I lay there. Still. Staring at the bland white ceiling of the hospital room, where I lay. The stillness of the room is plucked by the gasps of air, the rush of oxygen filling my lungs, the beeps of the machines monitoring every beat and tick of my withered and frail shell. I close my eyes for but a moment, only to be awoken by the click of the door. My neck creaks, the joints popping to catch a glimpse of my visitor. Our eyes meet; Eyes like the ocean before a storm; dark, deep, blue; but full of life, they sparkle like precious gemstones. Her smile is like a full moon, able to dispel even the darkest of nights. Her lips are thin and deep red, seductive yet sweet. My heart swells and skips a beat as if I were a love struck teen again, memories of staring into those eyes hypnotized while the world passed around us. Memories of yearning for her lips, like a man on the cusp of death longs for a drop of water. Memories of the joy I felt, how my heart raced and rushed every time she smiled. Tears sting my eyes at the sight of her, and for the first time in a long while I feel my mouth arch into a grin. “hello, love” she smiles, my heart skips; her voice is angelic, her every word like a bell, the way she pronounces her L’s as if they were w’s, her S’s like f’s; It used to drive her insane, her little speech imperfection, but to me it was pure ecstasy, it’s what her unique, it’s the sound that’s haunted my dreams since she left. “Hey, Beautiful.” I manage to say, my words squeezed out like an old toy, now deflated. She comes closer, and takes my hand, her long fingers enveloped in mine. She holds firmly yet softly, like when we rode the Ferris wheel for the first time, and stopped at the top looking over the fairgrounds as the sun set; hope, fear, and love all mixed into one grasp. I can see her better now; her once brown curls are now thin and grey. Her skin is still pale as ivory, but was now showing her age. Her skin showed the story of a mother, a lover, a wife, a woman whom deserved silver and gold. But instead she settled for a fool who gave her messy diapers and mortgage payments. Would she have been happier had she never met me? Would her life have been better? Her words shatter my self-doubt and depression. “It’s time to go now”. A tone of chastisement lines her voice, like a mother talking to their child. I heard it many time, my mind darts back to our children. Peter; A tall strong man now, he did what I could never do, he went into business, he made a name for himself, a family, a home. Jessica; as beautiful as her mother, yet with my sense of humor, She’s a teacher now, just like her old man was. And John; my heart sinks, I haven’t thought of John since the pain numbed, since I lost him. I struggle to remind myself that he died a hero, that he knew the cost of fighting for his country. But the sense of failure still lingers the pain of losing a son still stabs like a hot knife. “I’m sorry” I say, my voice like it used to be, clear, loud, no longer weakened by the various tubes and gases. She simply smiles, knowing what I’m going to say, knowing my very thoughts, knowing the pain I’ve gone through, and fighting with me like she always has. She puts her finger to my lips, beckoning me to be quiet. She takes my other hand and lifts me up, as if we were dancing like we used to when we were kids. My body feels light now, as I stand up. My lungs fill with air without the need of any mask or tubes. My bones no longer creak or pain, my back straightens. I feel as if I were a young man again. I look at my hands, where there were once weak arthritis ridden hands that shook at every movement, too weak to even feed myself there now lies the hands of a young man, large, strong. The bland, grey skin that once covered my bones is now replaced by smooth tanned flesh. I touch my face, it is smooth. A top my head now lies a new crop of hair, wavy, soft, like the golden mane I cherished for many years. “How?” I say in astonishment, my voice shaking. My body shakes with a concoction of emotions; happiness, astonishment, joy, fear, sadness, amazement. I look up to see her. Time slows. There she stands her hair its dark chestnut, her face smooth, free of her wrinkles and blemish, her face full and full of life. Young and beautiful; just like I see her every night in my dreams, Tears fill up my eyes. “My god…” I manage to choke out. She smiles, her face lights up, her smile glowing like it did when we were kids. She smiles, and beckons me to come with her, a shimmering light glowing behind her. “Hey, Gorgeous! How about one last dance?” I say the old cockiness that I once held returning to my voice. She rolls her eyes, and looks at me with a look of faux-disappointment, a large smile plastered to her face. Frank Sinatra begins to play, and we dance. The light begins to grow, and I can see dancing around us every one I ever loved. Ma, Dad, Lil’ Sarah, John, Grandma, even my dog Skip. But she and I keep dancing, smiling laughing. This must be heaven; my wife and I dancing, laughing, and smiling, forever and ever. Amen.


I used to live in Memphis. I say used to, because it doesn't really exist anymore. The last thing I will ever see, will be the mushroom cloud on the horizon. They say that the burst of energy from a nuclear blast is so bright, that anyone who witnesses it will go blind. I wish I'd never seen it. I think that's when I went into shock. I remember thinking "That kind of thing just can't happen here, this is America!". I don't really know how long I just stood there. After the explosion, my friend James and I tried to get away from town. He packed up all of our food and the two guns that I owned in my Jeep, and we started driving north. He was smart enough to avoid the main roads, and we took a small rarely-used highway to get away as fast as possible. James was not the best driver, and he drove with reckless abandon. We probably made it four miles before he ran a red light, and we were hit by a school bus. The bus just backed up and drove around us. Like we weren't even there. I could feel his still-warm blood all over the car, and I couldn't find a pulse. I had known him for 25 years, he was my best friend, and now he's dead. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know where I was. I'm blind and my best friend is dead. I decided to grab what I could from the back of the vehicle, and just start walking. The best idea I could come up with was: I'll keep my feet on the pavement, and eventually I'll make it to somewhere safe. I didn't.


He woke up, the message flashing “End of Reel.” over and over, a hell of a way to start your day. He reached over, slapping at the deck on the bedside table before blindly finding the off button. As the Stimdeck wound down he removed the inputs tossing them on top of the small black deck and placed his bare feet on the cold floor. With his head in his hands he sighed trying to pull together the motivation to stand, to push himself out of bed and face the world. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fuzzy glow of the deck’s status lights and in it the image of a glowing lotus. He fumbled through the tapes, picking out the one with the holographic blossom on it, he held it in his hands, studying the petals. He had this one specially made, just for him. Just for today. He’d always been able to take a punch, that’s part of what lead him into the ring, why he’d been one of the biggest names in boxing. There were only two times he’d ever been knocked on his ass, neither of them happened in the ring. The first time was on a blind date, Frank his manager set him up with his niece Molly. Molly, was a creature of infinite grace and the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. She had hair that reminded him of the way light looked if you caught it just right in a bead of honey, her smile was the thing that made him forget that he had three broken ribs and a busted nose. On top of the most stunning woman that he’d ever seen, Molly was brilliant. He never knew what a woman as smart as Molly had ever seen in a meat-head like him, maybe it was the security she felt when she leaned against him, maybe those deep blue eyes of her saw something in him that everyone else missed. He didn’t ask too many questions or think too hard about it, all he knew was that somehow he made her happy and that became all he wanted in the world. The second time was when he woke up beside her in bed to find her cold and lifeless. It’s been five years, five years since she died. StimCorp covered the funeral, paid him a reasonable sum, if any sum could be called reasonable, and put safety checks in place so another accident didn’t happen. He’d always hated that, referring to it as “the accident”, it wasn’t an it was her, it was Molly. But none of that, the money the safety checks, referring to it as an accident, none of that changed that she was gone. Molly was gone and along with her the bright blue eyes, the golden hair and the reason to get out of bed, the reason to fight for anything. Molly worked for StimCorp for fifteen years, doing research and development for them. It had paid well and allowed them to play with the newest toys and tech, including the first Stimdeck. She was so excited when she brought their first deck home. The thing was the size of a full keyboard, maybe a bit bigger. She’d made him sit on the couch in their living room while she went on and on about the possibilities of being able to experience someone else’s memories first hand. Not just what they saw and heard, but what they smelled, tasted and felt. He remembered the way the sun had illuminated her honey colored hair, the way her hands moved as rapidly as she talked. He remembered having to tell her to slow down as she talked so he could keep up. Molly hadn’t been able to tell him anything about the Stimdeck project for months, and now that she could it was a torrent of information and ideas pouring out of her. She showed him how the deck worked, where the inputs connected to it and how they fit on his temples, being patient with him as his thick fingers worked the inputs clumsily trying to get them in the right spots. Her soft hands gliding over his fingers guiding the inputs to the deck and then to his temples. StimCorp hadn’t been able to send any tapes for the deck home with her, but they did provide blanks and everything needed for them to record their own. They started out with small events to test the deck, dinner together one evening, a walk through the city at dusk and an afternoon in Molly’s garden. He sighed heavily remembering Molly’s garden. The smell of her roses, the way the wind from the ocean blew her hair back, even the way she shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun. That tape had always been his favorite, and Molly’s garden seemed a lifetime ago. A dream that the gray rain soaked city outside his high rise window could never imagine, a warmth the city seemed incapable of. After a week of recording their own tapes and sharing them with each other, Molly brought home their first officially produced tape. It was a night out seen through the eyes of one of StimCorp’s young executives. Dinner at one of the city’s most expensive restaurants, dancing at one of the most exclusive clubs, and barreling down a seaside highway in a car not slated to be released to the public for another two years. This became the standard marketing tactic to show off the deck’s capabilities, “Live the life you want, not the one you have” became StimCorps motto. That night Molly fell asleep with the deck on, the seaside highway racing past her as she drifted off. The doctors said that when she woke up to the static at the end of the reel and it had wiped her mind. Something about the brain’s transition from delta to theta waves, he never was too interested in the details, all he knew was that Molly was gone. The half crooked smile, the gleam in her eyes when she laughed, the blush in her cheeks when she got excited, all of it gone. Just gone, no explanation, no preparation just an empty side of the bed where she should be, a hollow deserted kitchen and a garden turned barren. When she first passed he’d see her around the house, she’d just turn the corner, he had just missed her but when he caught up there’d be no one there. He kept seeing her car in the drive way expecting her to walk in the front door any second only to remember the funeral. The day had been sunnier than it had any right to be, there was a small grave side service, and he’d even thrown the first handful of dirt on her casket. After the third time he found himself waiting by the door he sold the car. That made it easier to deal with he told himself, at least he didn’t expect her to open the front door anymore. He spent the first year after everything happened slipping away, there never seemed a point to it anymore. He wasted away to a third of himself, a diet of frozen soy meals and vodka didn’t do much for keeping him filled out. His name still held weight in the ring though, enough to draw a crowd even if some of the crowds were in back alleys and weren’t sanctioned. He’d show up and get beaten. Broken nose, bruised ribs, the physical pain was a nice distraction but after a while even that wasn’t enough for him to feel anything. After a while he was back to being as hollow as an empty booze bottle. He wanted to feel something, anything even broken again. After his last fight he woke up, drunk and nearly drowning in a city gutter as the city spat its cold impersonal rain down on him, another empty man who couldn’t hack it anymore. Desperate to feel anything he stumbled into the storage shed where he kept all of the things from his other life, his happy life. He came across Molly’s deck, not sure why he hadn’t thrown the damned thing away, he fit it on, and for a moment her smile flashed in front of his eyes, he could feel her fingers as they helped him guide the inputs into place. After that first flash of Molly’s smile he slipped into the world that the Stimdeck could offer him, he began to fill the hole in himself with journeys he never actually took, sights he’d never actually seen. After a while, the joy in the decks wouldn’t last, he’d be left with pain, a pain of memories he never got to have with Molly. The things they never did together or said to each other, but at least the pain was something. The pain wasn’t hollow or empty or lonely. His tastes in tapes quickly spiraled downward as he tried to feel anything. He began looking for tapes on more taboo subjects, a junkie’s high, robberies, gang violence. But none of it seemed to fill the hole in him. He spent most of his money from the settlement and the sale of their house on his tapes trying to find something that would fill his void, something to spark him back to his old self. His apartment was covered in them now, but still nothing among them kept his interest, nothing kept his mind off of Molly, he always returned to dinner with her when he laid down to sleep. But today nothing motivated him as he sat by the side of his bed, barely away of his feet on the cold apartment floor. No junkie’s overdose, no gang shooting, no decadent sex scene, nothing held any appeal as he listened to the rain pour down and wash over the gray scale city. A life without Molly wasn’t something he ever wanted. After a match one night he caught up with Frank, he asked him about some people who could work on a tape for him. After Molly’s passing StimCorp placed security measures on all of their tapes before they went out now to prevent another accident. Instead of static you got a message stating “End of Reel.” until you shut the deck down. This allowed the user’s brain to transition normally between the different states of sleep without incident. All of the tapes were now safe, the original tapes were recalled and the new safety measures added. That was unless you knew some people willing to fix them for you. Suicide by tape wasn’t uncommon but wasn’t reported on heavily either, it was one of those facts that usually only the desperate knew, and knew how to do. Frank nodded to him, said he knew a guy. Frank said he was sorry to see him go but knew that he just wasn’t the same without Molly and he’d given him the guy’s number. He picked up the tape with the shimmering lotus on it once again, holding it in his hands feeling its weight, tracing his fingers over the surface, and studying the lotus’ petals. He slid the tape into the deck and lay back on the bed placing the inputs on he reached over and flipped the switch labelled “Play” and breathed the first easy breath he’d drawn in five years. existence around him grayed for a moment as the deck spun up, and then the world exploded into a sunny summer afternoon. The smell of roses and sea breeze washed over him. There she was again smiling at him. She was as beautiful as ever, her honey colored hair blowing in the wind, her smile as vivid as he remembered. The eyes that he fell in love with and woke up to on the best days of his life, once again looking back at him, tasting the salt in the air his heart began to fill, the void within himself shrinking. As Molly reached out to take his hand the world slipped into a state of static and he drifted off to sleep.


