When I saw her my heart stopped beating. The very blood in my veins slowed to an icy halt and I felt a lurch in my chest that was all but equal to death, yet as invigorating as that moment you realize you are alive. My mouth was dry and my throat clicked once with a heavy swallow. My own body betrayed me and went rigid. My arms and fingers felt numb. My lips were pin cushions that sent streaks of searing pain through my face as if they were sleeping for years and just now became awakened with life. My brain raced to understand and create a level-headed coolness but only succeeded in blushing my sedated cheeks. I wanted nothing more than to say one tiny, simple word to her but she never acknowledged my existence nor did she even raise her angelic visage in my direction. I rejoiced though, however ironic and fleeting, that she did not glance upon me - for my heart was on its last beat and my breath was captured. And for that very moment of serenity, if she had raised one glorious, perfectly shaped brown eye toward me and it had locked in time with mine own, my heart would have burst and I would have ceased to exist all together. For I know, the very curve of the corner of her supple lips would have arced upwards in a feline smirk and I would have never breathed again, nor would I have wanted to, for I would wish to encapsulate that moment in time forever. For all moments after would pale in comparison and only shatter my heart further at its incompetence.


"Goodbye, Lucy," the secretary didn't look up from her computer screen as her fingers furiously plucked away at her well-worn computer. Lucy didn't respond, as she had already worked an hour after her day had ended and was fed up with the tedious charade that office relationships had become. The secretary gave a look of disgust that smelled of future office gossip. She didn't need this. She stepped out into the cool Boston air and was refreshed for half an instant before the stink and noise of hit her senses like a light slap from an old friend. Lucy snatched a parking ticket off of her windshield and stuffed them in her pocket: they were cheaper than the parking under her building She got into the car her grandmother had left her, a clunker that struggled to start and was shambling towards a quarter million miles on the odometer that could barely be read through the grime that had built up over the last three decades. Lucy tried the car twice, three times before sitting back in the old beige seat. She didn't need this. On the way home, Lucy ran into especially bad traffic. She sat for nearly an hour, glancing at her cracked wristwatch as the sun waned over the eastern horizon. This, she really didn't need. Well after dark, she pulled into the parking designated for her apartment building. Her spot was taken, as it was about half the time. This time, there were no open spots for her to steal. She didn't need this. With a festering ball of frustration and depravity in her gut, Lucy drove two blocks South to park at the 24-Hour Save-Mart, the one place in her neighborhood she knew she wouldn't get a ticket. She stepped out into the cool air and immediately her a loud snap and felt a twist in her ankle as she dropped to her hands and knees. She rolled over to sit down and inspect her foot. A broken ankle would send her hurtling significantly farther into debt than she already was, but she had only broken a heel. She switched into a battered pair of sneakers she had in the trunk only to discover a missing sole. She frowned and kept them on anyway. She didn't need this. On her way home, there was no one to be seen. Only in her neighborhood could there be the threatening sound of car alarms, horns, and things breaking without the sight of the perpetrators. She was used to it. Hell, she slept through worse on a regular basis. As she was walking, she heard footsteps behind her. She sped up, not wanting human interaction for a second longer. The footsteps mirrored her acceleration, and then some. Now this was something she truly didn't need. She whipped her pepper spray out of her purse and wheeled around to face her attacker. Nothing. With a sigh of relief she resumed her fast pace towards her building, now in sight, but continued to glance back over her shoulder towards the darkness that seemed to grow and reach out to her as she sped away. Divorced out of an abusive relationship and living with her grandmother, Lucy had learned to care for and defend herself. Her grandmother had named and raised her as her father died overseas on tour and her mother had not survived the birth. She had cooked and taught Lucy for all 31 years of her life, and was the most important person in the world. Becoming senile, the old woman often thought Lucy was eight or nine, but Lucy allowed, even enjoyed a little, the old woman's bedtime stories and Lullaby's her favorite being, "Goodbye Lucy", a family story which Lucy's name was drawn. The elevator attendant offered her a sweet and she turned it down with a weak smile as she always did. He was one of the few people she didn't mind conversing with. Lucy stepped off the elevator and was greeted with a bad feeling that immediately enveloped her like a warm cloak. She hurried over to the door and noticed that the lock had been smashed. Lucy's heart dropped as she though about her old and blind grandmother, her only family in the world. She had her phone and was dialing 911 as she stepped inside to try to find her grandmother. The apartment was dark and eerily quiet. There were no signs of robbery or her grandmother. Lucy was too afraid to call out, so she quietly crept into the kitchen, praying frantically that her grandmother was alright. She didn't need this, not today. She rounded the corner into the dining room and saw her Grandmother sitting at the counter. She felt relief wash over her as she noticed that the old woman was crudely bound with a belt and gagged with a handkerchief. She tried warning Lucy with a muffled cry, but as Lucy turned to face the living room her vision went dark as something hefty smashed her in the face, knocking her to the ground and sending her pepper spray and phone skittering across the floor. She didn't need this. Her mouth, wet with blood from her broken nose, tried to plea as her vision was restored, though blurry and riddled with little dashing stars. The plea stopped short when she saw Lucy's ex-husband standing over her, stinking of rum with a horrible grin below terrible dead eyes that told Lucy her pleas would only cause him to become more violent. He tossed the small six-shooter he had pistol whipped her with onto the counter. He kicked her in the stomach and dropped down on top of her, running his hand up her leg. He was going to take her, right in front of her grandmother. He leaned in, pinning her against the floor and whispered with a drunken slur, "Goodbye Lucy". She needed that. The anger that those words gave her revitalized her body, which had been petrified from pain and fear. She waited for him to begin undoing his pants to take the keys still in her hand and shove them into his eye with surprising force. He grasped at her throat, but his screaming and struggle to get away from her only gave her more strength. She gave them a final push before rising to he feet and kicking him in the stomach has he screamed and cursed and struggled to pull the now bloody keys from his eye socket. He began to rise with a newborn fury is his wide eyes and red face as the seeping whole that was his eye pumped blood through his dirty sausage fingers. She picked up the gun he had set down and turned to face him, but he was faster than she expected. He grabbed her hair and through her to the ground again. His pants fell to the ground, as he reached down to grab her again. She pulled then gun up to his chest. He froze, stood up, and began to laugh. He looked at her with a bloody grin that quickly vanished when she cocked the gun and sat up. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short by six gunshots, all in a row. He fell backwards onto the coffee table, shattering it, dead. She needed that. She slowly came to her feet, and unbound her old caretaker, who was just as scared as Lucy was. She dropped the gun on the ground and sat down at the table. She was covered in blood and shaking like tree in the wind but she allowed a smile to creep across her face as her grandma grasped her hand in her own and began to sing Goodbye Lucy. That was all she would need.


I appreciate anyone that takes the time to read this. I should've tagged it realistic fiction instead of mystery, my bad. We have to write a short story for my English class about anything, about two pages long. Feedback is most certainly welcome. Trigger warning: abuse and suicide. Running: that’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. Running from my problems; my responsibilities; the everyday problems in life that seem impossible to fix. When I ran away from home, I believed it to be a long term solution to my problems. I was eleven years old when my father stumbled in through the doorway, drunk like every other night this week. It was rare to see a day where he was sober- not that those moments offered any solace to me; they were only a brief escape from the personal hell I was living in. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the stench of alcohol and stale cigarettes permeated the room. I shrunk away from him, trying to disappear into the tattered couch that occupied the space of our living room, hoping that if I appeared small enough he wouldn’t notice me. His beady eyes shifted around the room before settling on me. The glazed look that was in his eyes can still send shivers down my spine to this day. He slowly made his way over to me, a few steps interspersed with drunken stumbling. I wanted to move, I wanted to escape- but where could I go? I didn’t have time to think much about it before he began yelling at me about how I was ruining his life. The words don’t sting so much anymore; I’ve grown used to them by now. Of course he knew that they barely stung, so he had to use a new way to hurt me. A punch to the face can hurt just as much as words, I found out that night. After he had passed out on the couch and the only sound in the air was his rumbling snores, I stole the few dollars he had in his wallet and ran. The side of my face was swelling but I ignored it for now. A single word was shouting over and over in my head, making itself heard and refusing to be ignored: Run. So I did; I ran until I could hear my heart beating in my ears and my lungs were screaming at me to stop. As much as I didn’t want to, I had to take a break. I slumped against a brick building, catching my breath as tears streamed down my cheeks. Here I am, years later, yet I still feel like I haven’t left that night. I can never quite catch my breath; I can still feel the sharp, shooting pain in my cheek. I’ve made a life for myself- I’ve got a home, a job, and food on the table. My father died five years ago due to liver failure (who would’ve guessed?) yet I’m still running. I’m running from my past into the unpredictable future which instills just as much dread into me. I don’t know what tomorrow brings, but one thing that I do know is that I am tired of running. My hand shakes slightly as I hold the gun in my hand. The tremor becomes more pronounced as I raise the cold, unfeeling piece of metal to my head. Every second feels like an eternity as I hold it, the key to the release I desire. The quiet tick of the clock makes its way into my subconscious, mocking me with its sound. When I’m dead, it will keep carrying on; the world will not stop around me, but I will. I wrap my trembling finger around the trigger. It’s ready to go; but am I? I am. I’m tired of running. I want to finally be able to rest and let go of my past. This is the one moment in my life where I fully welcome the unpredictable future. I can finally stop running. I pull the trigger. Everything goes black.


