Jack’s eyes grew heavy. Clumsily, he fumbled around the passenger seat of his early 2000’s pickup in search of his sunglasses to try and block out the burning sensation caused by the setting sun. After 3 swerves and 5 car horns honking loudly at him, giving him a mild headache, his hand found them, and he put them on. They were large Ray-Ban aviators with mirrored lenses. He’d heard a few times that the eyes were the windows to the soul, so naturally, being who he was, he did everything he could to prevent people from looking directly at him. They gave him a small sense of security, and he felt they made it easier for him to lie. As the sky in front of him turned a burnt orange, he looked to the lands surrounding the nearly empty highway he found himself on. To his left, short grasses, with the occasional lonely tree, and to his right the same. His eyes grew heavier. Without much a thought he turned on his radio. Static. Jack was now too far from Fort Worth now to get the stations he was tuned to on his drive in earlier that morning. He flicked through the channels, more static. He was alone. He lived just far enough away from everything, that nothing could get to him. Not even radio frequency, and a part of him liked that. Growing bored as the sun dipped below the horizon, much faster than he thought it would, Jack’s foot left the gas pedal, so he could reach behind him and grab the bottle of bourbon he’d opened earlier in the week. He popped the cork off, and took a swig, hoping that the initial burn of the whiskey would wake him back up. And for a while it did. Then his eyes grew heavier still. With his head moving in a manner similar to that of a bobber on a fishing line, just robbed by a clever fish, Jack suddenly woke and for a split second he thought he saw a dog in the middle of the road. Swerving to avoid it, he quickly found himself suspended from the floor of his truck by his seatbelt. Shocked, he unbuckled himself and as he fell, he impaled his left leg on what remained of the glass from the driver’s side window. He let out a scream, and took another swig of bourbon. He tried the radio. Static. Carefully, and in a great deal of pain, he crawled out from the inverted truck, then found himself crawling back in to grab the whiskey. He clawed for support against the wreckage, and stood up. He was in a ditch. To his right, a barbed wire fence, guarding the land of what was likely in these parts to be a cattle rancher. To his left the highway, but more immediately, a hill he was going to need to climb if he was going to hitch a ride home. The lights on his truck flickered for a moment, then turned off. The sun had fallen below the horizon, and the moon was beginning to make its way across the evening sky. He began his climb up the side of the ditch, unable to get great footing, he slipped frequently, each slip digging the glass a little deeper into his calf. Each time, he let out another scream. Upon reaching the top, he sat on the precipice, looking down at the pile of metal that, had it been a little earlier, might still look that shade of red that he couldn’t say no to all those years ago. “I’m going to need to remove this if I’m going to get anywhere”, Jack thought to himself as he stared at the chunk of glass currently lodged in his left calf. He touched it lightly, and winced in pain. With that, he tore off a sleeve of his flannel shirt, and bit down. Even through the fabric, he felt as though he might break his teeth on themselves with how hard he was biting. And the glass was removed. “What a waste.” Jack thought, as he poured some bourbon over the wound. And he tied the sleeve of his shirt around his calf in an effort to stop the bleeding. But he knew, it would still continue to drip as he limped down the highway. Perhaps it was the pain, perhaps it was the whiskey, but roughly three hours into lurching along the deserted highway, Jack came to the realization that his sunglasses only had one lens in them now. Realizing this, he took them off, and stowed them in his shirt pocket. As he did this, he thought he heard the sound of a tree branch cracking. Jack assumed he was hearing things, after all, there wasn’t a tree around for what had to be miles. He carried on, taking the occasional swig from his bottle to dull the pain in his leg. Ahead, around a small curve in the road, he saw headlights, and as the car rounded the corner, he caught a silhouette of what seemed like that dog he had evidently succeeded in not hitting with his truck. Then it was gone. The small sedan gained on him, getting closer and closer, the high beams blinding to the eyes, and before Jack even had a chance to wave, it was gone. Far behind him now, and going the wrong way anyway. “Good riddance”. He kept limping. A sharp pain shot through Jack’s right arm, and a loud, vicious growl was all he could hear. At first he thought maybe he tripped on a rock and fell over scraping his arm against that gravel, but that wouldn’t have explained the growling, he suddenly had a suspicion that the dog he had deliberately not hit with his truck, was in fact, a coyote, and that it must be the very thing attempting to make a meal out of his arm. Feeling weak, he broke free of the animal’s jaws and backed away slowly, it followed towards him. Slowly, Jack bent down, and with his left hand, threw a rock at the animal. He missed. As he was about to try this again, the animal suddenly appeared distracted, and hurried away. “Yeah, that ought to teach ya”. He clutched his upper arm. “Damn. What a waste.” He poured a small amount of whiskey on the bite marks, hoping to disinfect them. He continued limping toward home. Stopping for a short rest, Jack sat. Astonished that the sun had yet to come up. It certainly felt like he’d been walking long enough since sunset to warrant a sunrise. He thought he heard footsteps. “HELLO?”, he shouted. No response. Instead a pain similar to that in his arm surrounded the wound from the glass of his truck, and he felt himself being moved. He was already downed, there was nothing for him to grab, onto. Panicking, and clawing around for anything, he smashed his bottle of whiskey on the ground, and violently slashed it around hoping to cut anything around him that might be responsible for his movement. The makeshift blade couldn’t find anything. He heard a yelp, immediately followed by a growl, a sharp pain on his neck. Then nothing. A dull ache filled Jack’s body. He was suspended from the seat of his car, which was, by what he assumed was the morning light, upside down in a ditch, somewhere in west Texas. He turned to the passenger seat, and on the ceiling above was his bottle of bourbon, completely smashed. It had not survived the crash. With a groan, Jack pulled through the pain of his bruises, and unbuckled himself from the driver's seat of the pickup. With a thud, he fell. This time, he didn’t get up.


“Whiskey.” A man slumped down on a creaky barstool. “ On the rocks?” The man sat in silence, staring at his reflection in the mirror behind the rows of liquor. “Why the long face mate?” The bartender slid the glass across the counter. “Long story.” “ I got all the bloody time in the world.” The bartender said, surveying the empty pub. The man looked up from his whiskey to eye the greying, portly barkeep in front of him. “Don’t worry mate, you can trust me.” The bartender polished a stein with a dirty rag.”I’ve heard it all in my day; all walks of life have made their way through this ol’ beaut.” He slapped his sausage fingers down on the counter. The man pounded the warm whiskey and slid the glass back across the counter. “ Its just… it’s just I’ve been feeling overworked, and underappreciated.” “Aye, all too common in this crazy world we’re living in today” The bartender filled another glass of whiskey and slid it to the man. “Why just the other week I was talking to a Japanese bloke that was crisscrossing all over the world. Flying business class don’t offer much comfort when you ain’t seen your wife's face in three months.”  The man swirled the whiskey around in the glass. “Everyone gets so wrapped up in the daily minutia of it all, they forget about what really matters in life. They inevitably get cross with me when I have to deliver the bad news.” The bartender stroked the late shift stubble on his face and studied the man with his good eye. He was a very plain man; not handsome, but not ugly, not young, but not old. He wore a dark business suit, neither fine nor tattered. “ I see then, you're in the insurance game. John Doe wrecks his fancy new sports car doing a hundred on some scarcely lit backroad, and cusses you out when you say you ain’t forking over a penny to the git.” The man chuckled as he suckled the last drops of whiskey from his glass. “ A fair guess, but no.” The bartender grumbled and moved a hand rolled cigarette from behind his ear to his pudgy lips. “ I usually pride myself on being able to read people real well.”  “Don’t beat yourself up, I’m a tough one to read.” “ I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. Next round is on the house if you give me a hint.” He reached over the bar and refilled the man's glass. “Alright, I’ll bite. Let’s say I’m in the business of collections.” The bartender struck a match and lit his cigarette. “ Well you didn’t have to make it so easy on me mate. It's clear you're a bookie, no matter how many hours you toil away down at the track, nobody appreciates the man that takes away their hard earned cash.” The man took another gulp of warm whiskey. “ Wow, you are good at this game.” The bartender smiled a gap toothed grin. “Well there ain’t nuthin to it really, you just gotta-” “But you’re wrong.” “You cheeky sod.” “ A nice try my friend but you have to dig deeper. Ask yourself, what could make a man so miserable?” “Alright. Alright.” The bartender again reached over the bar, filling the man's glass as he was bringing the last sip up to his mouth. “ One last hint, I’m gonna get it this time.” “ They say only two things are inevitable in life.” The bartender palmed his forehead. “ You’re a tax man, of course I should have seen it from a mile away, the suit, the cold look in your eyes, drinking like a fish.” He swipes his dirty rag across the bar. “There are few people in this world as hated as tax men, they’re just like bookies but you’re guaranteed to lose.” The man continued to sip his whiskey in silence. “I suppose I owe you mate, all those taxes drive people straight into me pub.” The bartender’s gut jiggled like a bowl of jelly as he laughed. “I’m sorry to say, but I’m afraid you still haven’t gotten it.” The bartender slammed another glass down on the bar and poured himself a whiskey. “I tell you what mate, I’m losing my touch, the minds the first thing to slip away as you roll into your golden years.” The man held up his glass. “Cheers.” “Cheers.” The glasses clinked, and the men pounded their whiskey, groaning as they slammed the glasses back down to the bar.  The bartender stood stoically in silence for a moment. “So what exactly is it you’re trying to tell me mate? You’re in the business of death?” He furrowed his brow. “For the life of me I can’t figure out what that means. Are you a Soldier? An Assassin? Oh, wait, a Mortician perhaps?” The man Chuckled. “You are really quite curious aren’t you?” “When you get to be as old as I am, you start to feel like you’ve seen all this world has to offer. When the unknown drops itself into your lap, you feel like a kid again.” The man adjusted his neck tie. “I’m afraid I haven’t been perfectly honest with you, I’m actually here tonight on official business.” The bartender looked sideways at the man. “ Alright mate, spit it out, there's no more dancing around it.” “Well I guess people call it all sorts of things… but the *grim reaper* is the one I hear most often.” “Come Again?” The man sighed. “ You know, the *grim reaper*? The corporeal personification of death, the shepherd of damned souls.” “Well Shit.” The bartender refilled each of the glasses with the stagnant whiskey. “If I’m going I ain’t going sober.” The man nodded and raised his glass. “To life.” The bartender nodded back and raised his glass. “To death.” The glasses clinked, and the men pounded their whiskey, groaning as they slammed the glasses back down to the bar. The bartender shut his eyes tight and savored the bitter burn of the whiskey one last time. Then the two men walked out of the bar and into the inky night.


