I was startled by the zip on my tent opening..After living in alley ways filled with rats, and a certain group of people less civil then the critters themselves, ive grown accustomed to being woken up randomly. But this was different, I awoke with a strange feeling that whoever was outside my half tin half tent abode, did not want to simply ask for a cigarette or spare change. "Whos out there" I said feeling around for my camplight. "My name isnt improtant, come with me now and your life will never be the same". Said the voice outside my tent, with a sense of urgency probably due to the fact that it was pouring with rain. I paused for a second realizing the chances of my life becoming worse at this point in time were near on impossible. "Let me get my coat".


"God I hate myself right now" I muttered as I pulled up to the complex and did a quick search of the parking lot. "Seriously, what the fuck Zack? What could you possibly hope to get out of this?" There was no red car, so I pulled out and crept along to the next apartment complex. It was the middle of the day, but this area of the city was surprisingly empty and dilapidated. Still, I was all nerves, worried that someone might see me. There was a sick, twisted energy exuding from my stomach that kept my hands and face shivering. Despite that and despite the sheer stupidity of what I was trying to do, I kept driving. I didn't know what else to do. I wanted something, *anything* from this relationship, even if it was just heart rending jealousy. "Fuck, this complex is shittier than the last. He's really taking the starving artist ideal to heart, huh?" As I began to circle the lot looking for the red sedan, I started reminiscing about how I'd gotten to this point. I suppose it began seven years ago when I first met her, but that's too far gone. Too many other events and changes stem from that meeting. Instead my mind skipped forward a few years to the first of several painful conversations that we'd have. I guess that's where the jealousy really began. "So you remember that guy who asked me out last week?" she asked me. "Which one? You can't expect me to honestly keep up with your dating life." "Derek! The hot one! He's different from all the others. Remember, he tried to show you how to do a karate kick?" "Ohhhh, that fuckwad. Yeah, what about him?" I was hopelessly in love with this girl, so I couldn't help but let some hostility sink into my words. "He's not a fuckwad. He's actually really nice. Anyways, I went over to his house last night and we made out for like 4 hours. It was *heaven*." "Oh god, here we go again. You go through these guys like candy. Just don't let yourself get hurt, okay?" This must have been the 7th fling she'd had since she'd broken up with her fiance. That was a month ago and I could tell she was coping with meaningless sex, but who was I to say anything? I didn't know the first thing about romance or how to heal a broken heart. I just wanted her to be mine. "I won't get hurt. Derek's different. He's actually happy, unlike everyone else I've dated. And he really likes me. I think this one might last," she chirped. "You've only known him for four hours! And I doubt you guys said much during that time. Whatever. Do what you feel. Wanna grab some lunch?" And that was only the beginning of it. Over the next few weeks, she recounted to me in sordid detail every progressing stage of their carnal relationship. I listened with a ravenously morbid curiosity. I'd never had sex, or even kissed anyone. All I knew of love came from Pornhub, so the things she told me I couldn't help but be fascinated by. And that fascination mixed with a growing jealousy that made me sleepless and gaunt. I was missing classes, blowing off my family and friends in a surprisingly futile attempt to deal with new feelings. In retrospect, I'm glad nobody staged an intervention. I probably would have admitted to a heroin addiction rather than the truth. There! I'd found her car! That meant she was here, with him, right now. I had no idea what to do. I wasn't actually planning on finding her. I figured I would just drive around aimlessly and commiserate over the past until there was nothing else to do. My thoughts were racing like children. They were eager, misguided and stumbling into each other constantly. Should I go up and try to find his apartment? Should I wait by her car? Should I wait till they're done and go in angrily? As I sat there trying to decide on a course of action, my mind flitted to another memory, more recent than the last. "Will you come to dinner with us? Derek really wants to meet you." read the text I'd just gotten. Derek and her were going to restaurants and movies now. This was the closest I'd even seen her get to one of her fuckbuddies. "Fuck you. Why would you even ask that?" ...is what I should have written instead of the cordial confirmation I meekly sent back. Regretting my passivity, I began to get ready. If I was going to be forced to hang out with Derek, the least I could do was look better than him. I shaved, did my hair and wore a suit. Looking at my reflection in the mirror actually made me smile in spite of everything. I looked like a cross between a Gap commercial and a 2nd rate celebrity. God damn, but I was handsome. Too bad it never got me what I wanted. So I drove over to some shitty hookah bar on the other side of town and prepared to mandolin my heart. When I got there, they were sitting next to each other and giggling conspiratorially. I immediately imagined her blowing him on the car ride over. "Hey! How are you guys?! Sorry I'm late. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get a prostitute to leave your house." I said as I sat down. "Haha, what? Since when do you hire prostitutes?" she asked me. "Oh, I don't. Other people hire them for me. I just inspire excessive gratitude in my friends and unfortunately, many of them don't know how to express it," I replied. Awkward over confidence was my go-to card when I felt uncomfortable. "Oh, I'm sorry. You must be Derek. I'm Zack, with a K. It's nice to finally meet you." "Hi, it's good to meet you too. I've heard so much about you," he replied. "Is that really true about the prostitutes?" "Haha, no. I just make up stories sometimes. I find it makes life a little more interesting. Most days are dull, you know? You have to interject something into them." We then proceeded to spend an entire evening together. After the hookah bar, I took them to a local art gallery and showed off some of my favorite pieces from the Postmodern period. I didn't know the first thing about art, but was great at bullshit like that. They had a good time, I think. I certainly didn't, but I don't think I let it show. I'd gotten pretty good at that over the years. I'd had no other choice if I was determined to keep up my charade. I'd finally gotten out of the car. I'd been pacing back and forth from my Corolla to the stairs. I didn't even know what room they were in. Did they have the blinds open? Were they watching me right now in confusion? Was I going to have security called on me? I was an utter mess of anger, frustration, and arousal. And I couldn't justify any of it. But like a gear, I was being inexorably forced forward bit by piecemeal bit. I made a quick round of the first floor and saw no one resembling my obsessions. So with a deep and violent shaking, I began to climb to stairs onto the second floor. My mind was filled with nipples, fluids and positions I'd gleaned from other people's ecstasy. Somehow I made it to the second floor and eagerly began to make my search but as soon as I turned a the next corner, there was no need - I'd found my sickening goal. There was bile in my throat and I dry heaved a couple of times. Despite the balmy weather, I was still shivering as if I'd just been taken off of an analgesic. They were fucking. The blinds were open. I furtively watched till the end. They were doing it doggy style and facing away from the landing I was on. But even if I had been right next to the window I doubt they could have been bothered from the transcendent ecstasy they were in. I imagined that I could hear their moans from where I was standing and feel the sweat that drenched their bodies in my pits. It was revolting and sensuous. I wanted to record it or run. Part of me was ecstatic at finally seeing her do the things she always talked about. Part of me murderously screamed out of my skin that it should be ***me***. I wish I could say that something definitive happened next - that they saw me, that I barged in angrily making baseless demands, that I shattered the window and let my violent tendencies carry the day. Anything at all, but the truth would be a fitting end to this lukewarm spill of a tale. But life isn't like that. We don't get endings, beginnings or even events that follow logically. No, life is a senseless miasma of unrelated, unpurposed events that hurtle forward through the threads of our lives ripping apart our notions of tenderness to simply arrive nowhere. There are no categories, there is no connection or distinction between events. It is what it is, and what it is resists explanation. So I turned around, with the images seared into my mind, and walked down the stairs, away from that fucking complex, and went home.


A man sits alone in a room. His hands are cuffed tightly in his lap. There is an empty chair across from him and it’s so quiet he can hear his own heartbeat. The door opens and a young man enters, casually sitting down. The door creaks shut, locking the two men alone in silence. “Vincent,” the young man said. Vincent answered with a cold, silent stare. The young man wore a loosely fitting plaid shirt and jeans. *Must be undercover,* Vincent thought. “I’m going to be honest with you,” the officer said. “I’m new at this. I’ve never done anything like this before, so you’ll have to forgive me if this is a little…awkward. I want to ask you“ “what’s your name?” Vincent broke his silence sharply. The young man took a breath and answered. “My name is Paul.” “Ok Paul, I’m going to need you to listen to me very carefully,” Vincent leaned forward on the table. “I’ve taken the life of a man because I didn’t like the way he looked at me in a hallway. I kept him alive just long enough so he could hear his heart stop beating. I am…different.” “I don’t value human life the way most people do. People are a disease and I am the cure. I wish you could have seen that man’s last moments Paul. It was beautiful.” They sat and stared at each other for a moment. Vincent continued. “I can tell you this because you and I both you know can’t touch me because of who I am. Listen to my words. I killed a man for looking at me in a fashion that I didn’t appreciate. I never even knew his name. You’ll need to choose your next words very carefully.” Vincent gazed at the young cop with cold, dark eyes. Your move. There was a long pause. Paul broke the silence with a question. “Do you know how you got here?” Vincent stared at the officer, thinking, but didn’t answer. “Here, let me show you something.” Paul calmly reached into his back pocket and pulled out a long, jagged knife. There was dried blood on it. Paul slid it across the table, just out of Vincent’s reach, almost daring him to reach for it. “I took this from the evidence locker.” “That’s delightful Paul, tell me more,” Vincent answered, sarcasm creeping into his voice. Another long pause. “I know what you did, you bastard. I know what you did to that poor girl.” Paul’s calm exterior began to break, emotions creeping into every passing word. “That girl was fourteen years old, you fuck. You say you’re different, that you don’t value human life; well I know that’s how you’ll play it in court. You’ll plead to the jury with sober eyes, you’ll get the best lawyer money can buy. If your wallet can’t get you out of this, you’ll get off on an insanity plea.” “Smart boy,” Vincent answered. “So what are you going to do about it? Plant evidence on me? Force a confession so you can send me to prison?” “No,” Paul said, looking at the ceiling to fight back tears. “You’re going to get something much, much worse.” Just then, the lights went off. Vincent felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. *This isn’t a police station. Paul isn’t a cop.* The lights came back on, and Vincent was alone. The knife had been removed from the table, replaced with a crumpled Polaroid. A young girl and her father. The same young girl whose screams had echoed throughout Vincent’s apartment just days before; her bloodstains were still on the wall. Vincent leaned forward, and he knew that the man in the picture was the same man who was sitting before him moments earlier. Vincent managed to crack a half smile. *Ok then.* He nodded to himself once. *Good for him.* Vincent leaned back and tried to relax. He knew as soon as that door opened again, his life would probably end. He knew from experience that any struggle or tension in his body would simply prolong the pain. He took in a deep breath and held it. Just then, as the walls seemed to buckle with tension, he realized he hadn’t heard anyone open the door to leave. Vincent managed a short sigh of approval before the lights cut out again.