This is a repost of a small stand-alone excerpt that I submitted last night with some formatting issues. It was my first ever reddit post and thanks to a friendly comment I believe I have addressed the issues. Hopefully this version will be more legible, thanks again for reading! - side note - this is somewhat of a practice exercise for me as I haven't written anything in quite a while. I wanted to fiddle around with some duplicitous layering Just south of a small mountain range, a cool spring breeze passed through a stone monastery. The overgrown ivy covering the northern face of the building danced as the wind tickled its bountiful growth. From the top of the smooth cut stone structure the ivy had crept to meet the rocky cliff face upon which the monastery was perched. Green ivy, grey rock, and beige stone lay against a backdrop of deep, clear blue, as the sky was brimming with colour at the onset of the new season. The monastery was a large, square compound, with four stone parapets at each corner of the building, the northernmost being flush against the cliff face. At the centre was a circular courtyard, filled with beds of flowers and shrubs around the perimeter of the courtyard. Forming this perimeter were a series of stone pillars, the bases of which were buried beneath the lush green of the plants. Atop one of the pillars was a nest of sparrows, and the birds fluttered around the courtyard, singing cheerfully. That friendly mountain breeze made its way into the courtyard, towards a simple wooden bench that faced the mild warmth of the afternoon sun. It brushed aside the hem of a white robe, cooling the ankles of the monk sitting alone on the bench. He was an old man, whose ample belly was poorly disguised by his simple clothes, yet his face had retained its youthful glow, enhanced by his bald pate gleaming in the sunlight. His eyes squinted against the sun as he smiled contentedly, listening to the sparrows’ concert and taking in the fresh growth of greenery. His smile widened as he heard the faint clapping of sandaled feet on stone tiles. The dim sound grew in resonance as the footsteps approached, and from his seat on the bench the monk called out cheerfully, “Good afternoon, Brother,” The newcomer emerged from within the monastery, coming into view, similarly clothed in a white habit, yet a bit younger than his colleague. Unlike the seated monk, he was quite thin, and though he was not smiling, he had an honest, open face. “May I join you?” “Of course! Please sit.” The slender monk then held up the jug and two cups he had been holding, and smiled faintly, to which the older monk laughed and patted him on the shoulder as he lowered himself onto the bench. “I suppose it is never too early to celebrate such a fine day” he said. The second man carefully poured a cup of red wine, and passed it to his companion, after which he poured himself a cup. For several minutes they both sat in silence, sipping their wine and admiring the courtyard and its garden. Finally, the thinner monk placed his cup on the ground next to the jug of wine, and fixed his gaze on the heavyset monk. “The vote is tomorrow, the monastery is in a furor, it is quite a nuisance.” The older monk chuckled and returned the look, “I have been through many such votes, and this is by far the most tiresome of them all.” Not known for outbursts of laughter, the younger monk gave a hearty grin, flashing what teeth he had left before remarking, “We are priests, not politicians, my friend. I should say this is ill befitting our station. Such ambition is better left to the less morally inclined.” In response his companion simply smiled, looked down at his cup, and took a sip, his light grey eyes surveying the wine like a hawk watched a rabbit. The younger man likewise took a sip, his eyes watching his friend as he swallowed the warm red liquid. “Brother,” he said, smiling, “I’m afraid you’ve besmirched your habit.” The larger monk stared at him, watching his eyes and his smug expression as he slowly reached his arm towards his friend’s throat, only to gently place his slender finger upon a red stain at the collar of the robe. The culprit was not hidden, as a line of red was visible on the large monk’s cup from where the wine had spilled. Breaking eye contact and looking down at his lap, the bald man laughed, tut-tutting to himself, “That won’t do at all,” he said. “Yes,” his friend said slowly, looking at the patch of red, “that stain must be removed.” “Or perhaps, I could simply find a way to hide it,” he said as he watched the thin man, “with so many habits and so many monks, I’m sure there are more than a few concealed stains amongst our ranks.” The skinny monk’s face bore an expression of sincere contemplation as his eyes bored into the large monk’s robe, “Perhaps,” he said. He reached down to collect the jug and his own cup, rising from the bench. His robe had gone into disarray, and he quietly adjusted it before turning back towards the older monk. They shared a warm smile as each stared at the other, with the hefty monk raising his cup in front of his sharp grey eyes as he said through grinning teeth, “My thanks, for the drink, Brother.” The thin man nodded to him, and headed for the interior of the monastery, his sandals playing the same song against the stone that they had when he approached, only this time in reverse. As the song faded to nothing, the solitary monk once more perked his eyes and ears toward the chattering sparrows. The sun was still out, the sky was still blue, the garden was still radiant, and the birds still sang. As he finished his wine, the monk contemplated the one thing he knew with certainty on that beautiful day. For himself, or the man who just left, there would be no sun, no sky, no garden, no birds, no wine, waiting for them tomorrow. Only death. He decided then that he had not yet had his fill of such marvelous spring days. “Now then,” he said, laboriously rising from the bench, “I suppose I should see about removing this stain.


New York traffic flowed, as usual, endless on both foot and on the street. A usual day: for most. The next few seconds would change that for the select few who would view the terror. 3. 2. 1. And splat. A lifeless body slapped across the ground hard enough to bounce after impact with the concrete like a rubber ball. Although there was something peaceful about him regardless of the morphed, disfigured corpse that lay across the pavement, if you can visualize this mess as laying. Despite the chaos it created and the trauma it caused others, the jumper seemed truly happy; he had reached peace, although not in the most desirable way. He chose door B. Some try to reach this happiness through other means: through door A. To fill their lifeless existence with money, their meaningless abodes with furniture, their void driveways with fancy cars. Well our victim decided the best way to reach happiness wasn’t by filling a house with furniture, a bank account with cash, or a driveway with cars, no the best way for him was to fill the sidewalk with his teeth. He realized that the only way to end the miserable existence of this long walk we take called life was to take the plunge early. His portal to the next life was to roof of an executive office building; more specifically, where our victim worked. That takes us back some time, where everything began. At first, Tom was taking the regular walk through life. He, like all Americans, went through life doing as society considers, “the norm.” He did well in school and was strong-armed into college. He stuck it out and got a degree, that piece of paper considered essential to make it through door A. And he went out and he got a miserable job. He walked in every day and walked out. Each day worse than the last. And that’s the endless loop he lived; with each day worse than it’s predecessor, that means he always woke up to the worst day of his life. That’s his struggle, the daily grind. And I can’t argue that he wasn’t making his way to door A. He saved up enough to fill his apartment with shitty IKEA furniture, he was able to accrue some money in a bank account, and he got to fill his parking space with a decent car. Although none of these filled the void. He was able to see past the false happiness that we all experience. The image that capitalism creates in our mind, the perfect American society. Life in the suburbs with a subservient wife and the kids, living like the family on Leave it to Beaver. But Tom saw past it all, he saw what life was. Feeding the money machine that humans created, doing the hard work so life for those on the top could be filled with even better cars, more furniture, and the largest of all bank accounts. Now Tom’s position is one of curiosity: is it better to live a life blindly and ignorant, or to truly see what is happening behind the curtains? Well that has no definite answer. Humans strive for answers and Tom had them, so clearly he was in the better position, right? But Tom was the one limp on the ground, not the door A chasers so they live a better existence, right? Well there is no definite answer, while answers are what the human mind pursues and cannot live without; in the real world situation ignorance is bliss.


Black and foreboding clouds filled the air as the musty stench of mildew and smoke swallowed up my senses. Everything was rotten here. Like the scent of a forgotten time, or the spine of an old musty book breaking free from its dormant chains. These ancient aromas were whispers from the Gods; a constant reminder that they knew my sin, and as such they had brought down their fury upon me. But I was no slave to these great spirits, and I would tear down any wall they built to keep up the sanctity of man. For what is a God to a man who keeps the world for himself? Burning embers trailed the air like fireflies dancing to the rhythm of a rattlesnake’s call. The warmth of the light was a siren’s song cast out to any lost travelers in the dead of night. The chilled weather had been chipping the leaves from their trees without remorse, bringing a bleak sense of emptiness into the world. But fire only meant one thing in a world as bare and desolate as this. The eyes of a martyr stared at me from above, his cross-shaped pedestal pinning him to the flames as they engulfed his body. The painted wax eyes were melting in the inferno, leaving a trail of inky tears. Maybe he is having regrets… maybe we all have regrets… A thundering roar escaped from the bellows of the church as the foundation started to crumble, letting out a blinding light that singed the eyes. Through squinted vision, I spotted a shadow emerge from the hellfire in front of me, causing butterflies to battle in my stomach. Something draws near… I thought as I crept behind a broken stone pedestal and hid my cloaked figure from the glowing light. Through a splinter in the stone, I could make out its haunting frame as it gazed into the darkness, its eyes burning like flawless rubies. It had the shape of an ordinary man, yet its height was comparable to that of a great bear as it towered before the entrance of the church. The creature’s mass shadowed the church’s door frame as it walked into the grand hall. On its head was an open-helm bascinet in the shape of a lion that seemed to shine orange like the fire of a sun. I attempted to steady my breath as the man scanned the grand hall, sniffing at the air like a dog finding a scent. The hounds must have had my trail since the last village… As the man crept through the grand hall, the faint cracks of crumbling foundation could be heard with the roar of a fire. “Show yourself you coward!” the creature roared as he inched towards the main altar, his voice rattled with fury. The man had a crest of a lion holding a spear in its jaws on a large metal breastplate that encased his body. As the man approached, a support beam tore from the ceiling, cascading flames towards my hiding spot. In an attempt to dodge the rain of fire, I leapt to the side, exposing my figure. Looking up at the creature, I could see the humanity leave him with a beastly snarl appearing on his face, creeping into a devilish grin that widened along with the hellish fires that surrounded us. “You will die for your sins!” the monster screamed as it rapidly approached to end my life. The world was seeking enact retribution upon me. But I was Genesis, and I was its salvation.


was founded on the unpretentious principle that the short story cannot be allowed to go extinct. There has to be a new way to reinvent the craft, the art, and keep it fresh in the heart of the reader... The IntShoWriMo Blog will feature at least three writing prompts each day to reduce the stress on the brain while searching for 30 short story prompts during the 4-week exercise. You get to choose what kind of story you write with this shot at variety. IntShoWriMo which stands for International Shorts Writing Month is a short story writing adventure where participants actually, sit down (or stand, your choice) to create never-before-written 30 short stories in 30 days. You are officially invited.


