The walls of my den seem closer in tonight. I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. How long have I been in here? All night it seems. I look down at the typewriter; a few sentences written, nothing substantial. The dim light shines off the bottle on the side table. *Wasn’t there was more left?* I think. These long nights really do me in. I hear steps behind me. “Writer’s block, honey?” my wife asks. “How could you tell?” I ask, giving her a slight smile as I turn in my chair. “Well, for one, the whiskey’s almost gone,” she replies, smiling back. “I thought that was fuel for you writers?” she questions. “Maybe for Joyce and them,” I say, holding the bottle in my hand, the glass heavy and cool in my hands. “But for me, apparently whiskey is nothing more than an escape.” “An escape?” she questions, her tone becoming more serious. “What are you escaping from, Walter?” I give a heavy sigh. “Myself mostly; my thoughts, my fears that my writing will never be what it was, that the well I drew from so many times has dried up.” She walks over and puts her arms around me in an attempt to be comforting, but I find it agitating, and I shrug her off. Whiskey is my only comfort tonight, and so I pour another glass. She shakes off my cold demeanor. “You’re a fantastic writer, Walter, ever since I've known you. Remember those nights where we would lie in bed, and you would read to me, read your stories and poems? I know how well you can write.” I lean back in my chair and I remember back to those days she mentioned. Things were different back then. The writing was different, my outlook was different, and our relationship was different. “But what if I can’t get back to that? What if that’s gone forever?” I ask, superficially about my writing, but implying things much deeper. She looks at me for a moment, looking as though she’s trying to read the thoughts behind my eyes. “It’s late; why don’t you come to bed?” “I can’t, I can’t leave without writing something worth keeping on the page.” She seems disheartened by my answer. “Well, write about something you know; you always said that helped you get through writer’s block.” “Yeah, I’ll try that, thanks honey,” I reply, giving her a hollow smile. She walks up to bed, and I position myself in my chair. I finish the remainder of my glass, and I unscrew the bottle. I take sizable swig of the writer’s fuel. Write about something I know, I think. I look at what’s prevalent, pressing in my life, and my fingers move to the typewriter and hammer out a sentence. **He no longer loved her.** I look at my sentence, and I sob. I grab the writer’s fuel, and I escape.


The director’s face was the first I saw upon returning. I had hoped it would be my mothers. His bifocals were constantly sliding down that pointy nose, and I could tell he was nervous from the constant smoothing of the stringy hair around his ears. Several emotions flickered across his face at once: fear, joy, excitement, jealousy. The last made me uncomfortable, and I shifted under the large man’s eager stare. “Well… what did you see?” he asked, rubbing his forehead with a handkerchief. His voice was higher than normal; normal being already slightly feminine. The others in the room stared expectantly, pen and paper ready in each pair of hands. Reporters, news camera crews, journalists, and anyone else who wanted exclusive information was jammed into the already cramped room. If I had more of an ego, I may have enjoyed the attention. Perhaps even more so if I had anything to tell them. They thought I was the perfect candidate, considering my experience. Every trip to the past had included me, either on my own or accompanying a person or group. They thought that I was good luck. I knew better, knew that I was the opposite. The first time, I had caught cholera, and had nearly died in Nottingham. The second, a stray Mongol arrow had all but pierced my heart. The rest are a jumble of disease, famine, natural disasters, and war casualties. Each time, as I was about to die, I was brought back to the present and the ailment cured. They told me it was worth it, for science and history. None of them ever volunteered to join me. If it hadn't been news of the meteor, I may have continued my disastrous missions into history. It had been kept quiet at first, but news leaked out, as it always does. People began to panic, rioters hit the streets, and religious extremists gained billions of followers. Of course, nobody knew if the meteor would actually hit; it all depended on the timing. Either a direct collision, pulled by our gravity, or else it will pass extremely close and shoot towards the sun. Impossible to tell. Then the director had his brilliant plan; if we could see the past, why not the future? In the state of panic, everybody jumped on board. The director became a sort of celebrity, and funding was raised quickly. And who better, he asked, to lead this mission, but the one who had been a part of all previous missions. I tried to oppose, of course, but they wouldn't hear it. I was going. I knew all along there was nothing to be seen. Even as they were inputting the coordinates, I was trying to decide what to say. You cannot predict the future; you cannot know it, because it does not yet exist. There are many possibilities, many different ways it could run. Astrologists and prophets appear successful, because they predict the most likely outcome, and brag intelligence or giftedness when it comes about. But there was no likely outcome, no easily discernible pattern to follow. It was one or the other, left or right, death or life. Heads or tails. I glanced down, as the face of George Washington stared mockingly up at me. With a practiced smile and show of relief, I proclaimed that we would survive; the meteor will pass close enough that offshoots will create much damage, but Earth will remain intact. Celebratory whoops and hollers filled the room, and the director did something of a dance. I smiled, shaking hands and giving hugs as everyone came to congratulate me. There was no happiness, no excitement, as I wait until the day the meteor would arrive. If I were to be honest with myself, I hope it hits us. Nobody will judge you when you are dead.


Walking down Main Street, James sees something. He sees something florescent. It's glowing. It's calling is name. He must get to it. He needs it. He must find what is giving off such an enticing shade of green. He pushes past every person in his way--young, old, large, small, male, female-- he doesn't care. He needs to see it. He needs to touch it. Running as fast as he can, it only seems to get farther away. Oh, why can't he run faster? He's getting closer; he can feel it. *"But it still looks so far away."* He thought. He pushes a small girl aside and she hits the ground. And then she was gone. The girl had disappeared. James stopped running. *"where did she go?"* James looked around. *"Where did everyone go?"* The street that was a blur with people, cars, lights, and sounds moments ago was now inexplicably empty and so very quiet. He turned his body back to it's original position and saw there, lying in the street, the glowing thing that vexed him so. He started slowly towards it with sure steps, shaking with anticipation. *"Finally."* He stopped a foot-and-a-half away from the object and lowered himself to the ground. he reached his hand out to touch it and just as fast as everyone disappeared, so did the sun. Darkness stretched far and wide. James could barely see the street. *"I don't remember the sun setting. It all happened so fast."* He looked back to the ground to find that the object--like the little girl-- had gone. Speechless, he grabbed and scraped at the ground where the object was seconds ago. Anger and loss made it's way from the bottom of his stomach to the top of his lungs, and he cried out in anguish. He slammed his fists onto the cement, and suddenly, the street was gone. Falling through the blackness, James screamed and flailed his arms trying to find something--anything-- to hold onto, but found nothing. There was nothing above and nothing below him. How long had he been falling? Weeks? Months? It felt more like years. As time passed, he stopped screaming. He stopped grasping. He sometimes forgot he was still falling. He had become so accustomed to the nothingness; he almost felt like one with it. He felt peaceful. But he still asked the question time and time again: *"Will I be falling forever?"* Instantaneously, his body collided with stone. His bones cracked, his bladder released, and his mouth gave way to vomit and then blood. His lungs contracted and expelled all air from it's passages. Writhing there, half-dead, James could feel is organs begin to shut down. After what felt like hours, his lungs finally relaxed, allowing oxygen to enter. Coughing and gasping, James saw out of the corner of his eye, a faint green glow. He turned his head and saw the object lying there. The way it sat there, just out of reach, felt like it was mocking him; watching him; laughing at his pathetic situation. *"I have to destroy it."* He searched himself for any shred of strength. He stretched his arms out in from of him and started to drag himself toward the object that he now hated. He drug himself until he saw that, again, he was getting no closer to it. Dejected, he lay his head on the ground. **plink** He looked at the stone floor and saw a little white lump. He picked it up and looked closer. There in his hands, was a tooth. **plink** He looked down and found another. Confused, he ran his tongue along the teeth in his mouth and found two empty spaces; one where a molar once was, and one where a canine should be. **plink** Another tooth. And another. And another. James tried to put them back in his mouth, but his hands felt like they were underwater. He tried to scream, but his mouth was full of gravel. The high-pitched squeal of heavy machinery met his ears and bright flash blinded him. Clutching his chest and gasping, he sat up. The blankets had fallen to the floor and the pillows were at the foot of the bed. The sheets were damp with sweat. Trying to calm himself, James said, "Only a dream." Laying down, He said, "It was just a dream.


Greetings! I come from /r/TalesFromTheSnoo! It's a brand new subreddit where you can submit writing or art in any form for others to enjoy and also for the magazine proper. Readers will always be able to read and vote on every submission. At the end of every month, we'll take the top submissions and put them together in a big bad beautiful .pdf/.epub file. All for free! It's some good exposure for aspiring writers and artists, as well as some fantastic content for anyone and everyone. Submissions can evolve over the course of the month, and serials are certainly welcome! Ideally, we're looking for novellas, short stories, flash fiction, poetry, prose; all with any degree of science fiction and fantasy. Art submissions are welcome as well, particularly if they are pointed towards one particular story. Submissions can be from anyone, and of anything. Your brother's short story idea, some art you found online (we'll handle the permissions and rights), your own anything! Post it in the subreddit, and the community will vote on it! Please try and make sure that A) you get permission from the creator(s) and B) it hasn't been published before.


