The hitchhiker stood on a vast open countryside, nothing around her for miles except for farmland, the road she stood aside of, and the car coming to a stop beside her. Without looking in she got in the car, thankful to narrowly miss the storm that was coming.Of course she knew the dangers of what she was doing, She was used to it by now and it was more of a neccesary evil than anything. Before she got her bearings a males voice asked "Where are you trying to get to?". "I dont know." She replied. She sat motionless, eyes closed and picturing her dreams and focusing on that while waiting for the guy to make a move. Instead, He put the car in drive and slowly started driving again while she looked over at him. Immediately her stomach dropped but she couldnt place why. He was close to her age, good looking in an unusual way. He didnt respond to her for some time and kept his eyes forward.   After a few miles of silence the rain began to fall hard, blanketing their vision. Even with the sound of the rain the girl still jumped a little bit when the guy quietly said "How do you not know where you are going??" and laughed a little bit. His laugh was so quiet she could barely hear it, and may have missed it if she didnt see him laughing. Her stomach dropped a little more. She liked his smile and felt comfortable even though she knew nothing about him.She started to think of an answer when he spoke again. "If you don't know where you're going, why would you hitchhike?", asking with a genuinely puzzled look. This question was easy enough to answer, though she normally never told anyone the honest answer for it when she was asked. This time though she was honest. "It's nice to imagine, or hope." He looked at her for the first time, as though seeing the person confusing him would clear anything up. He jokingly pulled his eyebrows low like he was suspect of her, then he smiled again and looked back at the road. Again her stomach sank further and she was feeling nervous now. Of course she couldnt tell, but he was too. "sounds kinda sketch." He said. As she started to get offended he followed up with "hitchhiking I mean, not you." "Elaborate?" he asked. She explained that she had dreams of being out in the world and doing what she wanted, so she would hitchhike with people and imagine she was going out to be in the world and do the things she dreamed of. When he asked her why she didnt do those things instead of dreaming about them she pulled back from her openness. He could tell that he had reached a sensitive area and retreated the conversation to another topic. The storm got worse and neither of them could see more than a few feet ahead so he pulled off to a rest stop to let the storm pass. They talked for hours and nighttime came with the storm going just as strong. At one point she looked over at him and as her stomach began to drop again she only thought one word: Mine. At that moment it felt like the whole world finally made sense. She felt like she knew things, like she knew he was hers. She knew she was his, and she liked that. She felt things she hadnt felt before, alien-like feelings. She asked herself "Is this happiness?" For the first time she felt content, calm, and relaxed.   It turned out that they lived close by each other and that he was just driving around because he "was ready to go somewhere with nowhere to go.", so they agreed to head back to their city after the storm. If it ever stopped that was.... By 3am they were listening to music and talking every now and then, both of their eyelids getting heavy. Abruptly the guy announced he was going to take a nap, leaning his chair back and putting a sweater under his head like a pillow he faced her. She did the same thing and just watched him as he fell asleep. As she was drifting off to sleep she softly asked "what's your name?". The cd they were listening to had ended a while ago and now only the sound of the rain could be heard. She normally would be worried about the storm but was calm, content, and at peace in this strangers car. "The Heretic." he whispered back. In the morning the storm passed right as the sun was coming up. She woke up facing the stranger, and noticed she was holding his hand. She gently let go, embarrassedly thinking that she may have grabbed it in her sleep and didnt want to weird him out. She got out of the car to use the rest stops vending machine and clean up a bit in the bathroom. When she came back out the car was running and he was awake. They drove back to their city and when they got to her house she invited him inside, not ready to part ways. He agreed, and from that moment they spent almost every day together for the following few years. In that time she was happier than she ever felt, realizing she hadn't ever known what it was like to feel truly happy before. This led to her getting her not hitchhiking anymore, getting her own car, and more importantly, she began to look forward to her future. This was something that she usually avoided because she would think there was nothing worth looking forward too. Now she saw herself fulfilling her dreams, living a life she always wanted but never thought she could have. She felt excited looking ahead. She had always dreamed of moving away, somewhere warm, with a beach nearby. Somewhere on the west coast. The guy encouraged it so eventually they were ready to go. She was nervous as she had never been independent, in control of her own life.Neverhad been truly responsible for herself, both for her potential successes and potential failures. She didnt have something to fall back on and blame, and the thought made her uncomfortable. She knew in her heart that following her dream was what she wanted most, being with this boy was what she wanted most. It wasn't that she needed him to do anything for her, just that having him by her side she felt understood, safe, loved, free, powerful. Alive. She felt like she could do anything. Most people she knew saw her and saw that they could take advantage of her or her situation, and they would. The Heretic never did though, and instead protected her vulnerabillities and would challenge her to grow rather than put her down or try to control her. She could also tell that this was all new to him as well, and he had told her that she inspired him in similar ways during one of their many talks. He wasn't a bum before they met but he was...directionless. Ready to go with nowhere to go. Now that he had goals he had changed a lot, in good ways. He still retained his boyish charm but she had seen him grow into being a man in the past few years. He credited her for pushing him to grow, even though she never did. He said just by being herself it made him always want to grow and be a better person. She understood that feeling as she felt the same way. She understood everything he said though(as he did for her too), no matter how abstract it was or how vague or bad he was at describing something. Sometimes they could just look at each other and have full conversations, or be apart and sense how the other one was feeling. If someone had told her that 5 years ago, she would think that person was crazy, an idiot. She thought love in general and people in love were weak, naive fools missing out on life in their boring monogomy. Now she saw that she was the one that was naive.   She was ready to move and get away from all of the toxic things that haunted her past, excise them from her like removing the tentacles of an octopus trying to drown her. It was was the only way she would be happy, she thought. So they began their drive to a new world. The nervous uncomfortable feeling remained with her though, and began to grow. They took the same path that theyd taken all those years before but in reverse. She would normally be hapy to see the spot they had met and she felt her stomach dropping like it did on that day, but this time it wasnt in a good way though. She began to doubt herself, her dreams, her ability to succeed and be happy. "What If I failed?" "What if...I am not enough?" That thought led her to The Heretic, and she began to doubt him too. He could sense something was wrong since they had left, and asked her a couple times what was wrong but she gave a curt "nothing." His face seemed pained, like he was watching someone in pain and couldnt do anything to help them. They had driven for some time and were passing the rest stop from the night they met. She looked at him and he was smiling, looking from the rest stop to her. In that moment they looked at each other and all the bad washed away in her, and she felt excited. She was so close to escaping all of the bad. That was the only moment of the ride that she felt "okay" though, and as soon as they broke eye contact the feeling washed away. No more than a mile later They pulled up to a massive metal gate. The gateway was attached to a wall on either side, solid, shining metal extending as far as the eye could see. As he pulled closer to it she said "stop!" and he did. She quickly got out of the car so he followed, confused. "Whats wrong" he asked, genuinely concerned. Her mind was clouded with a hundred voices all saying different things at once. It was overwhelming and too much. She looked at him and thought "I must look crazy." and pained to think what he must be thinking of her right then. The voices in her head got louder and she felt like she was in the middle of a crowd of people all talking at once. He could see her discontent on her face and stepped towards her to comfort her. He was speaking but she couldnt hear him over the voices, then she said "I cant go". Her eyes began to tear up. The voices were all familiar, all people from the old world, and they were all saying bad things. About her, about him, about her dreams. they warned her about failing, acting as though they were looking out for her. they also warned her about him, saying that he was just like the rest. that he was trying to keep her for himself, thats why he was reaching for her right now. She pulled back and looked at him accusingly. The voices soothingly said that she was safe here, on this side of the gate. This was where she belonged. "Whats wrong? do you not want to go? You dont have to-" he started to say when she cut him off. "I cant go any further." then looked back at the gate looming over them. "What do you mean? Like you physically cant? Im confused." He softly grabbed her hand and led her to the gate. As they approached it the massive metal gate began to lift up. She got more nervous than she had ever been, standing a foot away from the other side of the gate. Everything out there was so alien, so unknown, and it terrified her. He could see what she was thinking on her face and only said two words. "I love you. You CAN." The voices in her head began buzzing again, saying he was pressuring her, he was lying, he was bad. They told her to tell him again, so she did. "I can't." He took one step and was on the other side of the gate, then said "See. Nothing happened. It's no different here than it-" he was saying when the gate slammed down, shutting with a loud boom. He began to bang on the gate, and she began to panic and tried to open it. Looking back and forth she saw no way to open it, no number to call for assistance, nothing that could help.   