"A french cheese? Why would anyone do that?" the other cop asked. "Hell, I don't know," said the first cop, "there are weird people out there you know, weird, weird people. But anyway she supposedly couldn't get it out anymore." "It was stuck?" "Yes sir," the first cop nodded, sipping from his coffee and looking into the distance. "My God, that's gross." "At least that's what they think happened. And she must have been too ashamed of it to tell anyone or to go see a doctor and have it removed. She was a high class woman, you know. It probably was stuck in there, quite some time, stinking, rotting, before sunday. You know what these cheeses can smell like when they get ripe." "Eeew." "So she was walking in the park late sundaynight..." "Airing her cunt so to say," said the other cop. They laughed. "Hahaha, yeah airing her cunt, when..." the first cop laughed some more puting his cup on the table, "when this guy... this guy snug up behind her and pulled her into the bushes. Apparently he wanted to rape her, but when he pulled back the curtains..." "That smell, that smell!" "Yeah, that's what they say happened and he must have fled, leaving the classy woman there, lying om the ground." "God..." They where silent for some time, looking at the passing cars. "And what happened then?" "Well, she killed herself. They found her in the attick, mice running in and out of her." "Mice?" "Yes sir." The sun set on the other side of the boulevard. "They like french cheese, you know, mice like french cheese.


If I could have one wish – and I couldn’t wish for money, or to correct past mistakes – here is what I would wish for. I would wish to be outside a party in 1977, the year my mom turned 26. At that time, she was living in a tiny house with her best friend. The friend would later become my godmother, but for now, she was just another single woman teaching at the local high school. Myra taught cooking; my mom taught French. The students called her Madame Green, but she was 5’04”, and already most of them looked older than her. She made up for it by being extremely strict. She had worked hard her whole life, writing out essays by hand three or four times in college before she turned them in. She had dated but never seriously. She was more amused by the pursuit of a man than the acquisition, and often found that once someone reciprocated her feelings, she lost interest. She was six years into a crippling eating disorder that dominated her life, and that she hid from everyone. Still, I imagine she didn’t take herself too seriously. She had short hair and wore little makeup. She looked like the kind of girl who would make you laugh. In pictures, she is always doing that – laughing. The costume parties they threw in that house were epic. People came over in bathing suits, in nun costumes, in nothing at all. I don’t think she would have gotten drunk, at least not in that desperate, modern way. But I think her face would have been red with wine, and she would have talked to you for hours, because she has always been able to talk for hours, about anything. I would wish to meet her outside the party, this red-faced 26-year-old woman, stumbling outside to catch her breath, still shouting something to someone behind her. I would offer her a cigarette and she would say no. We would chat like women do. We would like each other, in that way that blooms from mutual interest and admiration; in the easy trust that precedes real friendship. We would chat about nothing, really. Someone would call to her, and she would excuse herself, to go back inside and carry on with her life.


>The Tumblr text post bot AutoNB posted , and I got a little bit inspired. I look down at my watch. I’m not sure why, I always have an hour. I’ve had an hour until work for quite a while now. I walk outside, and watched the bird. The same bird, floating in the same spot, unmoving. I study its plumage, noting the interesting way the feathers folded in as it brought them in close to its body, forever caught halfway into freefall. I look at the woman in the window who’s been taking off her shirt for who knows how long. I found it erotic once, but time has a way of drawing that away from you. I scoff at myself. Time. That concept no longer applies to me. One day, at roughly 7:43 AM, it stopped. I seem to be the only one unaffected by its stubbornness to continue. I thought about that for a moment; perhaps it was the other way around, I was the only one uncaring to the progression of time. The effects were interesting. I can still interact with the world, but the moment I release something from my grasp it loses all the inertia I should’ve passed to it. At the very least it allows me to eat. Same applies to living things as well. The newspaper boy used to be sitting on his bike. I’ve arranged him to be standing horizontally on the side of a tree, flipping the bird to the ground in defiance of gravity. I still get a chuckle from it every time I see him. I sigh. At first, this was confusing. Then, exciting. I could do whatever I chose with no consequence. I took more advantage of this than I should have, I’m ashamed to admit. After what I assume was a week, it became lonely. I had nobody to speak to, no-one to voice my ideas with. I began to keep a journal of what I’d done and what I could do, in hopes that when— no, if— time decided it wished to quit stalling at some point, I’d at least have records. I make an entry before I sleep every day. I flip back through it; according to the system I’d made for my own records keeping, it had been 477 days since time had halted. Over a year without contact from anyone except the frozen mannequins masquerading as living men. It’s an interesting nightmare. I wonder if I’ll wake up.


The Civilized Pushed out into the dusty arena, Kuru looked around. A roaring crowd surrounded him, but he couldn’t understand a word. Though they obviously weren’t cheering for his victory, they’re cheering for his sacrifice. Rewind, this isn’t where the story begins. In shackles Kuru shuffled along one of the famed roads that lead to Rome, as all the roads did. All the beaten and bruised men of different coloured skin shambled along the road led by the soldiers. Kuru heard someone speak something in front of him. He realized that the words were in a language he didn’t understand. Then he heard the voice cry out in pain. The line of men didn’t slow down at the cry though, they kept marching. Rewind further, something’s still missing. His daughters tanned skin, his wife was teaching her how to work leather. Kuru was watching them as he sharpened his scythe. He smiled, the scene made him remember the times he spent learning from his father. The proper way to sharpen an edge, the best way to swing a blade, his father taught him the right way to do things. Kuru would work in their family’s field with his father and they would talk. That’s where Kuru first learned of Rome; the wondrous city, the running water, the books of letters, of laws and democracy. His memories were interrupted by a scream, then another. Kuru stood up just in time to greet a trio of soldiers as they entered his home, swords already drawn. He saw a flash of iron and was barely able to dive out of the way as the sword came down where he had just been smiling. He got to his feet as his family screamed again. The solider that flashed the iron stood between him and his family as the other two soldiers grabbed his wife and daughter and took them from their home. Kuru was confused, scared and angry, but mostly confused. He didn’t know what was happening. He took a step towards the women he loved but had to jump back to avoid being struck by the iron blade. Kuru had never fought a man, but now he had no choice. Gripping his scythe, he swung attempting to cut the soldiers legs down, but the soldiers bronze leggings stopped the blade short of flesh. Pulling back his scythe, Kuru looked at the man’s face. A smile was on his lips as he swung his sword again, narrowly missing Kuru’s shoulder. Kuru regained his balance in time to catch the soldier’s fist in his stomach. His breath was driven from his lungs. He panicked, his mouth reached for air as he fell to the ground, scythe fleeing his hands. He heard the solider speak, “Roma Invicta” right before he felt the hilt of the sword on the back of his head. Fast forward through the chained march with strangers, a march that lead him to the city he had dreamed about, and ended with him entering into the largest building he had ever seen. Fast forward to after the sword and shield had been forced into his hands and he was shoved into a dusty arena, surrounded by more people he had ever seen, screaming in a language he didn’t understand. The sword in his hands felt heavy and as foreign as the words that the people were shouting. He stepped in a circle, seeing a spectacle that he couldn’t have imagined, Rome. While Kuru didn’t understand the words spoken he could read the faces. They grimaced as they spat angry syllables at him. Fists were directed at him, thumbs pointed downward, fingers sliced throats as he looked at their eyes. Hate, anger, evil was the language they spoke. He feared the mob that surrounded him, prayed that they would be held back by the massive structure. Kuru cringed as the crowd erupted, even louder than they had been, deafening him. A man in a gleaming golden suit of armor stepped out from behind a gate. His muscles rippled beneath the metal, his chiseled face shown only one blemish, a scar from his hairline to his chin. Slowly the earsplitting noise organized into a chant of ‘Spartacus’, their hero, their God. When the man raised his sword in response to their love for him the crowd’s chant devolved back into a thunderous roar. Kuru was at a loss, the sword and shield hung limply at his sides as he watched the spectacle. The scene seemed like a dream to him, no a nightmare. Spartacus, their God, lowered his sword and pointed it in the direction of Kuru who looked to his sides, behind him, looked for what was being pointed at. Then he recognized it was himself. He began to tremble as the people’s idol began an effortless run at him. Kuru was shocked that he was able to get his shield up in time to deflect a blow from being delivered. He thought the force that was delivered may have broken his arm through the metal that protected it. The world broke into flashes of metal on metal, pain and blood. Kuru’s body burned, his chest heaved, blood and sweat dripped from his frame as Spartacus paused to rally his supporters. Even Kuru marveled at what seemed to be a marble carving of a man glistening with perspiration, standing merely feet away with his back turned. Time slowed for Kuru. He breathed in a breath that felt like ice as the peoples God turned, thrusting his sword into Kuru’s middle. Kuru looked up into the cold eyes that held the sword. He was no God, he was a monster. Falling to his knees Kuru looked to his chest, he saw blood leaking from around where the metal entered him. His hands trembled as they slowly reached up to the sharpened blade. In slow motion his fingers wrapped around the blade, red flowing from where they touched it, and pulling the sword out from whence it had entered. Existence spun in Kuru’s eyes, the hard dirt hit his side. As the world faded to black Kuru heard the name of his reaper cheered. So this is civilization, he thought.


