. I’d been using as it as a bookmark for as long as I could remember, and had forgotten it the last time I spent the night with her. She was crying into her hands when I stealthily snuck over and retrieved it. For whatever reason it was important to me. She deserved better. That’s why I left. I drew a draft of brisk October air into my body and reminisced about our last break up six months ago, and how that one didn’t stick for more than a couple of weeks. We’d been fighting for a while, nothing major, but consistent enough to be an ongoing issue. We were just incompatible as romantic partners, it seemed. We were both too absorbed in our own worlds to make any concessions for each other’s, and our worlds were far too different to begin with. She lived in a state of constant social stimulation. She always needed to be doing something. She was so busy all the time, and when she wasn’t she made herself so. Last Christmas I gave her a bracelet. Nothing fancy, just a band of twinkling silver that I thought would look mighty pretty hanging from her wrist. It came giftwrapped and bundled, so I didn’t see it again until the day we exchanged gifts. I smiled as she opened it, and I saw her smile. We smiled together for a while, but when she tried to put it on we noticed the tiny little clasp that came with it was broken. I was right though; it looked mighty pretty hanging from her wrist. She set it aside, promising to get the clasp fixed as soon as she could, and we enjoyed the rest of our evening. Apple cider doughnuts and peppermint tea. A gingerbread house kit we never built. A few months passed and she still hadn’t gotten it fixed. I brought it up every time we were together. We fought about it. She said she was too busy, besides she didn’t even know where you were supposed to go to get a bracelet fixed. The fucking jewelry store, I said, they’re all over the place in the city. Eventually, I got tired of waiting, so I went myself and purchased a pair of silver clasps. They were twelve bucks. It took less than five minutes. There’s no way she could’ve done it herself. Not a chance in the world. Not five minutes to spare in three months time. We broke up before I gave them to her. I ended up handing them over a week or so later when I went crawling back. She eventually relented and another week or so later we were back together and happy. We slept together and it felt comfortable and right. I was twenty-four years old. That was six months ago. Feels longer. I’m twenty-five now. I looked up at the awnings, at the birds nests stuffed behind light fixtures. They looked comfortable. I was fine. I wasn’t thinking about the bracelet anymore. I wasn’t thinking about all the things I could’ve or should’ve done. Then something caught my eye, a bouquet of colors lighting up a grocery store window, colors you could smell, flowers. I’d walked by that grocery every time I visited her for the last year, but this was the first I’d ever seen them selling flowers. I stopped cold, shivering, overcome by sadness and failure. My throat closed; I coughed pathetically, rejecting some pill. In front of me, flowers, of all shapes and colors, strewn seductively, beckoned me toward mild memories of the last two years. Days and weeks and months flashed by. She graduated school, she received job offers, we celebrated birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, her father passed away. Gifts were exchanged, support was given, love was made. And yet, somehow, throughout our entire time together I’d never given her flowers. Not even once. My own negligence dawned on me like a sunrise, slow and peaceful, standing outside the grocery store window, falling apart. Opening night. The show was a success. Months of hard work and planning came together. The reviews were sure to be good. We had a few awkward drinks with her crew. They told me how great she was to work with. I nodded and said I knew. I wanted to leave. I felt stupid, out of place. I couldn’t be in her world for even a single night without wanting out. I was light-headed. I’d forgotten something important, but what was it. Something I’d meant to do. Something I’d meant to bring her. To show her I cared. That I was proud of her. I guess I didn’t. I guess I wasn’t. Buying flowers downtown was so expensive anyway. I walked to the train, my eyes peeled for a flower shop. There were none around, so I didn’t get any. Didn’t even check my phone. I didn’t want to go out of my way. She slept next to me, snoring. On her desk a single flower stood in a glass jar full of brown water. Not from me. From someone she worked with. To show her they cared. I came back together and entered the store. I pulled instead of pushed, went red as a rose with embarrassment. I walked over to the display that housed the flower selection and perused them delicately. The distant, chalky smell of their petals hitting me like the first breath of air surfacing from the deep end of the swimming pool. Artificial shades of red, pink, yellow, cream wrapped in cheap plastic bundles, twiggy stems held hostage by wire twist ties. They were the most beautiful flowers I’d ever seen. I picked up a large bundle of white chrysanthemums and let their vapors consume me. Barely conscious of what I was doing, I bought the flowers and exited the store. A wire attached to the underside of my belly yanked me back in the direction of the apartment where a girl sat, still crying over me, trying not to hate me for putting her through this again. I entered the building and rode the elevator to the tenth floor. My heart raced. I prayed that she would still be hidden away in her apartment, that she would not be standing out in the hallway to see me approaching her with those flowers in my hand. The elevator doors opened and I rushed to her door, laid the flowers at the base, and ran for the nearest stairwell. My footsteps no sooner echoed against the metal slats of the stairs than tears began to sting my eyes. I felt no sense of redemption or comfort with what I’d done. I wanted it to be some grand sign of finality, a tying up of a loose end, but it didn’t feel that way at all. It just made me impossibly, pathetically sad. Later, when I tried to tell my friend about it, I burst into tears all over again. I regretted never buying her flowers while we were still together, and now I’m trying not to regret buying her flowers after ending it. Weeks ago, months ago, it would’ve been a simple act that brought a simple smile to her face. Now, it felt complicated, insensitive. What was I thinking? Why did I wait so long? She deserved them so many times. I want to be here for her still. I hope that she knows that. I hope the flowers can represent that to her. I hope she didn’t throw them in the trash already. I hope they’re sitting by her bed right this moment, comforting her in the same way I always wanted to but couldn’t. Mostly, I hope that while we were together I was able to give her something more important to her than flowers. Something that won’t whither and die in a couple of weeks, even if properly nourished and taken care of. Some sort of seed inside her heart that will continue to grow and blossom, immune to the passage of time, that will see her through the challenges of the future and comfort her when she feels the most alone and maybe, just maybe, one day direct her back into my arms where another, different type of seed can be sown.


Amelia leaned up against the taxi and stared as the sheriff and repossession team emptied her home and memories onto the front lawn. Her father was fighting back tears, as he pleaded and begged the officer for another chance or more time; the alcohol on his breath disgusted the sheriff, but even he didn’t lack the empathy to arrest a man who had already been so thoroughly embarrassed in front of his family. Amelia’s mother stood with her back to the whole ordeal, chain-smoking cigarettes and massaging her temples with the free hand. The next thing her father slurred was what set Amelia off. “[…]if you’re gonna’ jusht throw us on the st-street like a bunch of bums, at least… at least look at my fuckin’ daughter in-in the eyes.” He pointed at her from across the lawn, but the sheriff only glanced at her and back to the belligerent man who was sending spit in every direction. Meanwhile, Amelia’s jaw was dropping at the nerve it took to use her as a prop, regardless of her father’s shaky history. She felt like storming towards the useless man and screaming every infuriated thought that entered her head, but it was no use; he’d already spent on alcohol what he hadn’t on gambling, and she had already spent every emotion she ever felt. So, she stood there, as hollow her house was. As a repo man carried out the stuffed dog that had sat in the corner of her room since she could walk, she looked back at her mother and felt the urge to ask for a cigarette.