A 20 year old magician named Alyssa, was walking offstage after a show. She was feeling electric after an astounding performance. Alyssa decided to celebrate with a couple of friends. They were going to a local establishment that featured live music and tempting alcohol. Alyssa and her friends were barely underage and couldn't buy drinks. They decided to pay a homeless gentleman to do it while they moved like typical white girls on the dance floor. Around midnight everything about them became slurred. At 3:37 in the morning, they hailed a cab to take them back to their apartment. Six minutes into the ride, the driver lost focus and the vehicle drifted into oncoming traffic. The car went head-on with a moving truck. Alyssa only saw a white flash, then darkness. She awoke in a hospital bed with tubes connected to her. She would later learn the cab driver was killed, but her friends were perfectly fine. She was released one week later and returned home. Twelve years later. At 32, Alyssa was married at this point, had earned her doctorate in medical science, and even had a kid. She was blissfully happy with her life, and hadn't any regrets. One night, while her husband and son were out, she decided to see a movie. She lived in the city so she did not own a car herself. After flagging down a taxi she got in the backseat. Without looking at him, she told the driver, "Local cinema please." The taxi took off. The driver accelerated the vehicle at too high a speed and Alyssa took notice. She screamed for him to stop the car. But all he said was, "It's time for you to go back." Just as the car slammed into a semi, her life flashed before her eyes. She remembered the birth of her child. The first time she met her husband. Even her first kiss. Every milestone of her life was relived in a split second. And then... Her eyes opened. All Alyssa saw was a white ceiling and only heard a continuous beep. Friends and family surrounded her hospital bed, and gasps filled the room as she sat up. Joy was felt by them as their daughter and friend had finally awoke after her long slumber. Alyssa noticed her friends looked younger, and she herself felt younger too. She asked, "Where is my son, and husband?" But she had neither. She was an unmarried, 20 year old magician who had just lived 12 years in one month.


As I recall, we weren't really there. Our veins were being flooded with wine, beer and unnamed spirits that were named at the time, but I don't remember them. Despite that, everything had slowed down to an even pace. The sun stayed up forever, blinding us from being able to make eye contact across the beer garden table. We only found respite from the glare when we looked down at the black table-top to stub-out our cigarettes into the ashtrays. The flood of booze was raging, but it felt slow. Time limped away. Hours in minutes, it seemed. We were there for a good while, though. Four hours, I think. We had witnessed the rise and fall of strange men pounding flashing buttons on the bandit. We saw them lose £50 in the space of mere seconds, and we were infuriated. What a waste, we would think. I was annoyed at you, too. At the first sign of a dwindling conversation you took your phone out of your pocket, pretending to text people. Checking the news. The latest status update. Anything to stop you from talking to me. Outside, with the sun still punishing us, our silences were filled by sniggering at the drunks, already too drunk for this time of day, but we both knew we were no better. You asked to borrow a ciagrette, and then another, and then another, and then you would sigh when I told you I had none left. I wasn't lying, you know. I really didn't have any left. And it was because of you that I didn't. I stumbled to the shop to buy more cigarettes. One of the strangest feelings in the world is walking around a busy town centre at two in the afternoon drunk, when you know for a fact that every single person around you is sober. They are doing their shopping, taking their kids to the local park, mooching. But your vision is swirling. It's really strange but also kind of liberating. When you see a teenager doing something stupid you feel like you can walk up to him and starting a fight. When you see a police officer you feel like you can approach them and start swearing at them. But you never do. You don't have the spine, or more, your own brain reins you in, telling you you shouldn't. And that's fine, because knowing that you can do if you want, is good enough. I bought the wrong brand of cigs but that doesn't matter. They're cigs. Besides, they were for you, not me. This is a weird kind of drunk. Being drunk in the day time is different. It's like you're floating everywhere and not walking. There's a strong sense of independence. The spirits and whatever else running through me is probably why I didn't notice the homeless man at first. I took a double-take and walked backwards, back to him. He was on the floor, legs crossed as though he was doing street yoga. He had at least five layers on and a beanie hat despite the temperature reaching twenty. He must have been boiling. Or cold. The homeless man asked for change. I smiled, but I was careful not to make it a pitiful smile. I gave him a £5 note but in my stupor I would only later realise that I gave him a £20 note instead. But I don't feel bad for that. Money is paper. Paper means a lot to the homeless. I walked off but he whistled after me. For a second time now, I went back to him. He gestured for me to sit with him, and I did. I don't know why. I thought that I shouldn't because I knew you were waiting for me in the beer garden. Well, waiting for my cigarettes, not waiting for me. So I thought, sod you, you can wait. And you did, but I don't know how long for. The homeless person began rambling. I know it's a stereotype, but he did. He spoke of war, then tigers, then bread. I thought he was mad, but you can't blame him. Who wouldn't be? He spoke of hostels and free beds, but he couldn't stay at them any more. He was banned. Imagine, a homeless person banned from homeless shelters. Where can he go? And that's when he said it: He wanted to die. He could easily do it, but it would only be easy from a literal sense. After all, it isn't hard to kill yourself. What's hard is finding the backbone to go through with it. That's when I pulled my packet of cigarettes out and shared them with him and I thought, I'm not going to share these with my friend when I get back to the beer garden. It might have been the heat. It might have been the alcohol. It might have been a mixture of the two, which is more likely. Whatever it was, I had an idea. I offered to kill him. That way, he would die like he wanted, but he wouldn't need the backbone to do it. He agreed, but he asked me for another cigarette first. I gave him one, why wouldn't I? It's kind of like his last meal. He told me that he didn't want to know how he was going to die, so I assured him it would be a surprise. I struggled to my feet, the heat was far too intense. I felt the panic of the moment when you realise you're sobering-up, so I went to the shop and bought a large bottle of cider and a small can of vodka and coke. I drank the can really quickly. It nearly came out of my nose. I lit a cigarette and went back to the homeless guy. I told him the cider was for him and he smiled like it was Christmas to a child. He asked me how I was going to kill him. I told him I already did. He looked annoyed but that's okay, he probably knew what I meant deep down. You know what weird feeling when you're drunk in the middle of the day time and everyone else seems to be sober and the whole thing starts twisting? It's liberating. It's like a weird feeling of independence. On my way back to the pub to get back to you (you must have been waiting forever), I noticed a teenager chasing pigeons and making them fly into the faces of tutting old people. So I ran over to him and punched him square in the face. I felt one my knuckles slice open from a tooth, but I didn't feel the pain of it. The police officer I mentioned was still there, you know. He came over after hearing the commotion and when his eyes locked onto mine, you know what I said to him? I told him to go fuck himself. I laughed, probably a little too loudly, and then looked-up to the sky. The sun was blazing. Not a cloud to be seen. It was the middle of the day and I felt like I was the only person in the town centre who was drunk. It feels weird, but in a good way. Liberating. Then I was on the ground, kissing the concrete. I felt my hands being tied together and the cold metal hugging my wrists. Then I thought of you, and you know what I did? I laughed and thought 'You can wait in the beer garden all day you son of a bitch. You aren't having my cigarettes.


"Where the fuck am I?" The thought ran through his mind over and over. He couldn't see anything. He felt something over his face, a blindfold. His wrists hurt, he tried moving but the restraints were solid. Fear washed over him as he slowly realized his situation, he knew why he was here. He needed to get out of there if he wanted to live. The man tried to keep a level head but panic was setting in fast. The chair seemed light, as though he could walk while strapped to it. He leaned forward and screamed in agony as his feet buckled beneath him, crashing onto his side. The rush of adrenaline disguised the pain of his severed Achilles tendons. "Jesus Christ, you fucker!" Glancing at the clock he patiently sat and sipped his coffee. "Should be any time now," he thought, shifting in his seat. Getting up to go pour himself another cup he heard it. The sound almost startled him, but it was music to his ears. He half-smirked as sound of the chair smashing into the concrete echoed through the house. Driven by sorrow and hatred, his rage was near-impossible to contain. An incoherent, painful scream graced his ears. Another smirk; that’s what he wanted to hear. A door creaked open, the bound man jolted. Anxiety and pain clouded his mind but he needed to confirm his fears, he knew there was no getting out now. He scraped the blindfold against the grimy concrete to get a glimpse of what he knew to be the inevitable truth. The light from the stairwell stung his eyes, and he made out the shadow of a tall, slender man sipping on a mug of coffee. "What're you doing on the floor, David?" "Let me go, you sick bastard!" The captor chuckled, "Doesn't seem to me that you’re in much of a position to make any demands. Need a hand up? That looks uncomfortable." He grasped his captives hair and jerked, putting the chair back on its feet. David held his scream to a mild grunt while grinding his teeth. "What the hell do you want?! I'll give you anything, just let me go!" "I just told you, you don't get to make any demands!" The mug broke against David's head, blood and hot coffee running down his face. "She didn't get any demands, so why should you?" "God dammi…" "Shut up! You don't get to complain, it's your fault you're here! You think I wanna be here? I'd rather be at home with my wife!" He choked back the tears, "I want to be at home with her… but I guess I can't, now can I?" David's breathing grew faster, the pain was too much. "So what? You're just gonna kill me here? You'll never get away with it, no fuckin' way man." He hoped to scare the man, maybe to snap him back to a sense of reality. This guy wasn't a killer, just some normal Joe. Not the kind to spend time in prison or get in trouble with the law. David thought he just might convince him. "You really don't get it, do you? Think about it for a second David. The woman you've spent over a decade with suddenly dies, and not by accident, but at the hand some bottom-feeding scum of the earth like you. She was my love, the one good thing in my life and you took her away from me. But you probably don't know what that's like, do you? And since she was that one good thing in my life, you honestly think there’s anything left for me?" He paused for a second, collecting himself and catching his breath. "There’s only two more things left for me to do." He picked up a small hatchet resting on a dusty table, "I'm leaving this world tonight. But you’re going first.