The tile is cold against your cheek and you consider porcelain: What is it? Who invented it? Why does it exist? Your Mickey Mouse alarm clock clangs from the bedroom, and the tinny din is still not the long distance call from Tuscaloosa. You wonder how long the bells will clash until the clock devours its batteries. Did you buy the clock as some sort of kitschy satire? You do not remember. If you had a better memory, maybe things would be different. Maybe that was the problem. You consider odds and evens and porcelain and the pills scattered across tile. From your perspective the pills rise like enormous spaceships parked on a weird horizon. Remember: you are not dying. The tile is cold against your cheek and you blink several times. Your eyelids are the synchronized wings of a moth, two dusty skeins fluttering a final time in the deepening cold of autumn. You lie on the cold tile like a rainbow trout, no longer flopping against your lack of water, gasping at lengthening intervals, your color condensing into the slowing pulse of your lungs. You continually think of dying animals. The pills on the floor are just Robotussin PM and you are not killing yourself, you are clumsy. If he came back from Tuscaloosa (stop saying if, there is no if) and found you here, he would mistake your clumsiness for suicide. You would laugh at the thought, if you could remember how. It is a very funny thought. One is odd and two is even, and you are very odd now. You reached for the bottle and the Robotussin PM evaded your uncertain fingers, splattering against the cold tile and spreading little spaceships into the air. Each pill moved independently in the explosion. Each pill went wherever the hell it wanted. Even to Tuscaloosa, if the pill wanted. Each pill was as free as anything. By reflex, you kneeled to pick up the pills, and discovered you could not see straight. Your face was strangely damp. You decided to lie down on the tile, and then at 7:30 in the morning Mickey Mouse tries to tell you about work and you realize that you have been up all night. Mickey has been talking about work for a while now. That may have been minutes or hours or days ago. You are not suicidal you just had to lie down. You think you see an ant navigating the space between the plaster wall and the tile, but it is just lint. Or maybe a spider. You name the spider Jerry. You pray that Jerry is a spider, and that he is not lint, but you know it is too good to be true. It is your fault, assuredly. You really tried this time. God, you really fucking tried. You squint, and Jerry is definitely lint. Oh well.


When I first signed up to join the group of contestants on their mission to mars, I could only hope that I would make it. After about a year I heard back and was picked. I have a degree in computer science which honestly really doesn’t help with much but because I have been working with UNIX for 10 years and the fact that I am very technical they decided it would aid the mission. Apparently most of the systems they use on the ships and in the housing modules all run Linux imagine that. Anyway here I am strapped to this chair shaking like no tomorrow as we enter the atmosphere of Mars. So far there are 5 other people that have landed in the last 24 hours. From what I’ve seen while on approach things are going OK. There seems to be mostly one person doing the talking and reporting a guy named Davis. He is one of the doctors on the trip I met him a few times in training and he seemed cool, I guess he is a psychiatrist. The last report had them all hooked up and starting to deploy the green house gear for building. Everything is automated; I don’t have to do a thing as we land. I radio in and let Davis know that I have landed and will be engaging the rover capabilities of the module to start my advance and eventual connection to the other modules. He seems nonplused about the whole thing, I’m not sure if that is a good sign or a bad sign. We did just get here you would think people would be overly excited. The landing wasn’t too bad, a little bit of a bump at the end. I have to give it to the development team they really did a good job with the ships and modules. The trip here was a long year but there was plenty of entertainment along the way, I’m excited to finally get out and see other people face to face though. After following the navigation screen to where the other modules are I come over a slight hill and can see them. It’s getting dark it should be night soon, the sun is slowly working its way to the horizon. It is beautiful and completely alien here, so much rock and the sky has an odd blue tint to it as the sun sets. Gravity doesn’t seem too bad it takes a little getting used to but I definitely feel lighter. As I pull up to the last pod in the row I can see Davis, none of the others though which is strange. No one is working outside at all, which I would have expected. Connecting to the module went without issue, and I’m excited to start my new life here on Mars. I open the door to greet Davis and what I see is horror. The walls are covered in smeared blood, there are a couple bodies in the corner cut up into pieces. One woman is still alive it looks like but is just silently opening and closing her mouth. As I stand there in shock Davis comes from the side and says “Welcome to Mars!” I’m too slow and in too much shock to move as he hits me full force with a large pipe wrench to the face. I fall back into my module and my head lands on the console facing out towards the sunset. I feel a sharp stabbing repeatedly into my back and stomach area then a slight tugging as some instrument gets stuck. My final thoughts as my life drains from me are, I’m glad I got to see the sunset, it is so beautiful.


(I submitted a story on /r/writingprompts where I had to include the phrase, "She was laying in the bed with the window open and she couldn't stop staring at the moon." Wondering if you guys could offer any feedback.) None of it was my fault. It might've been my ex-wife's fault. I wouldn't have needed the money if she hadn't gotten the house, the kid, and the dog in the divorce. Hell, I bought the goddamn dog before I met her. It might've been my brother's fault. It was his idea that I could make some money on the side by breaking into houses. Mom always said he was trouble. It might've been my boss's fault. The guy get's a 30% cut of what I steal in exchange for security codes and info on when the owners are out of town. 30% of the profit while accepting 0% of the risk. What a prick. He got the codes right but he was wrong about the couple being out of the house. They were there. Maybe it was the husband's fault for coming after me with a baseball bat. I understand that you have to investigate a strange noise in your house but he didn't have to attack me. I didn't want to hurt anyone. But he could've killed me if I hadn't acted. It might've been my girlfriend's fault for insisting I take a knife with me for protection. If I hadn't had the knife, who knows how things would have turned out. That husband might still be alive today. None of it was my fault. Who could blame me for doing what I did? I couldn't just let the man beat me to death with a baseball bat, could I? And I couldn't risk going to jail, could I? I have children to think about. When I went upstairs, I saw the wife. **She was laying in bed with the window open and she couldn't stop staring at the moon.** She knew what had happened downstairs and she knew what was going to happen to her. She knew I couldn't just leave and let her call the cops. If she didn't judge me, then how could you? None of it was my fault.


Thirty-one years, one day, twenty hours and forty minutes my husband and I have been married. Not starting from when we exchanged ceremonious “I Do’s” at the altar on a heady summer day in 1980; no, starting from midnight that night, sipping cheap white wine in a cheap beige dress, the first day of my new life, the beginning of three long decades that would result in me waiting in the cold outside our favourite restaurant, a day after our anniversary, ten minutes late for the reservation. The sun was still lingering around the clouds on the horizon. It was the latest I had seen it all summer; especially in London. Not a single car passed and only the occasional pedestrian stepped on the other side of the street, but I still didn’t notice Joseph until he was standing by my side. It was something you got used to, depending on your relationship with him of course. I stubbed my cigarette into the ground and turned to him, staring with quiet but clear indignation. From the look of Joe you wouldn’t place him in his profession, let alone think he was one of the best. He was skinny, but not tall, content to wearing pullover hoodies and expensive trainers. Hardly appropriate wear. Apart from his wrinkled face and white hair, you’d think him juvenile if his stern eyes didn’t demand respect. He spoke with a deep rumble, betraying his age with a rasping echo, making everything sound intensely morbid. It was depressing for a moment that this man was almost ten years younger than me. “Your husband’s debts have been settled, Mrs McMahon.” It was a cold way to tell me Felix had just been murdered, even for him. “Perhaps we should go inside.” “You’re late, our table’s probably gone by now.” “My apologies, Mrs McMahon.” “*Miss*.


The Cell (Tribute to Kafka) “How did I get here?” I exclaimed. It was a moderately large room, lit by soft electric light. I was walking along, hand brushing the cold walls. I noticed a door that I opened when I came upon it. On the other side was darkness, pure and unadulterated darkness. I peered into it, even leaning my head across the threshold into the blackness of the room. Inside I could see nothing and pulled myself back after a moment. I shut the door. I continued to circle, hand brushing the wall, for I had nothing else to do. I counted fourteen paces to a side. Twelve well timed breaths and I could encircle the whole room. Nothing else was here with me. After the boredom of walking had gotten to me, I returned to the door that led to the darkness and opened it again. Staring into the emptiness I felt an anxiety deep within me. I wondered what the room could contain, could eyes be peering back at me from the other side of the doorway. I stood there; hands braced against the door frame and continued to wonder what could be concealed in the blackness. I felt a cool breeze blow in from the doorway, or maybe I just imagined it, either way my heart seemed to be chilled by the wonder of what was hidden before me. I shut the door again and took a seat on the floor in the center of the well lit room that I occupied. From my seat I passed judgment on my surroundings. I was held by cold stone walls, the same rough stone covered the floor and the ceiling. A small light bulb hung from a wire in the center of the ceiling, and the wooden door stood in the center of a wall. I stood and looked up at the light bulb. It wasn’t anything spectacular, a mere piece of round glass, encasing a fiery filament. But it did shower light down upon the entire room, softening the cold stone walls. The wire that it was attached to seemed to jut directly into the stone above it. I assumed that it was attached to a battery, or possibly directly to an electrical plant. Yet, from my position inside of the room, I could not see where thee wire extended to beyond the ceiling. I reached up, stood on the tips of my toes, but the bulb was out of my range. I wasn’t sure what I would have done if I had been able to touch it, I don’t know how it would have satisfied my curiosity, yet I still attempted it. After my evaluation of my source of light, I turned my attention to the door. It amounted to just that and little more. It was a dark slab of wood with a nob for a handle. The face of the door was as plain as could be; the only detail to be gained by staring at it was to familiarize myself with the pattern of its grain. When I turned the nob a small metal bar pulled inside of the door and allowed it to swing open from the wall, where a small recess remained for when the metal bar was put back into place. There were also two hinges on my side of the door, allowing it to open only in my direction. I pondered the room, the light and the door for as long as I could sanely ponder anything. Yet my thoughts kept circling upon themselves in a more rapid fashion each time. I don’t know when exactly, but I do know that there were times I slept. I recall dreams about the light going out, dreams about hands grabbing at me from the inside of the dark room, dreams of beasts salivating while they begged for me to cross the threshold into the darkness of their lair, dreams that I had in fits, dreams that I would wake up from with screams fresh in my throat and sweat on my brow. Time passed, seconds, hours, weeks, maybe even years. In the room I couldn’t judge the passage of time well at all. I only knew that I had exhausted all of the thoughts that I could possibly have inside of the room. I kept my sanity as well as I could. I wondered why I was here, but was given no reason. I wondered who was responsible for the creation of the room, who made sure the light kept shining, who had built the door, but my mind held no answers. I peered towards the doorway with trepidation. I wished there was a way I could secure it in the closed position better than simply with the little bar that was triggered by the nod, but there was nothing to use to slow it from being opened. Time continued to pass. I could feel old age setting into my body but could do nothing to prevent it from happening. My breaths became shorter and my legs became quickly tired of walking around the room, which took more and more steps to encircle. The light seemed to be further and further from me as days passed. My brain moved slower, trying to evaluate what secretes could possibly be held by the room I occupied. In the end, I lay on the floor, its hard stone being my only comfort. There I closed my eyes. It felt like the light above me finally went out, yet some part of me that was far away knew that it was the light inside of me that flickered before it was extinguished. Only then did I wonder why the darkness of death was less fearful than the darkness of the unknown.