We are connected, you and I. I never knew you, but we are connected. I waited for you. I chose you. It could have been someone else. Just five more seconds and you would have passed, but you came around the building and I knew. It was the itch. The itch that’s deep inside. I’m sure you’ve had it yourself. The kind of itch you can never dig out. Trust me I tried. The first time I got the itch it felt like my stomach was being eaten from the inside out. So I took my knife and dug into my own flesh. But the deeper I went I realized I couldn’t reach it. When they found me with the black hole in my stomach, they thought you did it to me. They told me I was a lucky bastard and said I’d have a chance to get even with you soon enough. They told me I would live. So they patched me up and gave me pills, but I knew the itch would never go away. Now it calls me, guides me. It guided me to you. Please don’t think I’m a monster. I’m sure you would have done the same, wouldn’t you? I didn’t order you to show up when you did. I just do what I’m told, by the itch, and the itch chose you. I let ten of you pass from one wall to the other. I watched as the first of you leaned around the corner. I could have sworn you saw me, but you didn’t. The first of you leaned around the corner and gave a hand signal and you all came pouring out like ants from a hole. So if you’re looking for someone to blame, blame the signal man, not me. He gave you that red star on your chest just as much as me. The red star. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to get a red star. I used to think about it all the time, but after a while I realized making it this far meant I never would. I still think about it, sometimes. As I was saying, you came around the corner, and as soon as I saw you, I got the itch. What’s that? Why? Speak up, man! Why did I get the itch? If you have to ask that question, clearly I was wrong and you never had it. In short, I don’t know. I know that isn’t the answer you want to hear, but it’s the truth. I don’t know why the itch chose you. You look like a decent enough fellow. I didn't hate you when you came around the corner. Actually, I get the sense that we are similar. But you came around the corner, and I didn’t feel much of anything, just that small seed of fear. Surely, if you don’t know what the itch is, you have to know the fear. Even now, with the red star on your chest, I still fear you. I know, it sounds stupid, but I do. Because I could be you. Because we’re connected you and I. Someday, someone might get the itch, and it will be me that gets a red star. But this time, you came around the corner, and I waited. I know you want that red star to mean something. You hope that in some small way, that badge on your chest will make a difference, and you know what? I think it does. Maybe not in the final outcome, but inside, yes, I think it does because you can claim it as your own. You earned it. But not just for yourself. If this whole thing was only for ourselves, we wouldn’t be here, am I right? But we are connected, I know that much, and that’s how I know it means something. Well, I better get going. Say, what’s that? That in your hand? May I? Oh wow, what a great picture. She, wow, she is really beautiful. And look at those kiddos. Hey their Chief you have a helluva good looking-oh, Jesus. Man, I’m sorry. Here, keep them in a safe place. Take them. Common take them! Alright, look, I’ll just tuck them right in your pocket there. Man, don’t look at me like that. I told you it wasn’t my fault. Weren’t you listening to a single word I was saying? We’re connected. I waited just to be sure! The itch told me! Stop staring at me you sick bastard! I swear I’ll put another red star right in your damn forehead! Stop staring at me! *Pop!* It’s not my fault! *Pop! Pop! Pop!* *** The dead soldier’s face was unrecognizable by the time they stopped Private Anderson. The stock of his rifle was implanted in the side of the enemy soldier’s skull, but even without that final blow, Anderson managed to fire off a full clip into the man’s face and chest. As recalled by Lieutenant Jeffries, Private Anderson was being restrained by three other soldiers when he arrived on the scene. The private’s face had gone pallid in the struggle, his lips blue and twisted into a hideous form. And he was screaming. Jeffries had heard plenty of screams in war, but nothing so primal, so pure. It was like Anderson spewed a patchwork quilt of sorrow, horror, and darkness over the men, and when it settled it found every nerve in their bodies and plucked it like a guitar string. Watching him lose it, they all felt cold. Because they knew it could be them, that they were connected. They could be drug away with spittle flying from their mouths screaming, “the itch!” Just like Anderson.


It doesn’t take long for the children to find their way. They follow the ready-made trail, usually hidden by the warm arrays of leaves in their orange and browns. It’s funny how these trees, appreciated whilst they’re green and living, are so magnificent once their leaves fall and die. It’s almost poetic; the little children following the trail of death to find home. And they will find home with me. Under the solace of the branches they will be safe and sound, warm and snug around the campfire. They will come to their Wendy. It’s interesting isn’t it? The lies these adults will tell to keep their children from misbehaving and wandering off. “Go to sleep when we tell you or the Boogey Man will get you!” or “Santa won’t bring you presents if you keep behaving that way!” or “Don’t get lost in the woods or people will find you. They will hunt you. They will rape and kill you.” All these silly lies. There are no horrors out there for children. Children are blissful creatures, to be cherished by all those around them. There is no greater delight than sitting, watching these dainty pixies frolic in the sunlight. Take children out of the equation and there will be no laughter in this merciless world. Silly adults, no one would dare do anything to harm the babes. I can hear them getting closer. How delightful! Those delicious dead leaves crunch under their little booties like the bones of the defeated. I love that crackle you get, it’s like candy for the ears, alike to a passing breathe of someone close by, sounds of the living. I heard a story a long time ago, it’s an old tale, older than your own ears. He told me about this place. It’s so far away and you can only get there by thinking happy thoughts. It’s such a wondrous place. There are mermaids and pirates and Red Indians and such beautiful creatures. There are children there too. Lost children far from home who need looking after. Poor children. If only they had their Wendy. There’s laughter in these woods once more! Joyful joyful noise! I always did love laughter. It tickles the belly and it resounds in your head long after. He always made me laugh. He had such a way with words, he could tell a tale and it was like you were there! I was helping him fight a blood thirsty tiger in the depths of the jungle. I was swimming with him in that long forgotten wreck. I was watching him interact with those Indians, turning them red as he burned down their village. I was watching as my father’s hands gagged my mouth and defiled my young body. He said it was a part of life. Children get hurt because adults need it. Adults need to take a child’s innocence because they, themselves have lost it and are jealous. They need that act of gratification because there is nothing that can compare to it. I won’t let them do it. No one can harm the babes. Oh I hope these children will be more grateful than the last few that came by. They wanted to leave so soon just when I was getting into my story. They said that their parents would be angry if they didn’t leave right then. I told them not to worry; they’ll be safe with me. I gave them more tea and they soon settled down and enjoyed the rest of my story. I’ve recently realised that I tend to talk a lot, it’s my fatal flaw or “hamartia” if you like. He always told me that it was going to get me into a lot of trouble one of these days. He said that if I didn’t let other people get a word in that they’ll want to cut my tongue out and chop it to pieces. I quickly tightened up after that, but only for a little while. I can’t help it, I like to talk and if I don’t talk then who will? And I have so many stories to tell, the children love it when they sit around and listen to the stories of their Wendy. I should get the tea on! I can’t expect them to arrive here and not have tea ready for them. The sleeping bags are all neat and tidy, surrounding the camp fire so that they shall be warm while they sleep. It’s getting cold out and I don’t want them to catch a chill. The children are always so polite, they say their pleases and their thank you’s and they sip at that tea so delicately. They’re so delicate, like little birds; little birds with their breakable necks and hollow bones, that sing so beautifully. There’s nothing quite like a child singing. That’s what my father said when we used to go see the choir sing on a Sunday; all those little children singing so sweetly in their robes. I wasn’t allowed to sing because singing is an act of the innocent and I was a sinner, so guilty that I had to be punished. I sang though, as each blow dented my little body, I sang. I sang till my lungs burst and my throat burnt. I wasn’t good enough, but the children are and no one shall harm the babes. They sit so serenely on their sleeping bags, little legs crossed and hands in their laps, like little angels. They can see the tea brewing on the fire and I’m sure they are delighting themselves in the smell. They look up at me with their big seeing eyes as I pour them their tea and they take their sips so tentatively. I can’t help but beam at them, my little angels. I watch them for a while in silence as they chatter among themselves, their sweet voices filling the forest air. Uneasiness begins to creep over them and I take that as my cue to start talking. “Children, did you ever hear the tale of a boy called Peter?” They nod their little heads, their hair bouncing like leaves in the wind, “Would you like to hear a story about my Peter?” Again, they nod and they take another small sip of their tea. “My Peter was such a joyful little boy. He came to me when I was seven years old, a lonely only child with no friends my age. He found me and he saved me. He came from a land so far away that the only way to get there was to fly and he flew so majestically. The very first time he came to me, he flew all around my room, darting towards the corners only to pull back at the last second. It was so exciting watching this mysterious boy with pale blonde hair and clothes made from leaves dance around the room.” I notice the children snuggle deeper into their sleeping bags, getting more comfortable to enjoy my story. “He finally came to a halt and stood right in front of my bed, hands on hips, brazen as the day. He was so big back then, his shadow came to a halt just under my tucked up chin and I looked up at him, grinning. He pinched the tips of my toes with his little twig like fingers until I giggled and pulled my knees up to my chest, like this.” I go to demonstrate and I watch as a few of the children copy, “He smiled and sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me. “’Why are you smiling like that?’ He said. I couldn’t believe this was real. He was so beautiful, children. Such childlike benevolence radiated from him, I felt like he was ethereal. I didn’t want to touch him for fear of him disappearing and I daren’t speak for fear of waking my father up. ‘Why won’t you speak?’ He said, “Cat got your tongue?’ This made me giggle even more, I had to bring my hands up to cover my face. ‘Are you a mute? Did you get your tongue cut out?’ I shook my head rapidly. ‘Well then, I guess I’ll just have to make you talk.’ At this, he lunged at me, taking his twiggy fingers and dancing them over me, tickling me. I couldn’t take it and laughed so hard my belly ached! It was wondrous! Even after he stopped I still felt the tingles of his fingers on my legs and arms, little scratches that bled like the tears of laughter that fell from my eyes. I yelled at him to stop and he smiled smugly and disappeared in a flash, leaving me in my dark room with my awakened father’s footsteps looming.” The children’s eyes were drooping, they were feeling sleepy but there was still more tea in the pot so I shared it round, giving each little boy and girl a smile as I did it. “Peter came back multiple times after that night, and after he got me talking, I never stopped. I confided in Peter and in return he told me such magical stories about the land where he lived. Let me tell you my favourite: In the depths of the forests where Peter lived was a humongous tree house. It housed a group of children, Lost Children, and they lived there and they frolicked and played in the surrounding woods. These children, although lost, were free. There were no adults around telling them what to do, no chores or lies from their parents. There was just a Wendy. A Wendy was a lady who looked after them but never annoyed them. She made them dinner, kept the tree house clean and she told the children stories and tucked them into bed at night. The Lost Children were so grateful to have a Wendy like the Wendy they had. She was the best, loving and caring, like the mother they always wanted. This Wendy had magical properties that made the Lost Children love her even more. She had the power to keep them young forever. Never will they grow old into adults and learn to lie and hurt people. They will forever be blissfully innocent. “That story stuck by me, children. Peter talked of this Wendy so fondly and warmly, it was easy to love her even though I had never met her. That was the magic of Peter’s stories, children, he transported you to places you had never been before, he could make you love or hate people you had never met before because of the way he told them. You could so easily get lost in Peter’s stories, I know I did a couple of times, always so disappointed to know I was back. I always asked him to take me with him, back to his home. We tried once; he stood with me by the window, the dark night looming ahead of me. He held my hand whispered in my ear, telling me to think happy thoughts. I thought of his Wendy, of the Mermaids of his lands, of the pirates and the Lost Children. He then kept hold of my hand and told me to fly… “I can’t quite remember what happened after that, children, but after that day I never saw Peter again. He had left me. We jumped and then darkness… he’d disappeared. We’d been through so much and he’d gone, and I knew why. I wasn’t his Wendy. But I can be his Wendy, children. I can be your Wendy, so just lay down by the fire dears. Listen to my song and let it relax you.” As I sing, I watch them close their eyes. This part is always sad, saying good night. I had to say good night to Peter, as he closed his eyes. The boy who never sleeps forever reigns on awake in my dreams. And so will these children. I tuck them in and kiss each one on the forehead and then I sit and listen. I listen out for the forest sounds of birds chirping and little animals scurrying around in the undergrowth and just when I need it too, it all goes silent. So silent that I can only hear the breathing of those beautiful children around me. “It’s okay children, nothing to be afraid of,” I whisper, “No bogey man to get you out here. No bad people to come and rape and kill you. Just me, I’ve got you.” I can hear their breathing start to slow as they slip deeper into their sleep. “I’ve got you and I’ll forever be your Wendy. Go and join Peter in your dreams.” Their chests move slower and slower as the tea begins to take its toll on them. “You’ll forever be innocent, my children.” Then, nothing. They fall into the deepest sleep they will ever have, among the dead leaves of the trees. And I swear, they have never been so beautiful.