He was a frail, dying man, lying in a hospital bed in a hospice. He was half the man he used to be, his body was withering and shrinking. Cancer had ravaged him. He has been in the hospice for two days. He checked himself in wearing only silk pajamas and carrying a briefcase. Never speaking, except to ask the nurse not to speak to him. Nobody comes to see him nor does anyone call to check on him. On day three as the nurse comes in to check on him, he finally speaks, two words, “a priest.” The nurse, knowingly nods, finishes her business in the room, and leaves. She tells the head nurse the patient has requested a priest. Without a word the head nurse calls and requests a priest to visit the patient. The priest arrives at the hospice. He is young and it’s obvious he is inexperienced and nervous. The head nurse greets him and explains that the man is dying and during his three days at the hospice has not spoken a word, other than requesting a priest. The priest enters the man’s room. The man is lying in bed, a glazed look in his eyes, clutching a pillow to his chest. “Good afternoon sir, my name is Father William. I understand that you called for a priest. How can I help you?” Father William asked in the most soothing tone he can muster. “Father William, I called you here, because I must confess my sins and try to right at least one of my wrongs.” The dying man stated.” Father William pulled up a chair, sat down, and pulled out his bible. “Please my son, tell me your confession.” Father William said. “Father forgive me for I have sinned. I do not have much time left on this earth and even less strength to tell you my sins. I ask that you leave me uninterrupted, so that I may get them all out, while I am still alive to do so.” The man requested in a weak and raspy voice. Father William gave the man a nod. “Father I have broken the ten commandments. I have lied, I have stolen, I have killed. When I was a younger man, full of rage from my tortuous upbringing, I fell in with the wrong crowd. I began robbing shops, then people, then using guns to help in my thieving ways. I met a man who took me under his wing. He did not go by his birthname, instead choosing to be known only by his professional handle of “mort noire”. I called him M for short. He taught me various foreign languages, how to protect myself, how to use weapons, and how to kill. It wasn’t until after I learned French that I realized his name was Black Death.” “M told me that he was a professional assassin. He is the man that killed Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janice Joplin, and quite a few others. M was trained by the man who had killed Hank Williams, Vernon Isley, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper, Eddie Cochran, Dorothy Dandridge, and Jayne Mansfield, to name a few. He was paid extra for Mansfield as she was also a movie star. He was trained, and so trained me, to kill, but to make it look like an accident. A car accident, a plane crash, accidental drowning, suicide, a drug overdose, alcohol poisoning, you name it, we did it. Nothing and no one were sacred to us. I myself am responsible for the deaths of many rock stars. When M retired in the mid-seventies, it was my turn to take the helm.” “My first kill had to be big to ensure I would get future contracts. I didn’t want to kill him, but I had to or the contract would have gone to someone else and I would never work again. I killed Elvis. My first kill, but not necessarily my worst. After Elvis, I killed Marc Bolan, caused the plane crash that took the lives of Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines, and Cassie Gaines of Lynyrd Skynyrd. I was gaining a lot of notoriety in my field and the contracts kept coming. I killed Keith Moon, and I finished off the seventies with Sid Vicious.” “Father, I have killed many, I remember all the names and how I did each one. I know this is long, but I feel for true forgiveness and to truly repent, I must name each and every one, they deserve that much at least. Nineteen Eighty would be just another decade of work for me. I took the lives of Bon Scott, Ian Curtis, Malcolm Owens, and John Bonham in 1980 alone. John Lennon, however, was not supposed to die. That damn Mark David Chapman just wanted to make a name for himself. He was being trained by our group and went rogue. Our group only kills by means that look accidental, we never use guns on rock stars. While we do take in contracts to kill this crime boss or that head of state, we always make sure that the deaths of rock stars are handled inconspicuously.” “I murdered Harry Chapin, Randy Rhodes, James Honeyman Scott, Dennis Wilson, Candy Givens, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Steve Clark. He was a courtesy kill. I have only failed once in my attempts, once. In 1984 I was hired to kill Rick Allen. He is the drummer of Def Leppard. I taunted him on the road with my vehicle. He became enraged and tried to pass me. I very gently tapped his car in a pit maneuver. If it hadn’t been for that nurse that showed up, he would have died. He is one lucky fellow. As a result, I still owed the holder of the contract a kill. I bided my time and when I felt it was time, Mr. Clark’s life was mine.” Father William, color drained from his face, palms sweaty, was unable to wrap his head around what he was hearing. He continued to listen quietly, all the while praying to God, could there be any forgiveness for this man? The dying man continued his list. “I had the contract to kill Kurt Cobain, but unfortunately, someone close to him, got the job done first. After that, I waited for the next contract and murdered John Denver, Johan Holzel a/k/a Falco, Aaliyah, Layne Staley, Lisa Lopes, Dee Dee Ramone, Robbin Crosby, Paul Hester, Michael Jackson, Paul Gray, Mike Starr, Amy Winehouse, Jani Lane, Whitney Houston, Chris Kelly, Wayne Static, Scott Weiland, and Prince. Maybe it’s because I, myself, am so close to death that I finally understand the precious gift that life is. The more I feel it slipping away, the more anguish I feel over the choices and deeds in my life. I took the lives of all of these people and not for some greater good, but for money. I robbed families of their loved ones and I robbed the world of the music they had yet to make.” With tears creeping down his cheeks, he continued “Why you may ask, did I kill all these people? Why were there contracts out on rock stars? Who put out these contracts? I’ll tell you. It was the greedy corporate record company executives. Some of my targets were ordered killed, because my client or clients, depending on the target, believed record sales would skyrocket upon that target’s death. Others were killed because the record company executives had life insurance policies out on that target and they were eager to collect. I was making exorbitant fees on each kill. While I might have had objections, regarding certain targets I did not wish to see dead, the money was too good to turn down.” “Is it too late? Can I be forgiven for all these deaths? Can the blood on my hands ever be cleansed? Is it too late to repent? I do not know. I will face whatever punishment the lord has for me and will not deny my misdeeds, my crimes, my grievous sins. The only thing I can do is try to prevent my last kill.” “In retrospect, I see now that I had been ill for the bulk of the last year. I told myself it was just age and continued to ignore all of my symptoms. Last week I received what would be the final contract of my career, although I did not know that at the time. My new target is a young, beautiful, up and coming super star. Her first album is set to release next week. She is not your typical musician. She is intelligent, modest, and very religious. She does not drink, do drugs, or even smoke. She is also a health nut. She takes care of her body and is careful of what she puts into it. She exercises and works out just about every day. She is only twenty years old, yet she has a plan for her future, is sure in who she is, and cannot be tempted. The studio execs cannot control her and this is the problem.” “They, the execs, prefer their clients to be easy to sway, control, and use. This young lady is none of those. She refuses to dress sexy in skimpy outfits. She refuses to use sex to sell her voice. In fact, she believes the strength of her voice is all she needs to promote her music. Her lifestyle and moral character make it impossible to make her death look like a drug overdose. However, I decided that since she does work out so much and takes so many vitamins, the only way to kill her that would look plausible, would be to drug her vitamins with a chemical that would cause her to have a heart attack and would be untraceable in autopsy.” “Last week I covertly broke into her house and replaced her new bottle of vitamins with a bottle laced with this chemical. Tomorrow she will open that new bottle having used up her last bottle and she will take one and die. My plan in place I sat back ready to see my target die. I was taken out of my self-boasting by a deep cough. I coughed so hard there was blood all over my hands. I knew this was bad and went to the doctor the following day. The news, of course, was cancer, stage four. It has spread to all my major organs and it was too late to treat. I was given one week to live. I wish the doctor was being over pessimistic, but each day since that diagnosis, I have been going downhill at an exceedingly fast pace. Which is why I checked into the hospice on Monday. My body is telling me that by Friday morning I will be gone.” The man’s hands started shaking as he dropped his head into them. “With my life quickly coming to end I realized the value of life, all life. I knew I could not leave this world knowing I had taken yet another life. Father, I am too weak to stop this myself. This young lady cannot die! She has too much music in her to be silenced before she has even started. As I’ve told you, she is deeply religious. I believe that you can enter her house under the guise of wishing to discuss spiritual needs. Once in her home, ask for a glass of water, follow her to the kitchen, and once she hands you the glass of water, drop it. Let the glass shatter, profusely apologize as you attempt to pick up the shattered pieces. Cut your finger on one of the shards and ask for a band-aid. While she is in the bathroom getting your band-aid, you will have your opportunity to switch the vitamin bottles out. If you would please hand me my briefcase from the floor there.” The man asked while pointing at the briefcase. Father William obliged and picked up the briefcase and handed it to the man. “Thank you” the man said as he opened the case. From the case the man pulled out a new bottle of vitamins and a slip of paper. “Father, this is the bottle I stole from her home and this is her address.” He said as he handed both the priest. “She keeps her vitamins on the counter next to the refrigerator. While she is in the bathroom, just grab the poisoned bottle and put it in your pocket and place her bottle