I attempt to open one eye, the mucus build up makes it near impossible to bring anything into focus. Crusted particles consume my eyelashes and each waking blink is almost too much to take. My head is throbbing, and not the "I drank too much last night" throbbing, but more along the lines of "Someone pummeled the fuck out of my head" throbbing. The floor beneath me is cold and firm, the walls bare, bleak and colorless. I finally start to regain my senses when suddenly I begin to question "Where the fuck am I?". After a few minutes of systematically blinking, trying to break away from the previous night's debauchery, I am finally able bring my almost limp body into an upright position. I immediately notice that my nose passage is blocked as I attempt to bring fresh oxygen into my lungs. I bring my fingers to my nostrils and too my dismay, I come to the realization that my nose isn't working because of all the coagulated blood up in there. I just continue to sit there, same spot, no movement. "What went wrong?" I think that same question to myself everyday, always in the morning, always when my mind is fresh, when my thoughts aren't clouded by the ensuing bittersweet reality of Heroin.


When the waiter poured my wine and offered a casual "Say when" I did no such thing. Instead I watched as the wine filled the glass, eventually reaching the top and overflowing onto the table cloth. He looked at me as if to say "Say it. Please say when", but I remained firm as the wine ran off the sides of the table, soaking the carpet and pooling at our feet. Soon it collected around our ankles, then our knees, and still I said nothing. Sweat beaded the waiter's brow as the wine reached our waists and began pressing at the window panes. "Say when!" his eyes demanded, "for God's sake say when!" The bottle faltered in his hand but still I said nothing. Still the wine continued to flow. There was a sound of splintered glass as the windows gave way and the wine gushed onto the streets; a claret tsunami. Traffic was overturned, buildings toppled, people pulled beneath the crimson riptide. Soon the Earth was a ruby, glistening against a jeweller's black velvet. "When", I said.


[Places and Companies are fictional] It was just like any other day. I had my morning coffee at 6:30 before heading off for work. I do IT for a regional company called ExpressPark. They build parking meters for cities all across the Midwest. I live in Zionsville, Indiana. It’s a small suburb north of Indianapolis. Nothing ever happens there. It’s a grey smattering of office buildings and chain restaurants. It is just a reflection of my personality, an uneventful state of apathy. Is it ironic or sad that I am indifferent about that? Work is work. Again, just like Zionsville, there is no variety in day to day activities. I am doomed to an unending cycle of computer problems and printer malfunctions. I’m just the IT geek to everyone. No one gives it a second thought. Not that I mind. I would rather eat lunch alone than talk sports with the former high school quarterback still stuck in his glory days. Still, although I am content with my life, I feel like it lacks something. I ponder this thought on the way home. As I stop at a red light, I look out and see two twenty-somethings smoking cigarettes in front of a drug store and listening to music on a boom box. Their heads are banging up and down to the heavy guitar, their long hair whipping back and forth. They didn’t care about the damages to their lungs that the cigarettes would cause or the fact that a boom box is comically outdated in 2014. I wished I could let go like that. Listen to music from a boom box. Headbang. Smoke. Quit my job. Drop all of my dress clothes off at Goodwill and get some wax black skinny jeans, and a leather jacket. Meet up with these two and rock out in front of the drug store. It could break me out of the constant indifference that haunts me. I could feel alive. It’s been so long since I’ve felt true happiness, or had fun. There’s so much I’ve never done. There’s so much I’ll never do, if I continue to live this way. I’ve never been to a crazy party, been drunk and in love, kissed someone in the rain, smoked pot, or pulled an all-nighter with a friend. Do I even have friends? I take a long look at the headbangers. Something holds me back. Something tells me not to do this. My job is safe. There is no risk in keeping it. Just keep saving money. I can use it later in life. I can retire, have some good years at a beach house in Florida before I die. That sounds good, right? Before I can answer my own question, the light turns green and I drive off, always left to wonder what might have been.


I woke up in a cold sweat, the stench of dried blood and an oppressive musk was heavy and I coughed a few times as my eyes started refocusing on the dimly lit room around me. *"I was dreaming..."* I sat up in my rough bed, the heat of the summer night forced me to remove the thicker layers of the bed sheets. I checked my alarm clock, the red glow of the LED display was flickering slightly. *"It felt so real"* I pondered apon my recent experience with the dream when I put my attention towards the thick odour in the room. It was the middle of summer and a hot room did this, especially when the clouds persisted through the night and trapped the heat in from the previous afternoon. I pulled off the remaining sheets and opened the window to release the odour from the room. I felt the wind enter the room on my face, it tickled my cheeks and that small relief was enough to keep me from closing the window again. It was only a few more hours until sunrise, and I could not leave the window open for too long or the room will be too cold for a comfortable rest. I decided to turn on the lights to illuminate the room. *click *"Holy shit..."* The lit room from the celing light revealed a much different perspective of the room. My fingers were covered in blood, and everything I had previously touched had darkened brown stains. I looked down on the floor only to notice my stomach had massive cuts that were actively bleeding. The realization of the upturned room was startling, my stomach was still bleeding, blood was now nearly pouring out of the cuts and it spilled onto my fingers. I slid onto the floor in pain and attempted to grab something for support. *"Oh god"* I looked at my stained hands, the nails were extended and sharp, revealing small nubs on the tips. I tasted blood in my mouth, only to find my teeth to be sharper and my tongue to be longer. I could no longer breath and I felt like everything was falling apart. The world slipped underneath me and my vision went black. *"I was dreaming"* I sat up in my rough bed, the glow of the summer mid morning sun forced me to remove the thicker layers of the bed sheets. The window was open and the wind was starting to pick up, blowing in and replacing the stale air from my room. I shut the window and pondered apon my recent experience with the dream I just had.


