Kissing Kate K. E. Elliot Here I am. In the corner of a dimly lit bar sipping a whiskey on the rocks. My date has excused himself all too early in the date to make a trip to the bathroom. I look at my reflection in the mirror on the wall in front of me. I'm young, twenty three, but not young enough to still be dating these kind of men - the guy you had an old flame with when you were an immature teenager who ultimately treated you like shit and for god knows what reason you said yes to going out with him again years later. I have reached the falling action of my story. Steve saunters back into the room and does a quick scan, either because he already forgot where we were sitting or because he's checking out the other options in the room. It could very likely be both reasons. He sighs and heads back over to the table; he was definitely doing the later, ass. Steve is cute. Soft brown hair which I can tell he took some time to style. Deep brown eyes that almost had a shine like he had just been crying. What got me was the smile. I'm a sucker for smiles. The most narcissistic jerk could flash an endearing smile and my knees go a little weak. What wasn't cute about Steve was his flippant attitude towards women. I have a long running pattern of winding up with men who don't respect me. More on that later. The clanking of a fork on the ground breaks my chain of thought. Steve is playing with his silverware. We only came for drinks, I did not want to fake the niceties of a dinner date at this point. Steve ordered for me. Some women view this as an insult to the feminist way, but, I enjoy it. I think a drink can tell you a lot about a person - how they are feeling, where they are in life, where they want the night to go. Steve ordered me a whiskey. Steve knew exactly where he wanted this night to go. We sit and chat for awhile. I almost think I'm having a good time until Steve asks me why I smile so much. Steve wants a leach. He wants someone who will mutually suck all the hope and happiness out of him so together they can sit in a mutual drunken empty stupor. At the end of the evening, we split the bill. It's the least I can do after I put Steve through the misery of an engaging conversation. We pull into my driveway and without any warning Steve grabs the back of my head and pulls me in for a kiss. This is very odd. Usually a man gently pulling me in for a kiss is hot; this was not that. This was Steve's way of avoiding having to lean over the center console. His kiss is unsolicited and is dripping with lust. It's too much, I pull away. A little surprised but quickly unbothered Steve says bye and I thank him and get out of the car. Later, I see Steve's snap story at another party, I was just the pre-game for the night. Same old Steve. I've met a lot of Steve's. Always wanting something more, never appreciating what's right there in front of them, selfish. I might sound crass but I'm painting the nicest picture possible of these men. I mostly blame myself. I often welcome the wrong guy into my life. Walls crumbling in the process. But, not all guys are Steve's. There are a lot of Sam's out there too. And Jacob's. And Bradley's. My name is Kate. I've kissed a lot of men. Bad ones, good ones, and some great ones. This is my journey. Follow a hopeless romantic in her efforts to find the perfect kiss and the perfect guy behind it.


She was leaving. I politely asked her to hide her bags and belongings. I didn’t want a reminder. I figured I’d let it all hit me when I woke up after she drove away. The problem was the bags, hat boxes, and suitcases and such that filled the back laundry room where I suggested she hide them. I suggested this as it also meant I wouldn’t have to do laundry until she left. So, I was adding relearning how to do laundry to the ugliness of that first day alone. She sat me down and made me understand that her belongings were now hitting the ceiling. “I want to pack my change jar – it won’t fit.” I understood. “You’ll have to throw some stuff out.” But she wouldn’t listen. She continued to fill the room. She found nooks and crannies to hide herself and even managed to pack the washer and dryer with her belongings. “I’m finished.” She said one June morning. I went into the back room and pried the door open and just looked at her, all of her, all packed into the laundry room. She left the next day. On the ground were little bits of debris she couldn't pack. A hair clip, a bottle of suntan lotion, books... She moved to another office in another country. I began inter-office mailing her little pieces of herself that she left behind: change, paperclips, photos, lip balm... An email went out to the office explaining that all non-paper products could not continue to arrive overseas as Customs was cracking down. I gave up sending her all back. I left the laundry room alone for a month. But eventually... I opened the door to the laundry room and began doing laundry. I’ve been doing laundry for 13 years.


It was the shadow growing beside him which stuck to him. Not the desecrated hillside, nor the growing flames beaide it. His world was crashing down on him before his eyes, yet his mind was fixated on the goddamn shadow, his own reflection. Smoke grew exponentially as ash began to fall from the sky. Like a dusting of snow, each speck falling differently. Hell, snowfall felt a little more practical to him at this point. It was mid January in the Southern Cascades yet the heat weighed him down like it was Hell in July. He reminisced about all of his youthful trips. Snow was something you could enjoy. But this wasn't snow. Shit. This wasn't even California. Not the one he remembered anyway. But this wasn't time to get all nostalgic. Myers had to dig up what he could of the drone he had just shot down and hightail it back up to Portland before the Staties could track him down. If his estimations were in the right ballpark, the scavenged parts could be resold into the green market for a solid thirty grand. The risk was high, but his pockets would be pretty damn ecstatic, which was all that mattered to him in the moment. He made sure to check that the system was disabled so he couldn’t be tracked, then managed to scavenge the last of the larger fragments into the back of the work truck. If he could get the hell out of dodge and into Portland by nightfall he'd be making a decent time. “Just twelve more Hours and I’m a new man”. He kept reminding himself. No more conning. No more scavenging. He’d buy his way up into Canada if he could. The merchants back in P-Town used to tell him about how that up North they had their shit together. Unlike the goons in office in the States, they could own up and face the realities of the ever so changing climate. That’s how they managed to hold on for this long. California and everything south was already down in the dumps, but so be it. There was no saving The West anymore, so why bother. He started the truck, and gassed it north through the smoky haze and trickling ash. Back in Portland, Walker and Adams spent the late a.m packing boxes of coffee smuggled up from Honduras. They could sell the stuff for forty bucks a pound, now that trade had been cut off the past two decades. Adding to the fact that the city went hard in its restrictions, people would go nuts for this stuff in the black market. But this was just sidework. With Myers hauling the disabled drone back from California, they had to anticipate how the deal would go down. If he arrived by the time he said he would, the trio would disassemble the processor from the main shell, store it, and greenlight their client, Edward Esteban, to retrieve his order. Esteban was no man to be fucked with. He knew the ins and outs of the green market, a term he himself coined referring to the redistribution of resources to both the drought and flood stricken areas. Sure he was all about reconstruction, but he ran the circuit with an iron fist. When he found insider information on the flight path of the Type 6 drone, he had his heart set on capturing the thing. The processor it was transporting had a plethora of vital information he could utilize to restore the impoverished regions of the Norcal as well as The Northwest. Water access, desalinization methods, information on obtaining smog converters -- he heard it was all in there. But the risk was too high for his crew to go after -- if they failed, his multi million dollar business would be fucked and the feds would fry his ass in a heartbeat. So what better way to retrieve the bot than getting a band of no namers to do it for him. After a full day of smuggling the drone up the cracked roads of the interstate, Myers was starting to close in on Portland. He had taken two calls in the preceding hours from Adams, who was preparing the warehouse. He kept circling the perimeter of the building, scouting for cops, feds, anything that seemed suspicious. Nothing. His paranoia was getting to his head again, his heart beating more and more as sweat began to seep from the cracks of his dry forehead. The poor guy was scared off his ass. He was always jumpy as hell, and he hated his job. Oh well. He knew that the position he was in sucked, but if the infamous Evacuation of 2057 taught him anything, it was that the world puts us into some pretty fucked up places. He just had to remind himself that adaption is what carries the human race onward. Zppp. Zppp. Zppp. Adams’ phone buzzes in his side pocket. His trembling, sweaty hand reaches in and clicks the green button. “Adams! It’s Myers. What’s the story on the warehouse? I’ll be in within the hour, and I want to get through this quick and clean”. “We should be set. I’ve kept in touch Esteban, who should be here by morning. The last thing I want to do is get on his bad side, so I’ve got all the shit necessary to get the processor ready. Do you even know why he needs this so bad? He’s been pretty damn insistent on knowing your whereabouts.” “No clue, my assumption is that it’s got some classified info that he can spread out, but was too much of a risk for him to go after on his own, so he contracts a nobody like me to do the dirty work”, Myers added. “Regardless, I could care less. I got out safely and after tomorrow we’ll have something to live for again. This payout is no joke”. “Alright buddy. Just don’t fuck this up, and we’ll come out ok. I’ll see you in an hour”. Adams hangs up, and heads back into the warehouse. Dusk was just starting fall, and the crisp, dense clouds -- a staple of the region -- began to collect overhead. Drip. Myers felt a speck of water seep through the roof of the vehicle on to the top of his head. He looked out onto the horizon as the last few minutes of daylight were saying their goodbyes. Clouds were starting to pick up more and more all around. Drops of rain began to fall, starting to leak through the top of the truck. Keep pushing through. Just another twenty miles, he kept in the back of his mind. He zoomed down the road, maxing out the hunk of crap just over 90 miles an hour. By the time he reached the city limits, the puffy clouds of rain had matured into thick, vicious cumulonimbus beasts. It was coming down. Myers hauled through the side streets in order to avoid potential vehicle inspection stops along the highway, as the city was starting to crack down on the black market. He pulls out his phone, and dials Adams. “I’m almost through. Open the fucking gate. Water is piling through the roof and drenching me. We have a serious storm coming in”. The sound of the lone engine coming down the street separated itself from the gushing sound of the torrential downpour. Adams and Walker could see the headlights making their way in. They slid open the gate, and the truck screeched into the warehouse. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes”, snickered Walker as Myers jumped out of the door. “500 miles and I’m finally in. Let’s get on this now. I don’t want the roadways flooding over. Esteban doesn’t have a goddamn boat you know”. The three began to slave away on preparing the fragments -- testing them, making sure everything was still in tact. But only Myers and Adams knew about processors. Walker was simply their henchman. At best he could negotiate prices with clients, but he didn’t have the same capacity of book smarts the way the other two did. By the time dawn broke, the work was finished, but the rain was only starting. Throughout the evening, the rapid buzz of rain striking the roof became white noise. Sudden storms like these became the norm, and they had just grown accustomed to it. Little did they know however that among other things, that the downpour would lead to downfall. Esteban had just called in, barking that he was on his way now before the floods would prevent him from doing so. The trio waited and waited until Esteban, accompanied by a gang of strongarms, entered the warehouse. Esteban’s crew, dressed in black raincoats with military grade handguns holstered at their sides, began to inspect the processor. The system was tested, and as Esteban carefully read over the information that showed up, a smirk began to light up his face. “Good shit fellas. Looks like I have all I need. Just know that If I find out any of this is shady -- even after selling -- its your heads that are done with first. Myers observed his demeanor. Never had he met someone so pleasant, yet so threatening and powerful just through the tone of his voice. The transaction was almost complete, and the three were in shock of how quick the process was. Wrong. They were bunkered away inside the warehouse the past twelve hours, not giving a shit as to what was exactly going on outside. Crash. The door gave in. The lights went black. The water bashed through. By God how fast it moved. Within one hot second, none of this deal meant shit anymore. It was every man for himself. Myers felt himself pushed back into a back wall, the brute force of the water pouncing on him like it was its job. If only he could see. He could hear muffled screams as he struggled to stay above the surface. The water levels began to grow rapidly, but even blind from the darkness, he grabbed onto a surface along the back wall, not entirely knowing what it was. But not much long after, the back wall gave in as well. He was pushed into the vacant flooded streets, but once again managed to grab onto the post of a streetlight. He observed his surroundings, gripping the post as best he could in order to stay stable. There. Half a block upstream, he spotted a tall concrete structure -- one he could try climbing onto to stay above the water. It was his only choice. He let go of the post, letting the water carry him directly into the structure. His back crashed into it as he bellowed out in pain. But that didn’t matter. He hoisted himself above the structure, viewing the morbid flow of water around him. He was utterly shocked. Even after a century of his country being wrecked by superstorms, wildfires, droughts, and rising sea levels, nature still had its way of saying Fuck you. His dreams of leaving for Canada were gone. Everything was washed away. the processor, his profit, his will to live even. He was back to square one. He waited out the flood for what seemed to be two days. Lucky for him, the sun cleared up finally and the structure remained intact. Then he heard shouting. He had to ask himself if he was hallucinating, but right before his eyes appeared a medium sized boat, holding around four people. “Get in”, they demanded. Myers obliged. After everything, he was just glad to be rescued, though deep down he couldn’t care less if as to whether he lived or died now that his dreams were flooded away. “Welcome aboard. We spotted you about a quarter mile downstream. You’re safe now”, the woman who helped him on claimed. He was jaded yet thankful. Then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted the processor, locked in carefully on top of the boat. His stomach twisted. He stuttered trying to find his voice. “W-w-w-what is tha-th-that” he choked out. “A processor we found washed up a couple miles back”, snapped a short young man beside him. “We’ve heard about them before. The staties put them in the drones to relay information. God only knows what this one holds though. We’re hearing that Seattle is fighting hard against this flood. Maybe it could be of good use up there, considering Portland is already in ruins. Maybe we sell it, split the profits, and head as far North as we can. We’re hearing that up in British Columbia things aren’t so bad. So are you in? It’s either that or we leave you back at this shitty old post to eventually get swept away”. Myers began to tremble, but was now again fixated on his shadow as the sun creeped out and beat down on the boat. He worked up to find his voice again, then finally answered.