back on the counter. When she returns with the band-aid, let her help you put it on, and then help her clean up the floor. Stay and speak with her as only a priest can. Take solace in the knowledge that you will have saved this young lady’s life.” “Will you do this Father? I have no one else to ask. The life of an assassin is a lonely one. The only people I know are also assassins and it is not in their nature to save a life.” The priest sat quietly contemplating the bottle of vitamins. As a priest, he has been taught to forgive and forget, nonetheless, he finds himself on one hand hating this man for killing so many talented musicians, while on the other hand feels for the man. The man is dying and in doing so has realized the sacred gift that life is. He is trying to rectify what he has done. Will God forgive this man? He doesn’t know. He feels a rage growing inside him. The priest is a music lover. This man has killed many of the musicians the priest loves. He loves Elvis’ music, especially his gospel songs. He is also very fond of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s music. He truly appreciated the guitar prowess of Randy Rhodes, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Steve Clark. In truth, Steve Clark was his favorite guitar player. He could feel so many emotions when he listened to Steve Clark play. Emotions that would draw him into another world, one where only music existed. This man’s deeds had curtailed the future music he would have loved to hear from a great many bands and musicians. He thought of God and Jesus. He felt in his heart that they would forgive him and above all would want the priest to save this young lady. “Yes, I will do it, my son. I will go right now. I will come back tomorrow to visit you again to let you know how I did and to give you your last rites.” The priest said as he gently held his hand on the dying man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Father William, you are saving the life of a truly beautiful person.” The man said as the priest got up to leave. The priest left the room and stopped at the nurse’s station. “I will be back to see him tomorrow.” The priest informed the nurse, who was seated behind the desk. He nodded his head at the nurse and left. He put the address listed on the piece of paper he was given into the GPS in his phone. When the directions came up, he hit the road off to do what priests are supposed to do, save lives and save souls. He put in a Def Leppard CD and clicked through the songs until he reached Switch 625 and listened to the instrumental as he headed to the young lady’s home. As he arrived at his destination, the priest inhaled a long, deep breath. He could feel a knot develop in the pit on his stomach as he approached the front door. He reminded himself that he is trying to save her life and found the nerve to push the doorbell. As he waited for the door to open, he reflected on his love of music. He chuckled to himself when he thought about the circumstances that led him to become a priest instead of a musician. He had no talent, only a profound love of God. The door opened and a beautiful, young blonde, with mesmerizing blue eyes said “Can I help you Father?” For a moment, he was so nervous, he forgot what he should say. He gathered himself and said “Good afternoon young lady, I have been going door to door throughout the neighborhood to discuss any spiritual needs people may have. May I come in and speak with you?” He asked. “Oh, do come in Father and get out of the heat. Can I get you something to drink?” She asked. “Yes, please, I would love a glass of water, if it’s not too much.” He replied. “Not at all.” She quipped. The priest followed her to the kitchen and quietly watched as she filled a glass with water for him. “You don’t mind tap water, do you?” She asked. “Not at all, thank you so much.” He replied as she handed him the glass. He very lightly took the glass and let it slip from his fingers crashing to the floor. “I am so sorry my hands are so sweaty from being out in the heat all day.” He stated as he kneeled down to pick up the broken pieces of glass. He made sure to cut a finger on a particularly sharp piece. “Oh my, I believe I’ve cut myself, do you happen to have a band-aid?” He asked. “Yes, let me run to the bathroom and get you one, please, leave the glass, I will clean it up when I return.” She said as she headed to the bathroom. No sooner had she turned the corner out of the kitchen did the priest pull out the bottle of vitamins from his pocket. He placed the bottle on the counter next to the poisoned bottle of vitamins, picked up the poisoned bottle, and slipped it into his pocket. He bent back down to the floor, and carefully this time, picked up the broken shards. As he was grabbing a towel off another counter, the young lady returned to the kitchen. “Let me see that finger.” She said as she opened the packaging of the band-aid. While she applied the bandage, he apologized for making a mess and breaking her glass. “It’s no problem, Father, it happens to everyone.” She soothed as she bent over to finish cleaning the floor. Once finished, she prepared him another glass of water and invited him to sit down in the living room. They spent the better part of an hour discussing God, the bible, and her spirituality. The priest was very impressed with her obvious knowledge of the bible and her love for God. He knew the dying man was right. This woman deserved to live. She was truly one of God’s creatures, as God had imagined them to be. He thanked her for her time and left her with his card should she have need of his services in the future. She thanked him and indicated she would love to see his service this Sunday. They shook hands and he left. When the priest got into his car, he let out a very long sigh of relief. He tapped the bottle in his pocket and thanked God for using him as a tool to save this woman’s life. He turned the music back on and drove back to the church. There were inquiries about why he was gone so long today and he insisted it was for a confession and it was a very long one. He had dinner and turned to his bible for a nice study prior to going to bed. He had a long day, emotionally draining, and spiritually fruitful. In the morning, the priest rolled out of bed, and dressed in his attire. He went to his computer, as he liked to read the news before breakfast, and read the story of the death of a young woman. The article indicated that the young woman had a heart attack. The article stated she was releasing a record album next week, and how terribly sad it was. The priest ran to the bathroom and threw up. As he hugged the toilet bowl, he asked himself “how could this be possible? I switched out the bottles. I put the clean bottle on the right and picked up the poisoned bottle from the left. I put it in my pocket!” He ran to his bedroom and searched through the pockets of his clothes. He found the bottle and opened it. The safety label was intact. There were no holes of any sort whatsoever that he could see. He wracked his brain. Did I switch the bottles right? He was sure he had, but looking at this bottle, he was sure he had not. He had failed. He had to let the man know of his failure. He also had to give the man absolution through his last rites. As he drove to the hospice the scenario played over and over in his head. How had he messed up? Did he try to do it too fast? Did he worry too much about cleaning up the glass and in the process missed the switch and just put the bottle back in his pocket? He prayed, no pleaded with God. He begged for forgiveness for his mistake. He begged God to not hold this death again the dying man, the man who tried to right at least one of his wrongs. He asked God to take care of the young woman. She had a good soul and she deserved entry to Heaven. He was so lost in his thoughts and failure that he almost passed the hospice. He found a parking spot and headed to the dying man’s room. As he threw the door open, the first thing to greet him, was an empty bed. “Oh God, no, the man has died already and without his last rites. Please God forgive him.” He thought to himself. He turned around to go to the nurse’s station to ask the nurse when the man passed only to see the nurse standing behind him. “He got up and left last night. He left his briefcase on the bed with a note on it saying to give it to you. You know, we never even knew his name.” The nurse said as she handed him the briefcase. Confused, the priest wandered over to the nurse’s station and placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it. The priest was shocked by the contents. In the briefcase, the priest saw a huge sum of cash and a note. “Thank you, priest, without your help, my plan would have failed.


# Chastity By Chandler Morrison  It was on their wedding night that the girl first saw the boy turned into a man, and it was a very ugly thing, indeed. She sits by the open window, a warm breeze tugging lightly at her hair, beckoning her out beyond the gently-rustling curtains and into the still of the night. If the fall were farther, maybe she’d listen. Instead, she wipes at her eyes, lights a cigarette, and looks at the man who lies asleep in the bed. Yes, the *man*, for that’s what he is, though he hadn’t always been that way. Not to her. No, up until this night, he had been a boy. *Her* boy. He’d been the boy on the playground, pushing her off the swings and yanking her braids, only to follow such acts of juvenile cruelty with a surreptitiously-passed note ending in “Check YES or YES”. Two boxes, one possible answer. That’s all he’d ever given her, and that’s all she’d ever needed. He’d been the boy who waited, because she told him she wanted to wait. He’d been the boy who never protested, never pleaded. Never tried to snake his hand where it didn’t belong. He’d been that rare kind of boy who was too bashful to even let his eyes drop anywhere south of the hollow of her neck, even when she was wearing a swimsuit or a snugly-fitted top. “Wait…not even *once*?” one of the bridesmaids had exclaimed that morning as she was helping the girl primp her hair. “You two have been together since, like, *forever*, and you’ve *never*…?” The girl’s responding smile had been one of both gleeful pride and diffident innocence. She looked at the bridesmaid’s reflection in the big vanity mirror, curled eyelashes batting bashfully, and said, “Not even once.” Hip cocked, holding the hair curler out to one side like a magic wand, the bridesmaid said, “But you guys, like, did other stuff, right?” The girl shrugged. “I mean, yeah, we French kiss all the time. And once I let him put his hand on my chest…over my shirt, of course…but that was just because I’d drank half of Alyssa’s beer at Jessica Tomlin’s party in tenth grade. Everyone had gone outside, and it was just me and him in the basement, and we started kissing and obviously it got a little out of hand.” She giggled at the unintentionally turned phrase. “But we stopped after a few minutes and went outside with the others.” “Oh