He didn't remember much about his life, and nothing from before he was six. They told him it was normal in children to forget things from such a young age, but he didn't believe them. After all, the things he *did* remember were in such bright, sharp detail, when he delved into his mind to them, it was almost like living the events over again exactly as they happened. The day the Men came and took him to the facility was a particularly bright memory. He had dreams of it, dreams that were so detailed it was as if he had stepped back in time. Over and over, he would relive the terrible moment. *He was sleeping, and having the most wonderful dream. In the dream he had a mother, and a sister, and a father who went to work during the days and came home at night to tell his family about his day, and the boy would listen intently, and his sister would look at him and start to ask a question, but the boy would not hear the question, for at that moment he was woken by the sound of splintering wood and the startled shrieks of the other boys in the orphanage, the sounds of heavy feet on the wood floors, and dark silhouettes in the darkness, and then rough hands gripping his arms and pulling him off his bed, still in his pajamas and no shoes, not even socks, and the boy too afraid and confused to even make a sound and then men carried him out the door and into the street to a car parked at the curb, and the door slides open and the boy is thrown inside impersonally, and his entire world is pitted into darkness as the door slides shut again, and he feels the car start to drive, and it drives and drives...* He always woke up then, when the car started to drive. he didn't know why, but it was the way it was, and he couldn't do anything about it. The car had taken him to a large white building in the middle of a desert. He had been carried inside and put in a room with a bed and a dresser and white walls and no windows, and had been told to stay there. As soon as the goons had left the boy had tried the door, of course, but to no avail. Later that first day a fat lady in a white smock had entered his room carrying a tray of food, and the boy had tried to run for it, out the open door, but the lady was fast for being fat, and she grabbed him as he tried to dodge past. She had fat, oily fingers that made the boys skin crawl, and he knew he never wanted her to touch him again. The food was flavorless and stale, and the boy hardly touched it after the first bite. And so it was for the next four years of the boys life. He never saw another soul, except for the fat lady. She never spoke to the boy, and didn't have a name tag, but that was okay with the boy, for even if she had told him her name, he would still have called her the fat lady. Every night he dreamed the same dream. The day of his abduction to this horrible place, and every night he woke up as the car began to drive. Everyday he had the same horrible food, and spent the days scratching pictures into the white wall paper of his room. Then one night, something changed. The boy had always remember everything about his dreams, and he always felt as though he was a camera inside the eye of his past self, with no control, only the ability to observe through his own eyes the horror that ensued. But this night something was different. *He was woken from his wonderful dream by the crashing noise, and the boys shouting, and he sat up, ready for what was to come. But he could feel his hands, his feet, he could blink when he wanted to, and he raised his hand to look at it, and it obeyed. He was so stunned he didn't even flinch when the men grabbed him. They took him and threw him in the car, and it began to drive...* He woke with a start and looked around the room. It must have been daytime, because they only turned the light on when the sun came up, and they turned it off when the sun went down. He stared up at the ceiling, questions filling his mind like a swarm of ants pouring out of a disturbed ant hill. What had happened? What was going on now? Was it just another part of the dream? A part he had forgotten? How could it be? How could he do it? What did it *mean*? With the many questions, however, came fewer answers, and the boy groaned in frustration. Just then the Fat Lady came in with his tray of food, and he sat up and watched her until she left, then he grabbed up his tray and slowly munched on his food, thoughts of the dream change running wild in his mind. That night he couldn't wait for the lights to go out. And when finally they did, it took him a long time to fall asleep. A funny thing happens, the more you think of sleep. Not sure why, but if you are trying to go to sleep, the absolutely worst thing you can do is think about going to sleep. Unfortunately, the boy did not know this, and spent much of the night with is eyes scrunched shut, willing himself to sleep. For hours he did this, but to no avail. Finally, he gave up and went to staring at the ceiling, wondering what it would be like to have windows, wondering what season it was, if it was raining, snowing, what? *He was awoken by the sound of the crash, and the other boys, and he immediately sat up and looked around and realized; HE HAD DONE IT! He was in the dream, and he felt the same surge of power rush through his body, and he had control. He heard the thumping feet on the wood floor and quickly jumped off the bed and sprinted for the other side of the room. There was a window there, and he pushed it open and had just gotten one leg over the sill when a beefy hand grabbed him around the neck and pulled. The boy fell back into the room, choking and spluttering, and then the two men had him on either arm, and they carried him past all the silent, gaping boys, out the front door and to the car, and the darkness closed in, and the car began to drive...* He woke with a start, and immediately noticed the change; he was in a dark room, and the floor was cold on his bare feet. The mattress he had been on the night before was gone, replaced by a small cot with a small wool blanket that he could barely see in the gloom. Where the white walls and door had once been was now cold gray stone and a steel door with a small slat at the bottom of it. What was this place? What had happened? He tried to think to remember, and suddenly a blur of images came to him; an angry thin, gray woman, yelling at him, a smaller gray room with shackles that attached to his bare, sore ankles, the Fat Lady smiling cruelly at him. But those images weren't *his*, were they? They couldn't be. Could they? Why was he in the gray room now? When had they brought him there? He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He was not stupid, and his imagination had always been his most important tool in that plain white room. And now, slowly, a thought began to form. A thought so impossible, so amazing, so *dangerous*. And the boy smiled. He could fix it. He could fix it all.


The five young men were gathered around in a group. They were the best of friends, even though they'd only recently met each other. A year ago, not one of them knew another. They'd all met while travelling around the world, and quickly gotten to know each other. They were young too, which probably helped establish such a strong friendship. The oldest wasn't a day over 20. Steve was the only one to have been with a girl, which the others were constantly asking him about. Some sitting, some kneeling, and John, whose words they all hung by, standing, they all passed the time by smoking and joking with one another, until John got a call. He nodded a few times before turning to his mates. They all looked up at him, and saw that his face was white. They knew what was coming, and after a moment, it did. John uttered the words they'd been dreading.


Stardate: no clue. Warp drive is fucked. Life support systems are on life support. Best I can figure, electromagnetic something or other must have flared up. Whatever that means. This area is totally empty of any stars, planets, comets, asteroids, or any other names we've come up with for rocks floating in space. I'm only realizing at this moment what a terrible idea it was of society to start letting dumbasses like me pilot these metal death traps. Looking out, I can see another ship drifting by and I guess it got hit by the same wave of bullshit. I have to assume the other poor bastard in there is as hopelessly unintelligent as me. The only plan I've got is to see if I can jump across the void to the other ship. I've got nothing to change my direction once I take that leap. I am not scared, yet, because I have not convinced my brain that this is real. When I was a kid, we hadn't even made it to Mars. And here I am, with a flat tire in as close to nowhere as one can be. There's no way any of this is real. My mind is racing, and I'm trying to keep it that way. If it settles down, it will start to feel what it has already realized: I'm fucked. I'm thinking back to my younger days playing pool in my friend's basement. I never paid attention in physics or geometry and they say pool is all geometry. I'm not sure if I'm the cue or the cue ball, though. I'm pretty sure that other ship is the pocket. So I guess I'm trying to scratch? The analogy is falling apart. I never played pool by the numbers anyway. Always went by feeling. I open the hatch and the little air pressure left in the cabin rushes out. I lucked out and the angle to the other ship seems pretty well lined up with the hatch. I'm trying to picture everything in such a way that the leap seems easiest. Only my ship is moving, I decide. The other one is stationary. A metal island in the dark cosmic ocean. My mind is starting to slow. The reality is starting to take hold. If I don't jump know, I'll be a huddled mess in the corner of my ship until I asphyxiate. I get my mind racing again thinking about the odds that I am even within sight of another ship. It's got to mean something. Maybe I've got a guardian angel that looked away from the controls for a bit and is trying to rectify the situation without giving himself away. No way that's true, I think, but I trick myself into feeling it just enough that I am ready. I don't think of my wife. I don't think of my kids. There will be plenty of time for those thoughts if I miss. Dammit, I shouldn't have thought that. It's now or never. I jump.


"I love you." She was looking at me. Looking into me even. Her eyes wide with the soft hope that comes with saying those words. This girl, here and now, has opened up to me expecting me to do the same. What was I to do? A girl's emotions are a frail thing, and one would have to be a monster to betray such trust. "Do.. you love me?" I was taking too long. The panic was starting to show in her face. Her mask beginning to slip. I know how I feel about her, but what was I to do? To say? I did the only thing I could. The only possible choice I really had. I lied. I lied because I didn't want to hurt her. I had seen the brief regret in her face during that silence following her question.. the doubt. I had to make it right. I never wanted to see her sad again, never wanted to see her dreams broken. To tell the truth would be only heartless. I have grown accustomed to her smile. Her happiness bringing me my own in a way that only the strange magic of the mind can fathom. In that moment of confession, she was so perfect.. so sure of her life. The only thing I could hope, in the most secret corners of my heart, is that she could be as happy as she was in that moment forever. Who am I to take that away from this beautiful girl? This kind, and loving girl? I had no choice. I am not the one who deserves her affection. I was never good enough for her. Too far gone for my own angel. What cruel god could create such a perfect human being.. and make her have pity on me? In that moment, every fiber of my being screamed I love you too. I love you so much it keeps me up at night. My heart.. my mind.. my soul.. all said I love you. I said "No.