It was a morning like any other when I woke up and realized, “This house means nothing to me.” I wasn’t born into money. I had worked hard for my money. This house was to be the fruit of my labor. It had all the amenities. There were no cold drafts in the winter. It was never too hot in the summer. But even a small house can be too big for one person. So I tore it down. By myself. With a good chunk of my expendable funds, I rented a miniature bulldozer and spent eleven hours obliterating my quaint but shallow abode. It cost me all but what was in my pocket to stay at a cheap motel for the next two weeks while I tirelessly built a log cabin the way my father had. There was no housewarming party when it was complete. The bed is creaky, and there are unseen gaps where the cold air gets in, but I am here to stay.


Sky spinning, trees leaning in and one bird swoops through all the crooked wood. I am lying here in sunken dark and death kneels over me, whispers penance in my left ear, pounds smartly at the throb of 2 a.m. blood on my knuckle. A long time ago you could have shown me how the sky looked catastrophic as the sun slipped away breathing fire. A long time ago you could have let me fall in love with your angled good looks, your swarming lies of art and people and pale, tortured love stories. A long time ago you could have found me chain smoking behind the library and told me my eyes made you weak. Instead I found your breath at the back of my neck, cool against my skin flushed with other people's body heat. You sank into the cozy sway of a crowd dancing. Said two words. A along time ago you could have kissed me on the top of my head, laid me down carefully and listened to the whistle of my breath as I slept. "Hey you" and I was tucked into the curve of your jaw, I was singing cheap rum and silence packed your smile. I was kissing brick and you cradled me well like I fit into you naturally. All I could see was road slicked mercury light and a dim sketch of your face straining, the feeling drained prickly numb from my legs, sky hopping up and down, up and down in your soft, strange rhythm. And after everything you brought me here, where I've spilled blood before: my skinny eight-year-old knee on a sharp shock of ground; climbing trees cat-like at twelve, reaching up then shaking at the height; sipping beer cross-legged on a log trying to impress a boy. After everything you stood useless at the foot of me, eyes shifting like two hands moving in perfect sync, like two hands clasped in prayer. An ease in your quiet. Everything swallowed in black, all wrapped up neat in night blindness; it's winter so there is no green to frame your face, nothing to soften twitching branches needling up and out. You are on holy ground now. Don't let the trees bite you on your way out; don't see my glazed eyes in yours as you make a mirror check. Don't notice the murmur of me in the dead air of your apartment, microcosms of dust swirling like small galaxies or flecks of ash falling. *Better to have never loved,* you might say. You don't want that hurt clinging in you.