my god, honey,” the bridesmaid said, her eyes wide, “How can you marry a guy you’ve never slept with? I mean, fuck, you don’t even know if he has a nice dick.” The girl blushed, and shrugged again. “I don’t know the difference between a nice dick and a bad one, so whatever he has will be just fine.” The bridesmaid rolled her eyes theatrically and said, “*Darling*, you’ll *know*.” She set the hair curler down, indicated a distance with two raised index fingers, and said, “If he’s not at least *this* long…” She paused appraisingly, then decreased the distance by an inch or so, amending, “Okay, *this* long, just to be safe…if he’s not at least *this* long, you’re going to have *serious* problems. Of course, girth is really important, too, and…” The girl put her hands over her ears and said, “*Lalalalalalala*, stop, I’m putting on my earmuffs.” Now, the girl looks over at her sleeping husband, thinks about the space between the bridesmaid’s fingers, and sighs. She holds the cigarette up to her face, glances once more over at the man in the bed, and feels fresh tears burn her eyes. How different it had been, just one day previous. How different *he* had been. He’d been her *boy*. In her mind, she sees that roguishly handsome prince, hair blowing in the wind, bouncing between the broad shoulders of a galloping white stallion. But that boy is not in that bed tonight. That boy is nowhere to be found. Now, it’s just the *man*. The great, oafish man, sprawled across the tousled sheets, the pallor of his flesh reminding the girl of long-curdled milk. Dense tufts of curled, wiry hairs erupt from the oddest and most unseemly places on his body. His toenails are jagged and untrimmed, and the heels of his feet are scaly and cracked with dead skin. The glossy sheen of oily perspiration in which his body is encased carries with it a pungent odor of overused athletic gear. A grumbling, sputtering snore-like noise emits periodically from deep within his nasal passages. “Do you even know how, like, um…how everything *works*?” the bridesmaid had asked, regarding the girl’s mirror-reflected face with troubled concern. “Do I need to give you the, uh…the *talk*?” It was the girl’s turn to roll her eyes. “Oh, *stop*, I know enough. I’m not worried. It’s going to be special and beautiful and perfect. This is how it’s *supposed* to be. It’s how Jesus intended.” “Please, spare me the Jesus freak shit. Let’s get real, here. There are things you need to know. You can’t just go bounding blindly into your bridal bed and expect everything to go as you imagine it will.” “I *won’t* be blind,” the girl said, “for the Lord is my shepherd.” Swiping at her eyes once more with the back of her hand, the girl looks out at the starless night sky, and she does not see God. She had indeed bounded blindly into her bridal bed, and things had not gone as she’d imagined they would. She did not feel shepherded. It had been inelegant, clumsy, and disjointed. Their clammy, naked limbs had tangled together like knotted seaweed. Her breath came out in nervous gasps, his in loud, heaving grunts. They fumbled about, twisting and groping awkwardly as they attempted to align themselves in the most logistically sound position for the task at hand. Each time he went to clutch some part of her, his grip was too tight, too cold. It was like being prodded and probed with kitchen tongs. And then, all at once…*the metamorphosis*. As soon as he entered her, he changed. Lying on her back, struggling for breath and squeezing her eyes closed in a vain attempt to shut out the revulsion twisting within her stomach, she felt her husband morph into a man. Gone was the sweet boy of her dreams. He’d been replaced by this maladroit mass of tectonically shifting flesh that ground atop her and pushed the air from her lungs. His face, prickly with stubble, was buried in the side of her neck, his breath bursting out in hot plumes like smoke from a steam engine. She could hear gurgling digestive noises bubbling within his stomach. She imagined all of his internal fluids, all that blood and bile, mucus and pus and diluted, befouled water…all of it jostling around inside of him as he fucked her. In that moment, the girl considered the possibility that she’d made a mistake. In *this* moment, watching him sleep while contemplatively dragging from the cigarette with awkward, unpracticed motions, she thinks to herself, *No. No, I’ve* definitely *made a mistake.* She looks back out the window, peering down to the ground just two stories beneath her, and finds herself wishing they’d taken the hotel concierge up on his offer to upgrade them to the bridal suite on the fifteenth floor. “That’s okay,” she’d said in declination, smiling up at her new husband. “We don’t need anything fancy.” He turns over in his sleep, snorts, and then lets out a protracted expulsion of gas. The girl cringes. She feels nauseated, and she can’t tell if the cigarette is making it better or worse. “You *know* I’d never touch one of those,” she’d told the bridesmaid when she’d held the pack out to her after she’d finished with her hair. Rolling her eyes, the bridesmaid thrust the pack into her hand. “Trust me,” she’d said. “There’s nothing like cigarettes after sex.” The girl doesn’t think this is what the bridesmaid had in mind. Trying to ignore the pain throbbing between her temples, she takes another dejected drag and holds the smoke in her lungs until her eyes burn and tear up again. When she exhales, she finds herself wondering, with increasing despondence, what else she may have been wrong about. She’s been married for a matter of mere hours and has only just lost her virginity less than thirty minutes ago, and already life is revealing itself to be a disappointment of seismic proportions. She wants to be angry…that, she feels, would be the appropriate response…but she’s unable to find anything at which she can direct said anger. Her parents, for not preparing her for what was in store? The boy, for not living up to her expectations? Walt Disney and Nicholas Sparks, for *creating* those expectations? Or herself, for allowing that omnipresent torrent of mystical hopes and dreams to sweep her off her feet and drop her down into that wretched, sweat soaked marriage bed? She suspects all of them had something to do with it, but the lattermost one guiltily hangs its head the lowest when standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the others in the lineup. Deciding it isn’t helping, she flicks the cigarette out the window. Her eyes trail after the yellow ember as it makes its descent before crashing onto the asphalt in a muted explosion of sparks. Then, her eyes flick over to the phone on the nightstand. It rests languidly in its cradle like a sleeping dog. Biting her lip, she thinks about her future. She doesn’t have to think for very long. Advancing on tip-toe, she creeps over to sit down on the edge of the bed, and then she lifts the phone and dials the front desk. “Yes, um, hello,” she whispers into the receiver, looking over her shoulder to make sure the man hasn’t been startled out of his slumber. “Yes, my…um, my…my husband and I…” She pauses, her mouth dry. She licks her lips, eyeing the open window. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. I would like to have that bridal suite, after all.


For the past couple of weeks my mom has been sending me flight deals to my email. She'll see a sale, and send it to me. New promo, it's in my inbox. Great deal on flights to Vegas, you bet it's coming my way. Trip to Cuba? I'm getting that too. It started as a few sparse emails here and there, but its become an every other day kind of thing. At first, I was really confused. I didn't understand what brought this on. I travel somewhat frequently for work so I just figured she was trying to be helpful, but to be honest, it kind of annoyed me. I'm the co-founder of a start-up and my inbox is flooded every day. I unsubscribe to mailing lists that don't add value like its a hobby, so a constant torrent of flight deals really wasn't doing it for me. In addition to that, deals from airlines aren't really useful because we book our business flights through a business account on Expedia anyways. But there's a lot more to it than just emails, I think. My mom is disappointed and sad. I spend time with her and I know I'm a good son, but there's nothing that can be done to change this. I know her life didn't turn out the way she wanted it to. Sure, her and my dad live in a beautiful house, but when you peel things back a few layers, things aren't all that great in her mind and from her perspective. Her parents, her best friends for the longest time, are ageing significantly and her mother is unwell. My grandparents aren't the same people they used to be. My dad, despite being the greatest dad he could have been, isn't the smartest man and made a number of financial decisions that he wasn't honest about and kept things from my mom. He never could live up to her hopes that she'd find someone like her father - successful, stoic, family first always, a real man's man. She's always been disappointed in that. To top it all off, my siblings have left the house, and at 27, I'm the only one left. Half my foot is out the door already; my girlfriend closed on a condo a few months ago. The one thing that my mom has poured herself into are her kids. She was a stay at home mom and invested in us like her retirement was banking on it. She's the go-to for our family, even with my brother and sister out of the house. If something's wrong, mom is one of the first calls. Feeling unwell? She knows all the signs and symptoms of every disease (both discovered and yet researched). Need financial advice? She's a tax master. Need a special type of doctor? She's got you covered. She's the glue that brings everything together. Sure, she's a classic helicopter parent, always wanting to be involved, always engaged, and always disappointed as her kids age and they pull back into their own lives and families, but she's never stopped loving, and she never will. I remember a year ago I got my truck stuck in the mud, and I ruined this pair of fancy suede boots I was wearing while getting unstuck. I threw them in the trash, and unbeknownst to me she took them out, got them cleaned by some magician shoemaker, and they looked almost new. That is who she is; she's our family's fixer. Last night I was staying at my girlfriend's talking to her about the flight emails. I hadn't thought twice about them, but when I told her I asked my mom to stop sending them, I burst into tears. In that instant, I came to the realization that the emails weren't about the flights. They were a sign. They were a flash of love. I'm thinking about you. I care about you. I hope this helps. I love you. Despite her life changing before her eyes, despite everything she knows falling away from her, despite her sadness, she just wanted to show me she cared. I messaged her last night to tell her to keep the flight emails coming. She asked if I was sure. I said I was. I got one this morning.