Hey guys, I wrote a short story that I was hoping to get any feedback/criticism on. This is my first time writing a short story and also my first time posting to Reddit, and I appreciate any feedback. As they did every Sunday, Nora brought her daughter Jill to a new place for their mommy-daughter day. Jill skipped along side her mother as they made their way towards a towering glass building. Nora knew that Jill looked forward to Sundays because she was mostly absent during the week. It's a sacrifice, but I'm doing important work. She would tell herself that while trying to justify that what she was doing was the right thing. After all, it wasn't like Jill's father was around to support them. And these weekends together would make up for the lost time during the week. The automatic glass doors swooshed open as Jill leapt through. "C'mon mommy!! Huurrrryy!" Jill was energetic, curious, and intelligent like her parents. She was only four but was already reading like a second grader. "Oooo" Jill coo'd as she stared at a sphere hovering above a small pool of water. "Where are we today mommy?" "This is a One World Science Exhibition honey." It was after the last World War that the leaders of the world realized our eventual fate. Whether it was because they had finally smartened up or because nearly a tenth of the world's population had died, they finally decided to cooperate. Military funding worldwide was redirected towards science and technology. Together, the smartest minds in the world would come together and invent ways for us to flourish as a species. This was the start of the One World movement. A movement uniting the world towards one goal; longer healthier lives for all people, regardless of race or religion. One World Science and Technology Exhibition's opened up all around the world to showcase the remarkable breakthroughs that were being made and to foster a sense of unity. "There are places like this all over the world honey. It's like a celebration of what we as humans are capable of imagining." Jill's eyes darted from one exhibit to the next, eagerly bouncing in anticipation. "Stay with me, Jilly." Nora took her hand and led her to each exhibit, explaining the basic idea behind the invention and how it would benefit humanity. In the distance something caught Jill's eye. Her mother could tell that she wasn't listening to her anymore. Jill was silent. She stared intently down a dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hallway was a girl, barely Jill's age. She stood staring back for a moment and then walked around the corner. "I see you've noticed the main exhibit. Let's go take a look." Nora led Jill towards the hallway and around the corner. Against the wall was a cylindrical glass tank filled with water. And floating in the water was the a little girl. The same little girl that Jill had just seen in the hallway. "What.. who is she?" "This is Summer. She is the whole reason the One World Exhibits exist" Before Nora could continue explaining, Jill whispered, "She's lonely." "What was that honey?" "She's lonely and she doesn't understand what's going on." "Well I imagine she would be quite lonely Jilly" Nora knew Jill's imagination could run wild. "No mommy, she's telling me..." "Jill, Summer can't talk. She's been in here for over hundred years and no one has heard her talk." "But mommy..." "Listen Jilly..." Nora led her right in front of the glass tank. She took her hand and placed it on the glass. "Summer isn't alive. Do you know what that means?" "Yes mommy" "She died a long time ago and her body was preserved using technology." Jill was silent. Staring past Nora and straight into the blueish glow of the tanks water. But something was wrong. Nora turned around. Her eyes went wide as they stared straight at Summer's lifeless face. She was such a beautiful young girl. Much too young to have had her life taken from her. Her features were soft and her skin a light blueish gray. "Mommy..." Nora stood entranced by Summers face. "Mommy... she's not dead" Her eyes opened. And Nora screamed.


Last night I went to a party in Depot Town with Steve. The whole event was promoted by the tenants as a house show for local bands, although equally devoted to everyone's thirst for cheap beer and vigorous ego stroking. I changed my outfit about seven times before deciding on a pale pink dress and black cardigan. It was clear mere minutes after arriving that my little pink number didn't stand a chance. I was simply not punk enough to be here. Not even my tactfully applied black eyeshadow could fool this crowd into thinking I had any shred of underground grit to me. The sentiment of disconnect was only exaggerated by several forehead tattoos, ironic leather booty shorts, and 40-something skinheads with gray chest hair popping out of Black Flag v-necks. But for the sake of this recount, let me set aside my own ego and admit that I was probably just invisible. And so I did as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions. I threw back three beers, fidgeted fervently and embraced my anonymity. The first person I spoke to aside from Steve was this guy named Kristov. I had met Kristov a few weeks earlier at a bar called Sidetracks. I remembered only his name and our brief acknowledgement of each others' self-deprecating humor. Kristov wears a grey wool trench coat and gaudy septum ring. Kristov has pale skin and black irises. Kristov likes Joy Division and writes slam poetry. He gave me this breathy confession that he'd recently subscribed to a life of sobriety, and that parties like this were becoming a burden. I nodded my head and smiled, said nothing. I guess it just seemed the kind of topic that ought to be sustained by the initiator. But for the sake of this recount, let me say that over my dead body was I about to politely endure any straightedge superiority propaganda. But Kristov ultimately concluded that I was most definitely interested as to why he now so nobly abstains from Pabst Blue Ribbon. Or maybe he just if he felt like talking about it. "I get angry. I get really fucking angry when I drink. I get angry because I'm sad, I'm so sad, all of the time. But the last time I got drunk I threw a metal folding chair at someone's head. And then I punched him. I punched him until I watched two teeth pop out of his jaw. I didn't even know his name. I can't remember if he even did anything to upset me. When I woke up the next morning, I looked down at my knuckles and cried. I cried for hours. I felt like dying. I felt like dying for weeks." He had broken eye contact with me halfway through his monologue but my eyes were locked on his face. My heart was pounding like an addict with an itch. These kinds of interactions with people had always been my raison d'etre. I wanted so badly to relate to this person. I wanted so badly to share with him the last time that I felt like dying, and that I thought his exposition was gorgeous in the same way I fall in love with stories of passionate criminals, and that I felt this great, misplaced privilege to be the one who was listening to him in that moment. And so began the manic panic for an encapsulating reply. But I did as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions. I miraculously rematerialized into a fucking stone. I offered this person a sentiment so vapid I swear to god it felt like cheap plastic sliding past my teeth. "You made a mistake and then you made a change, based on how you felt about your mistake. That's really good.". I could feel us both wince at my reply. His discomfort was almost audible. My fingers pinched the base of my wrist. My teeth bit the inside of my cheek as another opportunity for me to authentically interact with another human being passed, just as quickly as it came. We exchanged "Yeah"'s and returned to our posts. Mine being at Steve's side, his in the kitchen.