His seventeenth birthday was coming soon. That meant it was almost the tenth anniversary of his first day in the mine. He was seven the first time he plunged into the darkness. The company needed small bodies that could crawl into tiny compartments and plant dynamite. The boy would do this for six years. Malfunctioning dynamite and tunnel collapses had taken most of his friends. But not him. They told him he was lucky. On his thirteenth birthday, the boy was old enough to dig and run machinery. He would do this until he died. Many of the other workers his age were maimed or malformed from their years in the tunnels. But not him. They told him he was lucky. The darkness followed him outside of the mineshaft. The blackness of the coal mine was permanently sunken into his clothes and skin. At night he would cough blackness out of his lungs. Black lung killed dozens every year. But not him. They told him he was lucky. It was by chance that the boy remembered his approaching birthday. Alone in the shaft, driving his pick into the wall, lost in monotony, he happened upon the thought. At that same moment, he saw a sparkle in the ground. His lamp had given out and he was relying on natural light coming from the shaft exit just overhead. The boy leaned over and looked at the mysterious object. He had never seen a diamond before. All the same, he was hypnotized by its beauty in the blackness of the mine. He felt blessed to see such a beautiful object. Perhaps he was lucky after all. The boy wrapped his fingers around the object and pulled it from the dirt. Suddenly, the floor gave out below him. No one had discovered the cavern underneath the tunnel. He didn't remember screaming as he plunged deeper into the blackness. The boy landed on his back and felt the wind leave his lungs. He was so far from the light. He knew he would die. But he did not despair. As he lay on his back, staring at the small light above him, all he could do was laugh. He never had to return to the mine again. He was finally free. For the first time in his life, the boy felt lucky.


Eugene was tired. It was four o'clock, Friday the 29th, and he had to post his rent by five. His scumbag landlord; a sweaty, short Italian named Leon was threatening to kick him out for the third time in as many months. Eugene was out collecting debts from customers. Eugene considered himself a modern businessman, pulling himself up by the bootstraps in the greatest place in the world, the city of New York. He loved New York, but the feeling wasn't mutual; He called himself an 'Entrepreneur', the City of New York preferred the term 'Drug Dealer'. Eugene stood in the cramped, poky sitting room, trying not to move or breathe. Every available surface was covered in cats. Cat figurines on the small worn coffee table, cat pictures on the walls, magazines about cats, cat baskets, cat scratching posts, a cat clock on the wall, and of course an actual, real life cat. Though the moniker cat was loosely applied here: The thing was about as big as a dog, and as ugly as a sewer rat. It stared Eugene down with its one eye, almost daring him to move closer so it could pounce and sink its claws and teeth into him. He'd been on the wrong end of it before and still bore the evidence to prove it. He hated that bastard cat. The cat leapt, and Eugene instinctively flinched, but it wasn't an attack, it instead landed in the lap of the old woman sitting on the frayed couch, settled in and began to purr, its eyes fixed again on Eugene and he tried to ignore it. A tiny withered hand appeared from within the purple shawls and layers and began to stroke it idly. The other hand held a slim cigarette, absent-mindedly shedding ash and embers like little snowflakes on the threadbare carpet. She exhaled like a death rattle, blowing blue smoke into the air where it hung like a thick fog and made Eugenes' nostrils burn and his eyes water. "So, Ive got your order here, and well.." Eugene fumbled in his messenger bad and produced a little shoebox, pulling out the bag of weed, ".. its coming up to the end of the month and I think we should talk about your tab". He tossed the bag into the faded china bowl on the table (Cat shaped) and disappeared the box back into the messenger bag. The old woman pursed her lips and she sucked on the cigarette, a long draw burning it almost down to the filter, before discarding it in an ashtray on the arm and immediately lighting another. "Ah, dah, dah, boy" she drawled in her rough slavic accent. "Is tough time for me and the little Pushkin" she scratched the cats ears and it let out a rumble of enjoyment. "Many cold nights. Many bills for the heat and light, so the money is tight, yes?". "Look, I get that, but I've got bills that need paying too, see?" She pursed her lips and pulled on the cigarette again, avoiding Eugenes gaze, staring instead at the ancient television in the corner, its screen dulled by years of smoke and dust, as if simply refusing to acknowledge Eugene would make him disappear. He sighed, exasperated: "Listen" he started, "I'm not leaving here without my money, ok? If you cant pay it all right away, thats fine, just give me something, anything, so I can get on my way and keep the wolves from my door." She scoffed, and mumbled something about Eugene not knowing what wolves at the door was really like, but he ignored it. The cat jumped down from the babushkas lap and skulked around the furniture, Eugene made a mental note to be worried, it looked like it was trying to flank him behind the couch. He side stepped around the coffee table to put some kind of barrier between him and it. The elderly lady had lit another cigarette, and was studiously ignoring him. He bent down and picked up a small silver statuette of two cats playing with a ball of yarn from the end table. "How about this" he said, holding the figurine out for the woman to see, "Ill take one of these, and pawn it to cover your expenses, and we'll clear the rest of the debts, but from here on out, we deal in cash only. Upfront payment. Deal?" The elderly woman leapt from the settee with speed and ferocity that startled Eugene, he stepped back, bumping into a musical box that plinked a few notes of an East-European folk tune. The elderly womans face was inches from his, eyes ablaze, and teeth bared. "You would take from me!? An old woman?! What could you take from that Stalin and his army did not?" Eugene backed away as she spat on the ground and hurled insults in her mother tounge. As he moved, he felt something soft brush against his leg and he remembered the cat as it launched its attack. Tumbling backwards over the couch in a flurry of fur and arms, Eugene came up quick and bolted for the door. The elderly woman cut him off, blocking the door wielding a ancient and metal tipped walking cane. She let out a ferocious battle cry and swung the stick, he ducked, diving across the couch as the stick collided with a shelf, shattering the figurines and raining shards of glass and porciline down on him. He scrambled to his feet, right as the cat, who had positioned itself on the back of the couch, leaped into the air aimed at him. In a panic, Eugene lashed out with his foot. He connected with the feline predator, punting it across the room, it sailed through the air, twisting in a panic as it tried to right itself, but its efforts were in vain. With a splintering crash, the cat burst through the small curtained window and disappeared into the void with an ear splitting howl. Eugene froze for a second. The apartment was deathly quiet, except for the low hum from the ancient television, and then he heard the faint -thump-. "Fuck." The old woman erupted in a moan that escalated to a wail, and then full blown howling agony as she crossed the room, her gnarled hands framing her face, to look out the window. Eugene took this moment of distraction to make his exit. He tried to not look at the tangled lump of silk and fur that sat on the pavement outside the apartment building, from the corner of his eye it looked like the cat was snugly wrapped in a blanket, and sleeping in the afternoon sun. He hurriedly limped towards the subway station, his hands clutching the small silver figurine of the two cats playing with the ball of yarn. He promised himself he would get the old woman a new cat, and he made a mental note to clear her debt entirely. Behind him on the pavement, the silk curtain stirred slightly.


A man named Ned sat in his arm chair and read printed words on a collection of paper. He enjoyed his books and his slow secluded life. He lived in a small house out in the country and watched the sunrise every morning and took walks through the woods at sunset. He wrote long, well thought out letters to his loved ones and cultivated friendships like the the crops in his garden. Since he didn't have many visitors he occupied his free time with the books from his parents collection. Hundreds of times he had read these stories and he cherished every one. When he didn't feel like reading he would often go somewhere quiet and reflect on his life and the things around him. When Ned did have to go into town he avoided gossip and mostly made polite small talk with his distant neighbors. Ned didn't dislike people, he merely disliked their habits of creating problems. His world was small but it was beautiful and Ned wouldn't have traded it for anything. But then one day Aptus, the vengeful god of the Net and lord of the cats appeared at his door. "NED LUDD!" howled Aptus. "FOR TOO LONG HAVE YOU ALLUDED ME!" "YOU REMAIN INDEPENDENT OF MY WIDE WORLD OF WEBS. NEVER HAS A COMMENT BEEN POSTED NOR A MEME BEEN SPREAD BY YOUR ABSENT USERNAME. I AM APTUS, NED LUDD, AND I DEMAND SACRIFICE! I DEMAND PARTICIPATION! DID YOU EVEN SEE MILEY CYRUS AT THE VMA's?" "Huh?" answered Ned. "FOR YOUR HUBRIS I DAMN YOU NED LUDD, TO AN ETERNITY OF SURFING. YOU HAVE LIVED YOUR LIFE OFFLINE AND NOW I CURSE YOU TO A LIFE OF CONNECTIVITY!" And with a wild laugh Aptus touched Ned's forehead. He heard a horrible noise and suddenly Ned was lifted off his feet and sucked into a series of tubes. Ned flew through into this horrible new world, bombarded by noise, words, pornography and pictures of cute animals. Suddenly it all stopped and Ned found himself lying in a landscape devoid of anything but a single play button. Cautiously Ned approached it, fearing what it might do. Tentatively he pushed the button and before him appeared a dancing, singing Korean man wearing glasses and a suit. "I don't understand!" cried Ned. "Oppa Gangnam Style" replied the man. Ned turned to run but everywhere he fled he was haunted by this horrible man and his terrible song. "Forgive me Aptus!" Ned pleaded to the heavens. But Aptus merely laughed at the man and retweeted his suffering.