The Button in the Tree ====================== In an untouched part of the World. In the middle of a vast, dense jungle. Amidst the trees, and the vines, and the leaves, and the animals, and the insects. There is a tree. Surrounded by other trees that look the same. But in this particular tree. In a cramped dark abscess within. Encapsulated completely by bark. There is a button. A small, round, red, button. That's part of a metal box. A machine of sorts. It's the kind of button that you push. Covered in cobwebs, and dirt, and dust. Aged. If someone were to find this button. Inside this tree. In this vast, humid jungle. And push it. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. In that jungle. Surrounded by life and lushness. Nothing would happen. No. Nothing. But deep down. Thousands of miles away. In between continents. At the bottom of a lightless ocean. In a trench. Where neither warmth nor light has ever reached. Where the pressure crushes all but the strangest creatures. There is a small circular dial. Made of stone. Part of the sea bed. But level and sharp. Carved to perfection. And this dial would start to rotate. Ever so slowly. A grinding noise would ripple outwards. Through the dark surrounding waters. And once it completed its cycle. A full circle. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. Far below the waves. In that deep, dark ocean. Nothing would happen. No. Nothing. But high above sea level. On the other side of the World. On a jagged mountain. At the very summit. On a crooked outcrop. Where the winds run wild. Where the skulls of adventurers lie far below. Where the rock and snow are biting hard and unforgiving. There is a tube. Metallic. Thin. Strong. Defiant. Rooted in rock. But pointing to the stars. And this tube would lower itself. Silently. Down into the mountain. And when it was submerged. Completely. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. On the peak of that harsh, ragged mountain. High up in the frozen heavens. Nothing would happen. No. Nothing. But out there. Far across the expanse of space. Through nebulae and quasar. On the other side of the great black vaccum. On a remote, barren planet. Is a vast desert. Ravaged by heat. Searing. Crackling. Burning. Sizzling. And in the middle of this desert. Is a ship. Built for traversing the stars. Desolate. Ruined. Lost forever. With wind howling through the holes in its shattered hull. Through twisted, hanging cables. Through ravaged metals. Through damaged conduits. Its ancient interior broken. Dead. But inside this ship. Deep within it's workings. On a console. Coated in dust and sand and memories. There is a small, round, red, light. And just for a brief moment. Unseen by all. It would flicker on. Alive. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. On that barren, forgotten planet. Far from life. Far from everything. Its glow would slowly fade back. To black. And nothing would happen. No. Nothing.