“You’ll find the air is rare out there.” She was spinning in the cafeteria. High above the blank-white tables and blood-red benches she spun slowly, singing an old pop song. “And no one cares, when you fail.” She wore half a life suit. The top half was just a tank top that clung to her breasts. “Because no one’s there, out in space, way out there.” Wine floated passed me, as I yelled “You need to come down. Use the ladder.” “Fuck.” She giggled. “You. I’m not scared of you.” “I’m the only one left. You’re drunk. It’s still in here. Come down.” It was a computer virus. It had taken over the entire station. It was on a warpath. “I’m safe up here. No doors. See.” She spread her arms out and waved them like she was flying. I assumed she had more than just the wine. “If it opens the air locks you won’t be.” I had a phone. I could look up everything that was going on inside. I could tell you where the air locks had open. I could tell you where doors had come down and bisected personnel. I could tell you where forklifts had run down crew. I could tell you which bloody messes were cleaned up and which were still floating around different bays and rooms. But I couldn’t tell you whether the phone was lying. “There is a meeting of general staff in the atrium. Please direct all personnel to the B wing. Thank you.” The virus interrupted from the intercom. A similar message appeared on my phone. “He’s at it again.” “You can’t kill me, I’m already dead.” I could only hope that she had taken enough of whatever to put her out for good. I could not leave a woman behind. But a dead woman would not bother my conscience one iota. “Briggs? Helena? There is a general meeting in B wing.” Another blast of the intercom with an old recording of the Captain. The projector turned on and blasted a bright glow of white against Helena as she spun in the air. It had been knocked off the table and now it was beaming a portrait of a meadow onto her. The virus spoke again. “Failure to meet in the B wing will result in fines.” “I’m a daisy!” Helena bleated. “There is no meeting in B wing. We are leaving the station. The station is being..FUCK, will you get down from there!” I yelled. I had put down most of my equipment and was ready to put on the rest of my suit. “There is no where to go! Where are you going to go? Out in the shuttle? See how far that takes you. You are out in outer space, silly! Besides, you’re just a cook!” She giggled again and then tried to catch butterflies that flew passed her on the projection. “I’m not giving up. The cook is probably dead. I’m Briggs. Now, there’s a station near here...” “Light years!” She screamed back. “It doesn’t matter. There is a distress beacon. It is POSSIBLE that they could be here in days. I have food, water, and tools. The doors are all safely disarmed. We have suits. It’s another twenty steps and we’re out of here. Now come down!” “You come get me.” “Alright!” I climbed out of my suit and began ascending the ladder. I could see her smile from some 100 feet above me. At the top, I made for her, but she floated passed me and murmured “Ah, ah, ah.” Looking down I could see the entire cafeteria. And then I saw the bodies. Two of them. One of them was the cook and the other was Helena. Both had been crushed against the floor. The cafeteria shook as the entire bay began to slowly spin, restoring the gravity.