This is it. This is the moment that I end my own life. I’m on the rooftop and I think I’m ready. People are going to say that they had no idea. That they never would have guessed that I would do something like this. That might be true, if they’d ever truly talked to me before or really knew me. I’ve had depression for a long time but nobody seemed to notice. Maybe they did and I didn’t notice. That doesn’t matter now. Climbing up onto the ledge, I stare down into where my final moments will be. People will most likely say it was unplanned since I didn’t leave a note or anything and for the most part it’s true. All I did was research a couple of buildings with rooftop access that were high enough for my needs. Had to be sure the fall would kill me. No paralysed from the neck down, waist down or going into a coma for me. No I expect to be dead on arrival with that piece of pavement down there. It’s early morning so there’s hardly anyone except the odd car driving by. Hopefully I don’t traumatise anyone. Well this is it. I try to step off then try to jump but I stop myself every time. I’ve been up here too long. I’m too calm and my brain is hardwired to survive. I try to remember all the things that have led up to this decision here. Suddenly I can hear someone talking. I look around and notice that there’s a man with his back to me on the opposite side of the rooftop. “In life and death I will continue to be clear sighted and know the truth. That there is no point. The days of misery and mediocrity in this life are no more. So suck it world” he said. I shout over “hey!” “ahh” he jumps back startled then looks over at me, running his eyes up and down assessing me. “I’m already committed to this, you can’t stop me” he says turning back around getting ready to jump. “I don’t want to stop you. I’m here for the same reason” I call over. He turns back to face me a second time then charges at me full speed, his eyes flashing angrily. I wonder if he’s going to push me over so he doesn’t have to listen to me talk. He stops just short of me and I take a good look at him. He’s wearing a dark suit and looks to be only a year or so older than me. He looks at me and simply says “no” as if in answer to some unspoken question. I wait for him to elaborate. Both of us standing there patiently waiting for one to understand the other. The guy runs out of patience quickly “didn’t you hear me, get out of here!” “Ok just give me second” I said turning back round ready to jump. “No!” he shouts grabbing my arm and pulling me back off the ledge. “This is my spot ok go find somewhere else to die” he says shoving me away. “What no way I was here first” I say outraged. “It doesn’t matter. This has been my spot for over a week and I’m not sharing.” “why does it even matter we’re both going to be dead” I say incredulously. “Of course it matters. I don’t want people thinking we’re part of some gay suicide pact!” “ok i’ll pin a note to myself saying ‘I don’t know this corpse’ He shakes his head “that won’t work people will just think your ashamed of it. You have to find another rooftop” “I was here first you have to find another rooftop” “No this is my spot” “why does it even matter?” He grabs my arm and pull me over to where I first saw him. “look down there” he said. I look down and just see the pavement and road. “no no over there” he says pointing to across the road to a gym where the walls are just glass windows. “All those flabby house mums who just want to have sex again are going to see some reality fall in front of them when I go splat” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing “that’s not a reason to kill yourself!” He smiles as if he expected me to say that. “what I’m about to do is gonna stay with them for the rest of their lives. I’ll have left a permanent mark on their psyches.” Oh god, he's insane. I mean I guess you have to be to kill yourself but still. "Ok fine this is a good location for you thats great but I was here first and I just want to get it over with. So move" I said. "no" "fine" I say and head off to another rooftop edge. He chases after me and jumps in front of me. "ok ok. Look how about we play for it?" He asks and at this point I just want him to leave as fast as possible. "What did you have in mind?" I asked. “Got any change? We could flip for it" "No I didn't think I'd need change in the afterlife" I said sarcastically. "so you think there's an afterlife?" "yes... no, look what else have you got" "rock paper scissors.” I looked into the eyes of a man who was going to duel me with rock paper scissors with the grand prize of death to the winner and I said yes to that insanity. "this is crazy" I say getting my hand out ready. "ok 1... 2 .... 3" "wait your supposed to go after 3" "What are you talking about everyone knows you go on 3" he says irritably. "It's one two three and then you go" I explained. "fine we'll do it your way. ok 1 2 3 go, ha rock beats paper" "ok now your just fucking with me right?" "I had rock you had paper so I win" he said. "Paper covers rock" "and rock smashes through paper" he said triumphantly. "what... no it's... fuck its exhausting talking to you" He smiled "off you go now it’s killing time" and then louder he shouted "Dead man walking" as he approached the edge. I hadn't moved, in fact I was actively watching him transfixed by a morbid curiosity. He soon noticed this too and said "I thought you were leaving." "don't worry I'm not going to jump. You know gay suicide pact thing and all" His eyes narrowed "why don't you just find another rooftop" "that’s what I'm going to do" I said surprised "no you said you weren't going to jump. At all." "Of course I'm going to do it why else would I be up here?" "maybe originally you were going to but now you seem... unsure" "I guess doing all this shit with you. I mean if I really wanted to end my own life I'd have just ignored you to begin with and just did it" I said. He nodded as if he understood "maybe I'm just depressed" I offered. "maybe. Well two audience members are better than one" "now I’m the confused one" "you've been the confused one this whole time" he joked. I ignore it and press on "who's the other audience member" I ask wipingthe smile off of his face. He turns round back to facing the ledge "it doesn't matter" I get up onto the ledge with him and follow his line of site back to that gym. I see one woman in her mid forties exercising vigoursly on a stationary bike. "Is that your mum?" "yep" "Jesus, you shouldn't kill yourself because you hate your mum." "what would you know. You said it yourself your just depressed" he snarled "aren't you? Aren't you angry and sad all the time like me?" "You see that post there?" he said pointing next to the gym. I nodded "that's where I'd stand when I was little and mum had to exercise" "so what you had to wait outside for an hour every once in a while when you were little?" "It might have been that way a few times but mostly she'd find some guy and she'd disappear for the rest of the night and if she came back and I wasn't right where she left me at that post as soon as we got home she'd just start hitting me saying things like she wished she'd bought condoms that week." I didn't know what to say to that. "sometimes if the guy came home with her she'd have him do it for her while she got ready in the bedroom" Ok now I knew what to say "so what?" his eyes flashed angrily "didn't you hear a word I said" "yeah and you know what fuck her" "what?" "fuck her. don't let that bitch win. You don't have to take that shit any more. just walk away from her. Fuck her" He shook his head "I've left before and it always ends with her calling the police or me running out of money" "your what 17?" He nodded "so you graduate in like 6 months then. You only need to hold out till then" "I got kicked out. For fighting." I smiled "that's what other schools are for" I could see that he starting to come around "I've got nowhere to go though" "6 months will go by pretty quickly" I said. He shook his head firmly and lifted up shirt to reveal a large bruise running down his side. "Her latest boyfriend. I can't stay there" "You could stay with me then. All I know is you shouldn't kill yourself because of her. Fuck her now you say it" "Fuck her" "louder" "FUCK HER!" we both laughed headed back off of the edge towards the door "hang on one sec" I said. I went back over to that edge and peered over. If this were film or something all of our problems would be solved by now. But it isn't and they’re not. That guy who was abused as a kid who I think I can call a friend now after nearly dying with him was still abused and I'm still well... me. I don't want dive into my issues now it’s not a competition. I look back and the roof’s empty. Panic sets in. Did I just hallucinate him? Did this fucking cliché really just happen to me where the apparition shows the man the truth thus saving him from himself. Am I schizophrenic now? Maybe I should ju... “hey you coming?” he pops his head out from behind the door. Immediately relieved “yeah let’s go” “Christ your slow” he mumbles as we head down the steps.


He slides around the corner, presses his back tightly against the wall, and they rush past him without noticing. Resting hands on knees, panting and sweaty, he takes a moment to catch his breath. They are after him. He has been running through this building for hours. Finding him has become a competition. We all want to be the one that traps the rabbit. He knows me from a time when I was on his side. I'm not sure if he will still trust me, but what's the worst that can happen? I gesture towards my door offering sanctuary, mouthing, "Come on! They are right behind you!" He scurries over, and darts under my arm just as a team of officers turns the corner. I shut the door behind him, and brace myself as he tries to force it open. "Hey, I found him! He's in here!" He is trapped and knows it. His executioners walk in behind me. He sulks over to one of my desks. We shoot each other sideways glances as we take our positions. We nod silently saying, "Good game." His case manager storms in followed by a suit. She immediately begins to deliver the lecture she has been waiting all day to give. I sit closest to him. He won't hit me... but her... none of us are too sure about her. The suit sits closest to the door, looking uncomfortable and annoyed. He tries to explain why he ran, but she had hours of chasing to prepare this speech. There were no planned pauses for his input. He is fidgeting and looking around the room. He knows I won't hesitate to tackle him if he makes a play for the door. He and I have been down that road together at "the other place." He locks eyes with me and I see big tears welling up. I can hear him telepathically asking for help. I want to scream at her to, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" but he must have been reading my mind too because he bolts up and yells it. The suit says in his best authoritative voice, "Kevin, stop." I think to myself, "What's that bitch gonna do." He and I lock eyes again and I ask, "So, are you taking any art classes this year?" He looks stunned. He wants another reason to yell but there isn't one. It dawns on him that I am throwing him an out and he grabs it with both hands. "Not yet, but I want to." In the background the lecture from Mr. & Mrs. Bitch continues, but we have entered into our own conversation bubble. In our bubble it is calm and quiet and the topic is art. "You know there are a lot of great courses offered here." We maintain intense eye contact because this reprieve is fragile. "Is there a sculpture class? Remember when I made you... POP! I had heard it in the background too. The Bitch crossed the line. She is already at the phone and looking up the number for his mom. He begins to shake. "You gonna call her so you can tell her more lies? Just like with that email you sent her." He is getting angry again and his eyes are darting around the room. He is starting to panic. "You know FUCK YOU BITCH! I've put up with fifteen years of abuse and you know that." "I didn't lie in that email. It's not my fault if your mom didn't undesta..." "It is your fault! I am back in that house now and I hate it. What happened over that email is YOUR FAULT." She moves uncomfortably in her chair and looks away. She does feel the guilt. She changes her tone and softly says, "I am so sorry if you got in trouble because your mom didn't understand my email." He senses her weakness and lobs into his verbal assault. He goes on about how she lies and how much she hates him. He begins to make fun of her for the tears in her eyes when I turn my gaze back towards him. "I know you don't like her, but do you know your brother hates ME?" This phrase strikes him speechless. I have known him for years. I protected him from the bigger kids when we were at "the other place." He has cried in my arms more than once. "It's true. I am the one that has to boss him around and he hates me for it. I was just trying to figure out what to do with him before we found out you were missing. He is worried sick about you right now." He studies my face to for a tell. I hold his gaze and continue. "Did you hear her? What she said? She said she's sorry and that you're right. Do you think you can forgive her?" His face twists with rage and tears stream down his cheeks. He looks at her and begins screaming again. I reach out and hold his hand. "You know, all of the problems with your mom were there before her. You can't blame her for what your mom did." And just like when he was small he sobs in my arms. On cue, his brother walks in. Kevin runs up and hugs him. I would like to say he hugged Mrs. Bitch as well, but truth be told, as soon as she got him into the hall he took off running.