It was the middle of the night and I thought it was a good idea after the eighth bottle of whiskey. A few of my friends were over, seven to be exact. We all were boozing for quite some time when one of my good friends shouted in the way an overly excited drunk would shout “Lets play some Russian Roulette.” this suggestion was when I was on my third bottle of whiskey and it was just touching 10′ o clock. I was tipsy but I had my wits about me and told him to simmer down or what a decent drunk would say “Shut the fuck up.” to such an atrocious idea like that. He sat down and drank deeply from his glass, looking up at me he said “I am sorry, I guess I am just a little drunk.” giving me a weak smile. I smiled back at him. The usual drunken talks came alive after this incident and the discussion was upon death. “Death is the final frontier.” said one of my friends. “Death is the end. We must live life to the fullest.” said another. Yet another said, “Death is the end of one life and the start of another.” “Death is the journey to the after life.” “Death is the end.” “Death is the start.” So many opinions but only one common link. It was a grim idea. I was on my fifth bottle of whiskey when I gave my opinion. “Death is a sad thing.” There was silence for a minute and each of my friends looked up at me, concern clearly written on their faces. I smiled at them and slowly stood up, my legs were a little shaky but I stood my ground. I raised my glass and looked at each of them “Death is a sad thing. Not for the one who died but for the one who was left to mourn. All of you have lost someone, near and dear to you. To you I raise you my glass. They are in a better place and you will soon be with them too.” I smiled and gulped down my drink. All of their faces were ashen and I started laughing. “Not right now, calm down.” their laugh seemed forced. The drinking continued. I walked towards my old record player and looked down at it. I pulled out an old vinyl, one of my favorites. “Astrud Gilberto – Light my fire.” I fired up the record player and the sound of her voice filled the room. It shook the glasses on the showcase as though they too were enjoying the rhythm of her voice. The room was filled with the smell of booze, laughter and Astruds beautiful voice. The alcohol must have been getting to me because the room started to spin and the color strangely started becoming golden. I couldn’t hear the sounds. I sat down on my chair and started to drink. I couldn’t hear the ice clinking on my glass, I couldn’t hear the sound of the whiskey being poured, I couldn’t hear the drunken laughs of my friends. I started to get angry and drank even more. I saw the smiles on my friends faces and I felt a white hot anger come over me. I stood up and threw my glass at the wall. The shattering of the glass followed by me shouting “What are you all fucking laughing at!” I couldn’t even hear that. I knew what I said but my voice was not audible to me. I fell back into my chair and saw the faces of my friends, unsmiling. It was 11:30. I walked to the kitchen and picked up another glass and sat back down. I poured myself a drink. I was on my seventh bottle. I knew this happened before, this was not the first time. I remembered a time when I did this, it was a year ago. My little darling, Sarah, she was only seven. She was wearing that pretty frock I got her for her birthday and that tiara, she was pretending to be a princess. She always smiled at everyone and everything. Such a sweet and innocent girl. Why did I have to fight with her mother that day? Why? Why did I have to drink? Why? Why did I get angry? Why? Why did my little girl have to die? Why? Why did she have to die by my hands? Why?WHY?WHY?WHY? My mind started to spiral down into this chasm. It was dark and scary. I was alone. My wife called me a murderer. I wasn’t, I wasn’t a killer. I would never hurt little Sarah. She kept screaming at me, she kept calling me a murderer. I wasn’t a murderer. I was just drunk. The tears started to roll down my face, I missed my daughter the most today. It was 11:55. I was on my eight bottle now. I smiled. In another 5 minutes it would be my daughters birthday. 7/7/1998. That was her birthday. See, I still remember. I am a good father. I was also a good husband but then she left me. Sarah’s mother. What was her name again? It was 11:58. I rose from my chair and almost fell down. I didn’t realize that I had a lot to drink. I looked at my friends and told them “My mates, my friends. We have gone through a lot together. We have got each others backs. We have seen the best years of our lives as well as the worst years of our lives. As you all know I have recently lost my beloved little girl, Sarah. I miss her terribly. Her mother on the other hand, can go fuck herself. She probably is at this point…” I laughed. My friends did not. “Anyway, one of you had said that you would like to play Russian Roulette. Right now it seems like a good idea. So, lets do it.” I walked to my bedroom door and went over to my study. I pulled a drawer and got out two guns. I looked for my ammunition box and took that along with me as well. I stood in the center of the room and loaded the guns. They were magnum revolvers with a container that could hold seven bullets. I loaded one completely and the other with one bullet. I spun the chamber. I looked at my friends and said “Now, all of you sit in a circle.” They obliged. I smirked and thought to myself “Everyone listens to a guy with a gun.” “I have a fully loaded gun here with me and I will give you this gun.” I said as I motioned to the revolver with only one bullet. “You each will spin the chamber and try to shoot me. If you don’t, I shoot you. If I die, you all will win. If you all die, then I win.” None of them spoke but their eyes betrayed them. They were fearful. What cowards I thought. I gave the revolver to the person to my right. For the life of me I couldn’t remember his name. I pointed my gun at him and said “Start.” He spun the chamber and cocked the gun, his hands started to shake as he pointed his gun at me. He pulled the trigger. It was empty. “Ahh too bad. Pass the gun along.” I couldn’t remember the next persons name either. I kept my gun pointed at him and said “Go on.” He too spun the chamber. He started to point the gun at me but then put it down. “You are being insane…” I shot him. The blood was everywhere and all I said was “Next.” None of them moved for the gun. They really must not want to win. I shot the first guy. His body too hit the floor. The blood intertwined with the other. I looked at this colorful picture for a second and felt a sudden pang of guilt followed by a maniacal pleasure. Am I killer? “Next.” They all scrambled for the gun this time. The guy with the blue shirt took it. He spun the chamber and pointed the gun at me. He pulled the trigger. It was empty. I shot him. My friends started to freak out. “A change of rules. if you don’t kill me you die.” I pointed my gun at the guy with the ponytail hair. “Your turn.” He took the gun, the tears were streaming down his face, it was pathetic. “Get on with it.” He pointed the gun. It was empty too. *bang* another one bites the dust. I started to laugh a little and pointed my gun to the next guy. “Only four of you left. You guys don’t want to win do you?” He took the gun and spun the chamber. Suddenly the guy on my left got up and went for the door. He didn’t get far. I shook my head and said “Why does he always cheat? cheating isn’t fun.” I look back and motioned him to continue the game. He wasn’t lucky either. Now there were only two of my good old buddies left. “I really have to say that this is the most fun I have had in a long time. You guys are losing but that’s all part of the game. Still, a chance exists. Give it a shot.” I started to laugh hysterically. This guy had the bluest eyes I knew, but now it was stained with red. ‘Probably because of the drinking’ thought I. He spun the chamber and pointed the gun at me. It was empty. I shot and the wonderful blood red color started to flow. Now it was down to my last friend. “You are the only hope. You have one bullet and so do I. Why not make it fun and lets both spin the chamber? Yes, that would be a good idea.” I spun the chamber and pointed the gun at him, smiling that stupid grin. He too did the same, not smiling though. “On the count of three.” “One…” His hands started to shake, mine were rock steady. “Two..” Sweat was pouring out of him, I was calm and steady. “Three…” The last thing I remembered was the sound of a gunshot and then darkness. I did not feel pain, I actually did not feel anything. I was simply at rest, I supposed this was where you would go after you die. A place so dark and quiet that nothing but the tranquil sound of silence seemed to ebb into your soul. This was suddenly shattered when I heard “Daddy….


This will ideally be a multi-part story dealing with the aftermath of a tragic event. Part 1 - Letters/The people we wish we knew A. She worked in an office where she made 12$ an hour and the coffee looked terrible. She punched numbers into a spreadsheet and wrote cash reports by hand, scrawled in pencil and she laughed at the jokes. The racist jokes, the sexist jokes, the jokes about menopause and children and shit. She read a book while she worked and brought a new one in every week. Jane Austen, Bukowski, and Dostoyevsky and Salinger and Aristotle. She listened to them talk about their husbands while she collected papers and added numbers up, she listened to them berate their boyfriends and butcher foreign politics while she made paper clip necklaces. It was the kind of job where you didn’t make much and the coffee was terrible and you still drank at least three cups every shift. She wore stockings with tears in them and sweater dresses and worn boots. She wore a leather jacket and big sunglasses and crooked half-smile. She chewed on her pens and her pencils and she got so lost in her own thoughts that the girls she worked with would call her half a dozen times before she heard them and her eyes would light up like fireworks when she came to. I didn't work in her office, I didn't know her name, but I felt like I knew her. I sat in security and the screens surrounding me were a blanket of black and grey and the images were a blur of bodies and movement, and there she was, sitting still as the the grainy world catapulted around her. B. He wore beat up runners and a three day stubble, I never quite caught his name. His uniform was too big on bony shoulders and he was intense looking; with eyes that made you feel naked and vulnerable. He had an easy smile and the kind of tan you get from working outdoors, he was always humming The Smiths under his breath. I thought about him when I got home and drank a glass of wine, pulled off my work clothes and washed off my face, touched myself as I lay on the couch: eyes closed, for a minute, I thought of him. Every few days I’d pick up a different bottle of wine and he’d be wearing the same stubble and the same stare as he packed my purchases into paper bags. Sometimes he would ask me how my day was, or what the weather was like outside. He noticed when I cut my hair and always told me to enjoy the book crooked under my arm. I liked him more than most people I worked with, that I saw every day, but I never quite caught his name. I imagined him going home to a girl with a cheap haircut and a part time job who loved him more than life itself. I imagined him going home to a ramshackle house, rented, with sunflowers growing in the front yard. I imagined him smoking a joint and strumming on an acoustic guitar, calling to the girl for a beer and thinking about not exactly anything when the bottle pressed against his lips. I wish I knew him, I still do. C. We rode the subway together every morning, sat in the same train, and read the same newspaper. He had a kid with him, two or three, pressed next to him and chattering away in that way that kids do: no purpose or drive, just words strung together and volume up and down. He always looked calm like he’d just finished a yoga class or something and I’m sure that cup he carried was filled with green tea and not the triple sweetened, whipped-cream-covered, diabetes-in-a-cup in my own travel mug. I always wondered he stayed that way, even when the train stalled and the kid screamed and spilled juice all over his paper, he stayed calm. When it was raining and snowing and it was hot as all hell, he was calm. I never said hello to him or even smiled at him and I don’t think I ever caught his eye but he was the kind of person that just made you feel better, just to be around him. I wish I had asked him how he stayed that calm, I wish I had known his girl’s name, I wish I had brought her candy on halloween. Her and her father dressed in matching costumes; Thing 1 and Thing 2 from Dr. Seuss . Sometimes he read to her, on halloween he read that to her and she was so quiet that for a moment she looked just like he did, eyes went placid and focused all at once. I wonder what happened it was like for her, after it had ended. I wonder if she ever found her daddy’s calm again. I wish I knew her, I wish I could tell her that I’m sorry.


‘We now present the execution of Dexter Maron, convicted of murdering two victims; Maria Schiano and Helen Liston. The sentence will be carried out via electric chair in 10 minutes. Please stand by.’ Maron, pressed up against the bars of his tiny window to hear the announcement, slumped back down onto his bed. So this was it. Five years of appeals, desperate pleas to avoid the ultimate punishment, had failed. In approximately 10 minutes and oh, 30 seconds or so, he’d be dead. Gone. Out of this world, and into what lay beyond. Assuming there was anything there. He had been thinking about that a lot lately, whether there was something on the other side. He’d had a lot of time to think, after all; there isn’t much to do in a cell not much larger than your average garden shed which contains only a toilet, a sink, and a bed. He’d had even more time to think recently. He hadn’t slept in going on 80 hours. Hard to sleep when your death is so close. Back to the topic at hand. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted an afterlife. On the one hand, permanent nothingness seemed a little depressing; he wanted to have something else after these 10 minutes and… actually more like 9 minutes now. But on the other hand, sinners were supposed to be punished, weren’t they? Maron wasn’t entirely sure, he’d never paid much attention in church. But he definitely remembered that bad people went to hell. And there was no doubt he was a bad person. All you had to do was listen to the announcements to work that out. Two murders, of two innocent women. That’s about as sinful as it gets. He was the worst of the worst, the scum of the earth. Only people like that kill others. And yet he had done exactly that. 6 years, 4 months and 26 days ago he had shot Schiano in the chest, Liston in the stomach, raided their shop and left them bleeding on the floor to die a long and agonising death. Originally he had justified his actions. His family would starve if he didn’t get food. The women were going to call the police, they had to be stopped. It wasn’t his fault, he was just in a bad situation. But he’d stopped doing that now. What was the point? Maybe he’d been unlucky. Maybe if he’d been born into a better family, maybe if he hadn’t lost his job, maybe if the American government gave a shit about the poor people littered across the American Midwest who struggle to feed their families and keep their loved ones alive. But however much blame he could spread around other people, the majority of the blame had to fall on him. He, after all, had pulled the trigger. He had loaded the gun and walked into the roadside shop knowing there was a good chance that he would be leaving corpses behind. And yet he still went through with it. For his own benefit, he had stolen away two people’s lives. It was only fair that he was sitting here, 5 minutes from his own demise. Ironically, the government gave you a small amount of freedom when it came to your death, after keeping you locked up and away from society for years and years. He had been allowed to choose his final meal (lasagne; Italian food had always been his favourite), he’d been permitted to see any relatives he felt like in the days before his death (although only Mum bothered coming anymore, the rest of his family had given up on him); hell, he was even allowed to choose between lethal injection and the electric chair for his method of death (he chose the chair; needles had always creeped him out). Giving prisoners a small amount of freedom a few hours before their demise didn’t really matter, he guessed. There wasn’t much they could do now. ‘One minute before the execution of Dexter Maron…’ Maron didn’t even bother listening this time, he knew what it was going to say. The guards would be here any minute; in fact, he could hear them marching along the cold, hard concrete floor of the cell block. A key turned in the cell door and light streamed into the room. Guards dragged him upright and pulled him along with them on their journey to the chair. Maron spotted the sun through a distant window; the last time he would see it, he presumed. That made him sad. Sadder than the idea of dying really, the knowledge that he would never see nature again. The beauty of the outside world would forever be denied to him now, the rivers, the trees, the birds, never to be seen again. Wind would never again brush his face, rain- his train of thought was cut off as the guards stopped. Maron looked down, and saw it. There it was. The chair. Dark and metallic, designed to send volts coursing through his veins and remove him from the world. The guards strapped him into it; he didn’t bother resisting. He could see the executioner through a window. According to the guards who had taunted him the day before, he went by the name of Jon Stukel. Was he ready? Could he accept that in mere seconds he would be met by the cold embrace of death? Realistically, the answer was no. He wanted to be free again, he wanted to escape this prison and experience life anew! Finally, as the first volts of electricity ran through him, he began to struggle to escape. But he knew it was too late. He strained against the straps, but then the switch was flicked. Excruciating pain coursed through him. Then blackness. Jon Stukel flicked the switch and watched Maron squirm in anguish before slumping down, dead. Another piece of shit, removed from the earth. He smiled, dusted off his hands, and walked out.