I chose to write this story because the author of World War Z states that zombies can survive underwater for a long time, but doesn't say anything about what was done to clear them up. Yes, there are references to other famous books/movies in here too, I hope you will enjoy it :) Deep Sea One part of the Z war, or World War Z, as some like to call it, that rarely gets mentioned in history books is the cleanup of the seas. When the war was long won on land and humanity was mopping up the last remnants of zombified human remains, a silent war was still raging under the seas, a war that few ever heard of and whose soldiers are forgotten, relegated to the annals as "cleanup crews". Giorgio Pellizzari led one of these crews, the Poseidon #8, in charge of "disposal, removal and elimination of human remains". Now retired, the imposing Italian man still sports a fierce white beard that contours his sun-baked face. His blue eyes, specks in the midst of gnarled rough skin have a lively, unbowed look about them. "The first thing you have to understand about our work is that the sea covers 71% of the planet, and with man being a land animal and all, it is naturally difficult to make any sort of impact on such an immense, untamed body. Think of navies in the past, of the Spanish Armada in the 16th century, not all of the king's cannon could do a thing to prevent the sea from taking them all.” “ I think it was the first prerogative of our job, even before the heathen ones, we respected the sea itself. Whenever we submerged we were completely at it's mercy." Sitting in his living room, by a warm fireplace, it's hard to believe that this man has come from the coldest hell on earth. Following his exploits in the Atlantic, Pellizzari became somewhat of a legend in the diving community and is credited with having paved the way for the reclaiming of the seas. With the solid education he received while in the COMSUBIN (Italian Navy's special forces) and his technical know-how of diving equipment, Pellizzari was the ideal choice to lead the "Poseidons", as they came to be known. Something about the naval decor of the room, or maybe the set of crossed iron spears that loom over the fireplace hint that this man was something more than a mere cleanup guy. He speaks with a deep voice, accented by his Tuscan origins. "Of course, a few divers could do little against the millions and millions of heathen ones that found themselves at the bottom of the sea. If even we fought every day for the rest of our lives we would never be able to finish off all of them, that's why we relied on the tugboats, before the divers...The tugboats were regular fishing vessels, at first we used the modern diesel-powered ones, but you see, today diesel is a luxury, and the little we got was used to operate the machinery. I've got to say, the sea offers all the propulsion you need, for free. We took to converting them to sail, or we found what sail ships we could outright.” “Three or four tugboats would lower their nets into the ocean, preferably where the seabed was flat and sandy and start dredging the seabed, back and forth, scooping up all the heathen ones they could. When the nets were well full, they would be hoisted up by a mechanical crane and lowered directly into the firebreather, a barge with a large rectangular incinerator on top. The abominations, with their disgusting bloated bodies would tumble down into to the fire and their ashes would be thrown to the sea. We would scrub the nets and repeat, over and over until the last monster was fished out of the water. When the nets would stop bringing them up, we would send a small detachment of divers to scout the area and pick off any lucky survivors with their spears.” “Now you will say, well, that's pretty easy! And I would say you are right! It was a joy to see those horrible creatures get consumed by the tonnage, my boys even drew a large dragon on the side of the firebreather and when we let them burn they would shout, holler and cheer." The image of a fiery barge incinerating zombies is sure spectacular, yet I feel the urge to enquire as to the actual fighting the divers had to do. Giorgio nods, he knows what I'm about to ask. "The thing is, not all of the seabed is flat, or sand. In fact, most areas are full of rocks, wrecks and all sorts of deathtraps for a net. Those were quite precious commodities so we avoided wasting them and only lowered them when we were sure they wouldn't snag onto anything. When they couldn't lower the nets, that's when we were truly called upon, that's when they asked to deploy us, the Poseidons." Before trying to understand the way in which zombies were fought underwater, it is important to ascertain how they interacted with the ocean's floors. Although zombies are immune to the lack of air, their sense of smell and hearing are mostly rendered useless at the bottom of the ocean. While on earth a Z could hear a man from half a mile away, underwater they were nothing more than bloated mobile masses, walking endlessly in a slow motion, sappy fever dream. Although this made them easier to kill, it is also a testament to their resilience, a Z could walk alone for years under the sea, marine life completely avoided them, even sharks dare not approach them. A standard Poseidon formation as it came to be known after the war quickly became the accepted method of effectively fighting Z under the water. The formation was composed of "Heavy" and "Light" units, acting in unison to bring down the threat. The first ones to submerge would be the "heavies". These were deep sea divers completely clad in a massive bronze and aluminum diving suit with a large copper helmet enveloping their head. On each side of the helmet each heavy had a "Ulixes" torch, a model that could light up even the most deep recess of the abyss.Their weaponry consisted of a large bronze shield and an inox iron spear, resembling that of an Ancient Greek hoplite or a Roman legionnaire. For backup, every heavy was armed with a 10 inch diving knife, one edge serrated to cut through netting and obstacles, or on occasion Z himself. While the heavy was slow, he could stay submerged for up to a day thanks to his carbon-scrubbing rebreather and was almost completely immune to bites, scratches and whatever the Z's could throw at them. After having made contact with the seabed, the heavies would gather into serrated ranks, their shields held in front of them and the spears poking out, forming an impenetrable phalanx. Following the heavies, the "light" units would submerge. Unlike their invulnerable brethren, the light divers only wore a neoprene diving wetsuit, which depending on the climate could be switched out for a hermetic one. Most "lights" sported a handheld torch, which they used to find Z and signal the heavies, together with a short spear or an axe. They had GAV inflatable jackets and lead-weighed belts to enable them to sink or float at will. Under most circumstances they looked exactly like a modern scuba diver, complete with fins, air tanks and diving torches. The light divers traded armor for mobility and were therefore the skirmishes of the formation, fanning out and attacking Z at will, harassing him and retreating, luring him toward the grinder of the waiting heavies. Giorgio was one of them. "Once the lights would gather enough Z's they would start luring them towards us". He explains; “In an ideal scenario we would have a good visibility and we could see them approaching and prepare our phalanx to face them. Still, as I've already told you, the sea makes her own rules to the games that people play. One moment we would have visibility as clear as day, the other a current of plankton would envelop us, making them impossible to see even if they were an inch from our nose. What guided us was mostly the torches of the light ones. They would signal to us where the heathen ones were and from where they would be approaching. It was important to have our phalanx always facing them because if the demons found our unshielded side it could often spell disaster. Many men I lost to an unseen bastard who crawled into our side. If the lights did their job good though, that often wouldn't be the case and we could face all of the fiends upfront... That's when the fighting began. The lights would scatter, either floating up and beginning their ascent or retreating behind our ranks, most of the time they would float above us, illuminating the zombies from above with their torches. Then the wall of dead would be upon us. It felt like a train smashing head on against our shields, we would hold fast, our lead-laced boots digging into the ground, our shield protecting us from their rotten teeth. The funny thing is, this was nothing like the combat you see on land, it was all in slow motion, slow but continuous, fluid movements both ours and Z's. It was a deadly struggle and yet there were no screams, no gunfire it was silent as night down there. Once Z had been stopped in his tracks we would raise our shields and start stabbing at their head with our long spears, killing them rank after rank putting them down into the seabed where they're supposed to be. What our spears couldn't finish we did with our knives, our boots or even our bare hands. Once I saw Morotz, one of my biggest lads, crush the head of a Z in his ironclad fist." Although the Poseidons were unrivaled fighting machines, losing only 15 of their 300-strong unit in the whole war, operating at depths of up to 2000 meters under the sea demanded quite a complicated logistics system to keep them alive at that depth and to make their fighting force effective. That's something I ask Giorgio, who indeed seems to be well-versed on the subject. "Due to the slow nature of the fighting that took place down there, it often took days to clear an area of heathens, which is why we set up "camp" a few hundred meters under the surface. Now "camp", is nothing as you imagine it. It's intended as a pressurized hyperbaric chamber, suspended by cable to one of our tugboats. When the fighting was over for the day, we would all ascend to "camp" where we could decompress, lose the nitrogen in our system and make preparations for the following day." Decompression is necessary to every diver, from the deep sea heavies to a recreational scuba. When a person is submerged for a certain amount of time little bubbles of nitrogen start forming in the bloodstream and if one was to emerge suddenly, these would expand owing to the reduced pressure and obstruct vessels and veins, risking to kill the person. An experienced diver knows this sickness very well. "We took decompression religiously. I would have rather left one of my guys behind and have one less heavy than risk a decompression sickness on my hands. It's a horrible way to go and it would spell the end of whatever operation we were conducting, not to mention kill the morale of my guys. Sometimes, when an operation was over we had to decompress for days, these were pretty boring and most of us stashed all manners of books and magazines in the hold. It was a down time to our work, we trained to kill but all we had to kill in there was time. It did give me time to think however, as it's in here that I thought up the phalanx, the light and heavies and all that was our fighting doctrine, every time I emerged in the chamber I had ample time to learn from the mistakes we made and perfect our tactics. In the end, a ship is only as good as it's crew and I could use this time to deal with my men on a personal level. I could see who was in a good mood, who wasn't and why, I tried my best to keep their morale high, that's when they fought best." I now move on to another topic. I feel like I've explored the past enough and I'm sure it must have been quite taxing for Pellizzari. I ask him about the future and what he sees of it. Considering the Poseidons have now been disbanded, replaced by professional Navy units. "I was assigned mostly ex Navy guys myself, or whatever deep sea divers had survived the Z war, cable repairmen, ship technicians, even the occasional recreational diver, they were all welcome in my crew...Now that our job is mostly done they all moved on to other pursuits, there are many damaged oil rigs out there, still broken and leaking, cables tore to pieces by the undead.They're wherever mankind needs them to be honestly, and I think it's all for the best. Today I look at my son Giorgio and I hope he grows up in a world that is more than thrusting spears at things. I hope he will develop a culture and master the arts, I hope he will find a job that has nothing to do with the heathen ones at all. Should they rise again, I warn them, while many shall kill them on land, I shall hunt them to the deepest abyss down to the pit of hell itself if necessary. I’m about to leave, Pellizzari has given me all that I needed and a very significant piece of history, not to mention a lesson learned shall the Z’s decide to infect humanity again. Before I go I have one last question, something unrelated that has always fascinated me. I ask Pellizzari if he’s ever seen things down there, things that no one has ever seen before. I was half expecting a sardonic remark, something sarcastic or funny, but the man gave me a look that was all the opposite. He seemed to pause on this one and then, almost by surprise gives me an answer I was not expecting. “Once, and only once. We were at 5,000 meters down and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a hallucination caused by the nitrogen in our blood, but I’m pretty sure we all saw it. It’s eye was as big as one of our shields, tentacles, numerous and thick as a tree, they must have been longer than one of our tugboats. It came close, I think it was just curious. We poked at it with our spears and one of my guys pierced it’s eye. It left in a flurry, an abomination never to be seen again. Never forget, that to this day we know more about the surface of the moon than we do what lies at the bottom of the sea.


I couldn't sleep. Her angel hair, falling over her gentle face. She gave me a quizzical look, studying my emotions. I loved her. I loved her with all I had. All emotions drained from my body for her. "What are you thinking?" She asked. I stared into her face of elegance like a child seeing a toy he so desperately wanted. She didn't know. My love was like a tall oak, each leaf holding a piece of my heart, slowly swaying in the autumn wind. Each leaf falls as she stomps carelessly on my fallen affection, a crisp crunch from every crack in my heart she creates. I moved my head left to right and forced a smile onto my lips. She smiled back. Her eyes gave a light that lit the dim room. She wouldn't be mine, not now, not tomorrow, not ever. She placed her soft lips onto my forehead, her warmth coursing through my body, leaving me in Nirvana. I watched as she got off the bed. Slowly pulling a veil over her immaculate figure. How I wish she would never wear anything. "I Love You" I said She turned, "I love you too", grabbed the money off the table and left. Until next week. This is my first time posting anything.


‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.’ – Exodus 22:18 "This was the appearance and structure of the wheels: They sparkled like chrysolite, and all four looked alike. Each appeared to be made like a wheel intersecting a wheel." – Ezekiel 1:16 Reuben Kane gazed long and hard above, deep into the silent afternoon sky. When he was a child he imagined he would find God there, idly lounging in the soft-cushioned clouds, half-listening to the prayers of those he created. Little Reuben would speak to God, the one way conversations we all had. He would ask for material possessions; the latest, most expensive bicycle, a new phone with a digital camera and the shiniest shoes he could think of. Yet Reuben sprouted from the fields of the poor, so naturally he aged without the things that he happened to plea for. Over the course of time the prayers became more desperate, more needed, and still the sky was silent. Even when Reuben promised to give something back to the heavens, the gates remained firmly closed. After years of wrestling with his faith, he concluded that we were alone in this universe, merely a fluke and nothing more. It didn’t take the mind of a great philosopher to understand this. After all, the universe was full of unheard prayers floating through space like a searching signal bound for extra-terrestrial life, words withering through the black of nothingness. There is no God, Reuben thought on this afternoon, his eyes now fixed ahead of him. He opened the car boot and removed the backpack and tent, hauled them over his shoulder and made his way into the dark of the forest. It was something of a suicide hot-spot, located one hundred miles from civilisation. Two rusting vehicles were collecting fallen leaves in the car-park; abandoned by their troubled owners who drowned in the sea of trees, their pain too much to keep them afloat. Reuben pondered this for a moment. He wondered if they, too, had shared the elements of doubt that he felt as he stood at the foot of the forest. These doubts he was quick to shake. He had always known that it would come to this, even before his loss of faith, there was that stalking unhappiness that followed him everywhere. There was no room for consideration, or hesitation; he had come to accept his failures, and he was determined this was not to be one of them. *It would take something extraordinary to change his mind.* Reuben followed the trail for a while. He'd already passed at least three signposts urging hikers to abide to the track, with the vastness of the forest making it too easy to get lost, but he had no interest in reading them. He was, however, taken slightly aback by a certain sign in particular, which was accompanied by a yellow telephone. It read: *Suicide Prevention Helpline, 0800-212-TALK, You Are Never Alone.* It’s such a sweeping statement, ‘Never Alone’. Reuben had spent all his years surrounded by people but had always felt the cold of loneliness; and these things made it sound so simple. Perhaps it was, but Reuben had passed the point of wanting to find out. After a further forty-five minutes of strenuous hiking, he made his way off the trail into the unfathomable warren of trees; and soon after, he stepped beyond the point of no return. He watched as the merciless night invaded the forest, beginning its massacre of the unarmed soldiers of light. There was no option but to set up camp before darkness conquered day. He remembered the camping trips he took with his Father, when he had last felt the golden warmth of happiness. They would go up into the mountains in his Father’s beaten-up Volkswagen, what he called the ‘hippy van’, and spend entire weekends fishing what seemed to be bottomless lakes. Once they’d caught the fish, the biggest being a fifty three pound coy carp, they’d always place it back into the water; but not before taking a trophy photograph. ‘None of God’s creatures deserve to needlessly die’, his Father would say. They would spend the evenings staying up late. Reuben’s Father would retell old ghost stories that had been passed down through the Kane family, each Father passing off the experience as his own. These stories seemed rich with truth, and Reuben was always too afraid to sleep afterwards. His Father would stay up and remind him that God was watching over him – something that turned out to be a lie. Reuben assembled the tent the way his Father had taught him; first creating the frame by joining the poles together, then fitting the cover and staking down the edges. He thought it fitting to spend his last evening on earth recreating those youthful trips of happiness, or at least trying to. Yet there was something eerie about this forest, something more than the fact that countless people had come here to take their own lives. *Ghosts daren’t whisper in this forest*, Reuben mused, as he noticed the unnatural silence, which was soon joined by a thick blanket of mist. Deep down he knew there was nothing to be afraid of; come the morning he would be dead, hanging from one of the trees – so what else was there to fear? There were the stories he’d read on the internet while he was researching the location. Some people believed that the spirits of the dead were forced to remain in the forest, forsaken by both heaven and hell. It was a myth that was absolutely terrifying in principle, but completely irrational as far as Reuben was concerned. He was no longer a child up in the mountains with his Father. No, he was a man now, and the strain of life was much more frightening than any horror story. He was close to calling it a night when he saw a bright and beautiful red orb hovering high above the trees, as the mist thickened into a deep and bone-chilling fog. It was like a dead star was falling gently and silently to earth. Reuben found himself moving directly towards the source; almost against his will, the intensity of the illumination becoming stronger with each step, as if the forest was shrouded with an overspread of fire. It was getting closer; falling faster, yet there was no sound – not even the croaking of crickets in the forest, or the flapping wings of evading birds. There was nothing. He was all alone – Reuben Kane and the noiseless ball of fire, which would soon be directly above him. Is this a divine intervention to stop me from taking my life? He thought, as his hurried heart hammered his frail chest. It can’t be. God doesn’t exist. He can’t exist, Reuben whispered. He stood still now, almost in a trance. The object, whatever it was, was now just four hundred feet from earth and the light was burning his eyes, but he couldn’t shut them. No matter how hard he tried his eyes would not close. He just stood there helplessly, absorbed by the mystery of what was coming towards him. What he thought to be one powerful orb of light was in fact three separate lights spaced apart from one another in the shape of a triangle. In between the lights was a solid black base, which was now just three hundred feet above an awestruck Reuben Kane. It became clear that the object was not the handiwork of man. He was certain now that he had been wrong, that his faith in God should have remained devout. What were the chances of such a random occurrence on the eve of his planned suicide? There was absolutely no doubt in his mind: *This was a sign from God.* Just two hundred feet from the soil, the plummeting object gained ferocious speed, forcing Reuben to turn and run. It crossed over his head and Reuben, panting and panicking, was almost swept off of his feet by the force of its passing. He craned his neck to check where the object was, but it had disappeared into the mist. No longer were the bright red lights revealing its whereabouts. Then he heard it. The thunderous boom as the object collided with the earth. It was like a flash grenade had exploded before him, like a wind had passed right through him, knocking him back and ringing inside his ears, as if they were trying to receive a signal. Disorientated, he leant against one of the trees while he regained his composure. He felt the buzz of excitement racing in circles around his stomach, coupled with the hungry curiosity of discovering exactly what had crashed down to earth. He made his way towards the direction of the noise, timidly trudging while reassuring himself that this was his salvation. *God works in mysterious ways.* He was walking for at least five minutes and at first he thought he had walked right passed it. Then he saw it, a huge hole in the earth. The crater was at least forty feet deep and eighty feet in diameter. Within the crater was a large pyramid shaped object, something not of this earth. Reuben carefully crawled inside of it, navigating the curved earth which was burning his feet through his shoes. When he reached the bottom he was mesmerised. The black pyramid practically filled the crater. On closer inspection he saw that the craft was covered in strange yellow markings that were strikingly similar to the hieroglyphics found inside Egyptian tombs. Reuben was filled with joy. He knew that this discovery would give his life meaning. This would make him rich and loved by everyone! Thank you, God! He exclaimed, his words drowning out the sound of the pyramid opening. The entity stood two feet taller than Reuben and was directly behind him. Reuben felt its breath against the top of his head and jolted round. Filled with fear he looked up deep into the black eyes of the entity, every inch of his body paralysed, but his brain. The entity raised its hand and released a blue beam that shot straight through Reuben’s chest, striking his heart and ceasing its beating, his last thought was *why?* EDIT: Formatting.