Now they were apart. She fell against the gate and cried. The voices got louder, some began to laugh and mock, some began to comfort her in her panic, some said she was better off without him. She screamed at them to stop, to go away. They didnt though. After a couple of days of going back to the gate she waited for it to open but it never did. She knew he was still on the other side because he would knock when she would. She looked for a way to slip notes under the gate or communicate with him somehow but couldnt. Eventually she went home. She would go back to the gate every day for weeks, never seeing it open. Never seeing him. She went offroad and followed the gate in one direction and after a couple of days was back at the gate, having gone full circle without finding a way out. The voices in her head assured her this was for the best, that he had left her. He had failed her. That he was why she hurt. She fought with them at first. Years would pass and she stopped going to the gate, hating The Heretic for hurting her. She started hitchhiking again, and almost immediately she had met someone else and he was different. He didnt care about her dreams, or what made her happy, from what she gathered he just saw her as a trophy. It was a relief. She wouldnt have to repeat what had happened and it was "safe". The voices liked him a lot. One day she realized that she was pregnant. The voices were pleased, despite that she wasn't exactly happy. Her new partner was happy as well. He had her on a leash now, in his mind. She thought of The Heretic, and even though she hated him she missed him. That didnt happen often but sometimes she would strangely miss him then feel ashamed for missing someone who was so cruel. In the following weeks the guy proposed to her and she said yes, knowing the voices expected it of her. She didnt want to dissapoint them. "One day they will be pleased" she said to herself, more of a hope than a thought. She didnt know of course that they never would be though. They had grown more arrogant after she said yes to the guy, taunting her even. One night she was sad and couldnt place why, laying in her bed in the dark. It was right at the edge of her mind what bothered her so much, almost in reach but just out of grasp. Among the chatter of the other voices a new one softly spoke up. The Heretics voice said "Go to the gate." It startled her for she wasnt used to hearing his voice anymore, and she never heard it with the other voices. Immediately the other voices began speaking, saying he was trying to hurt her, and not to listen to him. "He is bad". She felt like she had to go though, she had to know why she heard him. She got in her car in her pajamas and took off, fighting the voices the whole drive. They kept saying "your pregnant, this is irresponsible." "turn back." "Youre getting married soon, your husband wouldnt like this would he?" She knew the voices were right, as she had decided they always were. They looked out for her, she would think. Still, she pressed on, and saw the rest stop from those many years ago. Immediately she started to hurt, her mind too clouded to pinpoint why except for what the voices told her. "He hurt you!" She couldnt even recall anything about the night at the rest stop,just vaguely that it had to do with Heretic. She pulled up to the massive gate, not knowing what to expect. It was exactly the same as it had always been, except for a post sticking out on the side of the road. IT had a piece of paper stuck to it at the top so she put the car in park and walked over to it. It was folded up and had a heart on the outside of it with the words "I believe in you" written inside of the heart. The heretic used to write her little notes alot and she recognized his handwriting. The voices said "It's a trick!" "He's trying to hurt you again." "he's lying." "Dont open it." She opened it anyways, and all that was inside were a couple brief sentences. "It's all in your head. There is no gate... I'll be on the west coast, the place we were headed in case you change your mind about staying here. It's never too late to do what makes you happy. I love you, H" Suspicious of his obvious lie she looked up and gasped. There was no gate. Her mind was unusually silent for the first time in years. The voices had dissapeared along with the gate... There, by herself, everything now clear to her, she cried. She felt sick at the thought of all that had happened. The thought of the voices betraying her. Of hating Heretic just because it made her decision easier. The thought of being pregnant by this guy she didnt really love, would have a family that she would hurt every time she looked at, and sick by the thought that she had settled in every way. Sick with the realization that she gave her happiness away because it was unknown to her, scared her even. Sick with the thought that she let her darkness prevail over her light. Let her fear prevail over her courage. With dread she then thought "this is my life." and quickly pushing aside what the Heretic said, she accepted her fate. Then the voices came back, once again filling her mind with noise as usual. They comforted her, reassured her she was making the right choice, as they were so good at doing, she had forgotten most of this event by time she was married, and didnt think of it anymore by time she had her child, and she went on to lead the life they charted out for her. She was never happy, but she was somewhere she was comfortable, somewhere she knew. Not content, but comfortable. She felt alone, incomplete, nervous most of the time but couldnt place why. She didnt search for reasons either, knowing that would only cause pain. It wasn't enough for her, but it was her life. It was the fate she chose.     Many, many years later there was an old man on the west coast, overlooking the ocean from his home. He had no kids, no grandkids. Not that anything was wrong with him or because women didnt like him, he just never let anyone close to him because he was always preoccupied, both in his heart and his mind. On this particular night he was moving slowly, breathing shallow, weak breaths. He knew his time was near. He'd known it for some time, and in a way he felt like he was failing her by succumbing to it. Speaking to her, but to nobody, he said "I'm sorry." His heart pained him, not from old age but from loss. Not his own loss as much as he was pained for her. "You deserved so much more. You deserved better." He held a picture in his hand, old and battered like him. It showed a youthful portayal of him and the girl together and smiling. Big, goofy, genuine smiles. Every time he looked at it he felt a bit of the warmth and happiness he had felt when it was taken all those years ago. He never forgot those days. His mind and heart wouldnt let him even if he tried. That was where he was meant to be. Not any specific place, but just by her side. He slowly walked inside to his bed, his whole body protesting and creaking with every movement. He knew this was the last time he would make this walk, and wanted to welcome it if it werent for the feeling of failure. He wanted to invite the end of pain, but knew it was selfish and so refused. He had fought off the end and staved it off for many years, but the fight ended that night. Laying in his bed, warm but also cold, he held the picture to his chest and said "I love you." The Heretics breathing slowed as he fell asleep.


PATROL The mission was meant to be simple. A routine patrol through some villages, a show of force to help keep the area calm. Four hours out, four hours back. A quick stop here or there to dish out some aid, boring stuff. Our platoon had been in country for four months by this point, only two left til we rotated back to the world. Our squad had been doing patrols like this everyday since we got here and nothing had ever happened. The war was over, all we were doing was keeping things stable while the politicians worked out what next. It was dull as hell, and all any of us really wanted was a little action. The jungle was thick. It was a real bitch to move through. At the end of every patrol we’d strip down and go over each other removing ticks and leeches. Tommo had the record of 37 ticks and 12 leeches from a single patrol. He’d picked them up when we went through the low lands, it was probably all the creek crossings. We moved in a tight diamond formation, good for all around defence. Mayer was point man, Eddie and Tommo on the flanks, Boss man in the middle and me bringing up there rear. It was slow going, we had to halt almost every half hour to cut through the bush. Mayer had gotten so good at it we’d nicknamed him “Machete Man”. About three hours into the patrol, as we approached Lagai village Mayer threw up the field signal to halt us. The whole team stopped dead. My first thought was that he’d come across some wild boar or something. That thought snapped away as Mayer gave us a big thumbs down, the signal for enemy. The team dropped, taking up firing positions, covering three-sixty degrees. Slowly the Boss moved forward to Mayer. “What you got?” He whispered. “About forty meters ahead, slight right. Three fighting age males carrying rifles. Moving left to right up that trail.” Mayer answered. The Boss gave quick orders over our inter-team comms. “Ok boys, Mayer has seen some possible local militia. We are going to sit tight