I guess you could say that my life started revolving around mental health in the fifth grade. And I think that's true, it's just that most of my family members have a mental illness. My first experience with suicide came in second grade, when a far off cousin took too many pain killers. Three years later my brother was diagnosed with all kinds of big words. In the sixth, he was hospitalized. That same year I was diagnosed as a capital F faker. My new found therapist decided that I was mimicking the emotions I heard my brother express, in order to get much needed attention. She even compared me to a monkey. "There was this experiment done, where they found that if one monkey does a cartwheel and is rewarded, all the other monkeys will try and do cartwheels." I understood that, but I just didn't think the slits in my wrist were comparable to cartwheels. . . Okay so this is my story so far. Please let me know what you think. I know it's really short but I'm new at this.


These Are My Friends Now I always hear that it’s supposed to get better but I know that won’t be until I go to college in a few years. So for now, my weekend nights are spent in the solitude of my room. The new phone that I got hasn’t ushered in an era of new text messages for me. My sense of loneliness has only increased due to visibility of the status updates about the parties going on and I check my phone all the time but there is never an invite. I just posted a joke in desperation, maybe which will get someone’s attention but I’m just grabbing at the dark. I skipped a song on Spotify when I saw the shadow of a person outside my room from the corner of my eye. I wasn’t expecting to see someone tonight, but maybe my parents came back early from their trip so I took off my headphones. Sounds of the cabinets opening and shifting came from the kitchen so I put down my laptop and got out of my bed. Even the mere interaction with my parents was much needed for me right now. “Mom? Dad?” I called out while walking down the dark hallway. The air was colder and the noises could still be heard but when I turned the corner into the lighted kitchen there was only silence. I must have just missed them and were already in their room. I followed the path that they would have taken to their room but I wasn’t hearing any noises of them. Once at their door I noticed that it was closed but I remembered seeing the door opened earlier. “I knocked on the door,” Can I come in?” There was no answer so I knocked again but there was still no response. I turned the knob of the door but for a moment it didn’t budge as if someone was on the other side holding it. “Dad,” I said again, “Can I come in?” The door knob finally turned in my hand and when I opened the door I expected to see my dad waiting to scare me, but the room was pitch black. The room let out a breath of icy air and I froze in place but I could feel each individual hair stand up from my skin. “Mom? Dad?” I said with my voice cracking. I wanted to walk into the room but every instinct refused to listen to my demands to enter. I took my phone out form my pocket and used the flashlight to brighten up the room but the light barely broke through the darkness. The light only lasted a few seconds before my phone shut off and I was staring into the pitch black room. I couldn’t break my stare with the room as if I had locked eyes with some predator but my feet began to back pedal on instinct. Two steps back and I heard the sound of children laughing. “Play?” A voice from the darkness said among the laughter. My heart stopped for a second but then went into overdrive, pumping excess amounts of adrenaline through my body and I shot my arm into the black room to pull closed the door. My grip on the door knob was strong but the door wouldn’t budge. “Come in,” the voice said, “Come in and play.” Both of my feet were planted deep in the carpet when I sent my other arm into the room as a final reinforcement to pull closed the door. Dread set in me as I felt the darkness surround me and the sight of my arms were disappearing into the darkness but I couldn’t stop my body from trying to force the door closed. From behind I could see the kitchen lights flickering and the cabinets were being opened as closed in a violent manner as I continued my struggle at the edge of the darkness. I lost feeling in my arms when the resistance on the door stopped and I slammed the door shut. The force of my pull caused me to end up on my ass and I heard the children laughing once again. Still on the ground, my body didn’t wait for me to get on my feet as I crawled backwards ways from the door. The lights in the kitchen stopped flickering and the noises stopped but that didn’t put me at ease. The house was still and I could hear each individual thud of my heard, but I could feel a menacing presence all around me. The hair on the back of my neck was trying to escape my body as I turned my back to my parent’s room. I could feel the hostile eyes of the predator stalking me from behind and it was ready to pounce on me at any second. Everything was telling me to run but I was just waiting for the signal. The kitchen light burnt out and I was chased back into my room. The door slammed behind me and I turned the lock. There was breathing on the other side of the door as I stood braced against it. I waited a few moments and then decided to lax my defense but as soon as I did something started hammering at the door. “Stop,” I cried as the banging continued but there was no stop to it. I stepped back knowing that the door would soon give way and I was ready to accept whatever would come through but I saw my silver cross necklace on the dresser. With the cross in hand I dropped to my knees in the center of the room. “God, help me,” I pleaded. With each hit on the door I held my eyes closed tighter, but then the hammering stopped. With open eyes I stared at my locked door still on my knees and I waited for anything to happen. I got up and put my ear to the door trying to make out any outside noise and stayed there for well over a minute when I heard slight scratches on my door. “Come out,” the voice whispered, “please.” The scratches increased and I backed away from the door but the menacing feeling was gone. My room felt safe as I sat on the bed but I never took my eyes away from the door. I would just have to wait it out in here until someone came to rescue me. The subtle sound of pacing outside my door was unnerving so I put my headphones back on to drown out the noise. My music wasn’t erasing the presence of whatever was outside so I raised the volume, but with every increase the outside sounds became louder. I started to sing along with the songs playing in my ears but the whispers never disappeared. The voices kept begging me to come outside. “Shut up,” I shouted as I threw my headphones against the wall. The voices didn’t stop and nothing was helping so I decided to just lie in bed until morning came. My walls were never touched with anything more than whispers and scratches but the rest of the house was being attacked with extreme hostility. “Get the fuck out here,” A deep voice vibrated throughout the house in frustration. In bed I closed my eyes and kept my hands clasped around my ears for what seemed like an eternity until the sounds just stopped. An hour of silence passed when Facebook alerted me to a new message. I jumped at my laptop for the chance to talk to someone. The message was from Haylee, a girl that I was somewhat familiar with at school. “Are you going to the party?” the message read. “I wasn’t planning on it,” I wrote back. Haylee started typing, “Why not?! You should come out and go with me.” “Alright, that sounds fun.” I replied and all the bad things that had happened earlier were cleared from my mind. “Yay, I sent the address to your phone,” she wrote, “Well I’m gonna get ready, I’ll see you there!” Before I could reply, Haylee went offline. This was the invite that I was waiting for all night but all the cheer in me died when I realized that I didn’t have my phone. I must have left the phone outside my parent’s room in my panic. All the voices in my head telling me to stay in my room were ignored because I needed to go to this party. This was what I was waiting for all those lonely nights and I would get that phone. Fully dressed, I put my ear on my door listening for any signs of movement but I heard nothing so I opened it. I peeked out the doorway and everything looked normal so I left the room with slow steps ready to retreat back inside at a moment’s notice. In the hallway I saw my phone in front of my parent’s room and the light was blinking telling me that I had a message. I was halfway to my phone when I heard my door slam shut. My mission wasn’t done yet so I ran for my phone instead of running back to my room. Darkness started to enshroud me with the phone in my hand but I kept moving, sprinting to my room. I slammed against my door as I tried to open it but no amount of force would make it budge. This time the laughter I heard was not that of children but a deep raspy one as I kept pounding on the door. With each passing moment that I stood outside my locked door I saw my house being enveloped by a wall of black. I reached around my neck for the cross but I took it off when I changed clothes and didn’t put it back on. The darkness was close to me now so I abandoned my post at my door and ran into the adjacent bathroom. I turned the lights on and locked the door behind me, and waited against the door for whatever was coming for me. Nothing slammed against the door this time though and it seemed like nothing would so I took a seat on the nearby edge of the bathtub. I dialed the number of my dad’s phone but shifted my attention to the movement that I saw from the corner of my eye. My head shot to the reflection in the mirror but what was staring back at me was not me. The copy of me smiled back at me with pitch black eyes as four light bulbs that lined the top of my mirror burnt out one by one. I fell back into the bathtub before the last light went out and closed the shower curtain to put something in between us. The last light bulb went out and I heard the steps of someone on the tile floor. I turned on the flashlight of my phone as the black hand was reaching through the shower curtain. My flashlight went out when the hand touched me and my body went numb from the cold touch. The hand moved up my body to my neck and my chest tightened until I couldn’t breathe anymore. I could hear my dad on the phone asking for me but I couldn’t speak and the phone cut off. My thoughts become hazy and I no longer had any control over my body. I was in complete darkness with exception for his black eyes that were shining as they stared into mine and then my mind went black. I was awoken by the violent shakes and shouts of my parents when they found me in the bathtub passed out. “What happened?” they asked me. “I must have slipped and hit my head.” I said relived to see their faces. “Are you alright?” “I’m fine,” I said as I hugged them tight and they gave me a suspicious look. They left the bathroom and my body stopped to look in the mirror. I made sure that every movement I made was my own before I left the bathroom. But as I watched myself walk out of the bathroom I stayed in the same place. At the doorway of the bathroom my body looked back at me and smiled with the same pitch black eyes. I yelled for my parents but no sound was being made and I tried to go after him but I was stopped by an invisible wall. My fists pounded against that translucent wall in anger and fear but I couldn’t break through. I turned around to see a vast nothingness filled with others like me that were shouting and fighting but made no sound. The closest ones to me tried to get my attention but their words didn’t reach me. I slumped down with my back against the wall defeated and accepting my new solitude. A girl my age next to me mouthed the words, “Help me,” as tears rolled down her face but there was nothing I could do. I was one of them. These would be my friends now.