I set it up so perfectly. I was ready to start, no doubt. As I opened the container the smell wafted through the thick air and I took a deep breath in. Oh, how I loved that smell. I squeezed my hand into the small container, barely fitting. I took up the contents of the cylinder and pressed it against my face. What a great feeling. As I squeeze, it mushes through my fingers. I love this. I get lost in a trance as I roll my play-doh against the desk. So mesmerizing, how it forms a snake-like shape as I continue moving my hand; back and forth, back… and forth. I soon snap out of my beautiful daydream and start to make my, “spaghetti dinner.” I take out the noodle maker and press the red play-doh into the base. I get excited as I push down and the red, noodle-like play-doh squeezes through the little holes in the top of the pasta machine. I keep pressing and the noodles keep coming. I stop suddenly, remembering that my spaghetti HAS to be more than one color so I clean out the red from inside the maker and put in the blue play-doh. I push down and squeeze with all of my might and the noodles ooze from the pores like water out of a faucet. What a rush. What a beautiful, “spaghetti dinner.” I decide to switch to green and I push it into the noodler’s ba…oh no…no, this just can’t be. I regretfully pressed down, as BLUE-GREEN playdoh pushes through the centimeter holes in the top, and everything was ruined.


I know this may be hard to imagine, because you’ve only ever seen other little kits like you, but there are monsters in the world that are born without fur. No pelt, no tail, only a tuft on the top and sometimes a shaggy mane. The rest of them is bare skin, angry pink or brown, as tall as trees. Without their fur, the beasts are cold all the time and destroy everything in their paths to get warm. They don’t dig cozy holes like us – they tear down trees and raise hills to build their huge dens. Even the dens don’t keep them warm, though, so they eat and eat to stave off the cold. They pluck fish straight out of rivers, strike birds from the air, and move swift through the dark and strike deer from a minute’s run away. Everything they see goes down their craws and they burn it in their gullets to keep warm. But not even the fires in their bellies can heat these naked monsters. Eventually, they go out in search of fur. They come out in the day, when you’re sound asleep, and set their traps. They hide strings in the leaves to slip around little necks, they leave food to entice little babies only to snap them into crates, and they hide metal jaws to clap around tiny paws. After waiting until the cold darkness fades, they return with sharp claws and hungry bellies. They slice the skin right off your back and use it to cover their own bare hides. Sometimes, very early or late in the night, you’ll see one, lumbering along with the skins of a hundred little foxes patched together to keep him warm. So remember, kit, to sniff with care when you’re out in the world, and look out for the furless monsters in the woods. [ABOUT] I've written a few children's stories and love the freedom of them.


I originally wrote this for a contest that didn't come through with the prizes they offered, so now you get to read it: 100 Word Story We drifted over Greenland, in the old polar orbit. I spread myself thin, enjoying the cold of space. I could tell she was looking for something. "What is it?" I asked. She didn't answer. Then we passed out of the Earth's umbra, changing from icy cold darkness to glaring sunlight. Suddenly, there was a glint of light. "I see it!" she cried, propelling herself forward. It was a small stainless-steel capsule in orbit, filled with dust. She formed herself around it. "What do you want with that old thing?" I asked. "You wouldn't understand," she said. "It was my body.


Here I sit, alone in the dark, insomnia no doubt celebrating its recent victory in our constant struggle. I watch dust fragments shimmer as they break the rays of starlight through my window, each speck a life on its downfall. Each one longing for connection as many fall through the void and enter the darkness alone. While others collide with another, forming tiny bonds, and enter the blackness together. No idea what is ahead of them, together they hold on, together they meet the next challenge, together they reemerge in a new ray. I have seen their relationship, and I know their fate. The ground awaits to bring their short lives to an abrupt end, but they will do it together. They've disappeared once again through my last window into their lives. They have no doubt hit the floor by now. Five seconds together, an entire lifetime is over. I roll over to the other side of my queen bed and am met with more mattress. An entire night to dwell, and just remember the time I was jealous of two specks of dust.


“As you're advisors, it's our duty to be as beneficial to you as possible. But it's your job to schedule appointments with us well in advance of enrollment dates” Frank calmly said to a room filled with students, it seemed like he had given the same speech thousands of times. As he was about to continue with the lecture, his new colleague, Mike, cleared his throat. “Just piggy-backing off of what Frank said, I want to mention that our offices are open 24/7 and we're ALWAYS here for you guys with anything. I mean it. We don't wanna be those lame advisors you probably thought we were gonna be! Haha...” Mike said directly after Frank was done speaking, almost cutting him off from his next thought. He had a nervous smile and looked to young to be advising anything, let alone students with their future careers resting on his decisions. “I’m just going to expand a little bit on what Mike said by mentioning we're definitely not in the office 24/7 and our advising will be limited to scholastics” Said Frank, with a little more sternness in his voice this time. What the hell is this new kid doing? Trying to embarrass me? He looks different in person than on the staff website… Frank had a progression of thoughts to himself; he felt like he was being played, but at the same time Mike looked so familiar to him. All that being said, he was not willing to show any signs of weakness in front of the 2000 plus audience of students. He knew first hand that kids will feed off of weakness. “Again.. If I may” Mike started gaining confidence, “piggy-backing off of what Frank said, you guys should come to us with whatever’s bothering you, that's what we're for! Oh, your boyfriend cheated on you with your ex BFF, we'll take care of that bitch! Your roommate caught you masturbating to anime porn? My office can be your new porn sanctuary!” The crowd stirred, most kids were laughing. The floor was Mike’s, his plan was finally working, now to have a bit of fun with it… “Let's say maybe you and your friends got a little too crazy on a Friday night and you don't have a place to crash? I got a pull out couch and a stash of weed hidden in my room- at your disposal!” Mike was now grinning from ear to ear. His young age, which was cleverly concealed behind a grim face, came out for the audience to inspect. In that moment he looked younger than half of the kids he was lecturing to. Frank knew he lost all of the respect he had with the students in the room. It made him physically sick. He would have punched Mike in the face and kicked his teeth in if there wasn’t a whole audience watching. How dare someone take all the power from under his feet, he could feel his knuckles tensing, his muscles flexing, his face was beat red. In a moment of clarity and stupidity, he realized Mike didn’t look a day older than anyone in the audience. “PEOPLE PLEASE, do not listen to Mike, he is clearly in a bad state right now” he motioned to turn Mike’s microphone off but was too slow. The audience was in chaos as a loud voice came bursting through the reception halls main sound system. “TO JUST PIGGYBACK OFF OF THAT STATEMENT FRANK, ID LIKE TO SAY TO THE CLASS OF 2018 THAT MIKE HAS TWO-DOLLAR JELLO SHOTS ON THE STAGE. LETS GET READY TO RAGE!” The crowd erupted in applause to this unfamiliar voice. Frank was still seated in his chair, with a center stage view to the madness. He was starring with awe at his previous colleague, and to his own disbelief, Frank was finally able to recognize Mike. He stared at the boy who stripped him of his power, not with hatred but with love. It was his son. Frank woke up from the nightmare and pressed his head against the pillow hard, stuffing his face on the silk. Just at that moment, his two children, 5- year-old Sophie and 18-year-old Mike entered the room. The smell of bacon followed them in and pierced through the bedroom door to his nose. “Dad, where are the suitcases? I figure I should probably start packing soon if I’m leaving in a week” Mike said to his father. Frank got up and hugged both of his children, surprising them. On his way to eat breakfast he gave Sofia a piggyback ride.