They were sitting on the floor playing video games, laughing about how terrible she is at the game. She watched his face light up with a laugh and it was as though time slowed down. She saw his smile spread through his lips, up to his eyes. It seemed genuine. In this moment, like each time they talk, Charlotte had a crippling fear that bubbled within her throat; it was as though her mind will have the words planned out, but her heart will say something entirely different. Do something different, something bad. Something that could be so detrimental to her social life, ripping it from its very roots and throwing it into a deep valley of Netflix and takeout on a Saturday night. Each time they come face to face, this very threat is there. One mistake, one wrong look could change things forever. She knew this was long coming, this love that was built upon drunken nights, early mornings, awful professors, and ever-lasting sexual tension—a love that came to be in college. Freshman year is where it all started for Charlotte. It was an innocent encounter, a merging of two groups of friends the first night of college. She ended up in his room, in Henry’s room, that night with several other people they had met. From there, it was inevitable. She had been used to busy day in high school, full of class, extracurricular activities, and of course studying. He was used to school and studying, and a strict social life, or lack thereof. So when the two finally emerged from their tight schedules of high school, they landed into this world of empty hours and open bars. The only thing that stopped this pair from sprinting into a whirlwind relationship was the fact that Henry had a girlfriend, a girl whom Charlotte actually knew from elementary school. Henry and her had been together for at least a year prior to entering this extraordinary life that is college. Having a girlfriend never stopped this friendship. He always texted Charlotte, asking if she was free for dinner, or wanted to study together. This trend continued for so long, so many of those empty hours were spent together doing nothing; playing video games, talking about nonsense. Soon they grew so comfortable together, their conversations changed. They drifted from discussions based around schoolwork and friends, to the girlfriend and sex. Oh, the conversations about sex were in plenty, he knew what she liked and what she wanted. She knew what he had trouble with in regards to his girlfriend, and she ever so dutifully gave him advice to help the couple in bed. The advice about the girlfriend was not limited to sexual advice however. Henry asked Charlotte about real, emotional relationship issues. She actually had the opportunity to tell him to break up with the girlfriend several times, but she stayed true to being his friend and helped work them out. While sex, or at least the intriguing topic of sex, was a prominent focus in their friendship, the conversations about themselves and family are what stood out the most. She talked about her depressed father, and how that put such a strain on her family. He held her when she cried about losing a friend. She smiled and laughed and he talked about his old pets, and his cute sister. It took him longer though, longer to open up to her. He told her that she was the only one to know some things about him. About how he had been depressed for so long, how he hates being alone, how very few things make him happy. She wanted to make him happy, she wanted to be the reason he smiled. She saw him smile and laugh so often, but she could only wonder if it was all an act, or if she did in fact make him laugh. He did not know though, he was unaware of the things she wished for, oblivious to how he made her feel. This unawareness that Henry held in regards to Charlotte was obvious by his manners, if only he knew how she felt. Sometimes the two would walk into an empty room and he would declare that they should fuck. It was all a joke of course, a joke to him. To her, it was as though someone was slowly breaking her heart—anyone could see it behind her plastered on smile, not Henry though. He became her worst enemy and her ultimate fantasy all rolled into one. She wanted him to be so much, to be there for her in a way that means more than friendship, to make her smile and cry with joy. She knew in her heart that he would never be those things. Charlotte was aware that he was sexually attracted to her, he was never vague about that. One night, she confessed to him that while she joked about sex all the time, all she really wanted was love. He said he understood and they chatted about it for a while. Later that same night though, he told her about how he and his roommate had come to the decision that Charlotte would be a solid lay. Such conversations were not unusual. Once, when they were gathered with a group of friends, they jokingly speculated on whether or not Henry and Charlotte would make a good couple. Henry stated that they would, at least for a month because it would all be physical. Each one of these was a blow to her. A reminder that he did not see her as anything more than a friend and would never be anything more than that. All of these memories came crashing back to Charlotte as she watched him laugh while playing video games. It has been over a year and it is time for her to move on, she knows that because they’re friendship will never be more than what it is. From their first meeting, it was inevitable, not friendship nor love, but heartbreak.


The first day of the revolution was not a happy one. Many of my neighbors were grey with anxiety as we lined up outside City Hall. It had been less than an hour since the military police had thrown down their weapons and surrendered. About a dozen men emerged from the destroyed police station with their arms raised. None were spared. For many of my friends, it was their first time committing murder. You could see it on their faces. Their lips quivered and their eyes sunk under the weight of their Catholic guilt. Despite all their talk, my friends did not yet have the stomach for murder. But I did. There are many reasons why I was the de facto leader that day as we marched on City Hall. I had always been vocal dissident. I had lost my family and my farm to the regime. There was an American reporter in the village and I spoke the best English. Despite this, I suspect that I was able to lead because I was the only one in the village who had killed before. The thought makes my mouth go dry, but I fear it is true. Numbness to violence may be all a leader needs. When we arrived at City Hall, I had the men of the town form an orderly line in front of the building. They stood ready with makeshift weapons; mostly gardening equipment. The men who had not fired a shot at the police station were placed closest to the door. They needed to share the responsibility of the revolution. They needed to taste murder. The mayor and his staff did not leave the building immediately. My friends and neighbors grew impatient under the Latin American sun that beat down on them. I heard them muttering to each other, “Why don’t we drag them out?” or “Can’t we just burn this building down?” I continued to wait. It would be better this way. After some time, the mayor emerged. He exited the building alone but, as he closed the doors behind him, we could see his staff waiting inside with terrified faces. I stood closest to the door, away from the ranks of townspeople standing before the building. The mayor dabbed the sweat from his light-brown forehead and approached me. He was dressed in his best clothes. I had forgotten that it was Sunday. As the fat man came to a stop before me, I addressed him by his fist name, “Good afternoon, Guillermo.” “And to you, Señor Alvaro,” he replied in a calm, subdued voice. The only other man near us was the American reporter. He scribbled in his notepad, trying to translate despite his weak grasp on the Spanish language. “It is a lovely day, isn’t it,” the mayor said, as if to himself. “They are waiting,” I said, pointing to the crowd. “They do not look very eager, Señor Alvaro. They seem more afraid than I am.” “Then I will give them strength. That is what a true leader does.” “A true leader,” Guillermo said thoughtfully. “Tell me, Señor Alvaro, are there any members of the military police still alive?” I shook my head. “Once the capital hears of this, they will burn this village to the ground. No amount of leadership can save you from their army. They will destroy each of those men and their farms. They will rape their wives and slaughter their children.” “These are desperate times, Guillermo. You have pushed us to this level.” Guillermo nodded sadly. “I am sorry you think that.” The mayor looked up at the gentle clouds and asked, “Is there any way I could convince you to spare the rest of the men in City Hall?” I shook my head again. “I didn’t think so.” Guillermo sighed before speaking again. “Very well. Give me a moment to prepare myself and I will go.” “The people have waited long enough,” I said. “You go now.” “You arrogant child,” Guillermo said, looking at me with scorn, “thinking you can command a dead man.” The mayor looked at the crowd for a few seconds. Nobody spoke. Even the wind was silent. “Are you ready?” I asked after almost a minute had gone by. “No,” Guillermo said. “But I will go anyway. I encourage you to spare the rest of the men in City Hall. The army may be more lenient if you make this compromise.” “There will be no compromise,” I declared with conviction. “Maybe greed has corrupted your judgment, Guillermo, but we will not show compassion for evil men. As long as we fight for a just cause, no army in the world can defeat us. That is something you can never understand.” He did not look at me with disgust, anger, or disdain. Looking into his eyes, I saw sadness. “Tanto orgullo,” he said to me. “Te destruirá, hijo.” Without another word, he walked towards the crowd. The men raised their weapons, but none wanted to take the first swing. The mayor did not slow. It looked as if he would walk right through the crowd. At last, one man brought a shovel down on Guillermo’s head. He fell to one knee as blood shot from the wound. Another man struck him in the side and the mayor was on his back. The mob began to form a circle around him. “What was the last thing he said?” the American reporter said behind me. “Such pride,” I said as I watched the bloodlust spread through the crowd. “It will destroy you, child.


Patrick was about a mile out to sea in one of those rugged, plastic, yellow kayaks. He had already had more than a few drinks that afternoon thanks to the all-inclusive food and drink policy at the resort. Looking back for a second, with the double edged paddle resting over his legs, the shore was distant, and maybe it was the alcohol, but it wasn't that scary to be that removed from the shore's safety. At that distance, the waves had died down and were rather mild; they were more of a drift than anything else. The water was a deep blue and the ocean floor was no longer visible. The air smelled entirely like seawater and really the only sound he could hear was a faint breeze against his ears. During that moment he realized how alone he was. A mile away from anyone else, a totally remote maritime vastness, completely unoccupied, lay ahead of him, and he was totally occupying that space individually, and it just felt, well it felt free. It was like a moment of Zen, or experiencing the Tao; it was a removal from society, at least mentally, and was the first thing he had ever experienced anywhere near those lines. The sun above was burning his skin, he knew he would have a sunburn after this was all over, but it didn't matter. Scooping up some of the ocean's water, he cupped it over his head. The cooling effect was like a physical ecstasy. It could have been a minute or it could have been thirty minutes but as soon as this bliss started it began to creep back like coming down from a high. He knew it was an inherently fleeting experience. “What is another mile?” he thought “let's do one more and I'll turn back to shore.” Some reasoning set in, far, far, back in his consciousnesses, but the experience was too fresh. “Fuck it” he thought, and started to put his paddle back into the water.