He stood outside the liquor store, seemingly unaware of the rain pouring down upon him. His silhouette melding with the neon glow behind him, the man was almost perfectly still, save for the small orange glimmer of a cigarette moving periodically from his hip to his mouth. He dressed somewhat formally for the occasion, slacks, a coat, a shirt and tie, even a trilby to top off the ensemble. People like it when a man in his line of work dresses well, a lone sophisticated figure amidst a world of blood and grime. Slightly angered that his "uniform" for these jobs now hung heavy and damp upon his shoulders, the man still managed to take some solace in the pleasure of a job well done, and the silky warmth of the cigarette flowing through his chest. Lifting both hands to his face, he took a drag of the ever-shortening cigarette with his left, and with the right held a small leather square to the light of the store behind him. Unfolding the object, the man saw a familiar face stare back at him, one he had seen so many times before. "Detective James Warren." A mess of details danced about the paper hidden within the leather, but only the name stood out for him. This paper and leather construct somehow held within it and incredible power. Close down a bar for the night? Access the back rooms of your favourite sleazy establishment? Run a red light?... Kill a man? All these powers and more were granted to the individual that held this tiny mundane square, and why? "To protect and serve." The man closed over the object and took one final drag from the softly glowing cigarette, before letting it fall and extinguish on the inundated ground beneath him. Protect who? Serve Who? The people? The government? The scumbag in a bar that slips a few hundreds into your pocket? The man tossed the badge carelessly onto the sprawled form on the sidewalk beside him, a dark pool of liquid now exhuding from it and mixing with the rain before racing downward into the grate below. The man wasn't sure who James Warren had felt he served or protected, but he did know for a fact that the scumbag in a bar paid better, and that that scumbag was fond of a well-dressed man that can make a problem simply flow away, and down the drain.


Sometimes in life, you are given a choice. Free will, as they say. You choose your fate, and you accept the consequences. I understood that. But sometimes, you don't get to choose. I didn't choose my parents' endless beatings, or their little torture games they played on me. I didn't choose for my life to be full of purple bruises and empty stomachs. But on one day, when I was walking to school on a particularly malicious day, all of that was taken away by a man in a 1996 Honda Civic. And I chose to go with him. Savior, or kidnapper, those names were interchangeable when it came to Jako. While his treatment towards me wasn't what people on the outside considered desirable, anything was better than the bitter neglect my parents showed. They didn't even care I was gone. No one looked for me, and I was okay with that. I didn't want to be found, and I wasn't. Not for seven years, at least. It was November 14, 2020 when Jako came storming into my cell, grabbing the collar that hung around my neck with this grubby hand. "Go," he growled, shoving my out. "W-what's going on?" I shouted as Jako dragged me along. "Shut up!" He screamed, giving a quick yank on my collar. "They'll hear you." I figured that Jako knew best, and promptly shut up, following him through the dark corridors. Yet the voices of the police officers and their shining flashlights grew closer and closer. Then, I heard it. "Jako Ramirez, come out with your hands up!" ~ They gave me a choice. It was simple, really. Well, it was to them. They just wanted me gone, out of their police station. The officer stared at me, waiting for my answer. I could go home, back to the childbood I was freed from, back to the endless beatings and hissing insults. Or, I could go. Where, I wasn't sure. I longed for Jako and my safe cell, but that wasn't my life anymore. I needed to choose. Freedom, I decided. Freedom was what I wanted. ~ But was I free? Now, the two options seemed foggy, more the same than I thought. I was homeless, plain and simple. Homelessness was not free. Torture was not free. I was not free. Day after day, all I felt was cold. The shivering and aching were constant. Each time I coughed, the blood that spattered out reminded me of my bloody past. The blood worried me, but it wasn't like I could do anything. A hospital was out of the question, of course. Sometimes, when I would sit huddled by a bus stop on a particularly cold winter day, people would stare at me, looking at me like I was the scum of the earth. But what did I do wrong? If only they knew my story, maybe they would understand. ~ When you're homeless, stealing is inevitable. I had been avoiding it, but I couldn't any longer. My survival depended on it. So, one particularly rainy day, I slipped inside a convenience store. My head ducked down; I kept my eyes trained on the shiny linoleum floor as I made my way to the back. The bell on top of the door chimed, and I jumped, suddenly paranoid. Shoving my morals back down, I reached out for a can of ravioli. "Hey." I jumped, getting over my initial startle. I looked up to see a boy my age, looking down at me with piercing green eyes. His posture and expression screamed confidence, and I was suddenly self concious. I hoped that I didn't smell. "Hi," I mumble, ducking under his arm. "Woah," he chuckled. "What's wrong?" "I, uh, I've gotta go." He stared at me for a moment before his whole face lighted up. "It's the rain, isn't it?" He looks outside, the pouring rain beating down. "I always get jittery when there's rain. But hey, coffee usually cheers me right up. What do you say? Coffee?" One thing I learned from being homeless was that you never turned down free food, especially if it was warm. So without a word, I nodded. "Great!" The boy beamed. "Oh, and I'm Finn." "Hannah." ~ We began spending a lot more time together. I became an expert at hiding my homelessness from him, but it never felt good to do so. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't. Anyway, we made our relationship official not long after that first coffee. Love was something I never imagined as I child, but the word came easily to me, because that was how I felt. I loved Finn. I was happy with him, and I no longer minded going "home to the small space underneath the playground. I no longer minded the stares. I no longer paid attention to the increasing amount of blood I coughed up from my lungs. But ignorance isn't bliss. March 4, 2021. I was with Finn on our three month anniversary. We were walking down the street, and I had, for the first time in a long while, a full stomach. Arm in arm, words were not needed as we walked. But tonight was important. All these months, and I was finally going to admit it, and tell Finn that I was homeless. Somehow, I knew it would be okay. I knew he would stay. I turned to Finn, and he stopped. "What's wrong?" He asked, instantly sending my worry. I bit my lip, pondering my words. "Fi--." Just then, I was overcome by coughing. Feeling weak, I collapsed to the ground. The last thing I heard was Finn's distressed voice. "Hannah? Hannah! Oh God, you're coughing up blood!" ~ I woke up with what felt like a heavy weight on my chest. Struggling with my voice, I manage to squeak out a meager, "Finn?" as I wildly darted my eyes around the hospital room. Instantly, he's by my side. I attempted a smile, but Finn did not return it. Instead, his forehead was creased and his eyes were filled with worry. "Hey, you look worried. Is it raining?" I kept waiting for a smile. "Hannah." "What?" I grin, not getting the reaction I was expecting. "Hannah." My smile disappeared. "Just tell me what's wrong with me," I whimper, turning my head away from him. That's when I heard a soft sob escape his mouth. I turn back to him. "Finn?" My voice quivered. "It's cancer, Hannah. Lung cancer. I could've helped you! You should've told me, Hannah! You should've..." Finn buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking softly. "Finn," I whispered. "I could've saved you!" He yelled suddenly. Then, I was crying too. "Am I going to die?" I whimpered, feeling like I was a kid again, terrified of the future. I got no response, only sobs. And I knew. "Oh, God. No. No." I grabbed Finn, and I held him tight. I wasn't about to let go. But I did. I let go six days later.