and watch out arcs. Give it a half hour and they should clear out. From there we will begin to make our way back to the patrol base and report what we’ve seen. This war is done, no need for us to get in a fire fight over some idiot kids with a rifle or two. Got it?” We all sent back an acknowledgement. Then the waiting began. Watch the bush, make sure nothing is creeping up on us. Sit and wait. It was the last thing I wanted to do after finally finding some enemy. After what felt like an age the Boss gave the signal, we got up and began heading back the way we'd come. Having turned on the spot I was now point man. We started off at a snails pace. Knowing there were armed kids banging around this bush got me excited. Plus there was no rush. I was happy to take all day, if it meant maybe we could bump into them again. We continued on at this pace for a kilometre or two before we eased up a bit. Making it out of the area we went back to our standard patrol pace, working our way through the jungle like it was any other day. About halfway back, somewhere between Lagai and Yagayua villages, we got hit. We’d come out of the scrub into a clearing, the ground sloped down from our right. It began with a spray of automatic fire. The team hit the deck fast. Rounds were coming in from the high ground. Tommo started blatting away with his rifle, trying to force the enemies heads down. The Boss shouted across the team comms “Contact right, extended line on Tommo.” We’d been ambushed and the Boss was moving us to counter. It took me three bounds to get into position. There was no cover for us so we got on our guts and began firing. Who needs cover when you’ve got cover of fire. As I took up my position, the MG began blasting away on the far left flank. It was Eddie, giving them hell. Our high rate of fire slowed the enemies attack. The Boss started screaming to give him a target indication. Tommo was on the ball and screamed out “Sixty meters, slight right, treeline, seven enemy popping up and down.” As he said it I turned to see the group, and with a set target I locked my sights on. One, Two, Three, CRACK! Got one. With Eddie spraying away with the MG it was my job to take well aimed shots. My rounds began to ring true. I hit one enemy trying to sprint between trees. One, Two, Three, CRACK! Another. This one moving to check on the first. The enemy attack stalled under our harsh response. The Boss saw the opportunity and screamed to us “Up the guts, fire and move!” Our team began to advance toward the enemy. We moved in pairs, one man covering the other as we bounded. The would-be-ambushers broke into a full retreat. They dropped there rifles and sprinted up the hill. We chased them to the crest, reaching it the Boss called us to a halt and began to reorganise. He began with a head check. Eddie, check, Tommo, check, Mayer…. Fuck where was Mayer? The team rushed down the hill. As we got near the clearing I came across the two enemy I had shot. One was dead, the other bleeding profusely. I called over to the boys “One enemy KIA, one enemy WIA.” The boss yelled back “Fuck them, leave them be. Where the fuck is Mayer?” We continued out to the clearing. And there we found him. Laying on his guts, unconscious and bleeding heavily. “FUCK!” yelled the Boss. We rushed to Mayer. Tommo ripped out his med-kit as Eddie began checking Mayer’s wounds. “One bullet wound, lower abdomen. He’s breathing” “Good!” I replied as I began setting up our long range radio. By now the Boss had ripped out his notebook and begun working on a plan to get Mayer out of there. Tommo and Eddie did the best they could. They packed the wound tight with bandages, hoping to stem the bleeding. The moment I got a clear signal, the Boss snatched the radio handset and began smashing out a casualty report. The clearing was perfect for a helicopter to land on. And the response from the med-evac guys was outstanding. Within less the twenty minutes they were landing down beside us. By now we had stemmed the bleeding and moved Mayer onto a imrpovised stretcher. It all happened so fast. The chopper radioed that they were two minutes out, we prepped, they landed, we loaded Mayer on, they shot away. From when we found him to when the chopper disappeared in the distance couldn’t have been more than half an hour. With Mayer in the hands of the medics we now turned to our next task. One dead and one bleeding enemy back at the tree line. With a silent glance between us, we moved to their position. Arriving back to where I had left the pair, we found nothing but a blood soaked shirt. The enemy must have come back for their own while we were busy with Mayer. We bagged up the shirt and the boss gave us snap orders for the patrol back. Morale was low when we made it back to camp. Two hours walking through thick terrain wondering if your friend is dead will do that to a team. Arriving back at camp we were met at the gates by the Padre. “Fuck Fuck FUCK!” the Boss began when he saw the man. The Padre smiled and said “You can stop cursing Lieutenant, your man is alive.” Eddie, Tommo and I gave a collective sigh of relief. The Boss? He broke down crying. I can’t imagine the weight that had been on his shoulders. The Padre sent three of us towards the operations tent for a debrief and ushered the Boss away. We didn’t see the Boss again for a few days, when we did he told us he was being sent home. The army was concerned about his mental health. He also updated us on Mayer, telling us he’d been evacuated to a medical ship off the coast and that we should be expecting letters any day now. Eddie, Tommo and I got spread across the other teams in the platoon soon afterwards. The rest of the tour went on much like the rest had been. Daily patrols, lots of leeches, no action. Only now I knew I didn't want any action.


I fell asleep without trying to. I was exhausted, but not tired. I was in my car. My friend, the stranger, in the passenger seat. We were good friends, both headed to the beach. I’ve never been to the beach, and I wished to know her better. There was a lot of people there. Mostly people I’ve met at least once. Some people were in the water in pairs, happy. Some stayed on the beach, comfortably separated. They all looked well. I took toward the water, ready to wade in its deep blue. Determination drove me as I weaved through the crowd. Close to the water I lost my friend, the stranger. I think she was beautiful. I caught a glimpse of her; she noted me. She came to me and grabbed my hand with both of hers. Her smile calmed me amidst the anxiety of the large crowd. She walked into the water ahead of me and I tried to follow. Another pair crosses our path between us and I lose sight of her for just a second. In that moment, she disappeared. I entered the water alone, ignored by the pairs of people already there. She was here somewhere, and I couldn’t abandon my friend. I searched in boredom, and was all too patient. Minutes passed by and the others started to notice me. I could tell by how they seemed so sad when they looked at me. The minutes turned to hours, then days. As I passed people by, still looking for her, they told me to abandon my search. They can’t tell me why, and they say nothing more. The melancholy looks from the people passed in my search, the advice I never heard yet could recite, and the loss of my friend, the stranger, who wanted to show me the ocean; all this overwhelmed me. I returned to shore, feet wet from the water. The sand was warm, and the people in the water stopped frowning toward me. I relinquished my guilt to a small cabin on the beach I had spotted. A tall old wooden fence almost blocked it from view from the water. The cabin was odd, no windows or doors. Lattice all along the bottom, it was almost impossible to see under the cabin. I sit on the blind side of the fence with the cabin. There’s a fire pit with no firewood or ash. This pit could keep me company, at least until my friend, the stranger, returns. *^There’s ^something ^under ^the ^cabin.* By the fire pit there was a collection of colored pencils. Nearly all had their head buried in the sand so that they stood straight up, as if someone had wanted their heads underground. Perhaps so the pencils couldn’t see that their color was taken from them, that they all were grey-white with clear lead. Moments passed. Thoughts of my friend, the stranger, crossed my mind. *^Something ^wants ^out ^from ^under ^the ^cabin.* I grab a few of the pencils that couldn’t stay under the sand. I align them with the rest so that they all were the same. All of their heads in the sand, blissfully unaware that they aren't what they assumed. It could only ever feel right, nothing more. *^She's ^coming ^out ^from ^under ^the ^cabin.* I’ve finally noticed. Black hair. Blue-grey skin. Her eyes were black holes and her teeth dripped with tar. She wore a familiar dress. *^This ^is ^who ^took ^the ^color ^from ^these ^pencils.* She looked like she’s been here all along. Why would she wait below this strange cabin? Or choose me? *^You ^wanted ^to ^be ^here.* She’s tearing the lattice, inciting dread within me. I grab the pencils from their place by the fire pit. In panic, I throw the white-washed pencils at the stranger. *^I ^never ^wanted ^to ^be ^here, ^not ^like ^this.* She doesn’t seem to notice the pencils. *^But ^how ^could ^she? ^She ^took ^their ^color ^from ^them!* The fire pit was filled with sand in my panic. I struggled, but I couldn’t get far. I could feel her cold breath. It felt like ice water pouring onto my skin. Goosebumps never came, I was content in my fear. *^I ^hate ^this.* Maybe if I had used the pencils as kindle for a fire, I could have warmed her heart. But I destroyed the pit and threw away the pencils in my panic and fear and now my damned hands won’t stop shaking. Everything in me screamed to stay still. She said “Don’t go anywhere.” Tar-dripping smile, cold breath getting heavy. A light faintly shines in the back of her throat as she splits her jaw. Her mouth now open, unhinged and wide like a snake, spews forth a dull light that engulfs me entirely. It feels more than cold. I feel a deep feeling, not unlike the pain of loss, wrap around my mind as my consciousness fades to a singular thought before falling asleep. *^Oh, ^how ^sorry ^I ^am ^to ^have ^lost ^my ^friend, ^the ^stranger.