The voice was in his head again. It plagued him; it haunted him. The glass bottle, chilled by the cool air conditioning, continued to get lighter as the voice carried on. He always loved her. He did, anyway. “I did love you,” he thought. The voice carried on. It cut through him, like the aged scotch that he, too, loved so much. The scotch, the cigarettes, the children, the dog, his mother. He loved them all. Of course, he had to give them all up at some point, some easier than others. Some came back, some he brought back; others stayed gone. First it was the dog, but he came back after a week. Then the cigarettes when he promised his mother in the hospital that one day. The sun was bright, shining through the blinds and reflecting off of the bleached white sheets that seemed to smother her with every heaving breath. The children, though. They never call anymore. Not for him, anyway. “I used to love you,” he thought aloud this time, pouring another drink. He felt the stiff palm against his recently shaved head. “Another spot on the carpet from a spilled drink,” he said to the voice. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. “What does any of it matter?” thinking internally again. Walking down the dark hallway, he could hear the voice echoing after him. He didn't bother to close the door behind him today, which gave the voice the perfect opportunity to follow him, like the childhood dreams he let go of after father didn't come back. The framed photograph on the armoire reflected his sadness. A young boy refused to look at the camera, choosing instead to focus on his father’s worn loafers. The smell of the sea came rushing back; memories of father, memories of sailing. The heavy glass door leading to the balcony could be pried open with some work. It was a nice balcony. It was a nice apartment. It was nice enough, anyway. It’s not why he rented the apartment. It’s not why she stayed, either. They had attended the same university, but that’s not how she met him. He had become quite successful after graduating from business school, but that’s not why she married him. He made sure to close the door behind him this time. The voice did not follow him here. The bottle was empty now. It was good scotch, but that didn't matter. He didn't drink it because it was good scotch. He missed the dog. He missed his mother. He missed sailing. He missed the days when she and he would lay under the stars after a party at his fraternity and tell her how much he loved her; how he wanted to have his mother meet her. But that didn't matter. The breeze blew along his scalp, through the short-cropped haircut. There was a steel fence along the perimeter of the balcony, but that didn't matter. He left the empty bottle sitting on the glass tabletop, next to the worn, matching lawn chair. He took off his shoes and set them next to the glass bottle. They were the same shoes he had worn to his daughter’s wedding last summer. But that didn't matter. The wind blew through his hair quickly, pushing its way through his button-up shirt, his tie flapping violently. He was sailing again.


(Burnt-Sienna) I awake to the view of my alarm clock. It reads 9 o’clock AM. I put more effort forward than I’d like to admit was needed to remember if it was a weekend or not, and whether I needed to get my hung-over ass out of bed and prepare for work. After a considerable time of searching through the foggy wasteland that is my mind I remember that last night was Friday, making this morning Saturday. I make the promise to myself that I make, and break, every time I wake up like this. “I will stop drinking this week.” A small sigh of relief escapes my lips, as I realize I get to just relax and ease my way into the morning. I look out across the white rolling ocean of silk that is my sheets, and past that through the window to the expanse of the city, the AM sun creeping over the cloud-brushing skyscrapers lighting my white studio apartment that early morning yellow color that brings a warming sensation to the room. I look around at the messy sprawl of clothes and other assorted items on my apartment floor and something catches my eye. Is that, a dress? My eyes roll across the room inspecting for separate evidence of a body to accompany the mysterious dress. My eyes gloss over the bedroom, and past the kitchen to rest upon the bathroom door. The light is present under the door signifying occupancy. The door opens, and out comes a pair of eyes. I describe this person as such because there is no other way to first take in this woman. Her eyes are a gentle green, the kind that makes your heart beat just a little faster, the kind that’ll make your sole melt, the kind that make you want to just trust. Curly burnt-sienna colored locks roll down across the cascade of pale, flawless skin that is her neck and shoulders. She notices me right away, and just looks at me, her mouth curls up into a smile, and I vaguely recall her asking to take a sweatshirt and some sweats to depart in, and I vaguely remember mumbling a “Yes” as my eyes are unable to be separate from her. She slowly dresses, gracefully pulling sweats over the length of her legs. They loosely hang off her hips, and as I continue to marvel at her grace I remind myself I should say something, but it’s as though I’m trapped within the confines of my own mind. I can’t say anything, I can’t do anything but just admire. I continue to fight my brain, to escape this prison, to express that she should stay for breakfast, or that we could go somewhere together; but all I can do is mindlessly gaze at her as I watch her pull my sweatshirt overhead. The morning sun is reflecting off her flowing burnt-sienna locks, constituting a magnificent luster to the color. I look on, fighting to unlock my brain, as easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, looks me in the eyes with those gentle green eyes, the ones that locked me in this state originally, smiles, thanks me for a good night, and exits my apartment. I lay here; pondering my paralysis, and feelings of regret and failure wash over me. I steam about my incompetence, “How could I let her go?” I keep asking myself bitterly. I brew coffee, and cannot take my mind off this woman. She captured my heart, in less than five seconds, makeup-less, and half naked. I can’t help but think that I’ll never get that opportunity again, and swear to myself that if I ever find a girl, who does this to me again I will not lock up. I will not let my anxious brain destroy my hopes of the life I want to live. I live an easy life, where my only goals are to live stress free, and find someone to make me happy, and I just know I missed an opportunity today. I don’t know where I met this woman, and I don’t know how I possibly managed to get her to stay a night with me, but I will remember her, and I tell myself that I will not forget her. A few days pass, but she is still emblazoned deep into the confines of my mind, as I try to continue and live my life working at the local diner. I take break around 10 AM, and just sit there in one of the many booths. It’s been days and I haven’t taken my mind off her for more than an hour. I can’t escape the gripping feeling that I let something amazing slip through my fingers. I’m sitting here brooding, but also happy that while preoccupied with her I’d maintained alcohol free for the past few days, when someone slides into the booth across the table from me. I look up and lock eyes with those same, warm, gentle green eyes from before. The same burnt-sienna colored curls spilling down to her shoulders, only this time it was fastened up into a lazy ponytail. She’d brought my sweats and sweatshirt and set them down at the table. She looks across at me, purses her lips as though she’s going to say something, but seems hesitant, and closes them. She looks at me for a second and I’m locked up again, I’m again fighting my brain just to take my eyes off of her and say something. There is nothing else like her and I cannot blow this opportunity again. She starts to get up to leave, and I know I have to say something now. As she’s about to exit the booth I finally break the chains of my mind that were holding me back, and say to her “Hey wait! Would you like to join me for breakfast?” She sits back down, directly across from me. She looks at me for a split second, and appears to be thinking. The second seems to pass at an infinitely slow measure. She looks at me, smiles, and says “I’d love to.” Sorry I'm bad with formatting.