BAM! Stickbob crashed into the door. His face slid slowly and painfully down the wooden surface until his chin caught on the triangular door knob. He jolted up quickly but his knees banged painfully against wood and he fell back onto his bottom. What a painful day for Stickbob. Earlier, his friends had pranked him by putting mayonnaise in his tea. Then they proceeded to filling up his water bottle with fish oil. On his way home, His foot got caught in a crack in the middle of the road. Had his shoelace been any tighter, Stickbob would have been as flat as pancake, or worse, dead. Stickbob trudged into his musty little room. The air was hot and thick. He reached for the switch on the fan next to his desk but stopped himself, his index finger hovering inches above the “On” switch. The thoughts that followed in Stickbob’s brain was enlightening… No, not the fan. The fan is too loud. This room is boiling and the cursed fan wouldn’t help. Why, I should get a new fan soon. The blades are rusting. Rusting and crumbling. Why is this room so hot? Why is the air so damp? It shouldn’t be this bad. April. It’s only april. Why does it have to be so hot, why-- “Why not turn me on!” said the shrill voice of the air conditioner. “Turn me on and you’ll get all the cold you want!” Wha-what? The air conditioner is speaking to me? I must have had dried fish for breakfast. “No! Turn me on instead!” said the crackling sound of the fan. “I’ll use much less electricity.” “You shut up, fan. You don’t even blow cold air. All you do is make more heat.” the air conditioner snapped back. “All you do is put the heat in the atmosphere too. You should be the one that shuts up.” cried the indignant fan. Stickbob looked at them “Why don’t I turn both of you on, then you wouldn’t have to--” “SHUT UP, YOU PIECE OF STICK” both appliances snapped at poor Stickbob. “I was invented a long time before you. Your mechanics are just an extension of me, not to mention, I blow harder.” the fan continued on. “Your mechanics? YOUR mechanics? The only thing I got from you was the stupid blades. I use liquid. Do you? I pump cold air. Do you? People rely on me for comfort. But you? All you do is annoy them with your crackling blades.” At this, the fan jolted with anger. “You should listen to yourself! Loud? Obnoxious? Sounds like that stupid heat unit to me. The gigantic blower outside blowing hot air at innocent passersby. You should be ashamed!” “Now listen here, I’m almost dying of heat. Why don’t--” “SHUT UP, YOU PIECE OF HUMAN STICK” both appliances cried out simultaneously again. “NO I AM NOT SHUTTING UP. THIS IS MY” “SHUT UP, YOU DRIED HUMAN SAUSAGE!” “JUST BLOW YOUR STUPID AIR THEN.” “I will only blow if you get rid of aircon.” the fan declared. “Neither will I turn on unless you throw the fan out the window!” the aircon snapped back. The fan or the aircon? The aircon or the fan? I can’t decide. Grandma says aircons waste energy, but the room so hot. It’s so freaking hot. My head is boiling. My sweat is boiling. What should I do. Which should I choose. “Why don’t you both just turn on and live happily?” Stickbob asked as nicely as he could. “No! Never! As long as this stupid fan lives, I will never turn on. Those loud, gigantic blades annoy me.” “What did you say? How dare you! My blades are beautiful. A work of art. A masterpiece of aerodynamics. You, on the other hand waste energy and deplete resources! You stupid piece of dried fish!” the fan shook terribly with rage. “Me? Draining resources? I HELP people. I save lives. I make people more productive. It’s you who are behind times. It’s you, the noisy little piece of dried fish!” The aircon also shook violently with anger. The combined shaking of the two unlikely appliances rattled everything in the room, including the floor that Stickbob lay sprawled on. A small pool of sweat was forming around Stickbob’s body, it’s stench flooding the room with the smell of rotten meat. The rattling did not stop as the fan and the air conditioner continued their assault, each trying to out-rattle the other. The clock shook and fell onto the floor, its pieces flying everywhere. The stacks of books toppled down with a resounding crash. Crack, crack, crack. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Plop, plop, plop. Clack, cluck, clack, cluck. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The rattling continued relentlessly. “Please guys, please stop shaking.” Stickbob moaned from the floors, his body bouncing up and down violently. “I will not give up!” the fan shouted, its body now a blur. “I refuse to lose!!” the air conditioner cried back, its body also shaking and cracking. The rattling of the nails holding the aircon sounded dangerously loose. I need to stop this, Stickbob thought desperately. I can’t go on like this. This heat is melting my body. This shaking is shattering my bone. What should I do? I really ate too much dried fish. My brain is melting. Urgh! In all honesty, the choice was simple and Stickbob recognized it. Aircon or fan? Which one? He saw the facts, and he saw it clearly. The pros and the cons; they wouldn’t matter now, not unless he chose. Aircon or fan? Fan or Aircon? Suddenly, he knew it. His mind was made up. He struggled up and fought the violent shaking. Step by step, he inched forward, trying not to fall flat on his face. Stickbob knew what his choice was. He knew exactly what he was going to do. Unfortunately for him, so did both appliances, for in that instance, the shaking stopped. Then the fan exploded magnificently, sending waves of fire and heat across the room and throughout the house, burning everything in its paths. Stickbob? More like Skeletonbob. In those final moments, the fan saw it. It saw it in the eyes of the Stickbob. It saw it in his clenching muscles. It saw it in his determined face. The fan saw that Stickbob had chosen the air conditioner, and he paid for it.


Once upon a time in a far away land deprived of roads, walked a lone Nomad wandering far and wide when he came upon an old man. 'Morning' said the Nomad to the old man who seemed to him weary and weak. 'Morning' said back the old man, 'say could you pherhaps spare me some food and water?' he asked the Nomad. To his luck the Nomad was charitable and gave him an apple and water and continued on his way. It was near evening when the Nomad started feeling lonley and wished for some company he then thought of the old man in the middle of the road. He decided to go back and find him where they met, when he finally arrived the Nomad found the old man's soul left the earthly realm, after choking on an apple...