This time, I was really gonna launch myself off that cliff and end the life that has brought me so much pain and suffering. I was really going to do it. I walked from my house to the cliff that was only 100 feet in the distance, and sat on the rail dividing me from land and a few hundred foot drop. I probably did this once a week, usually during the late night when my depression kicked in like an intravenous drug. I never actually went through with it but tonight was the night. I had taken my mothers’ prescription xanax bottle which she had never used. 150 white alprazolam pills would end my life peacefully and quickly, as the medication slowed my respiratory system to a stop. Usually the feeling of guilt for leaving my family in the wake of my death makes me get off the rail, but tonight I had no such feeling. I only sat there thinking about all the reasons for me wanting to flatline, and there seemed to be zero cons on the list. My parents got divorced when I was 8 years old, and for good reason. My father was a conman who had gotten rich off a faked insurance accident on his business which netted him over a million dollars cash. The dirty money made him a greedy man who favored materialism over the wellbeing of his own family, as a new ferrari was more important than fixing the major plumbing issues in my room. My mother was a lazy woman who never had to work a minute in her life thanks to her well off parents who funded my dads start up. Overall, my family was a shit show of borderline malnourishment and physical abuse until they got divorced, which only worsened things. My father took me for the first 2 years, which consisted of me selling his forgotten designer clothing on ebay to keep myself afloat, while he was at social events every weekend. Finally, cpa busted him for neglect and I was turned over to my mother. I have been with her for the last 4 years and have witnessed her numerable partners treat her with the same disrespect my father had, while she continues to ignore me and make no change to her life. My parents have never appreciated me for keeping myself alive amidst their irresponsibility, and have never shown me even the slightest signs of love. Tonight was the night that I finally made them feel something towards my existence, or non\-existence I guess at this point. As my emotions boiled down I looked towards one of the only things that had kept me company during my life, a joint that I had prepared just for this night. I sparked up the crudely rolled cylinder of sharp smelling plant material and thin paper, and put it towards my lips. As I inhaled the bitter smoke my vision got brighter and my mood lightened slightly, but it was only like a hand on my shoulder when I needed an enormous embrace to get me off that rail. As I sat there smoking, looking at what seemed to be the last moments of my life, blue lights flashed behind me. I turned around and saw a police interceptor parked on the side of the road behind me. At first I panicked at the sight of police, just like any other young kid would in our day and age, but then I was only disappointed. I was disappointed that my last moments would either be spent with a cop trying to arrest me or talk me out of what I was so certain on doing. The car sat still for a while as I continued to puff on my joint, then the officer got out of the car and began to walk towards me. “What’s going on man, I got a complaint about a strong marijuana smell from the people across the street,” the cop said. “Look I don’t care about your complaint I’m ending my life tonight and I’m going to do it while enjoying a little treat, there’s nothing you can do to stop me,” I said firmly. The cop spotted my prescription bottle next to me. “What’s that,” he asked. “150 prescription xanax pills,” I stated, “they’ll kill me slow and peacefully in a matter of minutes, if I don’t die from falling impact that is.” The cop stood there behind me for a minute, and then much to my surprise, he let out a sigh and sat next to me on the cold rail. “What’s wrong with your life kid,” the cop said with empathy. “Nothing,” I confirmed, “Nothing at all.” The cop let out another sigh as I took a drag from my joint. “Look, if your about to kill yourself there’s gotta be a reason, there has to be someone you want to notice you, to hear your reasons, or you wouldn't be here right now.” I could feel the officer stare into the side of my head as I continued to look out at the water. “We both know you want someone to hear you out, that’s why you’re on this rail right now,” the cop said, “I don’t see anyone else out here with us, so you might as well tell me, right?” I could sense empathy in his voice and gave in a little “Alright, but I’m not gonna give you a big long sob story,” I said. The cop seemed pleased that I agreed to tell him, so I did. I told him my story in a nutshell, how I’ve always cared for myself and my parents were never relevant. After I finished, the cop put his hand on my back and introduced himself as Dave. “Can I see your joint,” Dave asked. “My joint,” I said alarmingly, “why do you wanna see that.” “I want to show you something,” Dave said calmly. Regrettably, I handed Dave my joint and he held it between his fingers staring at it. “You see all that ash,” Dave said as he flicked the end of my joint, sending ash swirling into the air around us. “Ash is material that has already been burnt right? Material that has already been spent.” I looked at him with surprise as Dave, the cop, seemed to be trying to make a metaphor out of my joint. “All that ash that just flew off the end represents your time spent here on earth.” I nodded understandably as he continued. “What If I stuck this joint in the sand right now, it would stop burning right? It would stop creating ash right?” Again, I nodded to show Dave that I understood his comparison. Dave then moved the joint close to the ground as if to put it out. “No!” I exclaimed, “please don’t put it out yet I’m not done with it.” “Exactly,” Dave stated, “you wouldn’t want to end this joints life because your not done with it are you?” I shook my head in agreeance. Dave sighed and handed the joint back to me as he adjusted himself to look me in the eyes. “The world isn’t done with you yet bud,” Dave said with his arm on my back, “sure, you’re parents wasted all their time which is now mostly ash, and unfortunately they wasted a little of yours too in the process, but that doesn't mean you need to base your life off of that.” Dave took a long pause as he watched his words settle into me. “Don’t waste your time kid, because before you know it, you’ll mostly be ash just like the rest of us.” Dave paused again and I looked at him and nodded. “It’s what you do while you’re still burning that counts.” I looked at him as an uncontrollable tear ran down my cheek. “I got it,” I said rather flatly, trying to hold back tears. “Now get off that rail and come give me a hug,” Dave said with a chuckle. “I’m gonna take your pills but you can keep the joint, that’s legal now. You’re ok.” Dave said as he embraced me in the middle of the street. “I’m ok,” I said calmly. *I’m ok. I’m ok.* I kept repeating in my head because I really was. I was finally ok.


You enter a house. This house is very old and has been there long before you and will continue to stand long after. At first the house seems beautiful, a gift. After a while of exploring all the different rooms you come to a staircase that you had not noticed until now. Overjoyed with curiosity, you ascend the staircase eager to see all the new rooms. Upon stepping foot on the second floor you immediately feel different, it’s not quite like the first floor is it? No, it’s a little bit darker; there are not as many lights and in a few spots there is no covering on the floor. But alas, it's still a new and exciting experience. More time passes and once again you find another staircase you had not seen before, but this time you begin to ponder; should you even be in this house? Nobody stopped you when you walked through the front door… it was unlocked, so it should be alright… right? Your thought subsides as you decide to ascend once again. This staircase is different; it's much steeper than the previous staircase but there are small handrails for you to hold on to, so you can help yourself up. Your eyes adjust as you step foot on the third floor. This floor is a lot darker than the previous floors and it's not as welcoming. You notice that there are fewer rooms than the previous two floors, but you are still filled with curiosity and so you explore once again. Some of the rooms are not so pleasing, but you still check all of the rooms to ease your conscious. Now you begin to feel a little tired and you decide to go down to the bottom floor to sleep; seeing as it is the nicest of the three floors you have visited. But you cannot find the stairs you just came from. Instead, there are a new set of stairs going up. But this time, next to the stairs, there is a small door you have not seen before. The sign above this door reads “Exit” you are confused at first as to how there would be an exit on the third floor, but you decide to not look at this room. Tired and feeling a bit overwhelmed you decide to continue to climb the stairs onto the fourth floor. Once you have stepped foot on the fourth floor, you notice that now, there are only three rooms. Upon the doors of all three rooms rests three small signs that read from left to right: “Up” “Extended” and “Exit” You now feel another wave of fatigue hit you as you take a step towards the doors. Now you want to give up. You want to sleep and you want to rest and so you decide to sit down for a while on the fourth floor. After five minutes of sitting, you notice a ticking noise. This noise was not here before and now that you have noticed it, it is getting louder. You cannot trace its source and it disturbs your rest so you cannot rest. You stand and walk over to the doors again but this time you notice something, on each door is a small eyehole for you to look through. You look through door number one labeled “up” and see the usual, a set of stairs in poorly lit light leading up. The second door has a long corridor behind it but you notice that as the corridor goes on it gets darker and darker. You look through the eyehole on the third door marked “Exit” only to find a descending staircase. You decide to push onwards as now the ticking noise is excruciatingly loud. You pick the first door and once again begin to ascend. The next few floors are exactly the same. The same three doors and the same things behind them. You decide to consistently pick the door marked up. The fifth. The sixth. The seventh. The eighth. You reach the ninth floor and now you feel you cannot go any further. You feel like you have walked for a lifetime and that there is no way you could push on any further, especially upstairs. Reluctant to leave after coming so far you decide to pick the second door this time marked “Extended” Upon entering the room you notice that is is significantly colder and much less light than you saw through the eyehole. As you begin to walk forwards the door behind you is engulfed in darkness. You spend the next few hours here, walking until you cannot see the walls of the hallway anymore and so now you wander aimlessly. You want to sleep you want to rest but the ticking is louder than it has ever been before and it will not let you stop. Wherever you are going you must continue. You cannot stop. After what feels like years you see a light in the darkness. You begin to find yourself filled with energy as you run towards the light. Once closer you can see the source of the light. Two doors. You approach the two doors and suddenly the consistent ticking begins to quieten down. As you read what is inscribed on the doors a chill runs down your spine. The first door reads “Up” and the second reads “Exit” You have been walking for decades and your bones and muscles ache. You want a break. This time there are no eyeholes on the door and you will have to take a risk. You can’t take it anymore your mind tells you. You feel that you cannot walk anymore and you decide to take the second door. “Exit” You enter a pretty room much like the first time you stepped into the house at the beginning. Everything looks good. Nothing looks wrong. You walk ahead and see a bed alone in the middle of the room. You feel relieved and make for the bed. As you reach it you take one moment to embrace the silence. But it doesn’t last long. The second you sit down in the bed the ticking from before returns but this time it is deafening and going very fast. You close your eyes and cover your ears but you can still hear the ticking, next to the bed you realise there is a table and upon this table there is a pill and the pill reads “end” you pick up the pill and after a short moment you swallow it. It sticks in your throat but the ticking immediately stops and you immediately feel relieved of your need to sleep. As you lay in the bed the world around you slowly fades in and out and now you are outside the house you entered at the beginning although you had never seen the house before as you can only remember the first step in the house and nothing prior. As you look at the old house you realise something. The house is ten storeys high. You immediately feel regret and pain knowing that you were almost at the top. You want to take it back and you try to move but you cannot as the time has already passed. As you drift in and out of consciousness the only thing you feel is despondency. The last thing you see before it all ends is a house. This house is very old and has been there long before you and will continue to stand long after.