We left the club hours ago and I can still feel the wave of the beat. The perfectly synchronized rush to explosive electronica heaven is building in the sound system of my mind - again. And again. The chemicals are slightly wearing off so as I tip out of the cab, I fumble in my back pocket for the crushed pack of cigarettes, find the next hapless victim, cradle her in my lips and light up. I have no idea how I'm even standing but I skillfully negotiate against the refrigerated wind and as the relieving foul tasting heat crackles from the suction into my lungs, my head begins to spin - or spin faster really - and I take off again helplessly laughing at the non-existent idiosyncrasies of everyone around me. Is there anyone around me? The burning rum purchased at the airport lounge is nauseatingly dancing its way through my digestive system. Sunglasses on and sleepless, I sidle past the smiling strangers in row 31 and slump into seat A. The moment my forehead touches the cold glass, my fever subsides. Soon the chill becomes unbearable but I can't move. I'm too high to sleep. All I want to do is tap my feet to the quiet roar of the engine, wedge my face against the window. And stare. It's a 3 hour flight from New York to Chicago and beaming through the thin haze - how many feet below us? 20,000? 30,000? - lies god's ice tray. Neatly separated by the fences of past disputes and lawsuits yet to be settled, last night's snowfall purposefully shimmers in random and infinite directions. Naturally vying for the attention of the other passengers - a standard fair of middle aged business travellers, pretend writers and holiday makers - the world outside cannot compete with the opportunity of a guilt free break from the kids. Or with the - soon to be discarded forever - typing. Or even with the Adam Sandler movie being shown for the 50th first time. Most of the shades are down. As we chase the sun, stalling its escape behind the horizon, I see another plane frozen in the sky slightly ahead of us, beating us, indifferently flaunting the majesty of the parallel streams in its trail. Like a yawning peacock, fanning its tail at cooing tourists, it casually gives permission to stare at how effortless it is to be graceful and humble and beautiful. "Why don't you be beautiful too? Can't you see how easy I make it look? Now eat my dust." This is not a race. There are no television cameras or radio commentators or photographers secretly hoping for a career making collision. No one is cheering along for victory. Well.... Not on my flight anyway. But I reckon that's because we're losing.


The bloody sun was nearing its highest point when the man reached the outskirts of the ruined city. It was a breezy day, and the shifting grass seemed to shy away from him as he made his slow voyage across the plain. He was a tall man, well tanned from being in the sun for long hours, and his face had crinkled into an expression of age and rugged wisdom. His body was strapped in torn leather, and his facial hair suggested a few days of no shaving. In his right hand he bore a walking stick, sharpened at the end to a point, like a spear. A holster hung about his waste, and in it, a 10 millimeter Bren Ten, with a single clip left to use. Hoping to find some much needed supplies, the man continued his trek, glancing between the skyline of ruined towers, and the great mountains beyond them. A sign, eroded by age, read in large white letters “Welcome to Denver.” He heard of the place before. They used to call it the “mile high city,” but that was long ago. Back when he had friends. He had been the first male born to his tribe, he recalled, and he was called "blessing" by many. They told him the stories of how the great tribes fell, and the towers became empty. They told him of sky people, who had come down to the earth and snatched its inhabitants. But in defiance, they fought back and were swiftly annihilated. Seeing their potential slaves mostly dead, the sky people fled, and left them to their ruined home. His tribe were his friends. But his friends had sent him out here, out West. He was to find civilization, and return to save his people. But more and more he feared that there was no civilization to be found. So now there were no friends. It had been a long time since he had heard the sound of another voice. His own often provided that helpful second opinion. He liked his voice, but he often remembered his friends’. Thinking of these things made the trip seem shorter, and he soon found himself amongst the great tombs of skyscrapers, monuments to a greater time. The man saw nothing but rubble and trash, nothing worth collecting. He kept on, his spear held tightly in his hand. Who knew what monster may inhabit these crypts? The place was deathly quiet; the only sound was the slight rustle of the wind upon the grass. But his ears perked up as a piece of rubble fell out of place. Stopping, the man looked around, until he saw a figure reveal itself in the shadow. A friend…finally? No. A bullet whizzed past his head. He dropped the spear, and quickly whipped out his pistol. Taking aim as the figure approached, he discharged a bullet. But in the mere sliver of time before he pulled the trigger, he saw the figure’s face. It was a woman, a beautiful woman, not scarred by the brutal reality of this hostile wasteland. He could not cut down such beauty; his heart would not allow him, even for survival. His hand moved the slightest inch out of line as he fired, and the bullet sailed off, striking nothing. She fired back, this time not missing. He felt the hot lead hit his chest, and the pain seared him. Dropping his gun, the man slowly bent down on one knee, and then another. He grasped at his chest, and began to breathe raggedly. He could feel his heart hurting. As he fell backwards to the ground, tears began to form in his eyes. As the darkness began to surround him, he felt not fear, but joy. He wished the woman a farewell in his mind, and hoped she lived to escape this harsh place. With his last breath of life, the man looked up at the great towering tombstones, and to the clouds beyond. “It is fitting,” thought he, “to die in a graveyard.


This is not a utopia. It is the perfect universe from a mathematical perspective. It is the one possible universe, out of the infinite number of possible confirmations the universe could take have taken post-bang in which the mass and energy of all was, all that is, and all that will be in the absolute sense of the universe is in two equal and opposite distinct points. In this perfect universe, these two distinct points would be traveling at equal and opposite velocities in all existing planes except for one. This mean this one and only one universe, out of the infinite number of possible confirmations the universe could have taken post-bang will have the most massive explosion, the most impressive display of force that has ever been possible at any point in any universe's history, would occur. Can you imagine it? It would be the most glorious thing that has ever taken place or ever will take place in the entire cosmos. In this universe, after this tremendous display, all would be silent. Everything was equal and opposite, and all would be silent. Space and time no longer exist, or mean anything as concepts. This is one universe, in all of the possible universes. Literally one in an infinite number of possibilities. We have no math to understand the concept of that. It literally does not make sense. That is how unlikely that occurrence is. That's how tremendous the power of that one occurrence must be. I use "single" in this case in the symmetrical sense of the word. Because, mathematically speaking, this single equal and opposite velocity can occur in an infinite number of directions in an infinite number of planes. There is another universe. In this universe, the big-bang occurs in such a specific way, as before, a particular set of circumstances occur. However, in this universe, our planet is formed. The masses of heterozygous quantum-probability decisions take place over the billions of years that the planet exists, creating life. This life divides, evolves, and interacts in such a specific way humans exactly as we know them form. All of these humans have the exact same social interactions and procreation patters as they do in our history so you and I were created. This means that one out of all the infinite meiotic divisions that could have occurred in the germ lines of all humans ever, and combined with the correct mate, occurred. Which means all chance meetings that led to marriage, all the stupid fights that led to divorce, and all the drunken kisses that happened in our world happened. And in that universe, everything in our lives happened like they did. Out of the infinite number of possible decisions we made, we made the exact same ones again. And in this universe, you were friend's with my friend's friend, and we went to the same party. And then I met you, in that one instant when our eyes met. In that one instant, in that single, completely and utterly and mind benignly improbable moment that it is truly and rightly one single occurrence in a certain and awesomely infinite number of possibilities. More impossible than anything that could ever be imagined. The tremendous nature of the magnitude of that one moment will never leave me.


A nation's Intelligence Agency released a 140 page report detailing the lack of food and water for the planet's growing population, the inevitability of climate change to keep elevating dangerous weather conditions, and the destined collapse of the current monetary system. The whole nation was already full of unhappy people, a generation that had been fed the lie that if they worked hard they would eventually be prosperous and happy, were unemployed or held dead-end jobs where they were constrained, bored, underpaid and unappreciated. They were furious at being mislead. A generation of baby-boomers before them had stolen all of the prosperity from the nation and left a dying planet behind as their inheritance. The nation’s news-media grew increasingly cynical, morbid and depressing every day. Networks were purely out to make money and the dying nation, which felt helpless to help itself, ate up these stories and wallowed in its unhappiness. As a result those with mental disorders such as antisocial personality disorder, psychopathy and narcissistic personality disorder, began to believe that they were in fact part of the majority, as people had forgotten long ago that TV was not a true representation of reality. Such individuals became so convinced of their normalcy that they never sought out the mental counseling they so desperately needed, and as their self-assurance grew so did their boldness. A few started openly killing innocents, and once made famous by the greed of the media, more joined in. Soon even innocent children were not safe from the crossfire. With every disaster that befell the nation its people, scared and delusional, gave up one civil liberty after another until the freedom the nation once held proudly over the heads of the rest of the world was nothing more than a distant memory. Its citizens grew divided between the five stages of grief; denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance as though each stage were in fact an ideology to live by. Only a small percentage of the population had made it to the final stage and the deniers were so desperate to believe that everything would be OK that they turned their back completely on science and reason, the two things that human beings prided themselves on the most. The desperate actively ignored the evidence that came to light more and more every day, and lashed out at those who sought to end their ignorance. These people controlled vital aspects of the government, and so the nation was locked in a terrible stand still, completely unable to deal with the current problems and imminent dangers of the future. Only one solution seemed to remain; revolution. A total revision of government and civilization. But revolution was never to happen, too much of the nation had become convinced that they were completely helpless to influence the world, and reverted to total depression, complete apathy or a mix of the two. Each time an uprising started it was never able to gain enough momentum to stop the government from quelling it, through military and police action, and more powerfully through clever manipulation of the press and propaganda. People came to fear conflict more than anything, especially amongst themselves and so they created societal restrictions on which words they could say and which situations they could show in movies and on TV. In this stifling environment people became unable to think for themselves, and creativity and originality were snuffed out. Suicides, murders and sickness grew. Some began openly hoping for the end of their world. Nature began lashing out in its death throes as the misery of money continued to strangle it. Floods, droughts, blizzards, and terrible storms wreaked havoc across the planet. Wars over resources broke out around the globe, and finally the government took total control of the nation through military and police supervision. Each and every citizen was now a ward of the state, but even with strict laws in place limiting the production of more children the population had already grown too large to sustain. Soon governments around the world began to consider something once thought to be unthinkable-nuclear war. All it took was one missile, and all pandemonium broke out. No one can remember who made the first move, but it hardly mattered once a nuclear winter, an event which scientists had been warning about for decades, consumed the planet. The access to food and water, already scarce, became virtually non-existent and the starving population bottlenecked. The humans, plants and animals that managed to survive were plagued with genetic mutations and disease. Extinctions on a massive scale ravaged the land and sea. Eventually only a small niche of organic life remained, breeding and evolving over many thousands of years to create a new era. Although some mutated form of the human genome survived, the human race is never again at the top of the food chain. All information that humans had gathered and analyzed over the centuries was lost forever, for you see, the human race had been so distracted by war and money that they had never mastered space travel. When the sun eventually went supernova, any existence of life on the planet Earth and possibly in the entire known universe was completely eliminated. Doomed to revert to the stardust which had originally allowed for its creation. The end. This is my first time writing anything other than a research paper really, so I'm curious as to how other people view the style, and what you all generally think.