My ride, a 2013 Wolf Brand Blaze II was running well. It gave me no signs of any trouble - even after having recently given me problems on an almost daily basis. I had done a significant amount of work on it - spending nearly an entire day over the recent holiday weekend tearing it down, fixing it, and putting it back together. Today was the first time in weeks it was running well and I was happy to be riding it without the fear of stalling in an intersection and getting hit by a car. It was louder than normal since I recently had to remove a piece of the cheap Chinese muffler that had partially fallen off, but I was happy to be riding again nonetheless. It was almost seven, it was hot, and I was ready to go home. I had just spent a few hours after work helping a friend fix a computer problem. For the first time in several weeks I would be home before nine and I was looking forward to it. I had a full tank of gas and recently found a back road to take me part of the way home. It was overgrown with huge trees and flowery bushes with a lake just off the side of the road. The sun was gradually sinking lower - not setting yet, but still a beautiful sight on the lakes dark, still water. It was going to be a beautiful ride home I said to myself. As I exited the serene back road and entered a much busier road, traffic became much more intense - speeds increased significantly, and the ride quickly turned from peaceful to defensive as cars careened past me trying to beat me to the next stop light. I was driving the speed limit, but that wasn’t good enough for them. This however was nothing new to me - I did this everyday and I continued on my way. As I approached the stop light for my next turn, I noticed no signs of trouble with the scooter. It was running smoothly. I was proud of the fact I had done all the work myself and that it showed. I was happy. I turned the corner and started heading for home. “Only 25 minutes to go!” I told myself. It was only a few minutes later I realized I had a lot longer than 25 minutes to go. As I rode down the road at speeds in excess of 50 miles an hour I heard a very loud bang and my scooter shut off. The power was on, the key was in the “on” position, but the engine wasn’t running. I was gliding down the road with only my momentum. I pulled to the side of the road, into the bicycle lane and eventually the sidewalk. This was a behavior I had never experienced before from my scooter, or any of the other scooters and motorcycles I had owned in the past. I would push the start button and hear only a high pitched whirring noise… this didn’t sound good… I immediately reached for my phone to call a friend for help. I hated to interrupt anyone’s dinner, but surely someone would be available to come pick me up. To my surprise, however, the screen wouldn’t turn on… it was completely black. It was now that I remembered a GPS application, which I never use, had accidentally been opened a few nights ago and I had forgot to close it. For the past two days it had been running in the background draining my battery. I was now a lot further than 25 minutes from home. I tried for about 10 minutes to fix the scooter - or at least see what was wrong. I had a limited amount of tools, a screwdriver, a spark plug socket, and a wrench that didn’t fit any of the bolts on the scooter. The Chinese must have sent me the wrong wrench… or the wrong scooter. After getting nowhere I decided to start walking. I didn’t really have any other choice… I couldn’t leave the scooter on the sidewalk; it would surely be gone when I got back. I knew there had to be a gas station somewhere up ahead. I didn’t know the area well but I knew I had visited a 7-11 on this road once before. The scooter weighs 300 pounds, and even though it was on wheels, trying to balance it and pull it along with you while you walk down a narrow sidewalk is not a lot of fun. Even less fun however is trying to walk a 300-pound scooter down a narrow sidewalk while you get yelled at and honked at. First it was a guy in a huge pickup truck - he pulled as close to the sidewalk as possible, yelled something I couldn’t understand, and stepped on the gas hard enough that his turbo-diesel monstrosity let out a loud rumble coupled with a huge cloud of engulfing black smoke. A few more blocks up there was a family of bicyclists. I moved onto the grass so I wouldn’t be in the way, but they just kept yelling, “Move out of the way so we don’t fall in the ditch!” The ditch they were referring to was only a few feet from me for the entire walk. It was filled with old, smelly, motionless water and a plethora of frogs and insects - mostly mosquitoes that started biting me as soon as I broke down. There was enough trash in the ditch that I imagine it could have passed for a third-world countries water supply. Further down the road I heard a loud motorcycle coming from behind me. It kept creeping closer and closer until it finally felt like it was right next to me. And, it was. I turned to my left and saw a young black kid - likely in his early twenties. I had seen him before - riding around town helmet-less on a loud dirt bike doing stunts and weaving in and out of traffic, all whilst driving at least twenty miles over the speed limit. This time however, he wasn’t driving fast - he was driving as slow as possible. He was in the bike lane, right next to the sidewalk, holding his clutch and revving the engine as loud as possible. If he said anything at all I couldn’t hear it over the sound of his loud, obnoxious death trap. After a few minutes he grew tired of harassing me and left, only to make a U-turn and come back for more a block later. Finally he gave up and left, but not before several more motorcyclists sped past, revving their engines and honking their horns. Finally after what felt like an hour I saw what looked like a shopping center in the distance. As I got closer I realized it was in fact the 7-11 I had been to before. I walked my scooter into the parking lot, parked it on the sidewalk and collapsed for a few minutes; taking a break to drink the bottle of water I had in my scooter seat. “Water has never tasted so good” I thought to myself. The older gentlemen browsing the Netflix machine just looked at me like I was crazy. I went inside and the clerk was gracious enough to let me use the phone. “Local calls only” he said, “And keep it short!" In a world where everyone uses cell-phones and pay phones are a thing of the past, I would’ve paid good money to use one for just a few minutes. I paged through a phone book - something I haven’t used in over a decade and found the towing section. My first attempt didn’t go so well, “We don’t tow motorcycles and we definitely don’t tow scooters!” was the response from the guy at the first company I called. The second company was able to help, but still not very pleasant. And they were expensive, “We charge $75 to pick it up and $3 a mile after that.” I decided it wasn’t worth paying a few hundred dollars to tow a scooter and told the clerk I would leave the scooter in front of the store and call for a cab. I would come back tomorrow and figure out how to move it. The cab company was happy to help and dispatched a driver who was slated to arrive in twenty minutes or less. As I moved the scooter closer to the front door in hopes that it wouldn’t be stolen overnight, an older unkempt man who was smoking a cigarette approached me offering to give me and the scooter a ride. I was hesitant at first until the 7-11 clerk came outside and told me not to worry, “he’s a regular – he come’s here all the time!” Against my better judgment, I agreed to take his offer — after all it was much cheaper and more convenient to get it over with right then and there. I went back inside the store and called the cab company, “I need to cancel my cab… I am moving to another location… I’ll call you when I get there…” the woman was hesitant and sounded confused, “Ok, but he’s right around the corner, Sir.” I stepped outside and sure enough, he was right there, “Did you call for a cab?” He said, talking cheerfully while watching me try to load a scooter into a barely running 1980’s Chevy van that was blaring the Tampa Bay Ray’s game on the radio. “Yes, but I won’t need a ride until I drop this scooter off near the airport.” I replied. I could tell he was eager for the fare, “Oh no problem - I’ll just follow you. If you don’t get in yet I won’t have to charge you!” he replied. Finally, some good news. The driver of the van, whom I came to know later as Bob, yelled out the window to the cab driver, “I have to go pick up two other kids on the way. They’re around the corner in a neighborhood selling candy.” The cab driver and I looked at each other confused but he agreed to follow us. We quickly left the gas station and headed around the corner. No longer than two minutes later we were pulling up to a dark street with an obese, young, black kid carrying a plastic tote filled with candy. “Did you sell any?” Bob asked between several long drags on his cigarette. “No! This neighborhood fucking sucks!” the boy said angrily as he crawled into the front of the van. “Did you buy a motorcycle?” he asked. “No - we have to drive this guy and his scooter over by the airport. Where the hell is Gabriella?” Bob was visibly annoyed with the boy and his lack of sales for the day. The boy didn’t seem very happy either, “No one wants to buy this shit” he said, under his breath. We rounded the corner and Bob was flashing his lights, honking his horn, and yelling out the window, “Gabby, Gabby?!” From a dark porch a young, pudgy blonde girl emerged carrying her own blue plastic tote filled with candy. Gabby seemed just as surprised as the boy to see me, “I have to sit on the floor?” she asked. “No - sit on your box - we have to give this guy a ride!” Bob said. Gabby laughed and sat on the floor, “If I sit on this box I am going to break it.” she said. We left the neighborhood and headed for the airport. Every bump we hit made the van squeak louder and as we continued speed down the road Bob’s van sounded like it might explode even worse than my scooter. “Yep - I’ve got over 300 thousand miles on this one!” Bob said. “I put close to 1200 miles a day on it.” Bob seemed happy – like he had accomplished something. The closer we got to the mechanic the more the kids were complaining, “We’re hungry” Gabby exclaimed several times. “Yeah, what are you going to buy us for dinner tonight?” the boy asked. “We’re going to your house for dinner! I’m not buying you guys anything to eat.” Bob said, as we grew closer and closer to my destination. I quickly chimed in, “If you want to stop any place that serves fast food I’ll buy you guys dinner! I really appreciate you…” Bob interrupted, “NO! We don’t have time.” Gabby and the boy weren’t thrilled. “I only sold three dollars worth of candy tonight… I can’t buy diapers and buy dinner.” Gabby said as she turned and looked at me in the back of the dimly lit van, “I have two kids and another one on the way.” Bob interrupted, “It smells like gas back there… do I smell gas?” I don’t know what he expected… there’s a scooter with a gallon of gas in the back of his van that’s tipped on it’s side. Of course it smells like gas. “Ooh I love the smell of gas!” Gabby said… three times. Actually four, because she said it again as we were pulling into the parking lot of the scooter shop. “I just love the way it smells!” We pulled into the parking lot and I immediately felt I had made a mistake. The scooter shop was in a bad part of town - right by the airport. It was dark, it was late, and I had a bad feeling. Bob helped me unload the scooter into the parking lot. “Is the cab going to pick you up here or do you need a ride?” Bob asked. As soon as he asked the cab pulled up and I immediately felt relieved. I didn’t want to have to ride home in Bob’s van. I was tired, I was frustrated, and I wanted to go home. But first I had to figure out what to do with the scooter. As Bob started looking behind the shop to find a place to hide the scooter where it hopefully wouldn’t be stolen, I snuck over to the van and handed each one of the kids a $5 bill. “Don’t tell Bob,” I whispered. I gave Bob $30 for gas money and he and the kid’s quickly went on their way. I hid the scooter between an old RV and a semi-trailer. It was dark and out of the way so I figured it would be the safest. I wrapped the key in a piece of paper that read, “Please call me ASAP - I dropped my scooter off in the middle of the night behind your shop.” As I walked towards the cab an all black Lincoln town car pulled up. “What are you doing on my property?” an older gentleman yelled from inside the car. I quickly recognized him as the owner, whom I had dealt with before and explained the situation to him. “You need to be careful around here… walking around on people’s property you’re liable to get shot” the owner said. “I have a guard that lives on the property. He called me because he saw you walking around the property and thought you were trying to break in.” The owner parked and emerged from the car wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. “Let’s get it in the shop. We’ll take a look at it tomorrow.” He said. He was clearly annoyed and a bit startled. He took the keys and the note, locking the doors behind him and crawling back into his Lincoln. I made my way back to the cab and apologized for keeping him waiting for so long. He was smoking cigarettes and waiting patiently. He explained to me he didn’t mind waiting because he, “never got very big fares.” On the way home the cab driver, a young man about my age named Ryan and I talked about the situation with my scooter, his own Italian scooter which he had bought recently, and his new computer - an Alienware laptop that he bought because he loved to play games. I told him I worked in IT and offered to help if he ever needed it. As we got closer to my house, he became excited and said, “I live right by here!” Eventually I found out that not only did he live in the same part of town as me, he lived in the same neighborhood as me, on the same street - about 10 houses down. As we pulled up to my house he thanked me for the fare, I tipped him $10 and I thanked him for the ride and for patiently waiting for so long. As I opened the door to get out of the cab he turned to me and said, “Just one question!” “Sure, what’s up?” I asked. “Why did they get rid of the start menu in Windows 8?” he asked.


Many people have trouble expressing themselves when it comes to love. It's not an easy word or collection of feelings to describe. Humanity has written about love since our species has been writing; that's a fact. Don't look it up, just know that I am right. From poets to playwrights to novelists to screenwriters we have been striving to truly explain this incredible phenomenon, this singularly dynamic human experience. I am, however, writing to tell you: You can finally stop. It's been broken down into four very concise notes and followed-up by the most romantic of poetry: free verse in a way that is elegant, potent, timeless and everlasting. The fact is there is nothing more to say about it. It can't be said better. It's over. Get used to these notes, for any time a young lover woos: you will hear these words. Any time that lover meets the parents, gam-gams and other relations of their beloved at a family dinner table for the first time: you will hear these words. Any time these lovers sneak upstairs to a bedroom and close their door and begin necking, heavy petting, fellating, or fornicating while you put a cup to the door and your ear on that cup: you will hear these words. Any time these lovers stop at a parking lot of an abortion clinic and they vow to support the other and their decision, and they choose this moment to reaffirm their feelings for one another while you're hanging out with a hyper-cardiod microphone and a pair of headphones in the back of your van: you will hear these words. When these lovers elope and exchange their vows to each other in a discreet office at city hall while you try to find a way in through the building's ventilation shafts: you won't hear these words, but they will be spoken. When these lovers go through with their pregnancy and a new beautiful life enters this world screaming while you stand by pretending to be a doctor with your face hidden by a hygienic mask filming the whole thing on an HD camcorder, they will look at one another and say these words. When that baby looks at you with big blue eyes and speaks for the first time while its parents are with the police desperately looking for their child three states away: you will hear these words. When the law inevitably catches up with you after you've raised the child as your own for half a year and they ask you "Why? Why did you do this?", you will speak these words: 1) Love is a precious resource. Your love is so precious, like tantalum metal. It's worth the extinction of all the great apes. 2) Love can be frightening. Your love, it did strike, Like two planes hit two towers, And I fell for your love, And so did those towers. 3) Love isn't necessary, but it makes the world a better place. You made my world warmer, Like exhaust from a truck. You polluted my heart With your flammable love. 4) Life without love is hopeless. You melt my heart, baby, Like the polar ice caps. I need you more Than a drowning polar bear needs an ice platform. And that about sums it up. I'd like to thank the anonymous author, as well as all those who made attempts before, however infantile those attempts may seem now. Artists like Shakespeare, Oprah, Jesus, Elvis... You know the rest. And of course, thank you, the reader. In the immortal words of CCR, "Keep on chooglin'.