I was embarrassed. It’s a strange thing to say because out of all the personal items I’ve ever purchased from a public supermarket in my life (sanitary towels, underwear etc.) surely condoms would be a lesser chore. We’re all animals, at the end of the day and, presumably, a large number of the population have sex on some occasion. Most display it as an act of accomplishment, something to be proud of and boast about. So why is it such an awkward experience? For me, it was because I chose to try and achieve this milestone task at a rather askew point in my life. I was very much in love with someone who was very “meh” in his feelings towards me and I was doing everything I could to win his affections, even lowering myself to such degrading tasks that even he was too embarrassed to attempt himself. I was very insecure about myself. I wasn’t particularly attractive, nor did I hold myself very well, and I was convinced that every eye in that supermarket was on me, judging and mocking. If people saw me holding up condoms they’d know that I presumed to have some sort of sex life and they would shake their head sadly and think “poor girl. Maybe she’ll actually get to use those someday”. At least, that’s what I thought. In reality, my relative plainness probably allowed me to walk through most public places every day of my life without drawing half a stare from anyone. I had, purposely chose a busy, mainstream supermarket to do my shopping because of the presumption that it would be busy with folk not noticing what I was doing. Only when I got there, armed myself with a shopping basket and stepped through the doors did I realise my mistake. I was way too paranoid. I could basically hear the “wuuurrr” of a thousand CCTV cameras turn in my direction, following me through the aisles. I had planned to fill the basket with a few, inconsequential items in order to mask the main purchase. I strolled as carefree as I could, feeling my stomach twist and turn in response to the task that was lay ahead of me. I tossed some random vegetables into the basket, small priced things that, to me, portrayed an average shopping basket. And then I came to *the* aisle. They were stocked near the end, among shelves of vitamins, chap-sticks, exercise supplements and other over the counter medical things. There were three other people in the aisle already. An elderly couple with a shopping trolley, perusing the athlete foot remedies next to my target items, and a bored looking woman, eyes moving, disinterestedly, across the dieting aids. I stole a glance at the condom shelves and was shocked to see they were in short supply. Only a few choices remained, and there was my other moment of panic. Choices? In my absurd naivety, it hadn’t occurred to me that there was various….options when it came to condoms. There were Thin Feel, Extra Safe, Extra Lubricated, Extra Large, Micro Thin and a couple that were simply named Pleasure Me and Tickle Me. Underneath was a wider array of lubrications and gels and God knows what else. I turned my attention to the vitamins, directly across the aisle. I’ve never feigned so much interest in my life. I stood, for what must have been five minute, lifting box after box, reading the back, putting some back, returning, changing my mind, shaking my head….after about eight minutes the paranoia set back in. The old couple had left but the dieting woman remained. She had wandered over to the Deep Heat display but she was still there looking as bored as ever. Did we both have a common goal, here? Was she waiting for me as much as I was waiting for her. Could we both set aside our humiliation and help each other out in achieving what we wanted? Of course not. Would I be able to outlast her? I turned my attention back to the vitamins. What a ridiculously large choice of vitamins. I spotted a three for one offer and tossed the orange flavoured vitamin b supplements into my basket. She was still there. I changed tactics. I began to move, slowly, down the aisle, away from the condoms, towards the painkillers. Three boxes of cough syrup joined the other useless crap in now scattered around my basket. I crossed to the other side and held a tiny box of ear drops inches from my face, studying the fine print while watching the blurry shape of my rival move closer to the sex stuff. The ear drops went into the basket too and I had to admit defeat. Diet woman had stopped at the foot products and was idly scanning the various remedies, her body leaning closer to the risqué stuff but not close enough. I left the aisle and did another round of the store. When I returned my basket was now laden with stir-fry sauce, a sharing pack of chocolate buttons and a little jar of paprika. Diet woman had gone. No doubt she was half way home, her miserable face finally breaking into a smile of pure glee, her prize clutched in her idling fingers. There was a new couple in the aisle though. He was gazing around with the typical suicidal look of a man dragged out to carry the burden of useless haberdashery their partners claimed to need. She was on her knees, a phone glued to her head, discussing the unacceptable prices of face-cream, while tossing about packets of sanitary towels. I maneuvered into the next aisle, dropping some shampoo and deodorant in the ever increasing pile of unwanted trash in my basket. I crossed back into *the* aisle just as the couple were wandering away and a hippy-looking man was wandering in. I was back at my old comfort shelves. The vitamins hadn’t changed much, unfortunately. I couldn’t see hippy man, but I could smell him. He was being suspiciously quiet just out of eyesight. I dropped a few more vitamin packets into my basket and turned to investigate. He was browsing the condoms. All attempts at stealth were forgotten as I stared, open mouthed and wide-eyed, at this hairy, dirty, thin old man casually deliberating between two varieties of condom. I managed to steer myself away, pretending to be immediately excited by the chap-sticks (of which I basket-ed two), feeling a little ridiculous at the ease and, well, casualness in how he purchased his prophylactics. My palms were sweating. It was my turn. I moved back to the vitamins, chucking a few more in just for sake of routine. Hippy was gone but there was a new woman in the aisle, her attention fully focused on nicotine patches. I could feel the panic setting in, the cameras zooming on my face, the customers all waiting for this moment, when they could turn, in unison and smirk in mockery. I glanced to the nicotine woman, her hands full with boxes. I turned, finding myself stood directly and purposefully in front of my worst fear. There was no faking it now. To anyone wanting to look, there was no mistaking my purpose at that moment in time. My eyes went immediately to a bright red box and I made my choice. I stooped, weighed down and made awkward by my heaving basket of stupid stuff. My hands, all moist and trembling, landed on my prize and as I tried to pull the little box towards me I was met with resistance. Pure panic. I pulled harder and the entire display shelf, with each box slotted into it’s own little notch came towards me. I discarded the basket, letting it drop with a pretty audible thud and rattle of many little vitamins all moving inside their packets. With two hands I freed the Thin Feel and tucked it under my mountain of health pills. It hadn’t gone as smoothly as I had hoped but I had them; my key to continuing sexual activities. I almost ran to the checkout, that red box in my basket felt like a beacon, shinning through the green plastic, alerting everyone to its freedom. I was relieved to find the self-checkout almost empty and threw myself on the furthest station. With my condoms safely hidden I began scanning my other items, wondering if I could overdose on vitamins. When I had a good hiding pile in my bad I slipped the condoms out, scanned them in one, easy move and dumped them to the bottom of the bag. Success! The rest of the vitamins I processed with as much consideration as I had shown when I snatched them off the shelves. Suddenly, the screen froze. The smooth, mechanical voice of evil called out “Assistance needed”. It wasn’t my imagination this time. Everyone was looking at me. Everyone was turning to stare at the gormless girl with a box of vitamins held, guiltily in her hand, looking around furtively for a moment of release. She arrived in the form of a wrinkly staff member, muttering about the cold and pressing buttons on my terminal with total distaste. “Right it’s just an age check for the medicines. Have you bagged that last one yet?” She tugged at the bag, dislodging the shameful little red box of shameful things. She saw the condoms. She saw the ridiculous stock of vitamins. I don’t know which I should feel more embarrassed about. I stuffed the remainder of my decoy shopping into a second bag and made my escape, praying that the alarm wouldn’t squeal in anger at my attempt of fleeing. At home, I gazed over my shopping results. So much stuff I would never use. But I had the condoms. There was some victory in all of this, at least….until I checked the receipt. In my hasty retreat I hadn’t even spared a thought for the pricing of my nonsense buys. I hadn’t even noticed the total of my shop from hell, simply sticking my card in the reader and punching in my pin, giving my speedy admission to sap as much as was necessary from my account. I wasn’t wealthy but I was working and not doing much else so I had enough money to sow such carelessness over spending. The receipt was not to my liking. With a multibuy saving of five pound and eighty pence, I had, quite horrifically spent a total of £60.10. Vitamins are ridiculously expensive. It’s been almost two years. I still have those exact same condoms.


>*(Fantasy, battlefield, tragic romance, 930 words.)* > > *Again, this was inspired by a picture, but the words are all mine. It's never been on Reddit that I know of.* > >*Moderate battlefield violence, a bit of body horror.* > >*Hope somebody likes it. Any comments, votes etc. gratefully received.* "I heard she beat him one on one," said an older swordsman, rust on his armour, grey in his beard. "In some Eastern lord's grand melee. To claim the choicest prize." The woman charged, sprinting across the field in the sunlight, sword flashing in her hand. The archers facing her notched their arrows. An officer screamed a hoarse command and they loosed, a ragged volley that arched over the grass. "I heard he *was* the prize," said a spearman, a Southerner, his skin so black it was almost blue, his bald head neatly bisected by a lumpen scar. The woman never slowed, even in the face of what looked like certain death. She was small, and slight, and wore nothing but a thin jerkin padded with scraps of chain. The arrows hung in the air a moment, then sank down towards her. A giant shape moved in a nearby copse of trees. There was a hissing noise. A great, flat disc span around and around out of the wood, slid through the air and landed in the ground directly in the woman's path. She dropped to her knees, as if she'd expected this all along, and crouched behind the shield's bulk, clutching her saber as the arrows spent themselves against the shield, or in the mud all around her. The giant in the copse lumbered out of the shadows. Twice her height, he wore nothing but a ragged loincloth. He was huge and fat, but powerful with it. He carried a sword almost as long as she was tall. Yet he never spoke, and she never turned to acknowledge him. And he looked unwell. His skin was sallow, and his veins a livid purple. Half his face was hidden by the brim of a wide straw hat, and just beneath it the onlookers could see two glowing green streaks, like tears, coursing down his face. "I heard they was lovers," said another spearman, a skinny youngster who looked no more than a few days off his parents' farm. "You *what?"* said the old swordsman. The woman reached the archers, while behind her, the giant claimed his shield. Her enemies scattered. Some tried to stand and fight her, thinking numbers had to count for something against one. They died messily. "That's what I heard!" the boy protested. "You reckon everything's a fairy tale?" the old man said with derision. "Look at him!" "No accounting for taste," the southerner murmured. But when the giant entered the fray the onlookers could see he made little attempt to protect himself, and only waved his great shield around when one of the few surviving archers threatened the woman. "Told you," the boy said triumphantly. "But how...?" the old man wanted to know. "It's not a fairy tale," said a fourth voice. "Not exactly."  She was tall and lean, with a mop of red curls. She wore their colours, with a shortbow slung over one shoulder. She led a weary-looking white horse with bloodshot eyes that tugged listlessly against its bridle. "They *were* lovers," the woman said. "But he didn't always look like death warmed up. They fought for the old duke, before the war. Signed on as a pair. Swore they'd never lose sight of each other, and all the rest of it." "We all say that," the old man muttered. "These two..." The woman shrugged. "They were on the frontlines in the west when it started. Right in the thick of it. They were sent to harry a scouting force that turned out to be quite a bit more. Relief turned up in time to carry her off the field. Not him, though." "I've heard," the boy said. "What they do out there. To prisoners." The giant struck the last archer with the shield so hard the man seemed to fold up, boneless, over the edge. "Plucked out his eyes," the woman said. "Left poison to fester in the sockets and eat away at his mind. One of our raiding parties laid siege to the fort where they had our friend in chains, but they thought he was a lost cause. Turned him out on the streets, far from home." "What did she do?" the southerner wanted to know. "Searched for him," the woman said flatly. "For years. Nearly went mad herself." "But she found him in the end?" the boy pressed her. "Well, yes," the woman admitted. "But look at him."  They looked; at the great, silent bulk of him; at the darkness beneath the edge of that hat; at the great sword, clotted with gore, and at the shield, the dark, imposing silhouette it struck against the afternoon sun. "He never lost sight of her," the woman said quietly. "In the end it was all he could remember. He knows where she is, like magic, any time, anywhere. It's all he lives for. To put himself in harm's way." "There's worse ways to end up," the old man conceded. "You think?" the woman observed. "Do you *really?* Think about her. She remembers, too. Where she left him. *How* she left him. She sees it every time they head into battle. Every time she charges. You think part of her isn't hoping that just this once he'll miss his cue?" The onlookers fell silent. Out on the sward, the archers had all fallen. The rest had long since fled. Corpses dotted the field, and black smoke climbed over the trees at the crest of the hill beyond. The giant stood there silently, and for a moment the woman clung to his broad grey belly, arms around him, shoulders shaking.