First of all, I'm writing this note from Hell. The newly added circle of Hell designed for blog boys and clickety clackers. We do have Wi-Fi. I'm not quite sure what my punishment is supposed to be down here. At this moment, I'm outside a coffee shop with a protein infused wild berry smoothie. I'd say it's 75 degrees. Hold on I just pulled up the weather. It's 73 degrees. Hell is kinda tight but that's not what I'm here to warn you about. Ok everybody, quit idolizing Jeff Bezos. He's a straw man in a gold hat. I know that multi-billionaires are the nicest people on Earth, but the exception is Jeff. I know for a fact that the super rich are charitable. Their dicks only go upwards, just like their bank accounts. But know this, the dick of Jeff Bezos is not to be trusted. Ever heard of Amazon dot com? Shop at your own peril. Pay Pal is no pal of mine I'll fucking tell you that right now. Let me fill you in on a little secret; every time you make a purchase on Amazon dot com, you're entered into the Bezos lottery. And that's a jackpot even the saddest farty casino grandma would hate to win. And guess who shopped exclusively on Amazon dot com? It was me, Ok? I was the unlucky candidate to be visited personally by the scarecrow Jeff Bezos. It's been three weeks since I died. At least I think about so. It's easy to lose the concept of time when your days are eternal. And also when you're rolling up the Devil's own Lettuce into a joint the size of an extra value tube of Colgate and smoking that shit with your new long boarding friends. I shouldn't even say when I "died" though. I was murdered. Murdered so good to the point where no physical evidence could be found. I was in my top floor apartment when Bezos killed my ass. I was streaming Fortnite for all my fans when I heard a ruckus and a hullabaloo. Was I get getting swatted? No, it was coming from the ceiling. The sound kept getting louder and louder. My fans were donating suddenly, their comments saying things like, "Your ded now, boy." and "the reckoning draws near" and "Bezos incoming." It was a setup. These weren't my regular Twitch fans. They were all in on it, mocking me before my untimely death. I had hit the dreaded jackpot. The next thing I knew, Jeff Bezos had just cut a massive circular hole into my ceiling with an industrial saw. His bald head gleaming white, it felt as if I was struck with a flash bang. Jeff Bezos repelled half way down, then dropped and did a cannon ball tuck, smashing into my computer desk. He ruined my game of Fortnite, and PC. Jeff Bezos is the ultimate stream sniper. I was taken aback as fuck. I asked him what he wanted. With a business casual attitude he said "I'll be taking all the cells from your body, if that's fine with you." It wasn't. When my flight response kicked in, I forgot how much of a slob I was. I literally slipped on several banana peels attempting to escape out my front door. Bezos lumbering methodically behind, adjusting his tie clip, I started to cry. "Please, Jeff, No! I thought you were one of the good guys!" Jeff picked up my trash can and dumped half eaten Hungry Mans all over me. "Messy messy messy." Jeff snickered and extended his arms out toward me. An aura of power and wealth seemed to flow from his expensive duds, soon manifesting into a stream of bright green ones and zeros. I could feel my brain turning to mush. I was shut off from my human form, and my consciousness floated above my now deceased body. I watched in horror as Jeff Bezos ripped my corpse apart, cell by cell. Now that I was dead, I understood the true nature of all things. There are an average of 32.7 trillion cells in a grown adult, and Jeff was meticulously turning each part of me into Bitcoin. Turns out, the crypto currency isn't something that can be generated at will on the internet. Bitcoin is humans. Bitcoin could have been your dad who you thought up and left your family. Sure, maybe he had a drinking problem, but he also had a Bezos problem. As my anatomy dissolved into cyberspace, I felt nothing but rage. Jeff Bezos looked up in my general direction, like he could feel my presence. He winked, fully took off his shoes and pants and underwear, then shit on my floor. Damn you, Jeff Bezos, you're lucky Hell is way chiller than my life ever was. I beg of you, don't use Amazon dot com, or anything that billionaire monster has ever had a hand in. He's an immaculately dressed warlock who's looking for his next victim. I think he's grown accustomed to the taste of complete and untraceable murder. Even if Bitcoin tanks, and crypto currency is a thing of the past, Jeff Bezos may still be coming for you.


"A haunted toaster?" "I swear," Tom replied," it's real. You put something, anything in there, push down the thingy and in a minute the food pops up haunted. Go on and try it if you don't believe me." “So you’re saying if I put this bagel in, it’ll come out haunted?” Joe asked, sliding the two slices of a cinnamon raisin bagel into the toaster’s openings. “Yeah, basically.” Tom, Joe’s friend, replied. A pile of crumbled toast sat on the counter near him, the smell of burnt bread filling the kitchen. Joe pressed down the lever on the toaster. “What happens to them? Do they come out with horns, or glowing eyes, or do they float? What makes them haunted?” “Oh, you’ll see Joe, you’ll see.” What could possibly happen? he thought, turning to the toaster. A cold sweat started to form over him. Would his bagel come up with fangs, would it want to devour him and everything that he ever loved? Or would it pop out with sentience, glow with an eery aura and levitate, cause mayhem and mischief to everyone in the house for all eternity? Or would it end up like the things from those stories, would it become a Great One, a thing with unimaginable shapes, colors, thoughts? The toaster dinged and the bagel popped out. Instinctively Joe grabbed them, and set them onto a paper plate. They… they… looked… normal? He bent and inspected them up close, finding no fangs, no ghost-like features, no tentacles, no nothing but dough. He smelled them, but they smelled fine. “Hey, uh, Tom… There’s nothing different about this bagel.” “Bite it, just bite it.” Joe shrugged, took up a slice and bit into it. His chewing became slower and slower until he stopped altogether. Tom came over to him. “Taste different, huh?” Joe nodded. “That’s because anything that goes into that toaster comes out as bran.” “Jesus Christ,” Joe said, with his mouth full. “It’s awful. We gotta get rid of this thing.” “I know buddy, I know.” Read more of my stories for free on my . Purchase my work on .


After the attack, every new job started the same. When she filled out the hiring forms at the grange, her new boss Monica leaned against the counter and made a habit of nodding every time she flipped a page. Dust was rolling in from the windows whenever a car drove past, and the she would occasionally shake the page to clear off the dust. Monica nodded when she did that too. She mentioned how her aunt had learned sign language back in the 70's. "It's like any other language," she said, rolling her knuckles on the hardwood. "If you don't keep up with it, it fades like anything else." She wanted to say then how she hardly knew sign language. Around the time when she was first hired at the grange, she felt almost completely useless in social contexts. She mentioned it in one of her sheets. Monica had already briefed the others on the fact she couldn't speak. "You don't have to worry. They won't be asking you any questions." She imagined how some of them might have taken it initially, especially after she'd gotten to know them in the weeks since. She had a good idea of how it might have gone: who would have nodded, who would have asked questions, whose eyes would have widened as they remembered the story from a year ago. But Monica was right: no one ever pressed her about on it. Coworkers still conversed around her, though. The grange was right off the highway and when there weren't any customers perusing in the dust, the others would slowly congregate to whatever plant she was tending to. One of them, Cass, always gave her an expectant look when she wanted back\-up on a point she was making. In return, she would close her eyes and nod, making an 'OK' sign with her hand. Eventually Cass would slide little sheets of paper to her with little dinos drawn on them. Not after long, she'd been asked out for drinks. It only happened a few times: twice by Cass and Rob who were about as casual as you could get, and once by Cass and Mitchell, who after she politely declined the most recent time had stopped asking. The only other time it happened, it was a coworker named Johnny who approached her. It was around 8pm. He walked up to her quietly, saying hi with a hand in his back pocket. She felt her body tense in his presence. The sun was below the mountains at this point, and they were clearing madrones from the tabletops inside the greenhouse. A few customers were still roaming around under the white tents that were now grey. He brought up how a customer had spotted a praying mantis earlier. "It was resting on her shoulder, staring at her with its big eyes, and in a panic she swiped it away. She didn't mean to kill it, but it was dead before it hit the ground." He said he'd been thinking about it all day. She flicked on an LED light and turned to him, the orange glow lighting up his beard. He stared out into the distance for a second, opened his mouth but said nothing. Finally, he sighed. "You think it would have lived if she'd just taken a second? Even if she brushed it off anyway?" His silence hung in the air. She joined him staring out at the sky, at the black mountains that glowed with the sun behind them. He started to shift like she could hear his mind racing to pick up the mood. She knew he meant well by coming to her. Still, she declined when he asked her for a drink. Her body was still tense when he walked away. In the shifts after that, he'd continuously been friendly to her, and sometimes she thought about the way his beard had looked that night, like it was set ablaze. \*\*\* There was a reason she'd grown cautious with what she told people, especially coworkers. Before the attack, she made a promise to herself to stop telling meaningless lies, withholding things even if they were small. She had opened\-up about her history to some, and some kept it private while others didn't. "I'm not sure if it's mine to tell..." is a phrase she would often hear from her coworkers. Soon she would hear it from herself. It wasn't like she had anything obscene to hide\-\- she hadn't killed anyone. She just wanted to break out of that reflex, and the movie theatre felt as good a place as any to try. This led to a kind of conversation she grew to crave from others: conversations she would have avoided altogether were now the only ones she ever seemed to have. She talked about her mother and father, how they both slept around yet stayed together. She heard stories from her coworkers about their parents, about how one of their fathers would flail wildly for the remote during sex scenes when they were kids, yet had the loudest sex they'd ever heard. In a small circle, another coworker explained to the group that they had never kissed anyone\-\- never even felt the urge to. They were four years older than she was. On a night that reminded her now of the one with Johnny, she remembered how she stood outside of the theatre doors, waiting for her break to end. A couple were watching a show in a hotel room across the street, and a few floors above them three children stuck their