March 2021- The MC just finished summarizing the operation, calling it "The most successful infantry op of the 21st century" I'm the only man in the ballroom not wearing the Army Service Uniform. It's a small gathering, just a platoon, a small platoon of thrity men or so. The only reason why I was here is because of my job. I'm the MI liason for the CIA, providing key information to SF and Infantry units. I provided the information on this op, and I know now that I'll live to forget it. There was a silence, then a young corporal stood up and spoke. "To Lieutenant Morton! For his leadership got the job done, and kept us alive! To John!" The audience followed suit. "To John!" I raised my glass half-heartedly, knowing that I have ruined that man's life forever. The festivities began, and I stood up. I walked towards the officer's table. He was surrounded by his family, and the family of his late Platoon Sergeant. It's been almost fifteen years since I've seen John. He was my best friend through Junior high and high school years. I haven't spoken with him since we left for college. I got medically declined my third year of ROTC in college. He was commissioned top of his class at West Point, class of 2019. So I got a job at the CIA, serving and working as close to the army as I could, working as a mission spook. In a way, we were doing the same job, except I made two hundred thousand dollars a year versus his fifty-three. I tapped his shoulder. "John? John Morton?" I asked in confirmation of his name. "Yes" He replied. John didn't look like he was in his twenties at all. He had a long, jagged scar across his face, and mutliple pale patches of skin on his right hand, making the skin grafts noticable. His left hand, there was no left hand. A metal plastic prosthetic replaced his missing flesh. "Who are you?" He asked, looking at my face intently, like I looked familiar. "I'm Matthew Magee, the spook." Smiling afterwards. John excused himself from the table and walked with me to an empty table. "Matt! Damn! It's been years since we've talked. What's going on?" The man who had once been my best friend in school at been shot at, blasted at, and gave his right hand for his country, yet he was still lively and friendly as he was in school. My eyes watered as we talked about our lives. The family, the army life, spook life, and eventually the mission that we had just taken part of. There was a brief pause in the conversation. He then spoke. "Thanks for the info you gave us. You got most of us out of there alive--" A tear rolled down my eye. He stopped talking and asked me what was wrong. I pointed to his prosthetic. I blinked back my tears and cleared my throat. "John, the mines...." I paused. "I knew about them. I tried to tell your Platoon Sergeant, but I was cut off by radio security procedures. Then the mines went off." He put his left hand on my shoulder. He and shared tears that only combat veterans can share. Serving the country, the guilt of alternative service.


"I'm sorry, Gary." The last words I remember saying. We were sitting at a table outside a cafe, just having a good conversation, but a part of me just felt like some just wasn't right. I couldn't do this anymore. I remember seeing his displeasure as I turned away to leave. He looked so heartbroken, so vulnerable. His face tensed at the shock of it all. It was killing me inside. Gary's a great guy, but this was for the best. That's the last thing I remember before everything got dark. My head hurts. I'm getting a stabbing pain in my head. "Wake up." A voice. A foggy, drowned out voice. "Wake up. We're going to be late." It's cold. I feel... weak. "C'mon wake up already. Boss'll be pissed if we're late again." My eyes were openned. It was Gary. He's smiling. He's looking down at me with a gentle stare and a relaxed grin. He looks... happy. But where am I? A single bulb hanging from the stain covered ceiling, dimly lights the bleak room. The walls decorated with wallpaper with little ducks on them. Parts of it are peeling though, and some of the molding seems to be falling apart. I don't remember being here before. *"Where are we?"* I said. "Ah there you go. About time you woke up. Now we need to get you dressed and well fed or you're going to be cranky all day and complain about how Greg won't shut up about his stupid four year old daughter." Did Gary not hear me? *"Gary, what are we doing here?"* I tried again. Something's wrong. Nothing came out. "I know Greg's an ass, but you can't say that about his daughter. And I'm pretty sure that's illegal in some states." Gary opens a drawer from a nearby dresser. He picks out a blue and white plaid dress shirt. It's got a stain on the sleeve. Possibly from spilt coffee. He should clean that. "Here we go. Your favorite shirt." I lost that shirt weeks ago. Why does Gary have it? *"Why do you have my shirt?"* I can't move. Why can't I move? Something is definitely wrong. "Now put this on and let's get going." I CAN'T MOVE! Gary sighs... "Do I have to help you again? Geez, what would you do without me?" He sits me up. There's cardboard under me. My feet look pale. My body feels... heavy. "Oh please. You didn't have to say that." He lifts up my arm and slides it through the sleeve of the dirty shirt. "I know you appreciate me." This isn't right. I don't understand any of this. I can't move. My head hurts. WHERE AM I? "There. Now you look good as new." Gary says as he's finished buttoning up the shirt. "See for yourself." Gary turns my head towards a mirror on the other side of the dingy room. I'm dead. There's a hole in my head. Blood wiped off my pale, blue face, but some of it still there. I'm decrepid. My head falls over as Gary positions me over his shoulder. "Oh no, don't feel bad. You look great!" He lifts my head up again. "Why thank you. I really do think we make a great pair. Now let's get going." He's been playing with me.