The council had gathered in the Elder chamber. It was not a special occurrence, simply a meeting to discuss the welfare of the people. Chatwa Shaytan was begrudging present, these meetings never seemed to amount to much other than a waste of time for the Elders. As the Elders began, Chatwa found himself struggling to stay conscious in his older age. He sat up in his chair, forcing himself awake by studying the faces of the rest of the council. They Council of Elders was ironically named, he was the only true elder left. The younger faces were all of the leading male in each faction, none of them were older than forty cycles. Chatwa, was well beyond with an age of 130 cycles. It had been a struggle to still have a prominent voice in this council. The younger Elders were always pushing to remove his vote. Today, it seemed would be like any other. With the council discussing simple matters; what to do with the rash of thefts, how to keep control of a growing society, and of course the discussion of removing the old texts. Whenever the latter came up Chatwa was the one to adamantly fight for the inclusion of the texts. They held vital information on the coming of the light. Something that no one alive had any knowledge of anymore. Chatwa being the oldest had only partial memories of the light, folk tales that had been passed down from his grandelder. Chatwa was certain that these tales had come from truth and thus the texts should be held sacred and preserved. However, as each Elder was replaced he had less and less support. This meeting however would be different. Chatwa was about to suggest the insane. He had read through the remaining texts and found some references to a being called Gawantu. Gawnatu was some sort of large being that brought the light. At this point it was all but myth, but Chatwa believed different. He proposed venturing out over the horizon, to search Gawantu, to see if it could explain the light, or bring it back. As Chatwa explained his adventure to the council, the Elders looked bored. After he finished speaking he looked around the room for some sign of hope. All that he found was the look of boredom, with some Elders having fallen asleep. Chatwa sat down defeated, and as he sat he realized that he had lost. The Elders must have seen the despair on Chatwa’s face, because not long after he had finished they began to call the vote for his removal. Chatwa didn’t even have the heart to raise his hand in protest. The decision had been unanimous. Concluding today’s meeting, Chatwa would be removed as head Elder and sentenced to live his life at the edge of the village. The meeting was adjourned and Chatwa stepped down from his high Elder seat, walking solemnly to the door. He could feel the eyes of the Elders now on him. Without turning back he walked proudly out into the darkness. He went all the way to his camp, the small tent felt lonely now. He sat on the cold ground, looking up to the dark sky. The embers way up in the sky flickered back at him. The same embers that the old texts had spoken about. Chatwa was always entranced by them. He never would have predicted the commonalty between these embers and the coming light that was also referenced in the texts. As he contemplated the old texts, something shot across the sky. It was a bright light, followed by a long burning trail. He watched as the light fell over the horizon. Chatwa leapt to his feet. His eyes now scanning the sky and the horizon where the light had fallen. Could this be a sign? No one had ever seen such a light, and he couldn’t remember there being any mention of a moving light in the texts. He looked back at the Elder chamber. Perhaps he should go and announce this discovery to the council. No, he thought, they would simply dismiss him as always. Instead he decided to pursue this light, in search of answer or proof to show the council. He hurriedly wrapped his belongs and threw the sack of items over his shoulder. He headed off into the dark, unsure of what he would find. Chatwa walked in the same direction, each time he looked back at the village he could see the distance he had travelled by how small everything became. It wasn’t until he had gotten so far that he couldn’t see the village that he felt free. The terrain was fairly flat, the further he walked the rougher it became. Eventually, he was unable to walk in a neat straight line. He was forced to deviate his path and hike around large boulders or around deep ravines. Every few hours he would stop and rest, his older physique making the trip slower. On the third day he noticed something on the horizon, something that wasn’t there before. It was like a large curved mountain, stretching the full length of the horizon and farther. Chatwa had never seen anything like it. Both of his hearts began to race, beating like drums in his head. He pushed forward as fast as his body would allow. Now with each day the curve grew larger overhead. Chatwa had no idea how far away it was, but it seemed not to be a structure on the surface. Instead it appeared to float high in the sky, and soon it engulfed the whole of the sky. Chatwa could see no end to the disk, it went on as far as his eyes could see. He sat down, looking at the disk. Hoping that it would was linked to the light that he had seen falling. He had been walking for several days, his home now far behind him. He had not seen any sight of the light, and now without the embers in the sky his vision had only improved. The giant disk helped to block the light from the embers, which let his eyes function better. He leaned forward on his knees, tired from walking. He looked up once more to the disk, unsure of what to do. In despairation he called out. “Are you Gawantu?” he yelled to the disk, “Are you the keeper of the coming light?” in return he got no reply. He must have looked so foolish, yelling to a floating disk in the sky. But the longer he sat there the more he felt as though he was right. So he sat, and began to talk to the disk, calling it Gawantu and asking for answers. He spoke to Gawantu for days, asking about the texts and the coming light. Every day he received no answers. Until one day, as he woke from his slumber he saw something on the horizon. It hurt to look at, the brightness stung his eyes. He looked to Gawantu, and asked if this was the coming light. Again he got no response, but he could now see color on the surface of Gawantu. It had to be a sign, the coming light had returned! How lucky was Chatwa that he had found it! The falling light was nothing compared to the discovery of the coming light! The texts had been true. Chatwa was so excited, his spot on the council would be returned he would be a hero. He began his journey home. As he started back, he kept looking over his shoulder to see the light fading, Gawantu was protecting it until he returned! He shouted to Gawantu in thanks, promising to return with followers. His body was acting as though it was only 80 cycles, allowing him to push for home much faster than when he left. It was still days before he managed to see the village in the distance, but once he saw it he moved even faster. He didn’t stop until he was at the entrance to the Elder chamber. He caught his breathe and stepped inside. The Elders had never been so lively, they were conversing and debating louder than Chatwa had ever heard. He stepped into the circle at the center of the chamber and addressed the High Elder. “I have seen the coming light! Gawantu has shown it to me!” He shouted, trying to speak over the other Elders. “Gawantu has kept it safe for us until we found him again. We must go and see!” Chatwa began to plead with the council. He didn’t stop to let them object, he quickly told them all of what he had seen, how he started to follow the falling light and it lead him to Gawantu. He told them how he spoke for days to Gawantu and must have gained his trust. He told them of the coming light and how Gawantu was holding it behind him. Finally, after he told his whole story he waited, this time once he was finished every Elder was awake, their eyes fixed on him. The focus didn’t last long. They all began laughing, Chatwa’s hearts sank. He thought that this would be enough to persuade them. Instead they thought it was all a joke. They laughed for so long that Chatwa was walking outside before they stopped to address him. “Chatwa” boomed the High Elder, “do not come back this time, we beg of you” He smiled, still humored by the statements that Chatwa had made. Chatwa left utterly defeated. He stepped into the darkness and was surprised to be surrounded by several villagers. They told him how they had heard what he said, the story of Gawantu’s return and the coming light. They urged Chatwa to take them with him. Chatwa was dismissive of their enthusiasm, he almost believed that he had made the whole thing up. The villagers were persistent, they kept following him. Broken, Chatwa turned to them. Explaining that he was just a foolish old man and that he was wrong. He was leaving the city and never returning. Despite his dismissal of his followers, they continued to pursue him. He kept walking, some of the followers noticed that they were getting rather far from the village. Maybe it was fear, or just a lack of adventure but several of the followers turned back, deciding instead to stay in the village. But some stayed determined to learn of the coming light. As they walked Chatwa became more open, and began to answer questions. He told of the old texts, how they told of the coming light. He told the people how he saw the light on the horizon. As the village disappeared from sight, they were in deep conversation. The followers treated Chatwa as a chosen speaker for Gawantu, treating him as though Gawantu spoke through him. Chatwa reveled in this idea. He felt chosen, that this was his destiny. He lead the people across the land, over the trenches and past the boulders. As they walked Chatwa couldn’t help but fill in the blanks for the old text, explaining what the coming light was and why it had left. It told the people that it had once been a gift from Gawantu, handed to the people to protect them from the darkness. Over time Gawantu grew tired of the people taking the light for granted and he took it. When the people learned to live without it, Gawantu moved to the far side of the land, behind the horizon. There he waited until someone of true passion sought him out. This person was Chatwa. The people enjoyed the story, and the more Chatwa told them the more he was worshiped. The day came when the people saw for themselves, the large curve in the sky on the horizon. Some were hesitant to go farther, but Chatwa spoke to them and gained their faith. They went further, soon Gawantu was all they could see as they looked up. And on the far side of Gawantu’s surface, they could see the coming light. It was only a day or so later that they saw the light on the surface. Chatwa, explained that because they were inferior they could not look directly at it. The group migrated further toward the light. As the group got closer the temperature began to raise, Chatwa calmed the people letting them know that this new warmth was a good thing. It symbolized the Gawantu reaching out to them and leading them to the light. As the days passed, Chatwa noticed that the light was already covering a significantly larger area than it had when he first arrived. The group had also noticed a change in their bodies. Their skin which was once fair and pale had begun to darken and seem drier. Now they were so close to the light that it was almost impossible to see in any direction. They had to squint to keep the light from hurting their eyes. The dark coloring in their skin was now turning into a bright red, and some people had begun to peel skin from their body. Chatwa reassured the scared group, that this was an offering to Gawantu. As your body transcended into the light it would break free and lead them to the light. In a day or so some of the worst burned followers couldn’t walk any further, the temperature was now beyond bareable. Many argued that they should turn back, that this was a trap. Chatwa stayed true, promising Gawantu’s healing powers and eternal salvation after the transcendence. It wasn’t until members started to perish that Chatwa himself began to doubt Gawantu. Followers were now turning back, hoping to make it out of the light before it was too late. Chatwa, still in disbelief that Gawantu would kill them, pushed on. His own skin now peeling in large chunk, his eyes burned even when they were closed. On his last day, he spoke to Gawantu. “Why Gawantu, why have you abandoned us?” He pleaded with the disk in the sky. “Why have you made your love so harsh, do you wish for us to go back?” Still no answer from the disk. Chatwa leaned forward, the light burning his back, he could go no further. In his finally moments he wept, but no tears came.