heads through the balcony guard rail, pointing at the people below. Another worker approached her, someone she'd talked to a few times. He mentioned there was a concert after the shift that he and a few friends were going to. He said it like he didn't really care if she'd say yes or no. They slept together during her last chunk of time there. When they first spoke about it, she was relieved when he said he felt the same: he didn't want a relationship, just something casual. Soon she figured this wasn't the case. She didn't feel clear about it either, but something in her gut nudged her away from his embraces. Text messages that ended succinctly would be needlessly stretched on by him, and he would reply so enthusiastically about things that really didn't mean anything at all. It felt selfish when she admitted it to herself, but she knew she wanted to feel comfortable enough in her own body to have casual sex, to sleep with someone she didn't love. It didn't need to be with him. She needed to communicate clearly and transparently with him though, and this would be the way she'd avoid hurting him. During one of their late\-night discussions, she told him what she meant. "I want it to be something I can go out and do all these things with and come back still feeling good. Casual, you know. Not life or death like it's been." She hoped it would click for him then, that he would remember how she'd always put her shirt on right after they'd finished, or how she'd break away from him to turn a lamp off before they went any further. He stared thoughtfully at the wedge between the floor and the wall. "I just think my insecurities are what's holding me back from experiencing more things," she continued. "I would probably have more good sex with more people if I wasn't so hung up about it. I don’t want that to be the reason I say no." She made sure to tell him when their clothes were on and they weren't in the bedroom. He nodded, but she could tell he was hurt. He later told her that what she said had made him sick. \*\*\* They had been unloading several new ferns from a truck when Monica suggested this would be the last thing they did that day, cutting the day short by an hour and a half. They swapped uncertain glances at each other, but she quickly insisted she'd pay for the extra time. Everyone eased up then, thanking her. She lowered herself down, hoisting up another fern. As they filtered out into the central room of the greenhouse, she spotted Cass and Mitchell pulling out their phones to see what to do next with the rest of their day. She stared at the sun for half a second then felt herself walking towards them. They hadn't even noticed her when she saw something racing out from the corner of her eye. She spun. Her knees buckled, and her arms surged in front of her face. Her legs slid out from underneath, cutting a line out of the dirt. Dust kicked in the air. She was breathing in short, shrill gasps when they came for her. Rob was standing only a few feet away, looking stunned. "Why did you run up to her so fast?" Cass shouted, pushing him. "Give her some space." She heard him say sorry many, many times, swallowing then going silent, muttering 'fuck' under his breath. He was crouching, his arms over his head like a diamond. She felt Cass' palms press against her back, keeping her upright. Her own hand pressed over her heart, and she didn't know it then, but she had said something—what it was no one was sure, but they all agreed on it sometime much later. When it all settled down and she could breathe again, she saw Cass wiping her eyes. She hadn't even noticed Monica behind her, breathing slowly, having rushed in to grab a bottle of water from her mini\-fridge in the office. She handed it to her, repeating "You're okay. Breathe. You're alright." They discussed it with each other, but after she had continuously nodded her head no, they decided not to call an ambulance. They did speak with her mother, who lived across the country. She ended up writing on the back of paper lunch bag some things. As she and her coworkers sat in the hot office with nothing but the windchimes and light hum of traffic to fill the air, Monica had taken it to closing the grange herself. It wasn't until then, in that moment in the office, that she understood something. She knew they were aware of what had happened. But it hadn't occurred to her how they felt about it, how it sat in the back of their minds just like it did in hers. "Are you sure you're okay?" This time it was Mitchell asking. She looked at him and nodded, giving a thumbs up. Cass was sitting by her side and gave her hand a squeeze. Rob was still frazzled, leaning on the counter in the same way Monica had when she first got the job. He breathed out, distressed. "I'm sorry," he said tiredly. She brought her hand up, waving it to the side, then signed *I'm the one embarrassed.* It was simple enough by the way she moved her lips. She thought they understood. There was a huge part of her that wished it hadn't happened. If she'd spotted Mitchell running sooner, she might have simply stood still as he glided past. But it did lead to them asking yet again for her to join them as they figured out what to do with the rest of their day, and this time, she nodded yes. \*\*\* She saw the white gleam of a blade for months afterwards. If she could feel a sound, it was the sound of steel, the light flaying noise as it cut into something soft. When she closed her eyes, she saw it moving through the darkness without a hand to guide it. Every night her dreams replayed the attack with all kinds of subtle changes. Sometimes the crowds were sparser or gone completely. Sometimes they didn't react the way they had. Other times it was night instead of day, or she was in her hometown—not in the city. It was never exactly as it happened. She was moving through the sidewalk on a Saturday, looking at her phone as it mapped out a route to her friend Nina. It had been a week since she'd left the theatre. She had a backpack, nothing extensive, and a water bottle she was periodically taking sips from. It was her first spring break on the East Coast, a change her and Nina felt similarly about since they moved from the other side of the country together. They were two hours away by bus, but it felt good to be close enough where these little trips could happen. She was scanning to check her surroundings every so often, stopping when the crowds did and shifting her eyes up when a car honked. She heard a scream which caused her to jerk suddenly. A man in a heavy sweater was stalking towards her. His eyes were wild, red. She saw the knife in his hand too late to react, and remembered freezing slightly, almost falling to the right towards the cars. "Beautiful bitch" was what he said. The next parts people had to explain to her. She had her own version, though: one taken from a nightmare she would have in the hospital. She was grazing the rivet in her neck, slowly moving her hands up and down it. She thought of how it might look white like the belly of a fish if shined in the right light. She felt the cut was dry, like it had happened a long time ago and never healed. The crowd was motionless. The man stood across from her holding the blade. She stared into this man's eyes as if he were reflecting. Reconsidering. She shook her head, as if saying no: you don't have to hurt me. And some nights\-\-good nights\-\-she would hear the tatter of the blade as it hit the sidewalk, and the soft steps of the man as her turned his back to her, joining the crowd as it once again started to move. \*\*\* She didn't remember the last word she said. She supposed it didn't really matter now. She watched from the trunk as Mitch and Cass passed a cigarette between the two. The way the wind caught their smoke and whirled it into the air gave her a chill. Rob was leaning beside her, scratching a blot of dried mud off the Dodge. She wanted to fold her legs on top of the trunk and rest her hands against the rear window glass. Somehow he could tell. "You can sit on the back, I don't mind." She gave it a thwack, jumping on. After settling herself, she looked down at him. He was looking past her, gazing at the town that rested at the bottom of the hills. From where they were, it looked like a small river of lights. When she ticked at the car a few times, his eyes met with hers. "It's an old car. But yeah, car's a car, right? What do you think?" She signed to him, but he didn't follow. She pulled out her phone and jotted some things there instead, then passed it to him. He smiled. "Huh. No, don't have a name for it. What do you think it looks like? A Fred?" She shook her head. He folded his fingers and pressed them to his mouth. Mitch and Cass were still working on their cigarette, talking now about an artist. Rob pressed his face together. "He's more like an old man, isn't he? Like a Maurice. A grandpa type." She shook her head rapidly this time, furrowing her brow with a smile. "What, you don't have a grandpa named Maurice?" For the next hour or so, they traded the phone back and forth brainstorming what to call the Dodge. They started running down a list of other topics, things they had never talked about. Mitch and Cass were out of a cigarette by then and joined them by the trunk. They were passing the phone back and forth until she looked at the battery and reluctantly tucked it in her pocket. Cass had reached for her phone then, but suddenly moved off the trunk and took a few steps forward. There was something about them walking through those hills, the way they stopped at some houses and guessed how much they were worth, or speculated what kind of person lived where, that made the daylight burn away. The fields were growing red by the time they came back to the car. When Rob jumped in the driver's seat and revved the ignition, everyone went quiet as they heard the engine putter, then die. "Fuck me," Rob said, pushing his head towards the wheel. When he rolled the headlights switch off, everyone burst out laughing. One of the homes ended up coming to the rescue. As the man attached the jumper cables to the battery, they realized their predictions were mostly correct, save for Cass' insistence that one of the homeowners was a sculptural artist. He said he collected art and had a small gallery in his home, but never really thought much about doing it himself. This got Cass to talking with him, and this is how she found out Cass was going to school for sculpture. As Rob revved the car back to life, he let out a gasp of relief. They thanked the man and drove off into the hills, racing the sun as it fell back down below the mountains. When she found out later Rob had called the car Putter, she smiled. It was a good name. In her apartment that night, she sat by the wall of her bedside and wrote out the whole story to Nina. She included everything: the scare at the grange, the Dodge, and the man who brought it back to life. She even went back and mentioned the time Johnny approached her about the Mantis. She didn't remember exactly when she fell asleep, but she did remember the feeling when she woke up: an implacable sensation of images surrounded by dark movements and sound. She liked to think there may have been something there, something from the other night gliding in and out of the darkness. A car driving through a black scene, or a cigarette burning until its ashes caught in the wind like dust. She was looking forward to seeing where that would take things, and so she got in the habit of writing it down—to tell them how it happened, so the next time they could speculate together what it meant.