What I feel right now is inharmonious. The whole reason I came to these groups in the first place is to feel included, and now dead people don't even want me. The advertisement for the support group held at the local church stated that the support group was for the "terminally ill." How was I supposed to know that suicide didn't fall under that category? Besides, I had a few colds in my life. I was no stranger to the stomach flu. Who cares if I stretched the word "terminal" out to include myself? I need as much help as any of them. You see when you're in a room full of people who would do anything for a couple of extra years of life, they don't take too kindly to those who are willing to throw them all away over a broken heart, and a gallon of bleach. But I can't help it! I'm as helpless as the rest of them. It's as if they think I asked for an inflamed case of depression paired with an overwhelmingly low self-esteem. Still, when it's my turn to speak the room is furnished with exaggerated sighs, and rolling eyes. More and more it seems like the only time I feel alone is when I'm surrounded by people. If it were just about them I wouldn't be here. In fact if it were anyone else, but her, I wouldn't be here. As luck would have it I happen to be kind of in love with Jenna Lane. And the truth is I haven't spoken to her yet, but when you're as emotionally unstable as me feelings like love come pretty easily. Even if I wasn't suffering from any mental anguish, I would still love her. How could I not? Here she is suffering from brain cancer and still finds time to make a fresh batch of cookies for everyone each week. Her smile makes me smile. Her laugh makes me laugh. She's not the prettiest girl I've seen in my life, but there is something about her that is so endlessly beautiful in the most refined sense of the word. She's the Mona Lisa, not exactly divine, but still a masterpiece. I had it bad for this girl, and tonight would be the night that she would find out. I just didn't know how to bring it up. Do I tell her point blank? Stand on a table in the center of the room, and proclaim my love for this girl I have yet to meet? Ride in on a white horse, whisk her away, and ride into the sunset together? And just as my imagination started to get carried away the opportunity presented itself. Martha Goldstein was in the middle of detailing her struggle in the late stages of ASL, when Jenna was started dosing off. Her head slowly lowered, her eyelids began to shut, and by the time it came to Benjamin Bloom and his battle with Huntington's disease Jenna Lane had fallen asleep on my shoulder. And what I feel right now is elated. By the time the group is over my shirt is soaked in saliva. People stand up to put away their chairs and grab a cup of coffee, while I stay seated with Jenna content with being her pillow. After she had woken up she apologized profusely for the falling asleep on me, and apologized even more when she saw the lake that she had created on my shoulder. I accepted every apology she gave me, and asked if I could walk her to her car. As we walked she told me about what school she had gone to, and how she had to take some time off after she got sick. She told me about her parents, and her little brother at home, and to be honest I didn't retain much of anything she said. I was too overjoyed that I, the suicidal self-loathing guy that not even people on the verge of death liked, had the opportunity to walk Jenna to her car. When we reached her vehicle I was disappointed by how short the walk was. We exchanged awkward goodbyes, and as I went for a hug she extended her hand. Jenna had stepped into her car, and slipped the key into the ignition before I had obtained enough courage to ask for her number. The words fell clumsily from my mouth but she didn't seem to notice. Instead she just smiled, fetched a piece of paper and pen from her purse, and wrote down seven of the world's most valuable numbers on the paper before handing it to me. This is how I met Jenna Lane. I know in theory you are supposed to wait a couple days before calling a girl, but with Jenna I had to contain myself from entering her number the minute I walked through the door. I believe I had made it approximately one day, ten hours, and forty-seven minutes before I finally caved. Before I called her I spent at least twenty minutes planning out what I was going to say, but the second she answered the phone my training departed from me. The sound of her voice escaping through the confines of my cell phone was simply euphoric. I fumbled my way through a couple minutes of aimless small talk, when Jenna finally stopped me. "Did you call me to ask me out?" she asks. And I recover just enough of myself to reply with a feeble "yes." "Well I would love to go on a date with you," she would say followed with something along the lines of, "that is of course if you're okay with dating a girl with an expiration date." And what I feel right now is lucky. I take Jenna to play mini golf, because that's what everyone who feels like a movie and dinner are too cliché does. I start to win, but decide to let her beat me because I want so badly for her to be happy with me. I buy ice cream afterwards, and when I dropped my cone face down on my lap she pretends not to notice, and offers to share hers. As I drive her home there is no room for silence. My car is filled with laughter and conversation the entire ride. I pulled up to her house, and walked her to her doorstep. We exchange awkward goodbyes, and as I extend my hand she goes in for a hug. She asks me when she can expect to see me next, and I say in the most confident voice I can muster, "How about next week?" She says she'd love that. I say I would too. She kisses me on the cheek before entering her house. Over the next couple of months I see Jenna Lane more and more. And over the next couple of months life doesn't seem so bad. It didn't matter what we did. We could watch paint dry for all I cared, but whenever I am with Jenna life just makes sense, the way I would imagine life to feel for people without suicidal tendencies, or brain cancer. It was a Tuesday when she told me to come over to her house. We had plans for a date Thursday night, but she called me out of the blue and requested that I come over. "I want you to have sex with me," she tells me. And being the smooth talking man I am I responded with a delayed "What?" "Sexual intercourse. You know what that is, yeah? Do you remember that expiration date we talked about? I don't know when it's coming, but it's coming soon. I just want to have sex. Is that so much to ask for?" She says comically. And the sad thing was it was true. She was dying. The light in her eyes had dimmed, her hair was slowly falling out, and her body had grown constantly smaller and smaller. In a perfect world I would have liked to wait. Planned it out, and done something romantic that may or may not have involved candles and rose petals, and maybe some fireworks, but who was I do deny a girl her dying wish? We fuck. At least that's what it feels like. Nothing more nothing less. I pray that she's a virgin, and wonder if she loves me or if this is just for sport. Because the truth is I'm kind of madly in love with her. What I want her to do is make a mistake, because perfection comes so naturally to her. I want her to be flawed. I want her to be vulnerable. I want her love me the way I love her, even though I know she can't. There are empty spaces in everyone's lives. I'd like to think that we try the best we can to make sure those places are filled. But no matter hard you try there are going to be those moments that leave you feeling empty. There's that pretty girl at the coffee shop that you wanted to talk to, but didn't. That trip you've always wanted to take, but never booked the flight. The paths of our lives are paved with missed opportunities, and hearts that we never had the chance to break. Jenna understood this. She had accepted her fate. She knew that soon she would be nothing more than a corpse rotting in the ground. She had no time for love, or petty crushes. What she needed was a friend. Someone to share these experiences with. She wasn't heartless. Jenna was just trying to make sure she didn't miss anything, before she was gone. And what I feel right now is cheated. Because all of this is an illusion. The walk to the car, the date, the sex all of these the fabric of my imagination. Everything but the saliva. The saliva drips through my shirt, and I can't help but wonder if it's a side effect of brain cancer. Hyper active salivation glands. As soon as Kathy Green wraps up her anecdote about her fight against AIDS Jenna is awoken. Still she profusely apologizes, and I still accept her apologies. She offers to pay me for a new shirt, but I tell her it's an old shirt. That I don't care about it anyways. After everything is taken down I help Jenna carry the platter in which she brought cookies on to her car, and the conversation stays light and general. The weather has been nice. School is fine. As she's packing the platter and leftover cookies into her trunk, I ask her what she's doing that night, if maybe she would like to go see a movie with me. "My boyfriend and I are actually going to play mini-golf tonight," is what she tells me. "Maybe some other time." "Sure, maybe next time," I say closing the trunk of her car for her. And what I feel right now is broken. We exchange awkward goodbyes. As I extend my hand she extends hers, and as we're standing there in the parking lot shaking hands she asks me what my name is.


It was a good day, walking alone, only my shadow next to me. I had run away from my home. I'm sick of all the lies my 'role models' tell me. My name is Jonathan Suburbia. My friends at my homeland called me the Jesus of Suburbia. I miss my friends at home. The name of it is pointless now. Here in America, I have nothing. I do blend in well as a regular white suburban teenager, living in a ordinary suburban town called Longview, California, and; blgahagah! I am sick being a normal American Idiot! Then it happened. As I was deep in thought, I crossed the street, then a white Ford SUV came and hit me. My body buckled like I had been shot with a shotgun in the chest. I hit my skull on the hood and then the pavement below me as I fell to the floor in pain. I'm not sure if I blacked out from the pain or got knocked out from me hitting the car and the pavement. When I woke up I was in St. Jimmy's National Hospital. I as I came to I heard this voice in my head, a voice that I have never heard in my life, raging and rebelling against everything that I kept secreted in my mind. It hurt. Then a nurse came over to my cot and spoke to me. I noticed her name tag hung from a lanyard around her neck. Her name was Maria Liberty. She was a sight to behold after what happened to me. She said," Good mourning John!" Her smile probably cured a case of cancer at one point. I know it stopped my headache. After a bit of routine vital signs check, Maria helped me off the cot and into a wheelchair. We made idle conversation as she brought me into a room with a two men and women, sitting at a table together. One man just stared at me. I knew that disappointed face from anywhere. It was Brad. My stepfather. He always seemed to be neglecting me and me being around him made him very angry. He looked disgruntled and unhappy about me still being alive and breathing. My mother's face was red and her eyes were wet with tears. The other man turned out to be a doctor. He was was a bald old man with glasses. He smiled gently at me as he looked up from his clipboard. He turned his glance toward Maria, my parent, and THAT other person, and motioned for them to talk with him. Being the eavesdropper I am, I listened closely. "Mr. and Ms. Suburbia, John has suffered a major blow to his brain after his accident," he said sympathetically. "He now has permanent damage to his prefrontal cortex, deep limbic system and his temporal lobes. These are the parts of the brain that essentially control our emotions," the doctor said sternly. "I'm sorry to say this; but your son now has a multipersonality disorder. We have had cases like this in the past and we call it Saint Jimmy's disorder." The doctor's voice began to crack. "Your son is expected to live for 1 year." The voice in my head begins to take control of me. It tells me this," That's a lie Jesus! They just want your parents money! The government just wants your money!" I didn't know what to think of it so I let out an enormous scream. I shouted to St. Jimmy," GEEEETTTTT OOOOOUUUUUUTTTTTT!!!! My Mom and Brad jumped and so did Maria. I was pale and breathing heavy. Maria came over and sat down on my lap. When she sat down St. Jimmy disappeared. POOF. Out of my mind. I started to relax as she put her hand on my cheek and rubbed her thumb back and forth on it. We shared a moment, alone in the world. Then the doctor cleared his throat and spoke. "It seems John's disorder disappears when Maria is around him," He said with a smile. "I think we will start the therapy with Maria accompanying John." He turned his glance at me and said,"There maybe hope for you yet, John." After that ordeal was over and done with, my parent gave me some money so grab some food at the Cafe. I brought Maria with me. I asked her what she does for a living. She says she interns here, but that's not her real job. I asked her what it was and said," How about you come with me to work tonight, John?", she said with mischievous smile. She saw the worried look on my face and said,"Don't worry it's not like we are going to get caught." I thought to myself, she's a rebel all right. Later that evening she appeared outside my door. She was the definition of an angel. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans with a men's black button-up shirt with a red tie on it. Her hair was in a pony tail and on her lips was the reddest lip stick I've ever seen. Her top two buttons on her shirt were unbuttoned so I could see a bit of hear cleavage. She teasing me, I thought. Jimmy had something to say too. "It's not going to work John. She's not your kind of girl." I fire back at Jimmy," I will make her mine! Jimmy had enough. He took control and told her to wait a second and guided me inside. He sat me down at the dinner table. He said,"Look Jesus, I know your exited about dating... Ms. Whatsername out there. But your no rebel, you have no guts. I backed off today to see what you would do. AND YOU DID SHIT ALL! Let me show you how to give Whatsername the time of her life." My head started to ache. I am now St. Jimmy. I picked myself up and took some Novacaine and rejoined Whatsername outside. She was about to say something but my lips stopped her and she closed her eyes. We hurry along in a taxi to a club in town. We go inside and she disappears among the crowd. I find her again and shes with a white guy with dreadlocks. She was sitting on the floor getting high on weed. Her top is unbuttoned and her bra is on the floor next to her underwear. She offers the blunt to me and I accept it. Jesus in says in my head, "Don't do it Jimmy! We are going to get in trouble!" I take a big sniff of air and start to feel the effects. I sink to the floor next to Whatsername and lean my head against her shoulder. She tells the white guy to get us a drink. He comes back and we drink until we get wasted to the point where she kicks a stripper off of her place and replaces her. And does better. Then I hear the sounds of sirens outside. Jesus says to me,"SHIT! We are done Jimmy; it's over." I thought of any way out and I saw a the fire door identified by a red EXIT sign. I quickly picked up Whatsername while she was still giggling drunkenly from all the booze we drank tonight. She cussed at me for taking her away from her position as the center of attention to the male patrons at the club. I made a break for the door, when Jesus said something," D-DUDE! That door has an alarm on it!" I disregarded his warning and burst through the door carrying Whatsername in my arms. Then the bell sounded. The sprinklers came on and tried to put out a fire that didn't exist. I could hear the people screaming from the water getting soaked. I laughed to myself as I ran. I ran to my home and never looked back. I layed Whatsername on the couch. She said as her eyes closed,"Best 20 minute date I've ever had." I buttoned her shirt back up and sort of just drooped down to the floor and passed out. I could tell Jesus was impressed. Maybe even jealous. I woke up with the biggest headache ever, probably from Jimmy and... her, going to the club and getting drunk of their asses. Also, Jimmy had gone to sleep for today, he told me in my dreams. I was in control for today. I saw her get up, stretch and let out a big yawn. She rubbed her eyes and then her neck, probably from bunking on the couch all night. She looked really hungover. I said smoothly," Good mourning, sleepyhead." "Mourning Jimmy," She says half asleep. Then she realizes that Jimmy is not here but instead it was the non-rebelous John Suburbia. She smiled kindly at me and then I heard HIM come down the stairs. Brad came down the stairs to see us sitting next to each other in a moment. His face swells up with anger at me. Probably from the sight of ME being with a girl that was AMAZING. "JOHN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO HER?!!", he bellowed. "SHE'S YOUR NURSE NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!" I called for St. Jimmy in my head to help me but he told me sort it out myself. I took a deep gasp of air and while he was still babbling, I let out at the top of my lungs,"Listen asshole, she is mine and you can't say otherwise! I am TIRED of you neglecting me and you telling me what to do. Hell, your not even my dad. You just married my mom that I love, oh so much, so you could sleep with her!!! You know what we are done here! Maria... let get the hell out of here." I could see him beginning to swell up with anger as me and Maria walked out the door. To my surprise he seized me by the by the collar of my shirt and held me against the wall next to the door. He called for my Mom. As soon as she came down the stairs I curled my fist and hit him square in the nose. I heard the *crack* as his nose bent and broke. He released me and I ran out the door with Maria at my heels. We stopped at after a few blocks to catch our breath. Maria asked,"Jesus is going to be jealous after that Jimmy." I laughed and then said,"That was me, the Jesus of Suburbia.