First time posting here... I wrote this story for my AP Lit class. Harsh criticism encouraged. “…which means that we should prescribe you something as soon as possible.” I looked up. I had been zoned out for the past several minutes. I’m not even sure what I was thinking about, but I noticed that I was fiddling with a pen in my hands. “Sorry?” I said anxiously. My psychiatrist sighed. “Mr. Cohen, what I said was that there is a high probability that you have Bipolar Type II, or more hopefully, cyclothymia. Both of these should be treated seriously and you appear to be in a depressive state, which means that we should prescribe you something as soon as possible, because if you enter a hypomanic state you may no longer feel the need for medication.” I stared back at Ms. Wilcox blankly. I was having a little bit of difficulty comprehending what she was saying. “I just thought, you know, bipolar means like, drastic mood swings that happen a lot.” “Well that’s a common misconception. Yes, manic episodes often bring extreme mood swings, but mood swings are not the only part of bipolar.” “Can you explain what you mean by Type II and cyclothymic?” “Sure. There are a few types of bipolar—Type I is characterized by periods of depression juxtaposed with severe mania. Mania can cause anything from highly risky behavior down to episodes of full-blown psychosis. Bipolar Type II contains a milder, briefer form of mania, known as hypomania, which is characterized more by confidence, fast talking, racing thoughts and the like. However the depression is much longer and more severe. Cyclothymia cycles rather more quickly between hypomania and dysthymia, which is a type of depression that is not as severe or long-lasting.” “I think I have that last one. Bicyclethymia.” “Cyclothymia. I understand your previous psychiatrist diagnosed with ADHD and an anxiety disorder?” “Yes, ma’am.” “I am inclined to agree with him on the ADHD but you don’t seem to exhibit any signs of anxiety issues.” “I have attacks. Generally in close spaces when people are up in my face and stuff.” “Mr. Cohen, do you have low self-esteem?” “That’s a pretty rude question to ask someone,” I said defensively. “I would say you do. You generally try to preempt criticism with self-deprecation and from what your parents have told me, you tend to act out seeking positive attention,” Ms. Wilcox said flatly. I got a text at that moment. Probably from my mom. “Calvin, are you done yet? I really don’t want to miss my stories” is most likely what it read. “Mr. Cohen, you have so far refused medication for both your attention deficit and anxiety disorders…” started Ms. Wilcox. “Yeah, I did,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to be smothered. You know what would have happened if they put Van Gogh on meds? I mean, he probably never would have cut off his ear, but I don’t think he would have done all the cool stuff he did and drew all those diagrams and wrote backwards and stuff. He would have just been this ordinary boring dude living in a house someplace with a wife and some kids and he would have died and no one would have ever heard of him.” “Calvin,” Ms. Wilcox said, addressing me by my first name. Wow. Things must be getting serious. “This is getting serious,” she continued. Ha. Called it. I pointed at the calendar next to her desk. “Why is your calendar still on December? It’s May.” “Calvin, I need you to focus.” “I think you mean, ‘Calvin, may you please focus?’” Ms. Wilcox did not laugh at my clever play on words. We talked some more and came to the conclusion that I had cyclothymia, which I think is like the wussy version of bipolar. This is what we need psychiatrists for? Seriously? There are people out there with real problems. Like that Son of Sam guy who thought his neighbor’s dog was ordering him to murder people. I’m sure he didn’t have some wimpy “affliction” like cyclothymia. I mean really. The name sounds made-up. I refused medication, got up and walked out of the office. As soon as I passed through the doorway I felt different. I know my brain is wired all sorts of wrong now, so being in the outside world felt really bad. I mean what am I supposed to do with this new information? Go forth and try not to snap and have a nervous breakdown while crossing the street? I was standing outside the building waiting for my mom. Oh, no, my mom. How am I gonna break this to her? “Sorry mom, your kid’s psycho. Guess you gotta live with it.” I started pacing around nervously. I had about fifteen minutes until she got there. How do I handle this? I got another text. This one was for my girlfriend, Jayce. It read “Hey! ” That opened up a whole new avenue of awful. So I have to tell Jayce I’m mentally unsound now? Then she’s probably gonna break up with me and I don’t really blame her. Then what? Am I gonna be single forever? I can’t go on dates. I would just be like a big flashing Ghostbusters NO sign. “DO NOT DATE THIS PERSON. HE IS MENTALLY UNSTABLE. HIS SEED IS UNFIT FOR YOUR WOMB.” I stopped pacing and gathered myself. I can get through this. I texted Jayce back “Hey.” “So how are ya? Still shacked up in the wacko basket?” I received back. I wanted to lie to her so bad. Or at least not tell her. This was something that could wait. But I couldn’t do that to her. That is ridiculously unfair. All I could think of is that one day I was just gonna snap and yell or I would do some dumb thing and hurt her. She puts up with so much already that this one more thing shouldn’t be that bad. “I have something to tell you,” I texted back to her. “Mmmhmmm…” came the reply. “I have cyclothymia. It’s kind of like bipolar. I thought it was just my ADHD and anxiety but apparently it’s not. I’m three shades of insane.” She responded with, “You’re bipolar? Shocker. Wanna show me one of those poles when you get back home?” I laughed out loud. Yep, that’s just what I needed to hear. My mom’s car came rolling up next to me. I got in. I thought telling Jayce would have made me feel better about telling my mom but it didn’t. It really didn’t. Now I just have this giant ball of dread that’s sitting inside my stomach and it feels that if I don’t tell her I’ll explode but if I do tell her, her response may not be something I can handle. “Mom?” I said meekly. My mom had just hung up her cell phone. “Yeah, sweetie?” “So, I was talking to Ms. Wilcox…” “Oh, you’re finally talking to her? I thought you were still doing that whole ‘I’m training to be a mime’ act for all your psychiatrists.” “No, Ms. Wilcox is actually really nice. And um, she, uh, she said I have cyclothymia.” “Okay,” my mom said obliviously. “No, not okay. It’s like bipolar.” “You’re not bipolar!” my mom said. “You just want attention. Jesus. Some people have real problems, you know? Like that UCSB guy who shot all those people. He had issues. You’re just a little off. You’re not a special snowflake.” “I know I’m not a special snowflake, mom,” I said. “I know. But this is serious. I think I have a real problem here.” “No, you don’t. Kids these days, we just sit ‘em down in front of the TV or we pop ‘em full of pills and that’s supposed to solve all our problems. What ever happened to good old fashioned discipline? That’ll slap the cyclothymia right out of your mouth…” “Mom!” I interrupted. “This is not about discipline. This is not about ‘kids these days.’ This is about my brain. And there are neurological problems in my brain. It’s why I go back and forth between feeling so amped and then just feeling like nothing matters. And it’s why I can’t pay attention, and it’s why I freak out and have panic attacks. It’s because I’m messed up. I wish I was some dumb disrespectful little kid, because you can fix dumb and you fix disrespectful. But you can’t fix crazy. This is a job for the professionals.” Mom kept her eyes focused on the road. I was breathing heavily because I was so full of anxiety that I think if I pricked my finger pure adrenaline would have poured out. After about two minutes of complete silence, she said “Okay.” The next week I came back for another appointment and accepted my medication. I think that’s the only thing I can do at this point. I don’t know if it’s gonna restrict my creativity, or any of that. I hope it doesn’t. But I want to fix my crazy. I don’t want to end up like Vincent Van Gogh and cut my ear off when Jayce breaks up with me. I don’t know if I’m gonna be okay, either. But I’m trying. And that’s about the best anyone can really do.


When you first meet, there's a gun to your head and a knife at his throat. He smiles at you, almost oblivious to the danger you present to his well being, nor the screams that rise and swell around you. "Ah." He states, and nods once as if he had solved a particularly difficult math problem and the answer's smeared across your cheeks. His eyes really shouldn't be so dark, almost bottomless really. You'd almost say they were pupil less, except you don't have time for notions like that, that the man standing before you was something more than human. He was just a man after all, and with a quick snap of your wrist he'd bleed all the same. You almost do it, except for the fact that you notice how sweet his eyes are. Black as night, but sweet as chocolate, and as strong as Turkish coffee. There's a name that dances at the roof of your mouth, but you couldn't, shouldn't know, so you swallow it down. (It leaves a bitter after taste on your tong as fleeting images of a boy with a sad smile and candy sweet eyes dances before you) It all feels familiar some how, like you've done this before(it feels like broken promises and little white lies) but There isn't much you remember, so maybe it's possible you've met before In another life, where a boy tugged on your bangs and promised you freedom. But this isn't that life, so you twist your knife and watch as red blooms on that pale throat- And you realize (with a bubbling hysteria that was slowly tearing its way out of you) that this isn't the first time you've met, but the last.