"I'm just saying, man, the market for deathsticks isn't even that hot anymore. I think I need a change." "Elan, you can't be serious. You've built an empire here. We're just about to make it big, man. You can't abandon me like this, not now." I walked away. I can't explain it, really. Riko was right, I'd spent years cornering the deathstick market. I just got a fresh shipment in yesterday, all ready to unload on the scum of Coruscant. Yesterday....shit it's still a blur. I remember hitting up the Outlander club like usual, it's usually a sure thing for a few drunken assholes looking for a quick fix and without a clue what the going rate should be. I was at the bar, had my Bantha juice cocktail, and....God I can't remember much else. I woke up here, at home. I walked back into the Outlander club at 2:00pm. "Skrog it's sad in here during the daytime". "Easy on the language buddy", rebuked the almost-human looking bartender. "You were here last night, right?" I asked him as he poured out the Dantooine ice-twist for the blue-skinned gal on the end of the bar. She was torn between trying to catch my eye and nursing her obvious hangover from the night before with a little hair of the Bantha. The bartender nodded. "Do you remember me? Did you see me here last night?" "Sure did. You were in a hurry to get out of here." "I'm having a little trouble remembering, did someone maybe drug me?" "Well, you came up to the bar talking to this robed guy, God did he cause some..... "Farkle, that's right! Jesus looking outsider, I remember. Thanks, I gotta run". "If you find him", said the bartender, "send him my way. Laserbrain caused quite a mess in here last night". Did he mess with my mind? Did he drug me? All I knew was, I wanted out of the deathstick game. I didn't know why. I think I'll move to Alderaan, seems like a good place to set up a home. I hear good things. Nice, quiet place. I'm going to build a life for myself, I'm done with this scene. I want to live a long, healthy life. I guess I should thank that robed, long haired angel for helping me rethink my life.


He called me Magdalene. It wasn’t my real name, I didn’t hear my real name for years. He proclaimed I was his gift from God. He told me to call him Father many years ago, but my own name for him was The Menstealer. I had been his property since I was 16 years old, kidnapped and placed in a room guarded by a lock on the door. I remember the first day in the room so vividly – I was screaming, clawing at the walls to get away from The Menstealer as he approached me quoting words from The Bible. “But at the beginning of creation God made them male and female,” The Menstealer bellowed, “For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh. So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.” His eyes bulged and mouth was agape from his last recited word. His hands reached down to his waistline and he started undoing his pants. I started screaming louder, tears streaming down my face. Blood dripped down my arm from a couple fingernails that ripped off while I was scrambling at the walls. He grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head against the concrete. He raped me nearly every day since then and I hadn’t fought against it for a long time. Whenever I heard him unlocking the door I would climb up on the mattress and lay on my back, opening my legs for him. It made it easier. The room had concrete walls, ceiling and floor. When I had first arrived it smelled damp like wet rocks in a riverbed. It took no time before I didn’t notice the scent anymore. A single bare mattress lay in a corner opposite from the door. No blanket or mattress cover was ever provided to me for comfort. The only other amenities in the room were a bucket used for defecating, a roll of tissue paper, and whatever novel he would provide me to pass the time (One that he deemed worthy to God). All my food was served with plastic plates and cutlery and he made sure he got them back after each meal. Clothes were given and rotated to me every couple days, along with another bucket of clean water and a sponge to wash myself. Once I tried to attack The Menstealer. I held the bucket high over my head when I heard the door unlocking, positioning myself against the wall. I whacked him hard over the head when the door opened. He stumbled forward and I quickly slipped between him and the open door. The Menstealer was swift when he spun around and caught me by the forearm, and with immense strength he flung me to the floor. My head cracked on the ground, briefly causing me to drift out of consciousness. When I had come around my sight was blurry. I saw his figure stand before me. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in my leg. I could hear him screaming maniacally as he lifted his leg and smashed in down on mine over and over, multiple cracks pierced the air. My right leg laid there in an unnaturally shaped L. He had broken it badly, the tibia bone threatened to protrude through the skin. The LORD has disciplined me severely, But He has not given me over to death The Menstealer said to me when he saw me pathetically laying there. He loomed over my broken body, and when he climbed on top of me the pain was so intense that I wailed out and went limp. My leg never healed properly since. A burden gifted to me. I laid on the mattress years later with my gimpy leg, reading a novel The Menstealer deemed appropriate. I had been ill for a few days, vomiting so much that he gave me a seperate bucket. Even without any way to know the time, I knew he was late. The Menstealer loved routine, and over the years my internal clock had adjusted to his sick schedules. But he was late. Very very late. I hoped he had died in some terrible accident, but then pushed the thought aside, If he died then I would too. I would be confined to this cell until my mass had withered away. I heard rustling behind the door. I put down my book, pulled down my pants and lay on the mattress. The locks unclicked and he opened the door slowly. He stood in the door with tears welling in his eyes. The bucket I used to wash myself with was dangling in his hand by the handle. Except it wasn’t the day to be washed, and he had never broken that routine before. His tears dropped and his lips were curled into a small smile. He was so soft when he finally spoke, “And so that you may live long in the land the LORD swore to your ancestors to give to them and their descendants, a land flowing with milk and honey.” He approached and knelt beside me, another instance that broke routine. He reached out and stroked my cheek, “Beautiful Magdalene,” he passionately whispered, “God has blessed our union.” He set the washing bucket down on the floor and cupped my face in his hands – almost an affectionate gesture if not for the circumstances. It was then I noticed he left the door open, but with him so close I wouldn’t dare make a run for it. He usually locked it behind him when he entered. He removed the hands from my face and reached into his pocket and provided a small white tube that I couldn’t instantly recognise. He placed it in my hand. It was a pregnancy test. He choked back on his tears when he said, “Magdalene, you are with child.” A shock ran up from my stomach, a sobering surge that vibrated in my bones. I was kidnapped at a young age, but not young enough to not have had a sexual education. Over the years I assumed he or I was infertile. “You are pregnant!” The Menstealer loudly pronounced, jumping me out of my horrified thoughts. He lifted his head towards the ceiling, “God blesses us! Thank you LORD!” His hands raised up in a spiritual gesture and I thought about making a run for it. With my disfigured leg I wouldn’t’ve been able to get away fast enough. “What say you, Magdalene?” He turned his attention back to me. I still clutched the pregnancy test, unable to bring myself to look at it a second time. I knew he wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t lie about something he deemed so important. I knew now that he was using my bucket full of piss and shit to test my fertility. The thought of him dipping the pregnancy test into my defecation bucket caused me to drop the test. He looked at me sharply and got closer to my face. “The confirmation of God has blessed us. What say you?” I hardly ever spoke to The Menstealer and when I did it was with my head down in soft words that would please him. This was not that time. I looked him straight in the eyes and hissed, “I’m not going to have your fucking baby.” His face burned red and his eyes bulged as his drew back his hand and slapped me. He climbed on top of me and slapped me again. I tried to push him off, but that caused his open hands to become fists and he punched me in the face again and again. I cried out and covered my face with my hand, which he caught and with a loud crack he bent it unnaturally, snapping my wrist. I wailed out and his bulging eyes seemed to recede back into their natural place. His face went soft but still burned red. “Beautiful Magdalene,” He said, using a soft tone. “We have been blessed. You must be so overbeared with the emotions of God and swayed but the whisperings of the devil.” He got up off me and motioned towards the bucket. “Take your time and be overjoyed. God is inside of you now. Inside both of us.” He left the room, locking the door behind him. I laid crying on the mattress, my broken wrist resting below my breasts. I wanted to curl into the fetal position but the pain was too much, so I lay on my back until bile built in my throat and I shot up and spewed vomit onto the concrete floor. It was then the pain was refocused from my wrist to my face. With my unbroken hand I gently touched my face, outlining with my finger the swollen bits. My right cheek was puffed, as well as my lip. My left eye had been slowing closing until the swelling confined it to a puffy slit. I fucking hated the Menstealer – a fucking devil. Satanic were his grotesque eyes that would push out of his head unnaturally. Demonic the seed inside me he planted, forming the antichrist within the walls of my very womb. I will not have this baby I told myself. I cannot. It is unnatural, it is a leviathan in a sea of beautiful things. I will strangle it as soon as it’s entered the world. I will raise my bucket high above my head and bring it down onto the babe until it’s crushed on the floor. I thought about how The Menstealer would be there by my side as I gave birth. He would probably snatch it away from me before my hands could reach its neck and then he would probably dispose of me or rape me till I beared more of his offspring. I wouldn’t not allow it. I grew larger as months