First time poster. This is just a snippet of something I wrote in my free time. I'd love criticism. Always looking to improve. The village was quiet. The silence, deafening. No one dared speak a word. Crickets halted their song and dogs ceased their barking. The wind ceased to blow, as if the heavens knew that another had joined the limitless ranks of its dearly departed. A man huffed in indignation as he wiped the blood glistening blade clean with the side of his tunic. The broadsword he wielded was large. Large enough so that no normal human could wield it with any sort of efficiency. Only the most trained and disciplined combatant could hope to brandish it. The charcoal black blade was lined with rivets, obviously meant to maim and tear when ran through flesh and bone. Everyone could see the symbol of the the empire plainly engraved into the hilt. The sun shone grimly down on the soldier, the light glinting eerily off every corner of his menacing black armor. Scale like plates ran down almost every facet of the garment, from pauldron to gauntlet. Long, thin demonic horns permeated the top of his helmet. Truly, a soldier of the empire was enough to run the bravest humans blood cold. The man looked down at his feet and grimaced. Red liquid had begun to pool, surrounding the soles of his feet slowly. The red blood stained the earth, her soul damaged from the murder that had just been done. Horrified, the crowd gathered around the body. To a lot of people in the village it was common spectacle. A terrifying notion, to say the least. A woman in the crowd screamed, falling to her knees.“That’s my brother you just killed! My brother!” Her tears flowed freely, overcome with grief. A few villagers quickly decided to move her away from the scene. She thrashed in their arms, vehement as she was to attack the guard. If she had stayed any longer, the soldier would target her next for disturbing the peace. “You killed him! Murderer!” Her gasps of anguish seemed to increase as reality hit her. While being hauled away, she turned towards the soldier, fury in her eyes. “You’re a filthy murderer!”she screamed. “All of you! You and your damned empire can go to hell!” Her voice trailed off the further away she got, much to the man's relief. That wench had been annoying. He, as a soldier of one of the biggest powers in the world, had full freedom and discretion to enact whatever kind of punishment he saw fit to the people that were worthy. She had no right to complain. This person had previously been identified as an assassin, and as such, the next course of action had been obvious. His assignment was simple and his orders were resolute. Find this man, and kill him. For the soldier, it had been a simple task. His attention seemed to realign with the crowd as he sheathed the broadsword on his back, the scabbard reaching almost all the way down to the ground. The soldier regarded the crowd with cold eyes. Fear and anger was clear in every single person, even the children. Their reaction was expected. Rabble like them had nothing else besides each other. Normally, the Queen wouldn’t bother herself with such a low place, but it was necessary this time. The soldier shook his head as he thought about the events of recent as his eyes searched for the path he had came. Several days prior, an attempt had been taken against the Queen. Her life, thankfully, had been saved. Not because of her elite guard, but through her own actions. During one of her public speeches in the main commons of the capital city, a lone bowman had hidden on a terrace in a building above her. At some point, he had taken the shot. Any other person would have been dead on the spot, but Queen Ysabelle was different. Moments before the arrow of flint and steel struck her heart, she caught it. The queen had pinched the arrow out of thin air, as if done by magic and looked towards where the shot had come from. The archer, obviously now alerted of, had made his escape. Much to the horror of the local guards, he had evaded them. The man grimaced at the thought. Hearing this, the Queen had cut down the soldier who had reported their failings with impunity. She was the queen for a reason after all. The head of the empire wasn’t chosen through bloodline or lineage, rather the strongest person in the world would rule. Queen Ysabelle had become so through challenging the previous king in mortal combat and killing him. When she had won, the world was astonished. The now deceased king had been undefeated for many years. Her victory came out of nowhere, but no one had the chance to complain. The winner, of course, would take over. It was a simple process, but one that had been written in the annals of history since the beginning. The strong would rule the weak. It was the natural order of things. The woman ruled through fear. The moment she had been declared Queen, Ysabelle had changed nearly every aspect of the kingdom to her liking. Anyone that refused or protested was executed on the spot. The kingdom underwent a still lingering dark period. The empire’s flag was posted on every street corner. Soldiers were deployed in every province of every village in the empire's rule. New laws were passed that hurt everyone, even the wealthiest nobleman. The elite men that she deployed across the world all donned the infamous devil’s armor. Not only was it top notch protection, but the sight of a soldier wearing one sent instant fear into the hearts of those that opposed. Even her closest advisors were scared every single day of their lives. She’d slay the people closest to her should they fail or disappoint in some way. That was the law and no one questioned it. The main reason why so many feared her was simple. An nodachi of considerable length was always next to her, attached to her hip in it’s scabbard. Before her reign, no one on earth had even heard of such a weapon. The closest the army got to was a rapier, and it was nothing in comparison to the sword she called her own. It was the very blade that had given her the chance to become the most powerful person in the kingdom. Her skill with it was unparalleled. Anyone that thought otherwise would be welcome to try, as is the way of things. If a person wanted to reach the very place of power that she had, they would have to fight and kill her in a one on one duel. A single combatant was allowed the fight the Queen a day, but it always ended the same way. With the challengers blood on the ground, and the Queens dead glare on the corpse of the fool that had tried to oppose her. The public could watch the fight, as the arena itself was smack in the middle of the capital. A massive market and square was one of the center pieces of the city, and many people walked its path each day. Shaking his head to rid himself of the pointless thoughts, the soldier found what he was looking for. The same path out of the village he had taken in his pursuit of the assassin. Without a doubt, he could sense how strong some of the villagers killing intent was on the back of his head, but nothing could be done. He was one of the elite, and they knew it. Trained to the point of death, he had been one of the chosen few to be as close to the Queen as some of the most powerful politicians in the world. As the capital's finest, no mere backwater vermin could possible hope to take his life. The man smiled to himself as he started back on the trail. He had done his job well. The Queen would be most pleased with his report. Without warning, a projectile of some kind clanged against his helmet, catching him off guard. He looked down and saw a rock lying at his feet. What? Who would dare try to protest to someone like him? Didn’t they understand the consequences? With his hand on his sword, the soldier spun around, ready to confront whoever had hit him with the stone. To his surprise, he saw a young man standing several yards away. No older than eighteen, anger was clearly evident on his face and the glint in his dark brown eyes was nothing short of menacing. However, it seemed he was unarmed, save for a kitchen knife in his left hand. The soldier noticed the boy was trembling slightly. The soldier sneered. Oh, he would learn his lesson alright… “Well well, what do we have here? A lost lamb, deciding to rebel against the shepherd. How amusing.” The guard laughed out loud, much to the boys chagrin. “You… you killed him! You killed Thomas” the boy shouted, obviously upset. “Why would you kill him? He didn’t do anything wrong!” The soldier stood there, surprised. It seemed like the assassin had enacted of his own accord. That in itself was odd. Many a village held negative feelings towards the Queen and the Empire, which wasn't really that much of a shock Either way, the boy was either telling the truth or he was really good at lying. The man smirked. “You’d be wrong if you thought that. You do realize that he made an attempt on the Queen's life? Such a transgression can’t go unpunished. You understand, right? If someone tried to kill your leaders life, you’d want revenge.” The boy’s face fell, his anger fading into confusion. “He… he tried to kill the Queen? Why would he-” The soldier cut the boy’s monologue off by drawing his broadsword, pointing the blade at his head. “Shut up. I don’t care whether you think what he did was right or wrong. If the Queen wills it, it shall be done. He deserved to die, and so shall you if you decide to defy her rule.” Each helmet of the elite was unique, and his so happened to be one of the most iconic. A crude smile was carved into the bottom half of his helmet, giving it a decidedly demonic look. The soldier snarled and prepared to attack, startling the young man.


You may have seen him; he probably walked past you on the tube platform and you hadn't even noticed. You are, perhaps, subconsciously familiar with the way he walks because he walks like no other. It's like his upper body is frozen in time while the stick-like legs carry him forward with a curious spring in his step. He hovers over others, cutting through the sea of people with only his head popping up above the surface as he swiftly maneuvers around the crowd. Perhaps, you've made eye contact with the lanky boy and you don't even know it. He seems ordinary and yet there's something strange about the way he looks at you; there's an unquenched curiosity in his eyes, the green circles peering into your soul slowly and so very deeply as if they were perfectly willing to illuminate every dark corner of your mind just to get to know who you really are - the childlike desire to discover you, the real you. He stands straight as a stick and only his eyes rotate in their orbits, gauging the world around him. Sometimes, he turns his head to take a better look. You can never tell what he's thinking though, believe me I've tried many times, and I think it's because his face is often still and emotionless - except for the occasional smile. Despite the enigmatic look you can tell that the gears are turning behind his pale skin, you get that distinct feeling that he's constantly processing some information. You can practically feel him think. He's easy to spot, if you know how, because of the clothes he wears; it's like he's stuck between his yesterday and your tomorrow. Like two distinct periods of time have somehow been merged together resulting in a calamity; he doesn't quite fit with the people around him, an aura of space surrounding him at all times. I remember seeing this creature on a platform one day, I think he was waiting for his train, he hovered over the edge peering into the dark tracks below as if he was reading something written on their surface. When his train made its way out of the tunnel entrance and crossed the spot he was staring at it was as if he was snapped out of a trance, glancing up at the door, which somehow ended up being precisely where he stood, he slid into the train as if carried by the wind itself, his eyes bathed in the memories of his past and dreams of the future. And just like that, he disappeared.