Betty turns and kisses her husband. First on the forehead then one for love on his bottom lip. She couldn't tell if what she smelled was her morning breath or him and she didn't care. Sometimes the things you hate end up being the things you miss the most. Betty takes his arm from around her and sets it next to him then stretches a little before getting out of bed. She makes her way through their bedroom tripping over clothes and shoes she had left on the floor the night before. The only light was a beam trickling in from between the curtains and Betty throws them open. "Rise n shine!", she says, seeing her husband laying there; the blanket pulled up to his chest. "Oh Sam.", said Betty, at that moment wanting more than ever for him to still be alive.


She was wearing a black t-shirt, tight jeans, and a gray mesh drape. That was on the first night I kissed her. She shook a little bit. She was nervous, and I missed her mouth. We laughed and looked at the ground nervously. That was on our first date. We laid on a blue blanket for most of the day, in the grassy opening next to Kelly Drive in Philadelphia. I remember how easily conversation flowed. I remember being worried that I was talking too much: not giving her enough time to answer. I remember the breeze coming off the river and her perfume. I remember our first anniversary. We were with our friends in a cabin in the Pocono Mountains. The house was so tucked back into the forest we thought it was the perfect setting for a horror movie. We left the window open at night, and it got so cold she made me put my arms into her shirt holes to keep her warm. I remember how everything slowly fell apart. I moved to Philadelphia permanently. She had her own goals to accomplish in Happy Valley. Sometimes we fought over something, and sometimes we fought over nothing. Late nights out to dinner and casual dates around town turned to lying on the couch and watching TV. She liked to spend time with her friends more than spending it with me. I liked to spend time with my friends more than spending it with her. When I cheated on her I felt no remorse for weeks. It wasn’t really cheating anyway. I had already been planning on ending the relationship for months. It took four weeks to realize I had thrown a four-year relationship away, but my mind was set. I was proud of the way I ended things. I refused all of her calls and ignored all attempted interaction. We were too young. Now I’m standing outside of what seems like a festival. Purple flowers line a walkway to an enormous tent about half a football field away. I can hear children laughing, but they are being hushed. My brand new Audi RS5 is neatly reversed into a spot behind me. I’m wearing my best suit from Brooks Brothers. I even grew my sideburns out like she preferred. I hate my sideburns. I had told her to wait back then. I told her to make sure she wanted me, to make sure she wouldn’t find anyone better. I never thought she would take me up on that offer. I told her we needed to find success apart from one another. I found it. For some reason all of the money didn’t seem so important now. It takes a bit of talking to get into the wedding. She had hired one of her brother’s friends as an usher. He recognizes me. I promise him I won’t say a word to anyone inside. I just ask to be able to see them take their vows. He is visibly drunk and caves quickly. The vows are beautiful. She is beautiful. I see her parents again for the first time in three and a half years from across the crowd. Her mother is an emotional wreck, and her dad seems like he wants to be. There are a lot of unfamiliar faces. They must be his family. After four years you know everyone in a family: Your family. No one pays me mind. I don’t think they recognize me. I was not in shape the last time they had seen me and nowhere near as well dressed. Maybe they just don’t remember me. I thought it was going to be easy to interrupt the wedding. They don’t actually say that line anymore, though. The one I’m talking about. There is no specific opening for me to interject. Instead I watch him kiss her. She seems to like it more than I remember her liking my kisses. I cringe. It is her wedding after all. I cried. The two families and their friends hoot and holler. Her father and his father hug and clink glasses. I wonder how it would be if my father had been there instead. She was crying. He might have been. She started to scan the crowd, waving and smiling ecstatically. I still stood in the back of the tent. It was time for me to leave. I would trade every job offer, one-night stand, and dollar to stand where he stands. You can’t buy everything. Her sister recognizes me as I pass by the open bar. She must have been working her way towards it as the crowd celebrated. She grabs my arm gently. “Christian…?” Her face looks worried. A mix of happiness and fear start to take over. I smile. I wave; pull my arm from her grasp. I hold my finger to my lips. “Our Secret.” She covers her mouth, turns around, and walks away. As I turn I see her order a drink from the bar. I guess this isn’t like the movies. I guess it isn’t normal to show up to a girl’s wedding uninvited: particularly if you planned to marry her yourself before. I laugh to myself. I wonder what could have happened if I had arrived earlier, if I drank more, if I did interrupt the wedding. I wonder how many fists, kicks, and elbows would have met my face. I walk outside and lean against the back of my car. I do not want to be seen by any early departures. I pull out my last cigarette and wait for the tears to stop. She hated me smoking. I try to tell myself it is all worth it. I still have the money, the career, and the lifestyle. I don’t have my best friend anymore, but she has hers. That feels okay to me. She always said you couldn’t have your cake and eat it too. The paper butt starts to burn. I flick it. Time to go. I stand up and stretch. The tears are dry. I turn around and he is standing there. He’s smoking a cigar with someone I don’t recognize. Thank god. I don’t know why, but I decide to strike up a conversation. He has no idea who I am. I guess she really never talked about me. We talk for almost half an hour. I’m surprised no one has realized he’s missing yet. He’s a better guy than me through and through. He’ll have time for the kids. “You got a good one. Don’t let her go.” He puffs from his cigar as I crouch into my car. A smile sits wide across his face. “Never.” I believe him.


You hear about it all the time now, I mean, people just started disappearing. Kids first. Easy targets I guess. You'd hear stories about girls who disappeared in the woods of Maine. Inner-city kids, vanishing. All over the place. Just gone. We knew. I mean deep down, we did. Something in our psyche expressed it in our culture. Subtle shit, movies where children were possessed or disappear. Slenderman, I guess, was I guess the big one for a while, but that was years ago. Back before shit really started to get bad. My name is Ian. The reason I know about this stuff, about what's really going on, is because when my daughter was nine she was taken from me. Not by some monster, not by some disease or accident. If only she was so lucky. She was taken by the government. She was taken from me and experimented on and now, I don't even know. Okay, let me tell you how it all started. Actually, I can't really tell you how it started, the law books have been locked up a long time now, decades. But I can tell you what I think happened. You know those laws, the big ones, the long motherfuckers that nobody spends the time reading. Well. Shit started getting added in, bit by bit, stripping us of our rights. Nothing horrifying at first. No big jumps, nothing drastic, and like a bunch of frogs in hot water we just sat there and took it. Like we were the lucky ones in the Jacuzzi. She was eligible. That's the word they used: "Eligible." Like she was the luckiest kid in school because we were allowed to pay for healthcare. You know, she was never really all that sick. That's the fucking thing. Just a little cough, never bad, and she had really dry skin. God, she hated that, she just wanted to have nice skin. She'd see the pictures of these beautiful models, and she'd come home from school and tell me that one day that was going to be her. She wanted to look like that. She had the prettiest smile too. I'll never forget that, must have been pretty much the best damn thing in the world. But you don't know the stuff they do. You get there, and it's this beautiful facility and the people at the desk are exceptional. And they take your picture and you get this slick looking white card. On every one I've ever seen these people have these smiles. Like there isn't anything that could go wrong with the world. The kind of smile that says "Okay, I'm here. I made it. I finally made it." and we wait, and we wait, and we wait. and when they finally do see us they won't let her see the doctor with me in the room, because I wasn't "eligible." And she looked at me, with this little scared, sad smile. And gave me this little nod. Like it was all going to be okay, because she was going to be brave. And the door slid closed. And that's the last time I ever really saw my Anna.


I didn't think he would do it. I looked into his eyes, and he looked back with a sort of acceptance. he was holding himself up over the edge. As the hand opened and he began to fell I saw a moment where he mouthed my name, and his eyes conveyed something to me. He fell, and he fell. At one point he would die, but neither him nor me new when. This was the perfect death for him. Dropped into a pit of his deepest passion. His death put me in a deep depression. Everyone expected it of me when they heard what had happened. But they did not expect the actions I would take and what I would achieve out of my downward spiral. Some might say that I tryed to follow him in his descent. Only I knew what I had seen in his eyes that day. With my arms over my head I sat by a table. Nowhere special. noone special. People have allways passed by, some with more significance than others, like passing anecdotes of varying importance. At first I wished for someone to pull me out and free me, but as I sat there by that table, with my arms covering me from the blandness of my world I felt nothing. I felt so little that I was at first shocked by my apathy, but I learnt to surpress that as well. In the bag next to me I had a weapon. It was waiting for me, longing for my hand to grip at it, to caress it. I let my arm fall towards the bag. I kept my eyes closed. I breathed slowly. I reached down and pulled it out. With my eyes shut I pushed the table away. I began to dance. my fingers grasped hard around my weapon, and my moves were as random and as gracefull as the feelings I had repressed. I counted my steps. The hallway was familiar to me, yet I was not certain of where I was going. I never did know anything, i just knew what I didn't feel and what was denied to me. I would grasp it. I would take this one chance. She never saw me as that kind of person. at night when the wind blew and we heard the wild animals in the distance, and the cool breeze of the night welcomed us I allways saw in her eyes and her soul that she was content, and I knew that was her failure. Or was It mine? It depends on what you see as important in life. "What are you thinking?" She would ask me. This question again. I would smile, and say "you" or something similar. I loved her. I tried to love her. I stuck with her for she was what I needed. I was what she needed. We had our different reasons, but we were allways on the same path. the cold began to take us. Yet she continued to smile. As she fell asleep I went inside. I saw our son. He lay on the sofa, sleeping silently with not a worry on his face. I cried that night. Whenever I saw her smile, his kindness or the happyness they expressed i felt a deep sadness. But I did not let it show. It would only give away what would happen. One night the old man visited us. I saw that same look in his eyes. the one he gave me before. The one I allways saw. I held my weapon again that night and I danced with what I hid.