# The Depth of Flesh By Chandler Morrison  You’re supposed to smile. You know this, but you can’t. You can’t smile. Even as you look out at the cheering mass of your classmates, you just can’t smile. You’re drowning in the applause. When you’re presented with the shimmering crown and the long silver scepter, you’re not breathing. You wonder if your face is turning blue. You wonder if it’s a shade that will clash badly with your dress. The boy next to you, the boy you hate…*he’s* smiling. His face, sculpted so expertly in its angles and lines, is swallowed up by his grin. His teeth are like milk sugar, his lips like strawberry lemonade. Applause, so much applause, coated and peppered with smiles and cheers. You force yourself to breathe. Your breath comes out in a harsh wheeze that’s mercifully drowned out by the clamorous cacophony. You try to smile. You fail. You try to wave, but you fail at that, too. You can’t move. You don’t want to be here. You never wanted any of this. Earlier this evening, you stood before the mirror, and it told you that you are the fairest of all. It was telling the truth. You know this, and you hate it. You hate the mirror for saying it. You hate it because it’s true. As you curled your hair and painted rouge your pursed lips, you knew what was going to happen. They would announce your names, and April Diver and Jake Barnaby would take the stage. You knew he would smile. You knew you wouldn’t. You wanted to cry, so you took a Valium because you didn’t want to ruin your makeup. You went downstairs and sat on the couch, taking care not to wrinkle your dress. You lit a cigarette, and the whisper of your exhalation was the only sound in the house. No one, save for the mirror, was there to tell you how pretty you looked. No one was there to see you off. Your mother wasn’t there to blot her teary eyes and say that she can’t believe you’re all grown up. Your father wasn’t there to hug you and kiss your forehead with lips parted in a melancholic smile. Your brother wasn’t there to make an amicably sarcastic remark. No one was there. No one ever is. You are alone. No matter where you are, no matter who’s present or who isn’t, you are shackled to solitude. Jake arrived in his shining silver Mercedes. You jumped at the sound of the doorbell, and then crushed your cigarette out in the heart-shaped ashtray on the coffee table. Your hand was shaking. You did not want to do this, but free will is a lie. When you opened the door, he leaned in to kiss you, but you tilted your head to prevent your lips from locking. His mouth lightly brushed your cheek. “I forgot the corsage,” he’d said, looking down at his gleaming shoes. “I knew that you would.” You raised your hand to show him the flower on your wrist. It was black. It was dead. You hadn’t refrigerated it, and you lied to yourself and pretended it was by accident. He opened the car door for you, and you hated him for it. You wished he wouldn’t do things like that. You wished he wouldn’t do anything at all. You drove in silence. No conversation, no music. You knew he wanted to say something, say anything, but he knew better. His one saving grace. He always knew better. You were swarmed with compliments upon your arrival. All of the girls clustered around you like head lice. They said all of the things they were supposed to say. No one commented on the dead flower. All of the boys averted their eyes because they knew they weren’t supposed to look. Inside, you drank the obligatory punch. Danced the obligatory dances. The Valium made everything hazy enough for you to do all of this without having to think too much about how horrible it was. And then, of course, the announcement. And here you are. Platinum crown upon your platinum hair. Scepter in your limp hand. The applause is apocalyptic. When it’s finally over, you stand smoking in the parking lot, leaning against Jake’s car and staring forlornly at the starless sky. You wish the blackness would swoop down and smother you in its nothingness. You look around at all of the laughing young couples sweeping the parking lot, clambering into cars that will take them to beer-soaked parties or latex-reeking bedrooms or, hopefully, deadly drunken crashes. You wonder how close you are to what *they* are. You want to think you’re different, but you can’t deny the fact that you’re all marching to the slow, ominous beat of the death drums. Drums that signify an end that just won’t come soon enough. Jake appears from somewhere, and with his goofy smile he says, “I’ve been looking for you.” You drop the cigarette and crush it under the long, pointed heel of your sparkly white shoe. “I have, too,” you say. He looks at you quizzically. “Huh?” “Nothing.” He drives you home. The silence is the same. When he pulls into your driveway, he kills the ignition and looks at you imploringly. Now, the world tells you that you have a choice at this moment. The world tells you that you can thank him for a good time, get out of the car, and walk alone into the empty house. The world tells you that, as a free and independent woman, you don’t have to do anything more than that. And maybe the world is right. Maybe you don’t. But none of that matters. It doesn’t matter that you invite him inside. It doesn’t matter that you lead him upstairs to your bedroom. It doesn’t matter that you undress yourselves in awkward silence. It doesn’t matter that he watches you as you do, but you look distractedly out the window. It doesn’t matter that you don’t feel anything when he enters you, because you can’t feel anything at all. It doesn’t matter that he drenches you with his sweat. It doesn’t matter that you have to pretend like you’re enjoying it, even though the world tells you with reassurances and hashtags that you don’t have to do that, either. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know that you’re faking. It also doesn’t matter that he’s not wearing a condom, nor does it matter that he comes inside of you. He wants to stay. He wants to lie beside you and stroke your hair. He wants so many things. He wants everything that you cannot give him. None of that matters. You tell him to leave, but that doesn’t matter, either. It doesn’t matter that, as he dresses himself, he looks like he’s going to cry. It doesn’t matter that you don’t see him to the door. It doesn’t matter that he was ever there at all. For hours, you lie there, looking up at the ceiling. You lie there until you can’t take it anymore, so you get up and go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. You gasp a little when you step beneath the scalding water. And as you stand there, feeling the water glide over your skin in its eternal rivers, you imagine a coat of grime falling off of you in thick globs. It slides down you and swirls around the shower drain before being mercifully sucked down into the abyssal sewers beneath the shrieking pit of retarded children that is the World of Man. After an unknown length of time, once you feel at last that you’ve been washed clean, you get out of the shower and dry yourself off. You can already feel the grime beginning to collect again.


(WP) Between a Rock and a Hard Place After all these years of wondering, it was time to go find her people. The humans had been quite kind, and had raised her as their own. But all her life, she’d known that something was wrong. Not wrong, per se, but something was… different. Even as a child she’d known. She was taller than all the rest of the kids in her classes, she was absurdly, impossibly strong, could run long distances in just a few strides, and she loved to garden and be around plants and flowers. One night at dinner, she and her parents were mostly quiet, until, at last, she couldn’t take it anymore. She dropped her silverware on the plate, and the loud clang made her mother jump. “Rose, what is it?” Her mother asked, her brow furrowing with worry. “Is something on your mind?” “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, Mom,” Rose said, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “And… I have some questions.” Her dad frowned silently, sitting up straighter in his seat. “We’ve always known this day would come, since we adopted you.” He murmured quietly. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought that his eyes were glimmering with tears; it jolted her. Was she somehow violating everything that her parents had done for her, by being curious about her biological parents? The last thing Rose wanted to do was offend them, or make them think that she was ungrateful. She was happy with her life, despite her differences between herself and the humans. She had a loving family, had good grades, had won a full ride to one of the best colleges in the country on a track scholarship. She had friends, and she was even harboring a crush on a girl in her class. But there was a distinct void in her heart, the dark part that wondered where she had come from. From who she had come. She had wrestled with these questions, late into the night, since they’d told her that she was adopted. And it had felt like she was running in circles, endlessly. “I mean… Is this okay? Is this… Normal?” Rose asked, staring at her plate, wishing that she could push away from the table and flee to her room. But she’d started this conversation, and it was too late to turn back now. Besides, didn’t she deserve some answers? “Of course, it is, honey!” Her mother said, her voice thick with unshed tears. Her father, for his part, looked as though he was holding something back, like if he didn’t speak, he would explode. “Rose, you’re a giant. Well. A half giant? Your dad was a giant and his wife was human. And the giants demanded that you live with the humans, because you weren’t full human or giant.” \*\* Rose stared at her parents in shock. Of all things she’d thought they’d say, that was the furthest thing from her mind. Mom was staring at her, holding her hand and rubbing her back as if she was frightened her daughter would start screaming. “I’m a giant? A giant? Those don’t even exist! This isn’t a fairy tale!” Rose spluttered. “Sweetheart, you came from a fairy tale and your mother gave us to you to make sure you’d have a happy ending, even if she couldn’t.” Her father said sadly.