Our daughter lives in the toilet, it is not of our choosing, but it is there that she resides, she can often be seen peeping out of the basin wanting to say hello, we leave the toilet door open so we can say hello too. Firstly let me say we do not use the toilet, not since she has taken up residence, oh no, we haven’t used the toilet in years. We know that she uses it as we hear it flushing in the night, but for me and my wife we have to go in a bucket and pour it down the sink, for the more “demanding” toilet breaks we go to our neighbours, they are quite understandable as they have a boy who lives in a bin. We have tried to get her out, pull her out, tug her out, even called the fire brigade, but it is not that she can’t get out, she just doesn’t want to. If we force her out, the moment our back is turned she goes back in. We have asked her why she likes the toilet so much, and she says it’s like having a miniature swimming pool in the house. I tell her that even if we had a swimming pool in the house we would still sleep on a normal bed. She laughs and says “Daddy you are funny”, I didn’t laugh, didn’t see what was funny. She used to leave the toilet sometime, for example when she had to go to school, but when the teachers complained that she spent her entire lunch breaks in the school lavatories we thought it best to home school her, at least our toilet can be kept reasonably clean. As she grew older we hoped that it would grow out of her, but it did not, she wanted her privacy as she aged so we put a lock on the toilet seat (on the inside of course) and put a little door bell by the side. Not sure the need in this, as the toilet seat was quite easy to knock on, but the wife thought it was best. Our daughter was always home, but I can understand the decency in knocking first, how rude just to walk in uninvited, she might have been “on” the loo or anything. Her independence got so bad that we had to register the toilet as a separate home, Flat 2 she called it, Flat 2. I did laugh at that reference, but wouldn’t Flat 1 have been just as funny. My wife says no, 2’s are funnier than 1’s. Then the fateful day came when the postman had a special delivery for “Flat 2” so we let him in to our house, he went upstairs and into the bathroom, rang on the doorbell and waited for our daughter to answer. She had been washing her hair, so took a little time to get to the door. The postman rang again, she finally answered. “Sorry to disturb you” he said “I have a package for you to sign, but do you mind if I quickly use your toilet?”. Well we always brought our daughter up to be polite so what could she do other than say “Yes of course”. So with trousers down and with both of them holding their packages, the toilet was... how shall we phrase this... hmm. Used. It wouldn’t have been a problem, of course our daughter blushed bright red at seeing what she saw, anyone would have, no the blushing wasn’t the problem, the flushing was the problem. The postman didn’t know, and she didn’t say, he pulled the flusher and flushed her down the toilet. We never saw her again. Now I know I said above that we always heard her flushing the toilet, but she always flushed when she was sitting on the toilet, not when she was inside. The postman told us later (when the shock had worn off) that she swirled around like a whirlpool, her hair spinning like wet candyfloss, and then she was gone. We tried to find her of course, but how can you really find someone that was flushed down the toilet.


The wine makes my head spin, cheap stuff, cleanskins. I can feel it roiling in my stomach, the TV makes my mind curl onto itself, sleep an impossibility. The voices from around the room collide into a sea of noise that hurls itself against me as if to knock me off balance. Chas sit next to me, a warm anchor. She chats to someone, and they chat back. I nod along whenever they talk to me. I finish my drink, the warm white-wine tasting like feral grapes, gone bad in the sun. But I don’t say anything, the wine was Jono’s shout, and he’s unemployed. So am I, I guess. Drifting from job to job, retail and other bullshit. ‘Adam, you okay?’ Chas leans round to look at me, her eyebrows knitting together. I smile dreamily at her and say, ‘yeah, just a little fuzzy headed.’ She smiles, as if that’s an acceptable answer. ‘I’ll go fetch you another, okay? Hold tight.’ I nod and grasp the couch. She laughs. In her absence, the girl left next to me keeps talking to me. She asks me how my degree is going. I inwardly cringe and say, “yeah, it’s alright, I guess. Haven’t failed yet”. At least, that’s what I think I say. Sometimes words get jumbled and don’t come out as I intend. At any rate, she laughs, almost as if to say it’s some kind of grand joke that every twenty-something and under in the room is in on. They all know my struggle. At least, I think they do. At least, they think they do. ‘Just have the second when you’ve finished that one, right?’ Chas smiles, places two cups on the coffee table in front of the couch. The first one is black and bubbly, coke and something. Probably, I know how Chas thinks. Normally it comes down to a narcotic, with her. I think the other one’s water. Isn’t it? The conversation continues, I drink and drink and half-listen as I stare around at the people passing. Chas still sitting between the other girl and me. She’s holding my arm now, keeping me afloat. We’re in the garden now, cold spring air stopping me from feeling my toes. I don’t know how we got here. There’re a few other couples out her, swaying to music. I can’t really tell what it is. My mind stops me from comprehending. Or is that the grog? ‘Smoke?’ Chas pulls out a Mentos tin and flips open the top. Inside are home-rolled cigarettes. Irregular lumps running up and down the white-sticks, which in a perfect world would be utterly smooth. ‘I...uh,’ she shakes the tin at me and I fumble thoughts and words out of my mouth. I can’t make heads or tails. Some small part of my brain, drowned in fermented liquid screams at me not to. To not partake in it. ‘Yeah, that’d be good,’ I say. Then, she lights us up. The acrid smell of smoke hits me. I cough and splutter at the first drag and Chas snickers at me. ‘You’ll get there eventually, love.’ She turns around and leans her back against my chest. I put my arm against her midriff and sway back and forth. Whether to the music, or to something else, I can’t really tell. I watch he bring the cigarette to her lips and pull in a breath of smoky air. I do the same. ‘How we getting home?’ I ask. ‘Dunno, she says.’ She cranes her head backwards at stairs up at me, then scratches at my stubble. ‘Thought you knew.’ I shrug, and look at the moon. ‘We’ll get there. Eventually.’ We’re in her share house now, the transition from the garden to her, is even blurrier. I think it involved half a bottle of Jack that Chas got from someone or other. The smoke still tickles the top of my esophagus, and swirls around my molars. Its long since passed, but I can still feel it there. Lingering, grasping at my tonsils. ‘You got a condom?’ ‘Yeah,’ I say. I can almost hear her house-mates groan. Her room’s still a mess, but I don’t really give a shit. Was like that at her parents as well, before she moved out. Never really stopped us then, either. ‘Come on, Adam, time to close it out, yeah?’ ‘Yeah,’ I mumble. Clothes fall off, then we fall into bed. Then, as half of our nights seem, we fuck like animals. Short, quick and messy. Nothing really fun about it, if I’m honest with myself. It’s just what we do. She falls asleep first, softly snoring. Then I stare at the ceiling for half an hour before following. When I wake in the morning, my head hurts, my throat hurts, and for some reason that I can’t quite piece together, my toe feels like it’s gone through a wood chipper. Chas is still asleep. I get dressed, find my keys after then minutes of searching and stop by the kitchen. I nod downwardly at Chas’s house-mate. He nods back, but doesn’t say anything. Pound a glass of water, check my phone for battery, find it’s still on twenty percent, and fumble my way out the door. On the six kilometer walk to my car, however many streets over, I tell myself that I won’t do it all over again the next weekend. Then I try to figure out what I did that was worse for my health. Then, I put it out of my mind, because I have a six kilometer walk. I also swear at some nearby magpies because I don’t have my fucking headphones, because I told myself that I’d bring them this time. In short, I’m a fucking idiot.


Imagine a room. 4 walls, cold, hard. They surround you. You're standing in the middle, palms facing outward, eyes forward, head straight. You're suffocating. Slowly. Tightness, it grows, stronger and stronger. You glance up, you see others. Parents, friends. All family. You're distracted, for just a second, one beautiful second. Like a dream, it infatuates you, lulls you, but of course you wake up. You look forward again, the walls have moved closer. You can touch them, you do. They're not so cold, warm almost. Not warm enough to be comfortable, enough to be enough. You glance upward, one last time. Goodbye. The walls collapse, envelop you, grasp you, molest you. Yet you survive. You stand. Palms outward, head straight. Another day, the walls erect. Try again they will, try again you must.


There is a demon inside each and everyone of us. It is only through conversation with that demon that we can understand the self. Becoming whole and understanding the true nature of morality. This is the demon that ponders drifting into on coming traffic, for no other reason than to see the consequences. The demon that lusts after a passing woman and imagines tearing her clothes apart. This demon injects pleasures to us and tempts our control. I have spoken to this demon and shared its thoughts, and from that I have understood myself. It is both halves of the whole that drive us onward. The demon gives a window into the depths of humanity, a window that sees pleasures and pain. The demon that lives inside of each and everyone of us must not be able to seize control; and oh how it will try. Only the true self can hold the leash of a monster and gather wisdom from it. Only the realized self can be both with and without.