or so this was my selfishness and ignorance that will lead to my untimely death. **The** hubris of men may come to a point of confusion, unable to distinguish reality from fantasy. This is my reality. I am not a god in the traditional sense, but a mortal man that assumed the role of a god. For a man to think that he is a god and that the follies of his kind no longer apply to himself are what caused me to be cast from the heavens. This is how my story begins. **No** common man has feasted in the presence of the gods, nor has any common man ever lain with a goddess. Such are the dreams of men. How I was able to meet the goddess of love and beauty, Aphrodite herself, is still a mystery to me. In the fleeting spring of years gone by, this goddess shone her light upon me, and after our first embrace we quickly became infatuated with each other. Her, the goddess of love, and I, a common, mortal man. For reasons I will never know, she would whisk me away to experience what I never could have imagined. Soon I would lose grasp of the reality of who I really was. **Days** turned into months, and those into years, as I would grow ever more proud and take more of my blessings for granted. Soon I would mistake myself for somebody other than a selfish, arrogant fool. I would come to expect the love of the goddess that took me in, rather than earn it with acts of equal merit and thoughtfulness. Instead, I would stand at the top of Olympus and stare through the clouds with a celestial clarity, pitying those at the base of the mountain, not realizing that I was one of them. I came to believe that I was on the same level as the gods, and that I deserved to be in the heavens. I forgot that I was only in the heavens because of the grace of my love, Aphrodite. The gods themselves could no longer tolerate this pride and arrogance, this self deceit, and had quickly cast me from the heavens… deservingly so. **As** I fell from the sky, I knew that I was as mortal as Icarus, and that my own ignorance was the cause of my plummet into the sea. Unlike Icarus who fell to his death, I had drifted away, only to be swept through the waves into the stormiest of seas, the darkest of days, and the loneliest of nights. When I finally arrived at the shore, I collected myself and made my way towards town, with a mind full of thoughts that ached with every step. As the days passed, and seemed to grow ever longer, my anger quickly turned into regret and self-pity. I began to walk through the streets, snickering at the commoners that I peered down upon, only in an attempt to disguise my own shame and emptiness. How could I have mistreated the most divine woman in all of creation? She was the embodiment of love itself, and I used to be able to call her mine. **I** never deserved to taste the ambrosia or feel the warm embrace of a goddess, yet a goddess never deserved a thankless mortal to receive without giving, to receive without singing her praises throughout the heavens, to receive without knowing the luck that had befallen him to merely be in her presence. Somebody as loving and selfless as Aphrodite needs an outstanding man… no! An outstanding GOD to care for her as she once cared for me. The euphoria she bestowed on me will never know an equal. She gave to me what many men will never know, what most could never dream. **I** had it all. I was truly a god, no matter how short my time may have seemed. I have enjoyed emotions and experiences that I never could have imagined without the love of a goddess. My own hubris and ignorance are what led me to where I am today, and I have no one to blame but myself. I cannot say that I am a mortal man and that I must be accepted for who I am. After experiencing the feasts of the gods and the love of a goddess, I shall forever search for something that will never satisfy what I had been accustomed to. Every morning that I wake to find that I am not next to my love, leaves me pondering what I am to do with this mortal existence. **If** my goddess, my one true love, cannot see the tears in my eyes, feel the sorrow on my breath, or know the remorse in my soul, she would surely never know the depth of my misery without her. If I am left to wander in search of earthly meals and an earthly woman, I will starve, beyond any doubt. I will starve, both physically and emotionally, before I found anything palatable enough to stomach my way through.


I woke up with a start. Someone was hammering the door to the flat. I looked around wildly – Jimmy and Kevin were up and about. I could see Kevin’s back, facing the door with his arms outstretched. Jimmy was behind him, hunched and making whimpering, sobbing noises. I swung my legs off of the sofa, shaking. I was embarrassed that I’d fallen asleep before the kids I was supposed to be babysitting. And guilty. Was this karma? My limbs still felt dead from sleep, but I forced myself to stand. As I did so, the door hammered again, hard. “Let me in, kids!” I gasped, and my tension melted a little. It was the kids’ mother. She hadn’t called, and hadn’t meant to be back until tomorrow. I took a step to the door. “Don’t!” screamed Kevin, freezing me. I suddenly noticed what he was holding. A silver pistol, far too big for his hands, pointed at the door. It unnerved me how steady his hands were. Beneath that little mop of brown hair was a determined, detached expression. I wondered where he’d got that. Beside him, Jimmy was clearly terrified. He wasn’t quite holding onto Kevin, but he was close behind, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. The door hammered again and their mother’s voice came, sweetly. “Kids!” it came, drawn out questioningly. “Please just open the door.” BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. Why was she hammering? I looked from the door nervously back to Kevin. He didn’t look at me, eyes trained on the door. I didn’t know their mother well, but she’d always been polite. Normal. Nothing to suggest that she was any different. The kids were kids, but as far as kids go some of the most well-behaved I’ve ever met. They’d been happy to occupy themselves with the TV until bedtime. I had just been about to put them to sleep, that must have been when I’d nodded off. As my mind unclouded, harsh sensibility began to regain control. This was completely out of hand. “Give me the gun,” I said to Kevin. I extended my hand and reached towards him. “You don’t understand,” he said. His voice didn’t crack. ‘Isn’t he only ten?’ questioned my tired mind. “That’s not our mom.” I frowned, shushing the little sudden drop in my stomach that felt a little bit like panic. “Kevin,” I said in a slow, measured tone. “That IS your mother.” His voice did crack this time. “It’s NOT!” His eyes moved away from the door, just for a fraction of a second, to mine, and in that second I saw a very scared little boy. Not fear of being reprimanded, not even fear of being belted. It was the kind of fear that kids shouldn’t know about at that age. His eyes flicked back to the door and he rearranged his grip on the gun, shifting his stance and licking his lips. His voice came again in a tiny whisper. “That’s not mom. That’s not mom.” I didn’t know what to do. The hammering came again. I couldn’t believe how strong she was. It sounded almost like it was going to break down. Why was nobody else in the building coming? My mind was breaking down under the possibilities. Something was very wrong. But I was the adult. I couldn’t just go back inside and hide under a blanket, as much as I might have wanted to. ‘There’s a simple way to solve this’, piped up my rational mind. ‘Go look in the peephole’. I looked at it, and then back to Kevin and Jimmy, and voiced my intentions. “I’m going to go and look through the door,” I said quietly. Why was I being so quiet? My rational brain chided me, but I shut it up. Kevin looked like he was trying to say something. He started a word, then trailed off. As I stepped forward to the door, he inched a little closer with me, as though every centimetre were paper-thin ice that might suddenly shatter. The door was only a few feet away, but it felt like no-man’s land. I didn’t want to take those steps, but I did. My heart thudded as I stopped in front of it. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. The last thundering blow was punctuated, as though they were trying to break THROUGH the door. I’d never noticed before, but it was incredibly study. The chain rattled with every blow. I let out a quiet breath as I stepped up to it. The thudding stopped. I moved the peep hole aside. I screamed. I screamed and I screamed and I screamed. My feet kicked back and I scrambled back across the hallway on all fours, gibbering. Jimmy cried and moved out of my way as I got back behind the line he’d formed. Kevin stepped back in front of us, white as a sheet. “I told you,” he said quietly. The hammering started again. “Let me in! Let me in!” it came, that voice just like their mother’s but different. I hadn’t noticed the subtle different before, but now it terrified me. Had it been their mother, behind that door? Had it been something else? I felt like I was in a dream. A nightmare. It had to be. I held hands with Jimmy, and found myself crying with him. I woke with a start. The lights were out. I was on the sofa, covered in a blanket. Those sweet kids must have covered me after I fell asleep. My breath rattled out of my chest in a sigh of relief. I got my icy feet to the floor, the fresh terror of the dream subsiding, and shakily walked to the lightswitch. The doorbell went. I must have jumped almost through my skin. My heart was racing again. I felt supremely silly. I glanced towards the boys’ bedrooms before walking into the hallway and turning on the light. “Hello?” I called. It was the mother. “It’s just me,” she said. “I got done sooner than expected, so I’m home a little early. Will you take off the chain?” “Yeah,” I said with a smile on my face. I was sure that my cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. Before I took off the chain, I opened the peephole and looked through. It was their mother. Something inside me unclenched, I took a breath, and I took the chain off the door, opening it. She came inside, taking little steps as she made noises of tired relief. “How were the kids?” she asked, “alright?” I thought back to the dream nervously. “They were angels,” I laughed. “I’ve just gotta go to the bathroom, and then if you like you can go home,” said the kids’ mother. “I’ll pay you for tonight, is that okay?” “Sounds great,” I said. She went into the bathroom and I settled down onto the couch, pulling the blanket into a pile on my lap. I made to collect my belongings from the table. I noticed that my phone was blinking and checked the messages. There was one from a minute ago. It read: “Hope the kids are okay. See you tomorrow.” The bathroom door opened.


The man straightened his collar as he looked into the mirror, dreading having the "talk" with his son, Simon. No not that talk, a different talk. Simon got into a fight at school today. The principal said Simon didn't start it. That wasn't what concerned him, what did was the condition of the young man his son beat. He closed his eyes and tried to come up with the right words. His thoughts quickly turned to prayers, because he had no idea what to say. After awhile he opened his eyes, he need not make his son wait any longer. He had sent Simon up to his room right after they got home from the meeting with the principal. "It's time to bite the bullet." He encouraged himself as he left the bathroom. He walked to Simon's room where he found the door open, waiting for him. His son was sitting at his computer desk, he let out a sigh to let him know he was there then walked over and sat on the bed. His son tuned to face him. "Dad, I swear I didn't mean to hurt him that bad. He just kept on and on. He slapped me and I know you always say turn the other cheek, but I couldn't. I had no choice something inside of me just took over. I FELT LIKE A MONSTER! I promise all I wanted was for him to leave me alone." As his son spoke tears filled his eyes, he could tell he thought he had hurt his father. Simon's shirt was ripped and his knuckles was bloody. "I understand more then you know." He said with a smile. "You do?" Simon said shocked. "Yes, I guess you could say temper runs in the family." "I have never seen you even get cranky before." Simon protested. "Ah, but I am old. I have had many more years then you have to learn to control it." "How can I be sure it won't happen again?" Simon asked as tears ran down his face. "You should be kind to everyone, even the undeserving. It is not our place to judge. Turn the other cheek, know that if you don't bad things are to come, just like today. As you get older, the bad things worsen. There are even things you can watch for and avoid like I do." "Like what daddy?" "Confrontation, arguments or anything that may make you angry. If you have a thought or have a hard time calming down, go to somewhere you can be alone. Then yell and do whatever you need to get it out. I like a dark place personally." "Like your study, is that why you had it sound proofed?" Simon asked. His father not answering rose to his feet. Simon stood up and hugged his father. "So I'm not in trouble?" "Of course not. How bad did he hurt you?" He asked. "My lip was bleeding, I think it stopped though. I'm okay." Simon answered. "Go change your shirt and wash your hands, we are going for ice cream. That feels good on a busted lip." His father said with a smile leaving the room. He could see Simon was happy, but he was not. He closed the door to his study and walked into the bathroom. "Pick on my son." He said as he began to lose his temper. "Slap my son." His heart raced and his hands stiffened and snapped. "Bust his lip." His face tightened. "Made him feel like a monster?" He asked himself. He slammed his once human hands into the wall, he slammed his foot into the toilet. Water ran all over his feet as though a fresh cooling effect. He rested his clawed hands on the sink and in snapped and cracked under the pressure. His gaze turned to the mirror. Fangs, slit eyes that even to this day remind him of a cat and bone piercing his skin making horns. "A monster." He whispers to himself. A voice from deep within him speaks, "one day, you will have to tell him. He is my son too." "Dad? Are you ready?" Simon's voice called out from the study. "Oh yeah, just gotta change my shoes, I'll meet you in the car." He listened until he heard the door close to his study. His gaze returned to the mirror now a man who is growing old looks at him instead of the beast that lives inside. "I know that." He tells it, he knows it can hear him. It's always listening. "Today isn't that day." He combed down his whitening hair and changed into dry shoes and met Simon outside. "Dang dad, what took so long?" "We have to stop by Lowe's, I need to place an order." He answered. "Toilet in your study is messing up again?!" Simon asked. "I guess I'm not the plumber I thought I was." He answered with a smile. "Geez dad, I would have gave up by now. You have the patience of a saint.