The sun set as the boy trudged through the woods. Dark and cold, the only sound was the crack of fresh frost under boots as he marched, searching. It would not get away. With each determined step, the scent of blood grew thicker. The boy nearly tripped, dropping his gun. He looked down, a wet gash in the forest floor, revealing dark dirt underneath, slick with cooling blood. The boy picked up his gun and followed the deep gash in the dirt, clawed footprints on either side. A cold winter wind gusted through the trees, driving the scent gore towards him. But the boy continued, rage inuring him to cold and fear. He came upon a clearing, alone, the scent of violence and death thick. The last fading lights of the winter sun shone through the trees, illuminating the grotesque thing on the other side of the clearing, a deep crimson line cut into the crisp white snow leading up to it. Long and snake like, the thing, slicked with blood, wore a goats skull for a head, curling its body into an undulating mass from which arms and legs would appear and withdraw. It leveled its head at the boy. He saw a small girl in the center of the of the macabre pile of flesh and muscle. Rage, white hot and forged hard like steel, guided him, he raised his gun, without a quiver of cold or fear, and fired. ■ The sun rose, light streaming softly through the window as a small girl played with her doll. She played lazily, nervously peeking out the window at the rolling hills painted white with snow, the path toward the village winding over and between them until it bent around one too far and she couldn’t see any further. She couldn’t see, but she knew that it led down to the village, and she knew that father should be heading back by now. She played and she watched, she saw her brother walk to the barn, tending to the animals. She played and she waited, her mother busied herself in the kitchen. Finally, after the sun just passed midday, she say him, small as he rounded the hill carrying a large bundle. She waited patiently by the door, until, finally, the door opened. She squealed and lept to hug her father, but he pushed her away, distracted, and walked passed her, toward the basement. She slumped by the door, and heard the basement door slam. After supper, her father had not returned. She krept to the basement door and eased it open. She made her way down the stairs silently, near the bottom she heard her father. He was chanting, then he stopped and swore loudly. She cringed back at the sound reflexively, but continued onward. He began the chant again as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She peered around the corner and she saw him, naked, bowing in front of a severed goat's head, dripping upon the metal spike that skewered it, he was draped in the guts of the thing, dyed crimson by them, and surrounded by a circle and symbols drawn in blood smeared across the floor. She screamed. His head snapped toward her as he finished his chant, his eyes igniting with rage. He bolted to her, grabbing her roughly by the upper arm and smacked his hand over her mouth, silencing her. He hefted her, dragging her toward the circle, throwing her into the center of it. She tumbled to a stop staring up the the spiked goats head. The flesh was now rotting off the thing, sloughing off in meaty chunks and landing at the base of the spike, where they slowly grew. She resumed her scream, only to be cut off by a swift kick to the stomach. Her father was swearing and yelling, not loud enough to be heard outside the basement. He was intense, gripped by an unholy rage as he laid blame upon the girl for his failing. He kicked again. She stared up at the goat, the skull was now clean, the flesh piled at the bottom into a thick mass forming a rough, bodily, shape. She watched the skull, no longer able to scream, as her father paced. He talked to himself, working himself into a rage, unaware of the monster or his daughter. Until she moved. He let out a curse and grabbed her and threw her again. She whimpered as he raised his fist. The skull watched. ■ The sun was setting behind the trees as the boy finished his chores around the farm. He went into the house looking for supper and was met with the smell of gore. Nauseous, he made his way toward the origin of the smell, toward the basement. Pulling the door open, he vomited. The air was sticky with the scent of death, the smell washing over him, permeating every inch of him. He made his way down the stairs, the feeling of blood in the air mixing with the smell of his own fresh vomit caused his world to spin, almost sending him tumbling down the stairs. At the base of the stairs he saw a splash of red on the wall, as well as the stuff pooling near the bottom of the last step. With pounding heart he turned the corner. Once in the room he collapsed, hands splashing on the floor, retching. The room, lit by candles and the fading light of the winter sun flowing through the small window near the ceiling, was bathed in crimson, dripping from the ceiling and walls. In the center of the room was a mangled corpse, twisted and broken, its entrails littered across the floor, lifeless eyes facing him. He recognized his father and his stomach dropped, grief and despair preparing to take root. But now all he could do was look. In the corner of the dark room, a small undulating mass of rotten meat wrapped around his sister. Above it, connected by crimson flesh, a pristine white goats skull. Like a flash the skull flew around his sister, wrapping around her like a macabre snake, and flew past him up the stairs, slamming into the walls with meaty thunks, and leaving streaks of crimson and pieces of gore in its wake. The boy pulled himself up the stairs, collapsing at the top then stumbled to the door. The thing left a deep furrow in the ground leading to the woods. He ran to his father’s room, found his old rifle, and ran into the woods after the thing, rage steeling his nerves.


To Mars, by Hana Aianhanma, March 2019. This work is licensed under a . The story is made up. As such, similarities with real events and/or persons are coincidental. If, in spite of this, you see similarities with events in you own life, you may want to seek legal advice. ***** ### **To Mars** ***** Humanity was ready to send an expedition to Mars again. The technology had matured for decades, the finances cobbled together, and the will to go had been whipped up by a masterful campaign. Unfortunately, corruption put a spanner in the works. ***** **Part One** Leana was not happy. “What do you mean, that engineer disappeared?” After that short pause, inherent to any communication at such a long distance, the answer came. “We can't find him. In fact, neither can we find the people who were responsible for double checking his department's work.” This was not supposed to happen. Everything seemed fine right until leaving moon orbit. Constructions did look a bit fancy. None of the astronauts really cared for those flashy designs. Stuff would break, so repairs would wear down the glitter in no time. Still, they assumed everything would function as it should. After all, why polish things up, if it didn't work yet? “Let me get this straight. I've only got fuel for either touchdown or to return, but not both and,” she frowned at the screen's camera, “the people, responsible for making sure we had enough for both, disappeared?” That pause again, not enough to fully interrupt the conversation, but plenty to be annoying, especially at times like this. “Erm, yes,” mission control looked down, “with the funds.” “Great,” she sighed, “doesn't really matter that much, after last week's explosion.” “Ah, about that,” remarkable, the places one can look at whilst missing the camera, “we also tried to have an extra chat with the life support people.” “And?” “Turns out they forged their reports.” “What?” Her voice got louder a notch. “And they misappropriated about 90% of the budget.” The astronaut hung speechless. “After that discovery, the FBI butted in.” “Good!” “They really are thorough at investigating.” “They should be.” “They even questioned me!” “Stop procrastinating, who stole the fucking money?” She never cursed. This was a special occasion. “The FBI arrested about a hundred people. Their sleuthing also led straight to the head of NASA.” Leana face turned grim, “I hope they still have her when I get back.” “Errr...” Her face turned red in anger, “don't tell me!” “She's also nowhere to be found.” “Unbelievable.” “According to witnesses, she and all managers were picked up in black vans.” “Black vans, you don't mean?” “Yes, picked up, and deported by presidential order.” “Did they ask the president why?” “Well, about that...” She stared numbly now. She had thought nothing more would shock her. “... he's gone too.” ***** **Part two** Leana had worked for years. First she turned her dream of becoming an astronaut into reality, enduring the gruelling training programme. Then she got herself selected for the first mission to Mars and, finally, she was part of the national effort to actually get there. How naive they had all turned out to be. Murdered by their own president's greed. He had not been content with just a few millions, or even billions, but had taken all but enough to just launch a skeleton ship able to reach Mars, polished dramatically for the cameras. Despite looking the part, it was a miracle the crew transport even launched at all. From the awkward pauses from mission control she gathered that by all rights, it should have crashed then and there with everyone in it. It did not make much of a difference for her twelve colleagues, who died during that explosion in life support. Ironically, she herself would flourish, thanks to them not using up the supplies which would have been insufficient for a full crew. Her dreams had turned into a steady stream of nasty, imaginative tortures she would visit upon him when she got back. If he was ever found, that is. The worst part of it was that, after all that misery, she would get a good look at the planet from orbit, only to return to Earth. She really would enjoy pulling those nails. ***** **Part Three** Her anger was spent long ago, she stared down. Mars! The first leg of the journey was done. She had done well to keep this wreck going so far. Getting back home would be tough, but she and mission control were confident that, barring any external disasters, she would make it. Pity about the fuel situation. The news from Earth was not good. When the scandal became known, sentiment had turned against space travel again. It seemed that, for the foreseeable future, manned space missions, let alone a Mars one, were going to be out of the question. She kept looking at the red planet. A message from mission control, “this is the last update before your return blast. All telemetry indicates a go. Fire up the engines at five minutes after reception of the signal.” A beep sounded. She'd had to cobble together some manual controls. Most computers had broken down. Guess where the money for the shielding went. “Four minutes from reception of the signal.” Another beep. The ship itself didn't have enough fuel, so she would have to use the lander's for those orbital manoeuvres. A few carefully timed blasts, and Mars' gravity would be swinging her back in no time. “Three minutes from reception of the next signal.” Again, a beep. Still staring at the red globe, the destination of her dreams, unreachable. Beep. Unreachable? She had made her decision a few days ago, after carefully checking the calculations, modified where needed. Beep. The hatch was sealed. With the press of a button the lander, with her in it, detached. Time seemed to slow down, what was keeping that signal? Beep. The engine roared to life. The last leg of her journey had begun. She *would* walk on the surface of Mars, after all.