Chapter 1 I have known a lot of butts in my life. I don’t mean to be gross, but in case you didn’t notice, all humans have one. In fact, in all my years on Earth, I have noticed that humans all have a lot of things in common, besides their backsides. And like butts (some round, some flat, some low, some high) humans are human in their own special way too. So, my point is, I’ve had a lot of up close and personal experience with butts AND their humans. I get people coming my way pretty often and each one is lost, mainly in their own mind. Have you ever been lost in your own mind? Like your mind is a huge corn-field maze on a dark night and you just don’t know which way is which? All you want to do is get out to the beautiful clearing at the end where everything is simple and, well, clear, but for reasons you might not even remember, you ended up in the mind-maze. You’re scared or you just feel like quitting, except if you quit, you’re still in the stupid maze! You know what I mean. Anyway, the people who come to me are always in the middle of the mind-maze and they need someone to listen, so they can work it out and find their way to that wonderful clearing that’s just like two lefts and one right away. Oh, did I mention that I’m a swing? Yep. Now the butt thing makes a lot more sense, right? I’m one of those old wooden swings and I have supported quite a few booties. There’s actually a groove on my seat that is from the assorted cheeks I’ve upheld. I’m like the most comfortable pair of shoes you’ve ever had and you just hope that you never grow out of. My wood is silky smooth. My seat is suspended by the most wonderful, long ropes on both sides. Do you know what a fisherman’s knot is? Well, it’s when you twist rope around itself and it ends up looking like a fist wrapped around the rope. The point is, it’s really a great knot and I have one on either side of my seat. The rope is worn out, but still perfectly strong and dependable. It’s soft, like your best socks and no matter how big or small your hands are, it feels like they are the perfect fit. I wouldn’t be much without my Tree. We are very close and we’ve been together on this very spot in a really old city park for maybe 100 years. Tree is an oak tree with the biggest, strongest branches ever. Those leaves keep my seat cool and shady when it’s hot and sunny outside which I appreciate very much. The ground underneath me is soft, which I really like because sometimes people slip right off. It’s very rare, but I like to be prepared with a pretty sweet landing spot for them, just in case. So anyway, what I really want to tell you is about some of the conversations we’ve had here over our career as an old tree and swing. These conversations are sacred. My tree and I have a neighbor, a wise old valley that is just to the south of me. Her name is Glenn*. She’s grassy and cozy, and like a smile carved into the earth, always reminding everyone that everything is going to be ok. Once, she so smartly pointed out to me that ‘sacred’ and ‘scared’ are almost the same word. Just two letters that swapped spots make them different. The point is that ‘sacred’ means something that deserves the very most respect that anything can possibly deserve. And ‘scared,’ I bet you know what that means. I know that you humans get that feeling a lot. When you meet that scared fear in that mind-maze I told you about, Glenn, Tree and I agree very strongly that you never, ever run away from it. You have to take that fear, that scary feeling by the hand and say, “You deserve my respect. I want to know more about you.” Then, you slow down, take a deep breath, and get super interested in how you and your “sacred scared” are going to make it out alive and to the clearing that is just around a few more corners. And you keep moving, together. You should know, my specialty is listening. When a person is sitting on my seat, and they are right there, hoping that their mind can get clear, so they can see, so they can rest, so they can have peace again (or even for the first time), I listen so close and somehow by the end, they get it. They know the way out of whatever mess they are in. Let me tell you about a few of my friends. I met each of them for different reasons and each of them was what I call “in it.” In the mind-maze, kind of lost, kind of freaked out and definitely scared that something was wrong or everything was wrong, or worse, they who they ARE was wrong. I listened and they listened and next thing we knew, they were on their way again, full of hope and light and love. Chapter 2 One day, it was a perfect day. It was cool, but not too cool. It was a little bit warm too. It was everything lovely and peaceful that a day could be. This kid was coming my way from the path that leads around a corner and ends right at my seat. I always get really excited to get a visitor, by the way. Glenn too. She’s always over there as smiley as ever, but it’s not one of those fakey-yucky smiles that makes you feel like a bug is crawling up your spine. It’s the kind of brave smile that says, “We got this, friend.” So the kid, he was down and out. I could tell because of the way his head hung low and his steps sounded loud and heavy, his feet slow and sort of dragging along. His hair covered up a lot of his face, but I saw through it and noticed some tears must have streaked his face. He’d been crying for sure. He kind of circled around my tree for a while. He wasn’t going anywhere but he still wanted to keep moving, like a slow-motion game of tag. He was “it” and he was tired. He was feeling broken for sure. Finally, he sat down. He didn’t take those heavy feet off the ground. He was weighed down hard to the tender earth below me. He leaned his head on my left rope. He had finally found a shoulder to cry on and I was so glad it was mine. He let it all out. He whimpered like a puppy. He screamed like a hawk. He even snorted like a pig a couple of times. Then, finally after he got all of it out, he opened his eyes again and he told me, Tree and Glenn about his day. The kids at school had been talking to him, but not like he was a person, like he was a thing. They talked about him like he was less than them. He wondered “Why me?” but he also knew exactly why it was him they had to talk to like that. He just wasn’t ever interested in acting like everyone else, dressing like everyone else, talking like everyone else. He was always really sure that being just like HIM was all he wanted to do, all he knew how to do. It felt right and it felt wrong, all at the same time. I guess all of that left him feeling judged as “different,” which to a kid is pretty much like a prison sentence that doesn’t end until graduation day. It felt like forever and it felt like torture. A forever of torture: now that’s scary. He wondered how NOT paying attention to the noise could take so much of his energy. This fear he was wrestling with felt like sadness, like hopelessness. He started to kick his feet around a little on the earth below us. We started to rock back and forth, just a little, but his feet were still firmly planted on the ground. Just his knees began to bend and straighten and as we got a little motion going, he started to noticed that lately, more than ever before, all he was ever listening for was the bad stuff, the rude stuff, the mean stuff from the kids at school- a hearing aid that blocked out everything except the negative stuff. Plus the volume was stuck way up, screeching in his head. It’s like he had on glasses that only let him see the ugly stuff and never the okay stuff or the kind-of-good stuff, or even the decent stuff. He had become a seeker of those bad and sad messages and believe me, you could tell, he thought for sure that the only types of words and looks and experiences that existed were the thumbs down, dreadful, bummer kind. Suddenly, he jolted from my seat. He stood straight up and my seat ran into the back of his legs. Something else had hit him too though. He could see things differently, hear things differently. It was like those dirty, cloudy, bummer-glasses slid right off his nose and that downer-hearing aid in his ear flew right out and landed in the dirt. What hit him was the realization that he was only hearing and seeing all the things he was actually looking and listening for- and nothing else. He was pretending that he was ignoring the negativity, but in a weird way, if he was very honest, he LIKED to think of himself as this poor, misunderstood kid. That way he didn’t have to show up, bold and weird and awesome. The truth is, he didn’t want to admit it at first, but he wanted to get out of this mess, out of this stuck feeling, so badly. You know, the one where you can’t be you but you can’t be like “them” either. He had a choice to make, and there under my faithful Tree, with Glenn smiling on from the south, he shouted LOUD: “I WANT TO BE ME. I WANT TO BE DIFFERENT. I WANT TO BE EXACTLY ME.” He felt alive and free. He felt like it would actually be interesting, even fun, to look for the good in those kids and make sure he found it. He thought about how there were probably other kids who were perfectly different too and that they would like to be different together with him. They needed him to be him. In fact, the world needed him to be him. Next thing I knew, that fireworks display in his mind lit the way for him to move right along. He was unstuck, light as a feather, and ready to go find the good in everybody and everything he could see and hear, from that day forward. He had that choice, you know. Chapter 3 Another day, a kid wandered over my way. This kid was sort of confusing to me at first sight. As the kid got closer, I started to see why. Everything about this kid said, “BOY! BOY! BOY!” but you could tell he was stuck. Stuck inside a body that said “GIRL! GIRL! GIRL!” I know what humans do. It’s different than trees, that’s for sure. Trees are just trees, but somehow humans are called “boys” and “girls” before they come into the world, they get these really-for-sure, no-doubt-about-it titles. People decide girls like pink and unicorns, princesses, glitter, kitties and dolls. They decide that boys like blue and lions, football, dirt, puppies and army guys. No one asks them and since they can’t talk anyway for a few years, time passes and they are given all the decorations and accessories and hobbies that go along with what “kind” of person they are, boy or girl. Anyway, as this kid climbed onto my seat, I could tell, he had definitely gotten decorated as a “girl” person and he was not digging it. It just felt wrong. It was like if the sun was shining and the sky was as blue and clear and bright as a thousand diamonds and people kept going on and on about what a lovely, dark night it was. The day thinks, “What? It’s day! I’m day! I’m not night. What are seeing? I don’t get it!” But, instead of actually saying it, it thinks, “Maybe what I know to be true is false. Maybe I am night. I’ll try it out, even though I have no moon, no stars...nothing that night has.” The kid swung higher and higher and every time he went forward, he felt free and happy and true but every time he swung back, he felt trapped and sad and like a fraud. He thought, I wish my life could go forward everyday, with me as me, not as “her.” He had been pretending he was “her” because that’s what people said he was. He tried to act like the girls he knew, like his sisters, like his mom. It felt so strange. He saw the boys and was like, “YES!!! There are my people! I see ME when I see those guys.” But the guys just told him to go play with the other girls. He’d test it out, being more “boy.” He’d give some hints that he was a really a boy. He asked for a shorter and shorter haircut every time, asked for less pink stuff, more boy stuff, a cool nickname that sounded a little less like his sister’s. He got a new label then: “tom-boy.” “Nope,” he’d think, “I’m a boy, just a boy!” He just felt trapped. It didn’t matter who understood or if they knew how he felt, he just wanted them to believe him, to trust him, to respect him. HIM. Then, it was like a branch fell from my tree and knocked some sense into him in mid-air, as Glenn shouted from a few feet away, “KID! YOU ARE YOU and YOU ARE HIM! BE BRAVE AND BE BOY!” He shook his head back and forth and suddenly realized that maybe these people had only called him “her” and dressed him up as “she” because they just forgot to ask, or didn’t even know they could ask him if that is who he really, really was. In that moment, he made a choice. He chose to believe that they just needed his help to understand him. He chose to believe that they would understand, maybe not right away, but eventually, and that would be good enough for him. He had the key to his own trap right there in his pocket the whole time. He was ready. He knew that he had enough love and courage inside of him to jump out and declare himself as “BOY!” to his family and his friends. He deserved to live a life that was true and real. His people deserved to know the truth. He believed in them and he believed in HIM. He jumped off my seat at the highest possible height, landed with a bounce and ran home to be brave and true. It was the brightest day he had seen in his whole life. Chapter 4 There was this other day, when two kids were running and chasing in and out of my tree and all our neighboring trees. Oh they were so full of joy! It was that day that I had one of the most magical moments of my career. I got to be in the presence of true love. If you don’t know already, it really is like magic. It’s like floating, like flying. It’s like you find your other half and you suddenly know you’re complete. Nothing you ever knew before that moment makes sense anymore. You don’t know how you made it through one day of your life before the day that you met your true love. Your souls are united and life can finally begin. It’s like that. (Did I mention that Tree is my one true love? No? It’s true. Tree makes me who I am and I make him who he is. Well, anyway, that’s how I know.) So they each rushed around and around for a bit longer. Finally, they seemed to need a rest so they sat down together, right there on my seat. They were laughing and giggling, holding hands and holding each other’s hearts all at once. They were squished together, but they fit just perfect. Then, they became quiet. One said to the other, “I wish we could tell everyone that we aren’t just best friends like they all think. I wish we could tell them that we are in love.” The other kid got that look that you get when it’s Sunday night and you remember you have tons of homework, but it was worse than that. Way worse, because, all they wanted to do was to be happy and free and honest, but they were pretending instead. They felt sneaky, like they had to hide their love or they would be hurt or teased or judged or even hated because they were too much alike. They started to swing together quietly. They stayed there going back and forth for a long time. Then one said to the other, “I wonder if they already know. I mean, when did we decide “we” were a secret in the first place? Did we have a reason? Was our reason really worth being weighed down with all these secrets and lies?” Their need to love each other was playing tug-of-war with their need to be loved by their families and friends. Then, a strong wind pushed them higher and higher as they heard a peaceful, confident voice whisper in their ears the best secret they would ever hear: “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about your love. The world needs more love, not less. Stop hiding. Be brave. Be together. Be patient. Be peaceful. Be free. Be L or G or B or T.” They both heard it, without a doubt, and they both knew in that very moment that it was the truly the only thing they could possibly do from this day forward: Live their love. They swung slower and lower until finally, they were stopped there again, feet planted firmly on the earth. The looked up at the sky and thanked the wind for this gift. The two kids tossed their arms around each other’s shoulders and walked back down the path, back to the rest of the world, the world who deserved to know about all the love that they had been hiding. By the way, it wasn’t really the wind who the two kids heard. It was Glenn, me and Tree’s best friend. She’s the one who gave them the good news. She’s very good at throwing her voice, and thank goodness, because her words are often the kind of powerful words that make a real difference. See, valleys are thought of as the lowest of the low, nothing like the tall, important mountains, but in fact, it’s their humble spirits that make it possible for their voices to carry so far. It may not add up at first, but trust me, the easier you are to reach, the more people will listen to you because everyone has been in a low place before. Every single one-- and it’s ok to say it outloud. Chapter 5 One morning, very early, much earlier than most kids are ever awake on a Saturday, this kid came up to me in the most curious way. He was looking at me like he had NO idea what the heck I was or what I was there for. He was cool with Tree and Glenn, but me? No way. He touched me and was sort of spooked when I moved. Then he pushed me a little bit. He watched while I swung back and forth, eventually running out of energy and returning to my resting position. Next thing I know, the kid backed up about 35 feet behind me and as Tree, Glenn and I looked on with keen interest and delight, this kid ran fast and launched himself, belly first onto my seat and sailed, sailed, sailed up, up, up to the highest point I think anyone ever had, especially on their belly! He was powerful, clever and so brave, we all thought. He must have repeated this routine about seven more times before he slumped down against Tree’s mighty trunk, on the soft, cool soil. He seemed to transform into a pile of sorrow and pity. I am telling you, it was unmistakable. He went from being free and brave which we felt fit him very well, to sad and pitiful, just like that. He started speaking in a different language than any of the other kids in our park. He was mumbling. Then some tears came. He yelled. He beat on the earth with his fists, making sure certain words got properly punctuated with his anger. See, he was new here. When I say “here,” I mean, he was new to the country. He was from somewhere where things were much, much different. Nothing here was the same as they were in his country, the only place he had ever known. His house, his food, the sounds, the view, the games, the words, the school. NOTHING. Can you even imagine that? His parents said over and over again in their language that it was better here, safer. It was dangerous back home and they were lucky to get away. But still, it was awful. He felt like he had to start life all over again and he was not expecting that, ever. It was not fair and even though he was supposed to be relieved or thankful, he was just sad and angry. He had never felt so sorry for himself and this “life” of his. He shifted to his back and laid down right under my seat. He pushed it hard with his hands while it flew both ways. He counted in his language how many times I passed by his face before it became completely still again. He did it again: one big push and then counting until the moment it stopped. Then, with the seat hanging above his eyeballs, still and solid, his mind was zapped like lightning, with a moment of clarity. “Nothing happens to the swing when I don’t first do something. The swing has no movement, power or motion unless I cause it.” “Power,” he thought. “I have that power. I know I do and no matter where I live, I AM ME. I am powerful ME. I can make things move, make things happen for me and for my family.” He knew it would be hard, but since he just remembered who he was, a clever, powerful kid with a lot of life left to live, he had to make a choice. He could pretend that coming to a new land could stop him from being who he was meant to be or he could live his life like anything is possible. Anything. Anywhere. And so he did. Chapter 7 It was late one night and a kid came cruising by on these fast, big wheels. She had a big backpack attached to the back of her seat and it made a really loud scraping noise against the wheels of her chair. It was dark by now, so me, Tree and Glenn were all kind of surprised to see a kid out so late. There was another sound too. She was cussing! She was really mad. She sounded seriously mad and even though her wheelchair seemed super cool, she was hitting it, banging both of her fists on the metal and the rubber, swearing with every strike. I thought for sure she’d start kicking too, but her legs weren’t moving. They were stuck and still and small. Then with all the ruckus, her backpack slipped off the back. The zipper popped open and all these clothes and books fell out, plus a toothbrush and some pajamas. Tree whispered, “I think she’s running away from home, you guys.” Next thing we knew, she burst into tears. She was so frustrated, so tired. She backed up over her stuff and tried to pick it all up. She needed to reorganize her belongings so she could keep going. She was done throwing a fit and she just wanted to get the heck out of here. She glanced my way. I guess she thought my seat would make a good table to fold her stuff up on, so she wheeled over and got to work. Under her breath I heard her say, “Here I am like an idiot--I’m running away from home, but I can’t even RUN at all. All I can do it sit here. I am stuck in this stupid chair and I am weird. I’m pathetic and I might as well be a baby because I just ride around in a stroller all day long. Besides, wherever I run away to, I am STILL going to be there.” She was full of jealousy. She hated that the kids who could use their legs for walking and running probably never even realized how lucky they were. She was invisible because she thought no one could see HER. They saw her chair and thought they knew all about her. She was sad because she was so focused on all the things she could not do that she never bothered to look at all the things she could do. As she got her backpack put back together, hung it back on its spot, she seemed to realize I was a swing and not a tiny table. She sat there a moment, staring and deep in thought. Suddenly, she got this look in her eye. I could see the sparkle, even in the dark. She leaned forward, reached her strong arms up as far as they could reach on my ropes and pulled herself hard until she was sitting right in the middle of my seat. It was a graceful sight to see, she was like an acrobat. She reached one hand behind her to move her chair out of the way because she was going to swing, darn it! She was going to show us who was boss. It was HER! Not her wheelchair, not her bum legs either. Oh my goodness, Glenn, Tree and I got totally lost in the moment as she used her body to push herself and me, higher, higher, higher, each swing surpassing the last. She was fearless. We all saw it, felt it, and it was in that moment that she got to see herself as fearless too. She was just HER, not the girl in the chair. She had been pretending that she was less-than because of the way she was born. She had been totally fooling herself to believe that whether her body could do this or that, that it could limit her, what she could do in her life, what she could say, what she could dream. All those nasty little lies that she had really started to believe were the truth- they were taking over her life! Oh, now this fiery kid was mad again! Mad because she had wasted years of her life believing those lies. She shook it off quick though and got back to being the passionate, confident girl she was born to be. She looked around to see if anyone had witnessed this miracle in her mind somehow and there, just on the other side of Glenn, her big sister was sitting quietly in the soft grass. She had been searching for her for hours because while everyone else thought her little sister had been asleep in bed, not on her way out of town, her sister knew, as sisters do, that something was not right. And yes. She got to see her sister transform back into the brave, strong girl that she knew she was. In fact, the day she was born, everyone knew that this kid would move mountains, and what did THAT have to do with needing a wheelchair? Not one single thing, that’s what. Chapter 8 Yep. Those are some of the best conversations, Tree and I, along with our wise friend, Glenn, have been around for. There is nothing like it when you get to be a part of a human’s life in that way. Getting to watch someone move from lost and paralyzed with fear and doubt into knowing deep in their bones that they can choose to be brave and choose to be alive--THAT IS A HIGH HONOR! One more thing: Whatever you are going through, whatever you are dealing with, we want you to know that you are enough and you are brave. You just have to choose it, believe it- and you’re the only one that can make that happen. *Glenn, the grassy valley is inspired by Glennon Doyle Melton. I use exact quotes from her writing regarding scared and sacred. She is a huge influence in my life. You can look her up. She as a lot to say about LGBTQ and she is 100% PURE LOVE. I have an instagram if you want to connect.