The choice was simple. I could pull the trigger, one shot, and I could save my family. Everyone but her, the only one I truly loved. Were they worth it? Were those who pushed me down, made me a depressed lonely soul worth saving just so I could save the few I love? I checked the time on my watch. 3:48. 12 minutes left. I clicked off the safety, and walked up to her. "I want you to shoot, honey. I'll be with you up there, someday. I'm not worth all of their lives. Not all of them. I love you, but you have to let go," she whispered to me. I started sobbing, and sat there for what seemed like only a minute, just to spend her last moments of her life with her. I checked the watch again. 3:55. I was running out of time, I had to choose. I was torn, and no decision would leave me happy. I paced around the room, trying to find a solution, to make things right, to not have to make the choice that would eventually kill me either way, that was all my fault in the first place. It was 3:58. 2 more minutes. I pulled the gun up to her head. "I'm sorry for this. I'm sorry for everything, for all of this. It wasn't your fault. I love you." I felt the trigger for awhile, and just thought. Thought about what I was going to do, thought about what I could do. I took the gun, put it up to her head, and slowly pushed down on the trigger.


I can only imagine what it must be like to smell fresh wild flowers in bloom or the sound made by autumn leaves blowing in an October breeze. How it must be to feel fresh snow fall upon a frozen face or the taste of a cool rush of ice cream against a tongue warmed by a southern summer. For though I have created these things and done so in hopes of perfection I will never see them or anything my brush has painted for that is my curse. To create something so beautiful and marvelous as life, yet never to live it myself . Merely to have the knowledge that is there, somewhere just out of sight. My children spend there whole lives trying to live as if me, but if only they knew my one true wish was simply to live as if them.


I've been writing letters to my future self for a while now. This is one that I recently found from a while ago, and it really hit home for me. ********************************* Dear future self, One day, you will take her for granted. One day, she will just be a normal part of your life, part of your routine. You will think that since you've been together for so long, you won't need to even try anymore. When that day comes, I want you to come back to this journal and read this passage, because I have a few things to say to you. Firstly, fuck you. You're an asshole. You'll probably try to rationalize taking her for granted, telling yourself that you're still a good guy and it's her fault for not trying harder. Don't delude yourself, you're an asshole and you need to accept it. You are the antagonist. Secondly, stop and think. Think of before you met, and how lonely you were. Think of those late summer nights that you spent alone, outside, on the deck of your porch just wishing you had someone to share your feelings with. Think of how happy she had made you when you first spoke, and how ecstatic you had been when she told you that she liked you. Think about how in-love you were, once upon a time, and about how you wanted nothing else but to show her sweet, romantic gestures just to make her smile. And finally, think of her. Think of how she must feel now that you no longer open the door for her, or kiss her on the forehead, or tell her she's beautiful. Just stop and think. Lastly, if you're truly out-of-love with her, try to fall back in. Remember those simple, happy moments: staring at each other from across the room, and laying on the grass, and talking walks and holding hands. Remember why you fell in love in the first place. Remember how that old couple responded when they were asked, "How have you two managed to stay in love for so long?" "We just never fell out of love at the same time." Lastly, remember that if none of that works, it may be time to let her go. Even though it scares you, even though you fear change, quit being a pussy and just tell her. If you can't keep her happy, let her find someone else that will. These are your rules of love, future self. Remember them.


(This is a crosspost, I wrote this as a response to a writing prompt in the "Writing prompt" subreddit.) Rumors once said that there was a place in the Kowloon Walled City, where you could write a message to the past. People whispered about it in hushed tones. You could ask people where to find this place, but all who speak of it, won't know. And those who know, won't speak of it. When I first heard of it, I had overheard an angry old Cantonese man rambling to himself as he walked down the damp, dark hallway to his apartment. Like any other hallway in the Walled City, it was grungy as hell. Sparks screeched out of loose wiring pinned to the wall. A dim yellow bulb hung bare like a hangman from a wire. It flickered, casting light to the blackened walls and floor, water dripping everywhere. I was walking back to my apartment too, and had to follow this old man through the narrow hallway. He was a neighbor in a sense. Everyone in this goddamn city was a neighbor in a way. When you have to rub your dirty grimy elbows with every other monkey in this fuckin cage, I guess it makes you all neighbors. I had heard this old guy was crazy. I'm talking about a - staring at a wall, screaming curse words, and then curling into a ball in a pool of your own piss - kind of crazy. Word was, a year ago, he kicked his grandson out of the apartment, told him to find a job, and provide some income for the family. The kid goes out, tries to join a gang the next day. The kid tries to rob someone as initiation into the gang, but instead gets brutally murdered. Something like that. The kid was gone. I heard the old man's wailing night after night, until he resolved to whimpers every night, and finally a desolate silence. He's completely mad now. But as I walked behind him that night, I heard a certain determination in his voice. I couldn't understand the guy perfectly, I only knew a few words of cantonese myself, being a foreigner. But I started paying attention to his quiet rambling. It sounded like he was speaking to someone. Asking questions, chuckling, telling stories. Strange was typical for him, but I could tell something was very off. That's when I heard him slip the words. "Cafe Minerva". I've never heard this man speak a word of english before today, in the 4 years that I've lived next to him. I've heard him yelling at his pet cat, heard him buying things at the market, heard him muttering to himself. Even heard him through the walls when he hired that hooker from the first floor. But never have I heard him use a single word outside of Cantonese. He reached his apartment, and fumbled with his keys. He giggled when he finally found the key. Unlocking the door, he went in. A few days later, I was having a drink with another white friend who resided in this shit cavern of a city. We sloshed down beers as we watched the football game on a tiny television screen near the top floor of the east side, the game barely recognizable on the screen through the static. The smoke from our cigarettes swirled in the sticky air, and glowed under the neon lights that lit the dim room. The neon light flickered on and off, like the stuttering soul of this dilapidated city. "You ever heard of a place called 'Cafe Minerva'? " I asked my friend. He frowned and ashed his cigarette in his empty bottle. "I've heard some stories about it. They say it's the Devil's front door. I've no idea where it is exactly though." He was fluent in Chinese and Cantonese, unlike me, so he had a much better idea of what was spoken in these dark corridors. We were both ex-pats, globetrotting, and met a series of unfortunate circumstances that got us stuck in this city. "I heard old man Chang muttering something yesterday as he went home, and he mentioned 'Cafe Minerva'. It unnerved me for some reason." I told him. "You would think I'd be used to his craziness by now." "Well, they don't tell you much about it, they get especially hushed around white guys like us, but I heard about it when I was getting a haircut at Leung's shop on the seventh floor. Some lady next to me was telling her barber that there was a place where you could write a message on the wall, and whatever you wrote would be sent to your past self as a message. Sounded like some folklore bullshit to me, so I didn't pay too much attention" he explained. "Did you catch where they said it was?" "Not exactly. She mentioned the North side of the city, near the middle floor." I nodded. We watched the rest of the football game in silence. Several days later, I was headed to the North side of the city, trying to find the shoe smith who could repair my dress shoes. I was hoping to land a job interview soon outside of this city; to finally have a chance to get the hell out of here. But the only nice shoes I had were a pair of leather dress shoes that were pretty torn up, that I got for the price of a meal and a half. I had to get it fixed. I wandered the halls, hoping to see the Chinese symbols for "Shoes" that my friend had written on a piece of paper for me, so that I could find the shoe smith. The air was thick, and smelled like oil and moss, a damp scent that bothered my nose. No matter, I kept on searching, wandering the halls, until something caught my eyes. It was an old sign, something that looked like it had come from an European coffee shop a decade ago. It was made with wood and metal, and had a simple picture of a coffee cup engraved on it, with steam rising from the cup. My skin crawled when I read the words... 'Cafe Minerva'. The sign was mounted on the wall, a dark corner at the end of an empty corridor filled with garbage. Barely noticeable, I was surprised I saw it at all. Yet it looked so out of place, this sign, surrounded by boxes with chinese characters on it, and all the other garbage that this city could produce. My gaze fell on the wall under the sign. Handwriting covered the grimy wall, markers, pens, and a few people had even engraved their words with a knife or stick. The entire wall was covered, words over words, messages over messages. There was no way to read any individual message, as words were written over each other over the years. My eyes scanned them all, my mind still trying to comprehend what I had found. It was like an insane asylum's message board. Near the bottom, I found a familiar handwriting. They were basic words in Cantonese, and I understood them. I pieced them together. "The greatest gift is life" it read. It was Old Man Chang's handwriting. I could have recognized it anywhere. I saw it on his own apartment's walls whenever I glimpsed into his room when I walked past every day. Shaken, I walked back to my own apartment. When I arrived, I took out my keys, and went in. My apartment had a terrible stench. A stale scent of death lingered heavily. I gagged, almost vomited before I ran out into the hallway. Looking back into my room, I noticed a dark stain on the wall near the floor. It was speckled with dead flies. It looked like an old blood stain, seeping through the wall from Old Man Chang's room. Shaking, I knocked on Old Man Chang's door. Nothing. As the fear crept up my spine, and the world spun in slow motion, I leaned back and kicked in his front door. Immediately I turned and heaved, my vomit splattering on the hallway floor as my senses were overwhelmed with what I saw and smelled in that instant. The withering remains of a man lay on the floor, dried and decomposed blood splattered on the floor around him. Dried blood patterns covered the walls. There were no flies, no maggots. No life in the room, even those who feasted on death. I tried to piece together a hoarse scream, but could not. But how could this have happened? I left my apartment this morning, I would have smelt this terrible odor of death, I would have noticed. I saw Old Man Chang just the other day! I was confused as I ran, and called the police. The detectives who finally showed up with the coroners, explained to me that my neighbor must have been killed by his grandson, approximately a year ago. They found a butcher knife on the ground with the grandson's prints. The old man's wallet was out, with cash splayed out over the table. Apparently, the boy had tried to rob his grandfather, and then murdered the old man as part of some gang initiation. This was a year ago. The kid must have fled the scene, and never came back. The detective looked unfazed as he explained it to me, as though he were reporting the weather, a daily occurrence. Then he suggested that I see a psychologist. He had a hard time believing that I had lived in the room next to Old Man Chang for a year with his dead body rotting next door all this time. I should really get myself checked out, and probably find another empty room to squat in until the smell airs out. I thought about my neighbor's scrawled message on the wall under the Cafe Minerva sign. Old Man Chang must have been the one who killed his grandson originally. But after a year of crushing guilt, he found a way to send himself a message in the past, and allowed his grandson to live, and kill him instead. I left the Walled City in the weeks after that. I found a job that took me close to Shenzhen, and eventually to Beijing, and I found myself making my way back to the United States. I heard when they razed the Walled City in the 90's. In that demolition, they destroyed the walls, the garbage, and the crime rates. But they also destroyed the darkness, a moment of magic, a place and time in this universe where something uncanny occurred. I saw in the depths of that dark city what it meant to be a human. I saw what it meant to feel remorse, and to atone for sins. I saw humans slide from being men into becoming beasts, but in the midst of the smoke and dripping pipes, in the shadowy corridors and flickering lights, I saw a soul, the shuddering soul of the city, and goddamn it was beautiful.