It was our first journey in the Time Machine. My companion Susan was at the helm. "Doctor, are we ready to travel back in time?" "Yes, Susan. How are the biometrics?" "They are 100%." "Good. Hit the GO button." "Roger." Susan hit the GO button and we began moving back in time. I watched as the 2000s, the 1990s, and the 1980s went by. You could see the silhouettes of history and they were beautiful. "Stop the machine, Susan. I want to witness the Moon Landing." Susan stopped the machine and veered the craft towards the moon. There we saw the astronauts loping around the moon. We rolled down the window and laughed at them. "We have a time machine!" Then we rocketed back to Earth to see what chips tasted like with trans fats. *The Assassination of JFK* "Susan, we have arrived in Dallas. It is ten minutes until the assassination. We must act fast." "Right, doctor. Do you have your gun?" "Yes. Did you bring the soda and crackers?" "No, doctor. I forgot." I looked at Susan. "Then the President gets killed. Are you happy? Get in the fucking Time Machine, you twit! We're going back." *Ewoks* Susan and I had decided it was time to travel to one of the most famous times of all time: a long, long time ago. The problem was the galaxy far away part. We had all the coordinates of far away galaxies, but there were just too many. So, when we got there, we just called the indigenous swamp creatures Ewoks. Though, they could not sing and dance, they did serve us food. But the joke was on us. It was Endor and the food was actually Ewoks. We all had a good laugh. *The Revolutionary War* We were back in time once again. It was Susan, my long time companion, and I. We had been dating for several years, but I never took it any farther. I feel that Susan and I do not need a state's blessing to live our lives together. She disagrees. She thinks that it is a covenant between man and woman and that maybe it will curb my "Philandering". This got me angry and I told her so. Oh, and the Revolutionary War was going on all around us. It was really embarrassing. *The Future is Yours* "Susan, how are the biometrics?" "100%." "Good. We are going to the future. There is going to be tons of neon, put these glasses on." Susan put the glasses on and I hit the FUTURE button. *Deadly Swamp Things* Susan and I arrived in a lost time. It was a patch of murky soil within a swamp. We stepped out of the time machine. "Susan, do you see that swamp creature!" I yelled. "Yes, Dr. Haverly. We must get back inside." "Wait!" I said. "It could be sentient. Susan, just because something is ugly, does not mean it is not intelligent. Swamp Thing!?" "Yes?" The swamp thing asked. It looked like a magnificent spider with long octopus tentacles. "You look like a spider with octopus tentacles - did you know that?" The Swamp Thing just kinda nodded and pulled out a giant swamp joint. "See, Susan. He's just a laid back guy." That's when the Swamp Thing slapped Susan. *Time Wars!* My assistant, Susan, and I were once again traveling through time. She was a worthy assistant and helped me to no end in my ventures. "Susan, how are the biometrics?" "They are 100%." "Excellent. I think we will be at our destination soon." We were travelling to Christ-time. "It will be wonderful to see Jesus in real life." "Yes." I confirmed. But I was a little worried. The micro processors were giving me some bad readings. I took a look and realized we were headed for trouble. "Susan, there's a Time War up ahead!" "What's a Time War?" Susan asked. "It's when many time travelers travel to the same date at the same time. This could get hairy." I handed her a razor. *Biometrics* "Susan, what are our biometrics?" "They are 100%." "Good. Can you get me a reading on the time weather we will be passing through on the way to the 1920s?" "The weather is good. There are a series of time storms that have just passed through the 1930s, so we are OK." "Glad we're not going to the 1950s." I said jokingly. "Start the time engines." Susan started the time engines and we headed off to travel in time. I boned her on the way. *Susan* "Susan, how are the biometrics?" "Not good." "What's wrong?" "I'm not sure. They are claiming that you have VD." "But, how?" "You tell me. Or - wait, let's go back in time and see what you were doing when I had the flu for a week back in 2013." "We could do that. Or we could kill Hitler. Which will it be?" "You do this every time. We've killed him hundreds of times." "So, you're more important than 8 million people? Is that it?" "Currently, he's dead." "Not fifteen minutes before the last time we killed him." "But it doesn't matter." "Of course it does - you brought it up." "I..but..I did?" I do this to Susan every time she brings up the VD. *The Twenties* We stepped outside of the time machine and I pulled my gun. The 1920s are notorious for crime in America and I was pretty sure we were in America. "Hey, are we in America?" I asked a stranger. He said nothing. Apparently dogs cannot talk in the 1920s like they can in the 3040s. But you can still have sex with them. *The Land That Time Forgot* After hitting the time machine button the machine began emitting a large electrical current around itself and we were whisked away. I had forgotten to enter in a date to go to, so it sent us to the default year 9999. We stepped outside the machine and found an Earth that was unrecognizable. It had two suns and three moons. And six penises. Man. Time totally forgot about that Earth. *Dinosaur Disaster* We arrived in dinosaur times. We looked around and saw dinosaurs. This confirmed: Dinosaur Times. Our first dinosaur seemed to be a sort of giant crocodile that watched us from afar. We immediately shot it.


She was only seven years old and already she understood the value of money. Just one penny got her a gum ball. Ten pennies got her a candy bar, or a scoop of ice cream; always vanilla with sprinkles. She understood money alright, in the simple way that everyone does. Enough of it always gets you what you want. What she didn't understand was why her Father didn't seem to get the same simple concept. She made protest once, and he laughed at her. "Because it's fun, my dear. We get to watch the train go by, and then we get to look for the pennies that got squashed on the track." She scrunched her face together, with the hint of an unbelieving smile. He got close to her and made a face. "Because it's fun!" Then he tickled her. After she gathered all the pennies with her father, she would put them in a small box. She just assumed these bubbly oblong shapes, with the strange alien face that was once President Lincoln, would still be worth something. But there was something else special about these pennies, something that was never spoken or even a fully formed thought; these strange pennies only ever came into her possession when she was with her father. The only time she ever lost a penny, was the same day as the accident. By early afternoon she had already laid and collected 10 pennies from the dusty ground surrounding the track. After she had picked up the last one, her father looked at his watch, and grabbed her hand. "Alrighty, my dear, it's time to head home. Your Papa has to be at work in an hour and a half." But she wasn't ready. She wanted to stay all day, and she made her feelings known in the innocent girlish way that no father can resist. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single shiny penny. He handed it to her. "You're going to make me late, but I think we can do one more anyway. Hurry, next train should be here any minute!" She quickly ran to the tracks, put the penny down, then ran back and embraced her fathers leg. She stared at the penny with unrelenting anticipation as her father picked her up and walked behind the fence. A few minutes later they heard the rhythmic rumble of the approaching train, and they watched through the cracks of the fence as boxcar after boxcar rolled by. She always looked for the twirling shine of the penny as it rocketed through the air, but she never saw it. After the train went by, they searched for the penny. She ran every which way, examining the ground, and never finding her prize. Finally, her father called to her. "I'm sorry darling, but we have to hit the road. I'll be late as it is." She continued looking, a worried and desperate look taking the place of pure concentration. She couldn't find it. This would be the only one she hadn't been able to find. She had to find it. She felt the force of her fathers arms swing her into the air and over his shoulder. "We have to go." There was a touch of loving impatience in his voice. She reached for the tracks and begged to be put down. "We'll get it next time." But there wouldn't be a next time. After her father left for work, she never saw him again. She was 87 years old, and would sometimes disappear from her room. She had bouts of Alzheimers, and whenever they hit she was prone to wandering away from the facility. The first time the staff panicked. They never lost anyone. But after finding her once, they always found her in the same place. When they found her, they would approach slowly and put their arms carefully around her. They would lead her away, always saying the same thing. "You know how dangerous the tracks are. We don't want you to get hurt." She would plead with them, a sad desperation in her eyes. "But my penny... I must find my penny" They would always shake their head, and recite the same simple line. "You'll find it next time.


I exist only as much as you let me. We spend hours, sometimes days together, you lying in the grass in the warm June sunlight, flipping the crisp white pages of your book, discovering me. You get to know me and I get to know you, too. You like earl grey tea and drink black coffee. You own two cats. You like microfiber throws. I know these things because you let me, because in the purest form, I exist because of you. I exist because you bought a book. Your image of me changes. You fall in love. You fall in love with someone who does not exist in your universe but rather the one that you created, the one that is only because you let it be. I tell you that I love you. I do. I wish more than anything that we could be together in more than just words on a page and me screaming, pleading to the clouds that just hide me from seeing what you look like. I wish that you could stay. And as you reach the end, those last faithful sentences, you realize that I will no longer be there. Your tears stain the pages and it rains in my world. It is okay, you will find other stories, you will read other books and maybe one day, you will happen upon mine again. Maybe for a couple hours of a couple days, you will let me exist again.