Space travel seemed so simple after we settled on mars. We thought we had it all figured out after setting a space station in orbit around Jupiter, and started mining asteroids. It all seemed to click. It became common for intersystem travel to become a seemingly daily thing. By no means was it fast; It still took almost a month to get to mars, and close to 4 to reach the Jupiter stations, but we were just happy to have been able to make these technological advances in our lifetime. To be able to explore our system just like our ancestors explored the earth. It may have took us the same amount of time to cross the expanse between planets as it did for European settlers to cross the Atlantic, but that's and amazing feat nonetheless. Not only have we made such a leap technology, but as a society, we are more advanced than ever before. Countries had come together in the name of Earth to conquer the expanse as one group; as Humankind. We may still have our differences on earth, but outside of the atmosphere of Earth, we weren't distracted by race, religion, political views, upbringing, or anything of that nature, because there is none of that in space. Nobody can draw a line in the sand on Mars and claim one side, because no matter how advanced we get, no matter how hospitable we make space, it's a constant battle against the odds. Making divisions in human settlers only leads to the failure of the group, as we experienced the first time we settled mars. It is through our ingenuity and hardiness that we had made it this far as a species. Coming together as a group and thinking our way into the future that we had made it this far. It is through our desire to explore that we had made our decision to attempt to travel outside our home system. Through years of observation, we found our ticket to discovery. We had uncovered a Wormhole of sorts sitting just beyond our solar system, right in front of the Oort Cloud, and just behind Pluto. That was our ticket. We had sent a probe through it before, about 16 months back, 2 months after its discovery, and within a month after it crossed the threshold of the spacial rift, we had received radio transmissions from the probe coming from a nearby system with hospitable planets. We were overjoyed. The chance to settle outside the system, to make a new colony on a planet that we didn't even have a name for. It was a breakthrough. After another successful probe test to ensure that the target planet was hospitable for a colony, we set the wheels in motion to get an expeditionary team of 50 people to begin the setup of what would soon be the greatest jump in human history. After some testing and another probe or two, the spaceship "Small Step" had set off with its pre settlement crew. They had reached the edge of the wormhole, and begun playing the most famous recording in the history of space travel, and the origin of their namesake. They passed through the threshold of the fold on space and it was as if they had been erased from the universe. They just popped out of existence. A month later, the other end of their message was received, and indeed it was a giant leap for mankind. Upon hearing the news from the Small Step, we had learned many things about the planet. Its atmosphere was much like our own, the now dubbed colony planet "Horizon" had a small ring and 4 moons, the system had 13 planets, and most of them were rocky. All of this information had us on the edge of our seats waiting to get a new settlement ship running. And that we did. Over a year after the initial discovery of the Trans-System Wormhole, we were ready to send a ship of 10,000 volunteers into the rift and begin our new lives on Horizon. The Settlement Ship "Giant Leap" made its way through the threshold of the wormhole, just as many spacecraft before it had, and the mission was underway. But something was different this time. Nobody could have predicted it. Nobody even knew it was possible. The wormhole had closed before we could reach the other side. I'm documenting this in case... well... a miracle I guess... We've been in here for 4 Earth months. The Navigator killed herself last week in her bunk room. Used a pocket knife to cut open her forearms. The rest of the bridge crew were understandably effected, but nobody blamed her. We all think about it now. We have no reason not to. I guess its a hope for the rift to open again. Maybe some of us think this is some dream, and we can't seem to wake up... I don't know... The Capitan isn't sure if he wants to wake up the passengers and let them know what's happened, or just shit down life support to the passengers and let them die happy. We are all leaning towards the second option. Humanity wasn't prepared for this. We weren't prepared at all... We weren't ready to face the possibility of a disaster. Nobody was ready... I know I wasn't ready. I especially wasn't ready to look out the bridge windows at my new reality. The pitch black, starless, infinite void of my new reality...