Once upon a time there was a boy named Edward running around town with his friends, Carl and Jack. As they were doing so, Edward suggested going to the local sledding hill to relax and maybe run down it a few times. The other two agreed in unison, heading there immediately. After 10 minutes, they arrived at the hill, and talked for a little. Edward was tired after walking to the hill, so he said he would catch up. Carl suggested a race to the top of the hill, which Jack agreed to. Carl asked Edward to count down from 3 so that neither of them could start too early doing it themselves. Edward obliged, counting down and making sure neither started too early. Once he shouted go, Carl and Jack practically flew up the hill, like a plane lifting off a runway. Jack held the advantage most of the way up until Carl ran past, before starting to run back down. Jack tripped, and was tumbling his way down the hill. The boys had never thought it could happen to somebody close to them. They just thought it was an adult thing. They knew it could happen to anyone at anytime, but they didn’t know it would happen to one of them so soon. But it did. It happened to Jack. They didn’t know how to react when they were told what happened to Jack. There was too many emotions for the boys to handle. Confusion, sadness, surprise and anger hit the 2 at once. After 15 minutes of pure silence from the two, they demanded to see Jack. They were told no and tried again. After another no, the boys gave up, and went back to being silent. Edward thought he was to blame for what happened to Jack. He was the one who suggested to go there in the first place, and if he wasn’t tired and went up the hill with Jack, he could have helped him. He thought he was a monster for bringing the 2 others to the hill. Making Carl watch his friend tumble down a hill was his fault, he thought. He decided that nobody deserved to talk to him, the monster responsible for the death of Jack. Carl thought he was to blame for what happened to Jack. He was the one who suggested a race up the hill, and he didn’t help the tumbling Jack. He thought he was a monster for bringing the two others to the hill. Making Edward watch his friend tumble down the hill was all his fault, he thought. He decided that nobody deserved to talk to him, the monster responsible for the death of Jack. After that day on the hill, the three boys practically disappeared from society. In the end, the boys ended up in the hill, 6 feet under to be exact. All of the families of the boys were heartbroken about what happened to the boys, but couldn’t do anything about it. After all the hill wasn’t a sentient being. In the end, the families got over what happened, or so they thought. Every year, they go back to the hill, being careful not to trip. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Hi! First story on here, please give me constructive criticism. I like how this story turned out, but I would love to make it better.


I’m just a bird. I can’t do much. I like to make sounds at other sounds. I don’t go hunting for food like relatives of mine. My little protector feeds me every day, as soon as he walks through the big blue door at the front of the house. My silver cage is in the living room next to the blue door, in the corner between two couches. It’s hung up low, so that my little protector can sort of reach me. The two loud people that live with my protector aren’t so nice. They don’t bring food, they barely even look in my direction. It must have something to do with their size. I’m small, and I get along with my small protector swimmingly. They are big and they are not that nice to small things. The blue door swings open slowly, and I feel a drive to let out my beautiful song! But I cannot. If this is a loud person, they will only return with angry loudness at my song. I do not like their loudness. Before I was brought here, I heard many many beautiful loud sounds from birds just like me. I sometimes try to mimic them myself - but not these kinds of sounds. The loud people here only sing about anger and redness. Red like their faces, or red like their hands. A blonde head pokes through the doorway. Small protector! It has been so long since I’ve seen you - oh you look just the same! How wonderful. I let out a small chime to let him know how excited I am to see him. “Hello Angel I hope you had a good sleep today!” the small protector picks up a bag from under the kitchen sink and walks over with a scoop of food. Oh right! He calls me Angel - how pretty. It must be because of my white feathers - yes that's it. Wait what's that smell… Oh! There is food behind me now! I cock my head around and look at small protector. He’s standing on the tips of his toes to be able to see me in my cage. Did you put that food there? Well I’m going to eat it anyway. The blue door is thrown open with a loud slam and my feathers ruffle up. Wow I hate when that happens! Small protector, you look worried. I am okay - let me just clean myself and make sure I’m pretty. Then I will eat my lunch. The biggest and loudest walks through the doorway and slams the door behind him. Darn it! My feathers ruffled again! Small protector please watch out for me while I fix this. “You’re home early today daddy.” small protector has a shake in his voice now. I wish I could put a shake on my voice. “I got fired… “ as soon as his sound reaches me so does his musty smell. Why does he smell so… sour? Has he been eating too many treats? The big person lets out a cackle, and takes a small metal flask out from his jacket pocket. “Or should I say… laid off…” he takes a quick swig and puts it back into his pocket. My small protector looks conflicted, his eyes dart from one side to the other. “Daddy what does laid off mean?” The loud person stomps his way to the kitchen before slugging his shoes off in the middle of the floor. Now his voice is loud again. “Laid off is when your boss is too much of a pussy to say you’re fired!” He takes off his jacket aggressively and throws it on the floor. A soft clang is heard and a look of utter horror is plastered on the loud person’s face. His eyebrows lower as he kneels and moves his jacket. Oh! A puddle is there now! Someone isn’t potty trained - I remember small protector trying so hard to train me so he wouldn’t get screamed at by the loud people. I got so many treats I learned pretty fast but apparently the loud people have to go back to basics. “You just made me forget about my booze! Your stupid and dumb questions just cost me half a mickey.” I don’t think me or small protector know what measurement “half a mickey” is, but the loud person has a red face now so it must be very important to him. This usually means something loud is about to happen. I really wish I could cover my ears like small protector does. That looks safe. “I… I’m sorry daddy.” “You just always gotta have your mouth open yeah? You never know when to just SHUT UP.” He shouted the last two words so loud! Wow! I don’t think I’ve ever been that loud. Small protector looks really scared now… maybe he wants treats? I don’t have any near me to give him though… well now I feel sad for small protector! He has helped me so much but now he needs my help! The loud person has stepped closer to me and small protector. He is stood right beside him, towering over like a big oak tree. “Remember last thanksgiving? AH?!” “I… I’m sorry daddy! I said I was sorry already - “ “ALREADY? You think thats ENOUGH? Do you think you really learned your lesson?” Yes! Yes he has! Small protector got yelled at for ruining thanksgiving last year even I can remember that and I have a bird brain! “I… I said I was sorry to mo - “ “Mom is not here right now!” the loud person raises his arm high into the air and small protector shrieks. “NO!” I shout. The loud man puts his back up straight and looks at me. Small protector turns to look at me, with watery eyes and sweaty palms. It worked! My song stopped him! “NO!!!” I sing. “Tell your stupid bird to be qui - “ I don’t like that tone! “NO!!!!” Small protector crawls his way into the corner, behing my silver cage. He grips my stand until his knuckles go white and he sobs for the loud person to leave him alone. The loud person doesn’t listen to small protector… but maybe he will listen to me! “NO!!!” The loud person points a finger directly at me. “I will eat you for dinner tonight if you do not shut up right now.” Ha! He’s starting to repeat himself… maybe he’s related to the parrots. Parrots are so annoying! It all makes sense now. Well my only option is to be even MORE annoying. “No! No! No! No! No! No!” I can keep this up all day, how long can YOU be loud for? The pointed finger comes closer to my cage and I peak my beak out, getting a tiny nip on his skin. “Ow!” He backs up, taken by surprise. He sticks his finger into his mouth and turns to the kitchen mess. “I want you to clean up your mess and then bring a beer to me upstairs, got it?” Small protector puts on a very brave face. “Got it.” The loud person grunts and starts his walk up the stairs, away from small protector. Small protector rushes to the kitchen, hops over the puddle, and onto the countertop. Oh! He’s looking for treats! How many do I get now?! 3 or maybe even 4!! Small protector runs over with the entire box, half a smile glued to his face. “I don’t know how many you should get so… “ He pours a big pile into my cage and I can’t help but tweet and do a fast twirl! All of this for just scaring away the really loud people! I could get used to this. ————————————————— If you made it this far - thank you! I really appreciate the time it took to read this. Hopefully you enjoyed reading the story as much as I had fun writing from the POV of a bird. Go easy on me in the comments since it’s my first time posting. Or don’t. Whichever is more fun.


The whirring of ship alarms broke her unconsciousness. Red lights pulsed in front of her eyes as she struggled to get a grip on her surroundings. “.....well at least I’m alive.” she murmured, pausing to glance around the room. She lay slumped in the corner of the emergency landing room, her whole safety harness had been torn from the wall in the crash, leaving her strapped to a shell of metal on the polished floor. “Alex,” she called. “Alex are you ok?......Amir...are you there?” No response. She pried open the locking straps on the safety shell and tried to push herself to her feet. “Shit!” a sharp pain forced her gaze down where she saw a large cut down her thigh, “maybe I’m not as lucky as I thought.” Blood was slowly flowing down her leg but the cut didn’t seem fatal at least, just incredibly painful. She limped to the two harnesses next to where her own had been bolted. The wall had caved down one side, it must have split her harness from its original position. “Explains why I was on the damn floor”. Her two companions did not seem to be harmed. She slapped Alex lightly on the face and tapped Amir on the head. “Come one….wake up….we’ve got to get out of here….WAKE UP!” “What the…...ahh” Alex’s head rose from his chest.. Amir opened his eyes and glanced anxiously around the room. “We’ve gotta get out of here...the ship is unstable and we don’t know if we’ve been followed to the surface.” “Just give us a minute Ria..” murmured Alex. She began releasing the safety strap on his harness. “C’mon we really need to go.” Free from the harness, Alex strode the nearby medkit and removed a couple of painkillers and gulped them down. “My head is killing me..” He offered the pack to the others, Ria snatched them, downed a few and removed a bandage from the packing. “Hope this keeps me together till we get out of here,” she winced as she tightened the bandage around her leg, compressing the oozing laceration. “Ok let’s go.” she limped to the door control, her companions following closely behind. “We’ve got to get off this planet before they find us, we should be able to launch one of the scout vessels if we can get to the hanger…..and there are any left intact”.  Explosions on the ship had left the route to the hanger open to vacuum, they’d had no choice but to strap themselves in and endure the crash of their kilometre long cruiser. They’d collided with the planet’s surface, more ships were falling around them as the space battle continued.  “Run! C’mon down the hall now!” she yelled. Punctures appeared in the door from the direction they had ran. Obviously some of the enemy boarding crew had survived the crash too. She ran with a limp to the next door, waiting for the other two to pass through before closing and locking it behind her. She caught a glimpse of their pursuer just as it broke through: a soldier, covered in armour, it tore through the metal with an energy blade. They were biomechs, engineered for strength and speed. They had to find a weapon….fast.