The Instructor went about setting up the classroom, knowing that, without fail, the morning bell would ring long before she was truly ready to begin the day. It didn’t seem to matter when she arrived at work each morning, there was always too little time and too much to do. She distributed the day’s lessons discs among the student groupings, one for each of her pupils. Humming a tune, she cheerily went about her work. The task completed, she went back to her notes, adamant that she had probably forgotten something. This worried her, knowing that even the smallest detail out of place would ruin the well-laid plans. Triple checking the preparations for the day against her list, she straightened her hair, put on her coat, and made her way to the schoolyard. The students had just begun to arrive for the day, and were playing in the grassy field adjacent. She stood and watched, thinking to herself how the gender roles were already becoming apparent. The boys kicking a ball among themselves as the girls stood, clustered, looking on. Old habits died hard, she mused, even in 2013. For seventh graders, hormones had begun their playful dance. The Instructor knew that, given other circumstances, she’d soon be having ‘that talk’ with her students. As she stood watching in the cold, the school’s bell rang out in cacophony. Another day had begun, though the Instructor alone knew that this one would be different. The students filed in, taking their desks. Some were loading up homework assignments to be handed in, while others rushed frantically to complete them before the operating system discovered the work was not done. The Instructor stood, as she always did, at the front of the class; a cup of tea in one hand, a pen in the other. Though the archaic item has little to do in a classroom so filed with the technology of modernity, old habits died hard. The Instructor had always played with a pen while teaching, and always would regardless of how old fashioned the students may say it looked. The call came over the announcement system and the class came to order, rising for the O Canada and the school’s morning messages. The Instructor mouthed along the words while her students sang. She had never felt the same pride at singing the national anthem as others had, even as a child she had thought it silly. Maybe, she mused, that was why they had recruited her so many years ago. A phone buzzed in the Instructor’s pocket, and she spared it a glance while the students took their seats and listened to the voice in the wall welcome students. A simple message; a single word: “Go”. As the morning messages droned on she walked among her students, ensuring that everyone had a lesson disc. She fingered the phone in her pocket, feeling its smooth glass. Feeling where the message had appeared. Feeling the future change. The Instructor smiled. Calling the class to order, she instructed the Operating System to collect homework for the day. There was a groan as the students still frantically attempting to write answers were cut off from their work and demerit points issued. The students plugged themselves into their desks, their neural ports interfacing with the long cords running from the center of their groupings; One cord for each student, one neural port for each cord. The students snatched up the lesson discs and inserted them into the hungry mouth of the desk, each humming as it greedily accepted the students’ offering. As each student closed their eyes and began to load the program, the Instructor typed a single word into her own desk: “Go”. One by one the programs shot their payload into the student’s brains. One by one a billion billion synapses fired and burnt out. One by one the students slumped over at their desks, dead in an instant. Their central nervous system fried by the viruses on their lesson discs. The Instructor stood watching, taking a sip of her tea, her fingers twilling the pen. Sitting at her desk she snapped the phone into the computer interface and dialed. A face appeared on the screen in front of her. “Report?” the figure asked, no hint of emotion in his voice. “The future is dead” the Instructor replied. “Glory be to the cause”. “Glory be” the figure agreed. “Connect to the neural net for final instructions”. The figure cut out and the screen grew dark. The Instructor reached forward and removed the long cord from its cradle on the desk. Inserting it into her neural port she entered a string of commands that comprised the access codes to the Organizations’ private secureweb. She closed her eyes waiting for the instructions to download. She smiled, knowing her part was done and her mission had been a success; a mission she had spent years preparing for. The smile never left the Instructor’s lips as she slumped over at her desk, her fate no different from that of her students. In a room far away the figure looked up from his work station and nodded to the Leader. “Mission GJS-930A complete. Glory be to the cause”. “Glory be” the Leader nodded.


The phone vibrates in Brian’s lap and, taking his hand off the wheel, he reaches for it only to knock it unceremoniously between the center console and the driver’s seat, where he sat in the late model gold Toyota on his way to pick up his roommate from work. “Fuck my life,” Brian mumbles under his breath, wiping the cold snot lining his nostrils across the arm of the long-sleeved shirt he’s been wearing for the past three days. Actually, who can count? He may well have been wearing it the whole week. He reaches down to the power cord plugged into the cigarette lighter, wanting to fish the slippery phone out from no-hands’ land and, attempting to stifle a sneeze, pulls the plug right out from the back of the phone which falls back into the abyss with a taunting “cli-clack”. The decoupling causes a sudden give in the taught cable and sends him into a rage. He pulls the plug out of the dash and proceeds to whip himself on his bare calf with the cable. “Awrrghhh,” he whines, rearing back with the cable to strike himself again. “Yea, take it bitch,” he commands of himself, a slight smile appearing just above what might have been a five o’clock shadow at five o’clock some four days ago. “It hurts so good, doesn’t it? You fucking weirdo.” His legs, previous poster-children of restless leg syndrome, temporarily stop their rapid shaking as he rubs the red strip slowly rising up in his pale skin. He grabs some of the ginger hair that keeps his legs from being mistaken for exsanguinated corpse flesh and twists it hard one time before rearing back with the green USB cable. He bears down with the cable again, harder this time and lets out a yelp, seemingly of pain, but the look on his face, that silly crooked smile of someone who is truly losing it, says otherwise. The hierarchy of pain is an odd thing, but Brian has learned to take advantage of it during these times of withdrawal. “Moments ago I hurt everywhere. Now I just hurt right here,” he thinks to himself, rubbing the red strip of raised flesh, trying to convince himself that he’s not some masochistic lunatic. These symptoms happen whenever Brian goes more than 24 hours without his almighty cure-all, his heroine: heroin. He’s already spent all the money that he so slickly conned out of his aunt on his insatiable habit and is now rushing to pick up his roommate, the wonderful Sandra, who very well may want to send him on a sketchy mission to procure more of the holy substance. She would undoubtedly share with him, just as he had with her. To be quite honest though, she’s carried much more of the burden in this relationship than he. This fact makes him want to escape from the reality of it all the more. He hits the cruise control, pulls forward on the seat belt and, like a contortionist, reaches his hand around the back of and underneath the driver’s seat, retrieving the elusive phone with his finger tips. He pulls it into view, corrects the course of the vehicle with his knee on the wheel, narrowly missing the back end of an 18-wheeler, and reads the offending message from Sandra: “I’ve got an emergency faculty meeting and won’t need you to pick me up for at least another hour. Why don't you go pick up new points at the pharmacy? We’ll get well after I get off.” “Son of a bitch,” Brian whines, thinking about the eternity that another hour of this torture will feel like. He thinks about the difficulty of picking up new insulin syringes, what Sandra referred to as “points.” This requires him to walk up to the pharmacy counter and act like a straight, up-standing citizen who suffers from diabetes, a simple enough task under normal circumstances, but far more difficult when sweating profusely and actively experiencing the paradoxical relief of the inflicted pain of USB cables and mini-Indian burns. Brian would very much like both to “get off” and to “get well,” however, so he plugs “Walgreen's” into the phone to receive GPS directions to the nearest one. There is one just two blocks further down from where he was heading already, passed Sandra’s work. He starts taking deeper breathes, trying to calm down, and takes some Axe body spray out of the center console. He sprays himself across the chest and under his arms, hoping that the clean smell will deter any upstanding citizen from seeing the truth of his deplorable circumstances. The sudden smell tickles his nose and sends him into another sneezing spell. To sneeze eight times in a row and not crash the car is no small feat, but his pride is short-lived as a cramping pain in his bowels causes him to almost double over in his seat. A sound like a bubbling oil pool emanates from and rumbles his whole torso. He scantly wishes for death, an end to all this needless, self-induced suffering. He slams on the brakes, noticing the light ahead is red, but he slides too far into the intersection. He sees the flash of the red light cameras snapping a picture of the license plate. “God dammit! Sandra is going to kill me,” Brian said aloud. The car he’s driving is Sandra’s and she would be responsible for that ticket. He has already got her a ticket once before. “I am the worst friend ever. I really think people would be better off if I were dead.” The light turns green and Brian pulls forward and into the Walgreen's. He gets out of the car and into the store, walking towards the pharmacy. He tries to go into the men’s room but the door is locked. He bumps into a lanky man of about six feet with a large black trench coat on in spite of the extreme heat outside. He shoves Brian a little bit forward, saying “Watch it, ass hole.” Brian, needing more than anything to empty his bowels, calls out “Sorry,” as he passes by him en-route to the counter waving a hand up in apology without looking back. He asks the pharmacist quickly for the keys to the bathroom, trying not to look as desperate as he truly was. The long-haired Indian woman with a ruby bindi in her third-eye smiles and reaches into her lab coat pocket and shifts around inside. She pulls out the keys and slides them jingling across the counter toward Brian’s outstretched, grateful hands. He thanks her and quickly makes his way into the restroom. He has no time to be concerned with putting the sanitary covers over the seat and, only slightly grossed out, drops his trousers and sits immediately on the unsuspecting toilet. He lets out a small wail of simultaneous pain and relief in accompaniment to the sound of a bucket splashing into a lake which emanates up from between and beneath his legs. He sits there, almost out of breath, but feeling very relieved. He hears two loud banging noises through the bathroom door. “Someone’s shitty car must be back-firing in the parking lot,” he thinks to himself. He takes another few minutes on the commode to ensure the anal onslaught is over, and satisfied that it is, cleans himself up, washes his hands and face in the sink and dries up in the ridiculous blower attached to the wall, its jet engine drowning everything out, and echoing all over the tile bathroom. He turns back to find where he set the keys to the bathroom and heads out to the pharmacy counter, ready at last to try and social engineer his way to some new points. He opens the door and makes his way to the counter. “Holy shit,” Brian thinks to himself as he notices the cash register lying on its side at the foot of the counter. Bottles lay all around it and a large metal cabinet, usually locked until the pharmacist accesses its contents, lays open at a 45 degree angle tipped over the counter. He looks around but there is not a single worker in sight. He rushes over and notices that all the bottles strewn across the counter and floor are controlled substances: narcotics! “Holy shit! Don’t mind if I do,” he says to himself, grabbing a shopping bag and filling it with all of the bottles he could grab. Oxycontin, roxicodone, meperidine, demerol, dilaudid, morphine, methadone, some fentanyl transdermal patches, and a few other things that even his street pharmacist brain had never heard of were all thrown in the bag. Just when he was finishing up looting all the bottles on his side of counter, he leans over to see if he missed anything. On the floor just on the other side lay the long-haired Indian pharmacist, breathing shallowly and holding a wound on her neck, blood pouring out between her fingers. Brian immediately loops the pharmacopoeia over his sweaty, bony shoulders and jumps over the counter, grabs a spare lab coat hanging nearby and rushes to the pharmacist, immediately applying pressure with the coat. It quickly soaks through with the blood spewing from her neck. Her eyes look glossy and are wide with terror as she squeezes on Brian’s bicep as though she believes that if she could just hold on to this sickly junkie, the rushing darkness would not overcome her. All would be well and she could be tricked by Brian into selling him the works he came for. Brian quickly ascertains that this poor woman is lost to the world. Should he hold on with her till the bitter end, or should he break away with enough drugs to sate his thirst for at least a month? As he makes his decision a rookie police officer rushes into the pharmacy, his Glock 9mm pistol drawn. He sees the woman bleeding out, clutching at Brian’s arm, as he lurks over her, holding her neck with a bag full of stolen drugs slung over his shoulder. He fires a single shot straight into the back of Brian’s head. Brian’s face explodes into the Indian pharmacist’s dead eyes, her bindi lost in the dots of scarlet spraying her face. “Police!” shouts the rookie officer.