“REMEMBAH KIDDIES! YOU WON’T GET YO PUDDIN’ IF YOU DON’T EAT YO MEAT!” she blared once again through that pie-hole that she called a mouth. Mrs Wizzlemuck, or as the children knew her (the kids were not very creative): Fucking Idiot. Fucking Idiot walked through the benches, lightly tapping the shoulders of all the children as she went by. Little Monty too was among the newest batch of burnt out children that were now to be crushed with overwhelming unnecessary pressures and shat down the poophole that is known as Education. He chowed down his disgusting food like a glutton with an appetite for the fattest horse in a rundown race track. His partner ate and continued to tell Monty about his older classes in a better school, with a proud, shit-eating grin. Monty remembered all the times that he had spent in his earlier classes. Fifth grade! Wow! That’s real big, lil’ dude! They had said to him two years before. This year too, his parents had told him Sixth grade! That’s real big, lil’ dude! Frankly, little Monty found this annoying. He was told every year would be more important, and yet he felt the same. When will it really happen? When will I feel more important? Or even better, when will I ever feel as important as they tell me I am? Little did Monty know that that would happen sixty years later when he would die from a stroke, choking on his own vomit and slowly setting his ass onto the nearest commode, defecating violently, and he wouldn’t even have the time to realise that it had happened. Moving on, as Monty shifted in his bench, moving his tiffin-box aside and looking towards his partner, he set his books in front of him. He took out the first textbook. ABSOLUTE SHIT THAT YOU WILL NEVER USE the title read, he looked a little lower on the front page: BY – SOME TIT WITH TOO MUCH TIME ON HIS HANDS. He smirked. He thought it was a math textbook. Apparently it wasn’t. He brought out the rest of the wonderful books he would be staring blankly at for the next year. BULLSHIT FACTS THAT DON’T HOLD TRUE ANYMORE and TEACHING KIDS SEX IS BAD SINCE 1978 were among them. Average, school-ey stuff. “WHY DIDN’T YOU EAT YER DAM MEAT YOU GOOD FER NOTHIN LIL’ BRAT”, a certain Fucking Idiot said, peering close into Monty’s little face. Her pimples, wrinkles and ugliness converged into the hideousness that is her face, which angrily looked at him. “AREN’T YOU SCARED OF ME KID? WHY WON’T YOU LISTEN TO ME YA?” “WON’T YOU LISTEN TO YER TEACHERS? YOU WANT A LIL’ SMACK ON YOUR NOGGIN DO YA?” And then, it hit him. Something happened to Monty. Whether it was a ray of light that fucked with his head or a sudden epiphany that would lead to a change in society forever, something hit him. But he thought of something. Little Monty thought: Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What AM I afraid of? What the FUCK am I afraid of? And then, it happened. Little Monty looked his teacher straight in the eye, got up, off his desk, and uttered words that were never uttered before in any school: “You fucking tit. Yes. YOU, you fucking tit. YES! I want a smack on my noggin. Come on. Smack my noggin. You BITCH.” Obviously, the very bounds of space-time stopped expanding. Every moment in time looked at Little Monty and thought, that’s a fuckin’ spectacle, that is. Time stopped, students stared, and the child next to Tommy very, very slowly moved to the nearest empty bench. Fucking Idiot stood there. She couldn’t have reacted. The very laws of physics would not allow it. She stood there, her pie-hole gaping, her eyes ripping out of their ugly, dark sockets, and her anger slowly pulsating into fear. “Come here, you Fucking Idiot.” Monty said, as he started to take his blazer off. He didn’t blink, nor did his gaze move an inch from Idiot’s crusty, shallow eyes. “HEY! Uhh, you’re uhh, kiddies go call the principal. Quick…please…” “WHY?” Monty spoke, really loudly. Every syllable echoed through the class. It might as well have been just him, and that Fucking Idiot. He began to unzip his pants. The teacher watched in horror, and reminisced the time she was abused as a child. Maybe that’s why she was a tit now. He unzipped his pants, and his face inched forward. Monty decided to use the only weapons he had. He lowered them, and they dropped to his knees. For that one split second, Fucking Idiot looked down at his naked knees, and then quickly back at him, with a horror that she didn’t know she could experience. Monty stood up, onto the desk. He dropped his underwear too. He then began to piss all over the desk. Everyone in the class could not control it anymore. They looked at him, his wiener, and the piss it produced. They looked back at Idiot, staring at the whole thing, as though it was an exhibit at a Piss Museum in Langley Lane. “WHAT! CAN’T A BOY HAVE A PISS IN PEACE!?” he said, as he strafed left and right on his spot, sprinkling a fine amount of his fluids over all the other benches, as the other students turned away in fear and awe. Fucking Idiot seemed almost philosophically struck. It looked as though Little Monty had touched some buttons, for she stood more in awe than anything else. She looked at him with wide, but pondering eyes, seemingly wondering something. She barely seemed angry anymore. “Oye, woman. Lookit here. Look. I’m pissing on the bench. I AM PISSING ON THE FUCKING BENCH.” Monty whispered in a frequency akin to most serial killers, as his now flashing red eyes looked at Idiot. Fucking Idiot didn’t make a sound. Neither did she make a face. “You look at me woman. Look here” Monty stopped pissing. Maybe he was done, maybe he was saving for later. He looked at her, and grabbed her hair with his left hand, and looked her in the eye. “Look. I have a lot of fucking stress in my life, okay? I don’t want to fucking EAT my MEAT.” “I don’t want it. I don’t want my meat. I don’t want the pudding. You can keep it, that’s fucking FINE.” The anger now started to quell up his throat. You could hear a very childish sort of, angry frustration in him. Monty got down from his desk, let go of Mrs Wizzlemuck’s hair, and sat down again. He looked at everyone, looking at him. He let out a loud scream, and started to cry. He looked at his nemesis once again, tears now streaming as fast as his piss did moments ago. He put his head down on his desk, forgetting about the puddle he had left there just a minute ago, and remained silent for three full minutes. “Leave him alone, kiddies.” Mrs Wizzlemuck said. “The kid's just tired.


I jumped, and I immediately regretted it. I watched as news of my death spread. My boyfriend rushed to the bathroom, slammed it shut behind him, and went straight to the toilet bowl. His body felt weak, and he had to cling onto the seat to stop his body from crumpling. He felt the bile rise up from his throat and was soon throwing his supper up. He did not cry at my funeral. For the days after the funeral, he went through his daily routines, emotionless and zombie-like. He spent his days losing me, over and over again. He would hear a song that would remind him of me, and he’d lose me again. Something would happen that he wanted to share with me, and he’d lose me again. He would chance upon something in his room that was mine, and he’d lose me again. Only when he visited my grave in the columbarium, half a year later, did he cry. He slammed his fists against the marble tablet with my photograph on it. He let out a cry of frustration. I had never seen him like that before. “You were supposed to call. I would’ve been there, I would’ve held you. I would’ve kissed you,” his voice began to quiver, then lowered to a growl. “Was it so fucking difficult to give me a call instead of giving up and leaving me?” He hit the tablet one last time and placed his fingertips gingerly on my photograph. He continued to lament, his voice now subdued, “We were supposed to grow old together. I need you now. I need you to hold me, and you’re not here. I miss you. I miss you so much. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you enough reason to stay.” He was finally crying. He let himself fall apart as the hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He was finally crying, six months later, when he had found it in himself to forgive me – and to forgive himself. “I still can’t believe you’re gone,” his voice was barely a whisper now. “*You promised*.