At first, nothing happened. Then, nothing happened again. Then, without warning or any indication that anything at all was amiss, nothing happened. It was really quite unexciting. Nobody had been waiting for nothing to happen, and when nothing happened, several times in a row, nobody expected it. In fact, nobody didn't expect it either. It is not often that anyone ever wonders about nothing happening. This particular nothing did happen, however, and technically, nothing shouldn't have happened. The nothing which never should have occurred happened on an unremarkable day in January, but that is not important. Nobody was expecting nothing to happen, least of all an average scientist, who worked in a nondescript building on a street whose name is not a relevant detail. This average scientist, a man of no noteworthy achievements, was researching a project on the nature of the universe. Using some gadget he had created, whose purpose had something to do with the fluidity of time, the average scientist caused absolutely nothing to happen. And it was truly absolutely nothing. For the brief fraction of time that he turned on the device, the world became frozen; for that brief second, or perhaps it was a moment, nothing happened whatsoever. The average scientist, somehow, noticed this nothing after it was over, and, to test his strange device, turned it on again. Again, a brief moment of nothing filled the entire universe. Then without warning, or any indication at all that anything at all was amiss, nothing happened again. This time, the nothing lasted for a little while. Similar to absolute zero in terms of temperature, the average scientist had achieved the same with time: absolute nothing. The nothing that was happening stopped happening after several minutes of nothing, and the average scientist, thrilled with his strange discovery, published an average paper. His paper, being of average quality and written about nothing, was widely disregarded. Later that week, the average scientist, thinking deeply about nothing, decided that perhaps the world would be better off if he made nothing happen. Without considering the ramifications, he closed his eyes and turned on the device. And absolutely nothing happened.


'No.' I couldn't have thought of a better word to say. 1,200 words a middle class child is exposed to. I probably knew about as many curse words at that point, none quite equal to the weight of anger I willingly held onto. It was so impossibly simple. Just claim the consonant and the vowel. Be done with it. Pack up and go home. 'No.' The more frustrated I became the more powerful the world felt in my mouth. Why couldn't I just say it? Was I too proud? The entire reason I was in this position was because I didn't say anything. I look down at the cloth in my hand. Damp and dishevelled, I should go into the back and get a fresh one to mess. Or maybe i'll wait until no one is at the counter. There it is again, that fucking word. Why is it when you've been backed into a corner the worst decision is always made? Maybe this time it'll be different. I hook a stray hair behind my ear. Deep breaths. 'So you can close up tonight?' This is it. Just do it. A pulse. An echo. A single beat. This could be the turning point of your very life. 'Yeah, no worries.' Fuck.


This is a draft of a monologue from a full length novel I am writing. All feedback is appreciated. Be harsh with me - I'm trying to capture your soul here. Men with too many ideals simply don't make it in this world. They're missing just too many crucial aspects of know-how to accomplish anything. So, yeah, I let him die - in fact - I *watched* him die knowing that this revolution would prosper and flourish *so* much longer without him. Fuck his 'vision'. You want to know what really makes people go fucking nuts and actually sacrifice *everything*? A martyr. Why? Because rather than trying to persuade you with some kind of lofty moral tautology or periphrastic rhetoric - instead - they do something far more meaningful. They die for you. Boom, get it? Someone died so that you, inconsequential *you*, could love and live - and well, holy fuck - now you give people a whole new reason for existing rather than just eating and fucking, like everyone else, and you can *actually* accomplish something. See most people like to feel guilty for just existing. I don't know why - but they do. Maybe it's this intrinsic flaw I keep hearing so much about. They feel guilty and this martyr is the *perfect* price for penance *and* for succeeding against all odds; for accomplishing more than they could ever dream. So, yes. That blood is on my hands and if I burn for eternity, then so be it. EDIT: monologue FROM a novel.


“Niggers,” George said while he groped the the small boys’ titties and a small amount of drool began to pour out of his mouth. The boys’ eyes began to roll back into their heads as tiny amounts of pre-cum dripped down their legs. Suddenly a black man burst through the window, having found out that the George Zimmerman case had ended without the man being found guilty (Re-post). His rage was fresh as he began his rape spree, he rushed at George with his massive erection, the veins pulsated as blood engorged his nigger-cock. Luckily for the group of boys, George had made sure to load his trusty glock. A swift round to the head was all it took to kill the nigger, his lifeless cock laid on the ground, sprawled out for all to see. “Now, back to our business,” George said as he turned back to the children. He began to unzip his pants and a fish fell out. A herring to be exact, a delicious, lightly salted, and smoked treat--not unlike his musty cock--for all to enjoy. The many children flocked to the feast, the fresh fish attracted every child for a few blocks. He watched them devour the herring, and it excited him so much that--like the late nigger--his penis began to engorge itself with blood. “My cock is so excited!” George exclaimed, “YES MY CHILDREN, BASK IN ITS GLORY.” And they did, all the kids were smitten with George’s cock. Now more aroused than ever, George began to stroke his cock. Furiously. It was a magnificent sight, a man with a flock of children at his feet, all of whom wanted to stroke his massive cock. Suddenly a ripping noise arose from George’s gorge, the mighty johnson had been torn from its home. A piercing scream burst from his mouth, and suddenly George made a shocking revelation: These were no ordinary school boys, they were Demon Dick-munchers of the 12th realm of Alukmi’jas. He watched in horror as--much like the herring--his cock was consumed by the Dick-munchers. How could he not have seen this coming? George yelled out: “HOW COULD I NOT HAVE SEEN THIS COMING?” through his tears he could see that all was not lost, a small part of his cock was still intact. And then George understood what he had to do: He had to put his penis back together, at all costs. And so George began his journey, he picked up what was left of his cock and beat the Dick-munchers back to the depths of hell with it. And then he set off to find an entrance to Alukmi’jas and the rest of his cock. To Be Continued...


It’s an awful thing when someone is concerned about you. One minute you’re counting the number of stories between you and the ground, and then next you’re discussing why you were up there in the first place. The casual veneer and delightful garden salad do little to hide the dark current flowing underneath. Compassion tears people apart. Things could have happened differently. This conversation could be taking place between a person and a box. One salad instead of two. Would it be any different? Hands are wearing a hole in your jeans, eye contact is a little left of center. It’s been two hours, and no one knows when it’s supposed to end. Is now when you walk away? Pleasant conversation is cleared with the dishes. Uncomfortable silence remains. Sometimes the person across from you is more important. Sometimes the person across from you is the person you can never be. Sometimes the person across from you is the eleventh floor. Jump.


WANTED: SINGER/SONGWRITER Able to pair subversive lyrics with catchy beats in order to create popular songs that are easy to sing along w/. Also the ability to promote giving into base desires instead of worrying about public issues. Songs need to pertain to Spontaneous Sex, Mind Altering Substances, Casual Violence, and to Overvalue any feelings resembling Love. MUST be able to create an air of acceptance around personal failure, poor money management, and relationship issues, also the ability to impress youth with the idea that individualism, self-thought and hard work are not necessary in society. MUST be able to make Fashion and Likeability synonymous with Overt-Sexuality, and be able to Idolize Drama and Infidelity. COMPENSATION: Guaranteed Stardom, Transformation into a Sex Symbol, Legal Ambiguity, and to be lusted after by youth of the opposite sex while idolized by youth of the same gender. Cosmetic and Computer compensation can and will be used to fix physical, vocal or other flaws. APPLY TO Department of Homeland Security, Black Budget, Internal Awareness Prevention Division.


Their eyes meet and he smiles, his face illuminated and bright. He has never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. She has plain features and limp drab hair, but to him she is perfect. Framed in shadow, she sees him and a look of shock transforms her face. The happiness in his face flickers; maybe he shouldn’t put his burdens on her. But no, it’s too late to go back. Thoughts race and build inside him, the noise around him bringing up latent memories. He is six years old, standing behind a door and quietly crying as his parents scream at each other. He remembers the heavy sting of alcohol filling his nostrils and the crack of his father’s hand across his mothers face. He is twelve, a failing test grade in one hand and a crumpled cigarette in the other as his mother tells him that he is the reason his father left. Fifteen, dropped out of high school, working two jobs just to eat, while his mother lies passed out on the couch, still clutching the syringe that she traded the food stamps for. This is all he knows of life, a hardness that grew up with him, grew inside him. He has never trusted anyone until now. As he gazes towards her, he knows that she can help, knows that she can erase the twenty-two years of hell. A tear trickles down his cheek, shining in the headlights of her pre-owned mid-size sedan as it hits him at 43 miles per hour and sets him free.