Grey light sank into the cell, revealing the other occupants - An old woman, cradling her head between her knees, rocking feebly. A teenage boy with a bloody nose, who mopped at his face half-heartedly. A man, ashy beard and blackened face, who only stared up at the light with mouth hanging open. All at once a cough would rattle his chest and then he would fall still again. And there was me, in my own corner of the cell, reeking in the same clothes I had been abducted with two weeks ago. Ambushed in the hospital after my bite, quietly commanded to dress, leave my things, I wouldn't need them where I was going. The men, three of them in military ware, each had the butt of a gun jutting from his belt. You can't argue with that. And now I was their prisoner, a quiet concentration camp for the bitten. We were infected, more men in sullied commando gear insisted. They looked on us like rabid dogs, gun barrels following us wherever we turned. The first three nights I railed against the cell door, splintering wood and making iron sing until my hands bled. The other occupants just watched me with hollow eyes. My son, you can't keep me from him. You can't lock me up, treat us like animals. You were bitten, they hissed through the bars. You're not a man anymore.


"Matty what is the meaning of life?" "There is no meaning to this thing you call life." "But you're a cat, how do you know this?" "I am a cat, and you are a human. But we are also the same." "What do you mean, wise feline?" "There is only one piece of knowledge that we know is true, and it is the only fact in our universe worthy of consideration. It is this: when the universe began, you, and I, and everything you can see - and even things you cannot - were the same. You, and the man collecting your garbage, were created from the same particle of matter, smaller than a grain of sand, yet heavier than the sun. From that particle came everything in existence in this small but significant universe. It is human invention that makes you believe we are different. When you are kind to another person, you are kind to yourself. Inversely, when you hate a patron of your work, you also hate yourself. This is not religion, nor philosophy, it is the truth. This is all I know - this is what gives life and existence beauty beyond measure." "Wait, Matty, are you speaking English?" "I am speaking an ancient language, human, but I will never speak it again. Remember my purrs, for they will guide you, until everything is one again." Matty then pooped in his litter box and slept by the fireplace.


This is a short story written written rather quickly based upon a challenge friend gave me, I'd be interested to see what you make of it. It's not particularly good, but oh well. Regret? Maybe. The consequences were expected but were not planned for, nor were they properly thought through. After all when actions are spontaneous the long-term effects are often overlooked in favour of the short term gain. What were the short term gains? Experience, mostly. Not as in experience in performing such acts but emotional experience, the ability to extend the extent to which one can truly be empathetic towards another person. You see many people say they have felt all alone in the world, that they have felt isolated from the rest of humanity, but in truth their claims are lies. For many of them the feeling of loneliness was an exaggeration of their feelings. There would most likely be someone there for them be them parents, partners friends or mere acquaintances. In order to feel truly lonely all human relations, all ties to the world must be removed. In order to remove friends I simply stopped seeing them. I skipped school, didn’t attend their parties until they all forgot about me. Children are like that. To remove my parents something more drastic had to be done. My parents couldn’t be made to forget my existence and I could not run away since I would not be able to survive. In order to achieve a higher degree of understanding I had to remove my parents without changed my own situation. Of course, you know how I did this so there’s no point retelling my tale is there? But afterwards I truly felt lonely. I had no one to help me, no one to rely on or look up to. There was just me and the absence of everyone else. I was like that until you found me, I can’t quite say how long that is, but now I can say that I have felt true loneliness and can practice a higher degree of legitimate empathy with others. Of course, this is all just a theory. In practice, who knows, perhaps it backfired. Regardless I cannot say I regret what I did, but nor can I say that I remember it fondly. A sad memory, perhaps? A story to tell to others? Only time will tell.


In less than an hour I'll be dead. While the statement is true I though it was far too cold and impersonal for a suicide note. I ripped the top sheet of paper from my moleskin notepad and threw it in the trash. A few minutes ago I took some of anti-depressants, Google said ten would be enough, I took 15 to be sure. According to a forum post by *suicidegurl87* I should begin to slowly drift off into the good sleep an hour or so after ingesting the pills. The drugs are a backup anyway, a revolver lies on the desk with a single bullet pointing skywards beside it. At midnight I will shot myself, it's eleven fifteen now. I have always taken comfort in the knowledge that I could end my life if I so pleased. The ultimate power one can have over oneself, and the only power I still have. Now the time has finally come, and my feelings have not changed. Eleven thirty. A slight feeling of nausea is beginning to take hold, but I don't think I've ever felt happier. No fears, no worries, no insecurity. Peace. I take a sip of from a heavy glass tumbler, it's weight feels good in the hand, and savor the rich aroma of whiskey. My senses energize, the far off sound of a glass smashing reverberates through my ears, the smell of curry wafts in from the apartment bellow, the garish flowers on the wallpaper now vivid almost moving. Closer to death, closer to life. Eleven forty five. I scribble out a short suicide note. There's no time for a heartfelt explanation now. I couldn't justify myself anyway, even I don't know precisely why I choose this path all I know is there are no other roads left to tread. They'll have to make do with a simple apology, besides it's not for them that I'm doing this. Eleven fifty five. The time has come, I spin the barrel , and position the bullet in the chamber. Close it with a satisfying click, the starting gun for the end of my life. I raise the revolver to my temple and cock the gun with clammy hands. Eleven fifty nine. The phone rings, too late now, I pull the trigger.