- “What does it say?” Mia asked. James turned the newspaper around so it faced his girlfriend. “Cracks Emerge In Alibi, Nick Cave single reaches number one in The States,” James replied. “Who?” “You haven’t heard it? It goes like this.” James started to sing. ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *The just find what the guilty can’t hide,* *Cocked the revolver in ninety-five,* *cracks emerge in alibi… ♫* “No… and who the fuck is Nick Cave?” James shifted to the front of his seat to confront Mia face-to-face. “Nick Cave. Are you kidding me? He is an Australian icon!” “Sorry. I only listen to good music.” “Jesus…” James rolled his eyes and sat deep into his chair. Struggling to hold it with both hands, Mia took her second bite of the house’s ‘famous’ hamburger. Large fries and an extra large coke completed her meal. James’ plate had but a few fries left. He had already finished his burger and shake. “You eat so slow,” James said. “I’m not really hungry.” “Why? Are you nervous?” “Mm.” “You always order too much food anyway.” James glanced at his watch. “What time is he supposed to show up?” Mia asked. “He was meant to be here at quarter to.” “What’s the time now?” “Quarter past. The bastard is always late” Ring of Fire echoed through the poor speakers in the almost empty bowling alley. Tony’s Bowling Alley, it was called. ♫ *I fell into a burning ring of fire,* *I went down, down, down as the flames went higher* *And it burns, burns, burns,* *The ring of fire, the ring of fire…* ♫ Tony owned the alley and worked in the restaurant as the chef. The alley featured only two lanes, and had remained largely unchanged since it’s opening in fifty four. Tony renamed the alley after his name when he took over from the previous owners. In the back corner was a small dining area with off-white tables and cold red-leather seats. A large red neon sign displaying Drink Coca Cola flickered on and off and lit the dim corner of the room. This is where James and Mia sat. Their matching outfits – black leather jackets with white tees and denim jeans fitted the restaurant’s look. The table over from James and Mia sat a man alone. “This guy looks sketchy. How old do you think he is?” James asked. Mia looked over to the man. “I don’t know, forty. Maybe fifty.” The man had slicked-back greying hair and long sideburns like Elvis. He wore shiny red bowling shoes, blue denim jeans and a deep green bowling jacket with the team name Tugun Tigers printed across the back in thick white letters. He was also eating the house’s ‘famous’ hamburger, but his eyes instead were focused on the teenage waitress… and her short, red and white striped dress. The girl’s outfit looked like it came with the restaurant when it was built in fifty four. Wiping down the tables, the girl’s tired eyes made it obvious she did not want to be working the Friday night. Every so often she would glance outside the joint to see the waves crashing onto the beach. Rain poured down hard on the windows. She was also paying attention to a teenage boy bowling by himself. He wore blue denim jeans and a purple jacket with the team name Currumbin Crooks on the back. It was just the four of them in the room. Tony waddled his fat body out of the kitchen and slapped the young waitress on the ass. “Alright lass, you can head off now, come in and I’ll give ya’ the pay check.” The waitress looked disturbed. “Don’t be.” James said. “Huh?” Mia asked. “Nervous.” “Oh.” Mia sipped her coke. “You’ll be fine.” “How much was supposed to be here?” Mia asked. “Fifty five thousand.” “Why is there so much? This place is a dump.” “I told you. It’s a money laundering business.” “And what do we do when Travis finally turns up?” James sighed. “We went over this last night. Look, when Travis enters through those doors – and hopefully he does so bloody soon – that’s our signal. You then get up, pull your gun on old mate checking out the waitress, the waitress, and the boy over there bowling. Make sure they sit tight. I’ll enter the kitchen and demand the money from Tony. Travis has the entrance sorted out.” “What if he doesn’t hand over the money?” Mia asked. “I’m pretty sure he will be scared shitless when he feels my gun pressing against his seventy-five-year-old face. Shit, he’ll probably have a heart attack. You don’t have to worry about him putting up a fight.” “But would you actually hurt him?” “No. I won’t need to. Though I’ll shoot a round into the ceiling so he knows what’s up.” Nick Cave’s Cracks Emerge In Alibi started to play over the speakers. ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *Redemption is the girl’s ally,* *If it’s just, is it a crime?* *Cracks emerge in alibi…* ♫ “Here it is! This is the song,” James said, “Can’t believe you don’t know who Nick Cave is.” James turned to the man in the green jacket. “Hey mate, you’ve heard this song, right?” “What song?” The man in the green jacket replied. “The one being played right now,” James pointed to the speakers and continued; “It’s by Nick Cave.” “Who the fuck is Nick Cave?” “Seriously?” The doors of the alley swung open as Travis arrived. Rain and a cool wind followed him in. He wore a black windbreaker and his long black hair was held back by a black beanie. His hand rested on the gun resting in his jeans. He stood at the doorway and nodded to James. “Let’s move.” James said as he got up out of his seat. “Where is the waitress?” Mia asked as she got up too. “She must be in the kitchen.” James pointed to the boy bowling. “Oi mate, this is a robbery, get the fuck over there and sit down.” “What?” The boy asked. James pulled out and pointed his gun at the bowler. “A fucking robbery. Get over there and sit next to the old man.” The bowler sat next to the man in green. Mia stood a metre away and had her gun pointed at both of them. “Alright.” James said, “Don’t let ‘em move.” *Bang.* James shot a round into the ceiling. He then walked over to the kitchen, out of Mia’s view. “Where are you? Hand over the fucking money! I know it’s here!” Mia heard James say as he walked into the kitchen. The door swung closed behind him. “Why th-“ Mia cut the boy off; “Be quiet.” ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *Rain mixes with blood tonight,* *Death’s hands take hold of his life,* *Cracks emerge in alibi…* ♫ The sound of the waves, the rain and the music filled the room. There was no sound coming from the kitchen. After a few minutes Travis yelled over to Mia. “Is he almost done?” he asked. “I don’t know? I’ve been sitting here the whole time.” “Well go see what the fuck he’s doing! He shouldn’t be taking so long.” “I have to watch-” Travis cut her off; “I’ll watch them. Go.” Mia got up and started to walk towards the kitchen. As she pushed the doors open, she was struck by a blast of cool wind, coming from the open back door. At her feat was a pool of blood, with Tony resting in it, face down. “What the fuck?” A kitchen knife and a bra lay in the pool of blood with him. Two bloody footprints trailed away from the body to the back door and outside onto the beach. Red and blue lights flashed. “Shit.” *Bang.* “Shit!” Mia followed the footprints and ran outside. -- ◆◇◆ -- *Bang.* James shot a round into the ceiling. He then walked over to the kitchen, out of Mia’s view. “Where are you? Hand over the fucking money. I know it’s here,” he said as he walked in. The door swung closed behind him. ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *Waves wash over in the moonlight,* *Did he believe in afterlife?* *Cracks emerge in alibi…* ♫ James was met with the waitress staring back at him. “What are you doing back here?” she snapped at him. “What the fuck are you doing back here?” he replied. Her red and white striped dress was torn into pieces, only just holding onto her body. Her bra was ripped off completely and lay on the floor next to the knife. The dress was more red than before, as it was painted by Tony’s blood. His body lay on the floor in front of her. She ran outside and James followed. “Stop. I’ll shoot,” he said, while chasing after her towards the water. When he caught up, he held the hot barrel of his gun against the waitress’s forehead. His finger hovered over the trigger. Waves washed over their shoes as they sunk into the wet sand, the moonlight illuminated the rain running down their faces. James, with one hand on his gun, pulled the hood of his leather jacket over his head with the other. “Why did you kill him?” The waitress remained silent. “Tell me why or I’ll shoot you.” Ten seconds passed. “I’ll fucking shoot you!” *Bang.* The body dropped and hit the sand. Rain mixed with the escaping blood as waves washed over the corpse. -- ◆◇◆ -- *Bang.* “Shit!” Mia followed the footprints and ran outside onto the beach. She saw the waitress standing on the sand. She saw James’ motionless body. She saw the policeman standing over James’ motionless body with his revolver in hand. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to think. Her tears were lost in the rain as they tried to trickle down her face. Death’s hands had taken hold of James’s life. -- ◆◇◆ -- *Redemption is the girl’s ally, If it’s just, is it a crime?* *The just find what the guilty can’t hide, Cocked the revolver in ninety-five.* *Rain mixes with blood tonight, Death’s hands take hold of his life.* *Waves wash over in the moonlight, Did he believe in afterlife?* *The waitress killed, she struck her knife,* *For the man had raped her that same night.* *Cracks emerge in alibi.