Shielding his glazed and fatigued eyes from the glare that spilled through the cracks in the sinuous, sanguine, velvet curtains, he gently arose from her bed, tenderly planting the soles of his naked feet on the icy marble floor of her apartment. With a feline tread he swiftly crept around the unfamiliar apartment, dancing his calloused hands over the countertops and stylish wooden stools, taking a moment to appreciate every subtle change in texture. Acknowledging his strangely pleasant mood, despite the drone of a dreadful headache and a parched mouth serving as echoes of the previous night, he couldn't help but strike a brash grin, and ambled again back towards the master bedroom after realising the pointless exercise in his endeavors of exploration. Blissfully ignorant, she remained cocooned in the vast, stained, white duvet, mumbling innocently in her sleep, and as he began to slowly dress he regretfully came to the disappointing realisation that this was yet another trophy he would not be able to proudly display. However, this was just a passing thought that had developed no resonance, it had become far too routine, and his mind turned towards executing a swift act of disappearance. Grabbing his exorbitantly priced branded silk shirt and stumbling into the Levi's that had both been crudely sprawled across the floor, he drifted towards the en-suite, and soon let out a sigh of relief as he watched the waterfall of fluid glisten off the clean walls of the ceramic bowl and tumble elegantly into the sterile, translucent lake below. Whilst reaching towards his fly he turned to his left, blushed and smirked in pathetic admiration as he gazed into the mirror hanging equitably on her bathroom wall in order to fashion his receding hair before he departed; the man who stared back at him was the consummate portrait of a bachelor...


I was walking, and she was walking. I was running, and she was screaming. I was crying, and she was bleeding. A crowd formed around me, holding her. I couldn't call the ambulance, I was so in shock that all I could do was hold her as I sobbed. I screamed her name several times, shaking. *Shaking, shaking, shaking.* Blood trickled down her head, taking two different paths as it reached her nose. My thumb smudged the blood that found its way to her right cheek. Sirens could be heard from a distance, getting closer. Soon, paramedics took her away and I followed. *"What happened?"* One paramedic said to me. *"What?"* I said, confused, no not confused, *scared.* *"I-I don't know what happened. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know!"* I couldn't believe what was happening. What if she dies? No, I can't think like that. I can't *afford* to think like that. Losing her would be like losing my heart. I can't live without her as much as I can't live without my heart. Before I knew it, I was in her hospital room, sitting beside her body. I wasn't sure if she was even breathing, she had to be, though. Her heart rate was there, barely, but it was there. I held onto her hand, hoping she'd live, *knowing* she'd live. "I love you." I whispered. I swear she mouthed it back, her lips moved, *she moved*. *Beeeeeeep.* Silence. Panic. My heart stopped. *Her* heart stopped.


Mitch and Lawson were in the pickup, cruising between strip malls in the Atlanta suburbs. It was muggy and still and the cicadas had been buzzing all day. Mitch whistled low as he passed a couple in their teens, one carrying a skateboard. Lawson's eyes shot from the teenagers to Mitch. "Your Aunt still living with you?" Mitch stopped swirling his toothpick around in his mouth. He slowed the car slightly as he placed the toothpick on the edge of the ashtray, where others were arranged neatly. When the truck slammed suddenly to a halt, Lawson was taken by surprise. His head struck the dashboard, and Mitch's hand closed on a handful of his hair and gripped tightly as he drew closer, as if to whisper a secret. "You don't need to ask me about that, you hear?" Lawson cried out. Mitch released, but his hand hung there like a claw as his face slowly withdrew. He sat back, exhaling. When the truck started rolling, Lawson rubbed the back of his head. He looked at his hand for blood. "You're pretty fucked." His voice was a near whisper. Mitch rolled down Lawson's window. "That was fucked up, what you did back there." "Get some air. You're safe now. You're with me." Mitch may have been grinning, but the pale pink streetlights cast shadows that obscured his face and occasionally put it into silhouette, making it difficult to tell. Lawson knew the roads enough to tell they were changing direction. They were no longer moving west toward Cedartown. "I thought we'd go camping. Like the old days." Lawson was pale. "Sure." Mitch was laughing quietly. "Sure, your call.


Hello. This tale starts at the end of the “dark” period of my youth. My name isn’t important, but for the purpose of narrative, you can call me T. I grew up in an area that was known by the local population as a barrio. For the uninitiated, it could also be called the ghetto. In a lot of ways, I can say that I had it better than a lot of other people. Prior to the dark period, I had a fairly normal childhood. A mom, a dad, 2.5 kids, rusted chain link fence. But, when my mom died, it set off a series of events that lead to the dissolving of my family circle, and wound up with me living more and more with friends on the streets. Anywhere was preferable to being at home for any length. The end of the dark period signaled the dawn of the sunny time which involved the many animated, insane, and at times, frightening people that made up the tapestry of my teenage year friends. The dynamic of the realities of daily life shaped a great deal of things that most other people took for granted during that time frame. No one in my circle of friends relied on parents for anything more than a bed and an occasional meal. Often times, even that was in question. Police were more widely feared than the gangs that squabbled over the various streets and blocks of the city. Murder, violence, teen pregnancy were all the norm. It may sound trite, but the old gangsta rap songs proclaiming how hard it was to “get up out da ghetto” were not just a piece of creative writing. It began in the fall of my 7th grade year of school. I was still trying to rebuild after the world had crashed down around me. I had begun a new year of school, in a brand new school, with a brand new group of people who hated me just for being me. You see, in an area which had a majority population which were mexican or latin american, I was the token minority: white. The reverse racism of my youth, in hindsight, helped to build me into a much stronger person as an adult. It built character, if you will. But at the time, getting thrown into trash cans, dunked into toilets, and the occasional jumping left me feeling like no amount of character was worth this bullshit. The house next door to me had been occupied by 4 families in the span of my childhood. First was a blue collar gentleman and his family who moved out when the gangs moved in. I was 3 or 4 at that time. Next was a group of guys who I realized when I was older were in fact drug pushers. They didn’t last long, although I don’t actually recall when they left. The third was a family which came with three kids. They wound up being close friends of mine throughout much of my youth, but left at the time the dark period began. The parents wound up divorcing. I never figured out the exact circumstances behind what happened next, but my previous friends Uncle wound up buying the home next. He came with 4 children. Rigo was the oldest of the group. We were in the same grade, and due to a lot of similar interests, he and I became like brothers. He was only half related to the other 3 siblings, being the bastard son of his father. He was a wirey fellow, but extremely athletic. His dad and uncle both played AAA ball, and he always felt like he had huge shoes to fill due to those expectations. But, being a bastard, his step mom treated him disdain and hatred, and as a result, so did his dad. Chunky was the second oldest, and at the time, the only girl of the bunch. As her name implies, she was….rotund. She was a sweet girl for the most part, and more often than not could be find working with her mom in the kitchen or cleaning house. She was slow, however. She had some facial features of someone who suffers from down syndrome, but never took special education classes. In fact, she was a straight A student though most of school. Her grades did not mask the fact that she had the social skills of a stump however. They also did not mask the fact that she had absolutely no street savvy, and often lacked common sense. As a bonus, she also had a near constant odor of cheese. Conejo was the third oldest. For those who don’t speak spanish, his nick name translates to rabbit. As this name implies, he shared a lot of features with said lagomorph. He had pronounced buck teeth, large black eyes, and ears that were two sizes too large for his head. But he was smart. Not just in school, but also on the streets. For the purpose of these tales, I will use the name Rabbit for him. Last in the train was Daniel. Dumb Daniel. Oh….Dumb Daniel. He was a year younger than Rabbit, and shared some similarities in appearance. But where Rabbit had a good head on his shoulders, Daniel was sporting a brain that was sort of rotten and insane. Like his sister, he never was in any special education classes, but unlike her, he was not academically inclined. More than a few times growing up, I wondered how natural selection had not picked his weak antelope off yet. These misfits were the saviors who arrived just in time to prevent me from killing myself. They were my friends. They were my family. They were the hood rats that, prior, I never knew I needed.


I used to look at people when I was younger; Right in their eyes... I would try to understand if they were there, being able of thought abstract and minus self. I used to wish and hope that maybe they were. That something would dawn upon one and they would look at me and I would see, feel, taste anything that would show me. I looked for year's, I got older and older and I still couldn't find it. Every so often i would see intelligence and glimmers of something better described as a twitch of a muscle you didn't know you had. I gave up, I stopped looking. What I couldn't stop was thinking. I grew wary of what I deemed was called hope. That thing that drives people to want and love and fuck, before greed sets in and once was love turns to lust and they forget what they had held once dear. That conditioned morality that was what they thought of as I themselves. Their flawed idea of uniqueness dissolves. As with all things lost, the human condition prevails and one must search. I thought maybe i wasn't looking right. Was it a given? Was there a mass presumption ingrained into us? If that was so then why did I not have it. Why. That was my fall. I turned on my self and I couldn't stop. I kept cycling and cycling in the true fashion of Einstein's definition. I could control it, which only created more whys. Was it really control? If that was up there standing on the soap box, that idea of being able to stop mid breath, Harness one away from want. Then everything was. Sweet opioid. Love. Quite. I could look up now. I felt what i deemed control, that wary thing I carried with me,not for the sake of other as most do, but for myself to keep me from falling away no longer necessary. I could look at someone in the eyes and not wonder or search, but see exactly how they did; feel, touch, taste, be. The notion of my singularity was null. Well for as long as it lasted. It was worse now. I saw I wasn't wrong to question and look. I wasn't asking the wrong thing or not looking the right way. Alone again. Though with more knowledge. I have conditioned others to act differently why not me? I tried so hard. tearing bit by bit away. Using more and more to see were work was needed. I slowly unraveled it all and put it back. Then kept using more and more. less breaks. It had to stick I had blend it and life together. Had to forget what I was doing to myself or it would never work. Then I stopped. Time went by. Calmness and ease, that frolic on the beach. But nothing last.... A itch was starting to form...