past. The Menstealer would come visit me more often than usual, providing me with healthier foods and daily wash buckets. Before my wrist healed he would wash my naked body with the sponge daily. My wrist healed as disfigured as my leg, and just like my leg I could still use my wrist but sometimes pain would shoot up my forearm and I wasn’t able to hold onto things like I used to. One night I lay on my bed, my small belly protruding skywards like a hilltop. Something inside the mattress jabbed at my side so I sat up and felt it with my hand. It seemed as if my unfailing mattress of many years was slowly deteriorating. A metal spring inside the mattress had apparently come loose. Maybe if I asked nicely The Menstealer will buy me a new king sized tempurpedic I laughed, He’ll probably just flip the mattress over. For some reason this thought made me laugh harder. I lay back down on my side facing the broken spring. I ran my finger over it and felt it through the mattress. Absentmindedly I picked at it, the threads slowly unravelling until the spring had fully poked through. It was rusty, but feeling the tip it was also quite sharp. I shot up with an idea. I began picking more of the mattress away until, after a few minutes, I was able to see further down the protruding spring and its many coils. The coil was sturdy, but after bending it around and twisting it with my good hand I was able to snap it off. I held the coil in my hand and inspected it, deciding it would be best to try and straighten it out. I was bending it and twisting it when I heard the door unlocking. I lept to my feet – which pained my bunged leg – and panic shot through me. The lock clicked as I rushed to put the coil under the mattress. I then remembered the hole in the mattress and dove on top of it. A piece of the metal had stuck straight out from where I had snapped the coil off and it impaled silently and easily into my side. I winced in pain but remained over it as it was too late to reposition myself. The door was open and The Menstealer stood in the frame. I was laying in an unnatural position on my side, looking like a model in some awkward photo shoot. In a normal situation- and if not for the piece of metal that was painfully in my side- it would’ve been funny. The Menstealer gave me a weird look when he got closer to me. “Are you alright?” He questioned. “Yes I am. It’s just comfortable like this on my side. More comfortable for my belly.” I lied. “Are you in any pain?” He looked concerned and knelt beside me. “No,” I stated, almost too quickly, “I am fine. Just resting.” “Here, I will help you up. Lean against the wall.” He motioned to grab me under my arms. “No!” I snapped. He was taken aback, his eyes beginning to bulge, “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior.” He aggressively grabbed my arms and lifted me, the metal in my side tearing violently down before exiting. I felt my side getting wet with blood. He threw my back against the wall, then his eyes got soft, “And the wife must respect her husband.” “I’m sorry, Father.” I humored him, “Please forgive me.” I had my arm against my side where the metal had stuck in, hiding the blood. I quickly glanced down between my legs (I was now sitting on top of the hole in the mattress but managed to not get impaled by the broken coil a second time). Something else had caught my eye. There was a little blood stain on the mattress, right between my legs high up near my crotch. I had glanced quickly, but The Menstealer had noticed and quickly followed my gaze. He leaned back in horror, “Magdalene! You are bleeding!” He reached his hand out between my crotch and felt the blood, an odd gesture, “Magdalene! You are not well! The child! Oh God the child!” Then – with great surprise to me – he slapped me across the face. “You’ve been courting with the devil to bring harm to this child, haven’t you?” He slapped me again, “You mean to bring disruption to our union!” “No,” I pleaded, “I didn’t know I was bleeding.” “You were trying to hide this from me! You know you rot from the inside.” “ I did not! I swear!” I cried out as he slapped me again. “I will fix this!” He screamed, his voice reaching unhuman levels. He was unhinged and I expected to be beaten, but he rose to his feet, “I will be back, and when I do you will truly feel the wrath of GOD.” He quickly left the room, locking the door behind him. I didn’t know how long I had before he came back, but I knew I had to act fast. All I knew was that he would probably beat me within an inch of my life, but I also knew the child still lived inside me. I moved quickly, pulling the piece of wire out from under the mattress. It was misshapened but as straight as I could make it, one end formed a small hook. I took off the ugly pregnancy pants The Menstealer so graciously gave me a few weeks previous and lay on my back. I inserted the hooked end of the straightened coil into my vagina. The wire was uncomfortable as I inserted it further and was met with some resistance. The misshapen features of the coil meant I had to move it around a bit to insert it further. I must admit I had no idea what I was doing. A joke stuck with me over the years I once heard in school: Coat hangers, they really bring out the kid in you.I could feel fluid dripping down my labia. I was unable to push the wire in any further. I moved the wire around and it caught. I pulled the mattress wire out slowly, trying to supress my wails. I noticed a lot of blood on my hand and a small piece of flesh hung from the end of the hook. I brought it close to my face and knew that it wasn’t the fetus. I picked the chunk of my insides off the hook and I reinserted it. Through my stress and anger and pain and sadness I could no longer compose myself so I screamed out. I moved the coil around until it was met with resistance, this time hoping I had caught the fetus and not the lining of my insides. I heard the door unlocking; The Menstealer was back. With one hand motion I pulled the wire back out, met with pressure, pain, and a feeling of expansion. The Menstealer was in the doorway, face frozen with shock and horror as the wire fully came out of my body. Something the size of my palm moved slightly on the end of the wire and I threw up, rolling to my side and dropping the wire. The Menstealer, screaming and not bothering to close the door, ran forward and dropped to his knees in front of the abortion. The fetus had stopped moving. The Menstealer pulled the hook out its lifeless body and threw the wire aside, landing to my left. He picked the fetus up in his hand, trembling, and shrieked, “What have you done?” I didn’t hesitate nor did I answer, I picked up the coil and inserted it into his neck. He dropped the fetus and turned to me, the coil protruding from his neck. I went for the open door. He grabbed me by the leg and I fell forward. My face ricocheted off the concrete, knocking the wind out of me and at least a tooth. I twisted onto my back and The Menstealer ripped the coil out of his neck, a trickle of blood coming out with it. I kicked him in the face with my bad leg, causing a sharp pain to run up my shin. The Menstealer fell backwards as I sat up. I was almost on my feet when I was slammed back to the ground, The Menstealer tackling me onto my back. Both his hands were wrapped around my neck and his eyes looked like marbles about to fall out of their sockets, his mouth hung unnaturally wide open with an odd slant. Maybe I broke his jaw. His hands squeezed my neck with a strength and fury that could only mean he was going to kill me. I gasped for air, clawing at his arms. He face was inches away from mine, drool dripping out of his open jaw onto my face. In the moment he looked like a sadistic animal. My hands moved to his face as he bore down on me harder. I clawed at his face and he moved his head back trying to avoid it. My bad arm fell to my side and I felt something metallic on the floor. My arm twisted and turned, desperate to pick it up. I felt that it was The Menstealers keys – they must of fell out of his pocket when he tackled me. I got a good grip around them and brought them up to his neck, stabbing him. His body curled down when the keys punctured the skin, I removed it and with a frantic movement stabbed them into his eye. A jelly liquid mixed with blood bursted out of his eye and onto my face. He lurched back screaming and I kept the keys tightly in my hand. He landed on his ass on top of the abortion, sliding slightly from the slickness when it was broken apart beneath him. I scrambled to my feet, The Menstealer held a hand over his eye as I loomed over him. I thought about kicking him but realised how absurd that was, an open door was at my back; freedom was so close. I turned and limped to the door, blood dripping down from my vulva in red lines. I went past the open door and slammed it shut. I fumbled with the keys. I already knew what lay outside the room from my attempt to escape long ago. During that time, when I managed to slip past The Menstealer before he caught my arm, I had seen that I was in an unfinished basement. The basement looked the same now as I remembered it had back then. I tried two of the keys on the lock but they didn’t work. On the third key, I pushed it in and with a satisfying click I turned it to the locked position, hearing the deadbolt slide inside of its corresponding tunnel. The Menstealer was screaming in blood curdling cries, “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!” End.


"Oh, how's my grandson doing?" I ask my son, Darius. Darius looks over to his wife, Karla. He then looks back, "He's doing... Good. Yeah, good." "Oh, that's great." I say "How's he doing in school?" "... He's... Doing well in school." Karla says "Wonderful!" I say "It should be his birthday soon, right? What is it, about 5 days from now- right? And he'll be what, twenty-two?" "Er... Yeah... That sounds... About right" Darius says, looking back at his wife for a moment. "Oh, wonderful!" I say "I really must stop by his house and give him a visit! It really has been too long since I last saw him." "Ah... No, I don't..." He says, stumbling over words, "I'll tell him to come by on his birthday, there's no need for you to go see him" "Oh, that would be great. It will be good to see him again." I say. "We really must be going," Karla says, "We have... Um... Somewhere to be... An appointment, that's right!" "That's a shame. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow?" I say. "Sure..." Darius says hesitantly. With that, they left. I walk outside and grab my daily newspaper. I open it up, reading through it. A small section off to the side catches my attention. 'Unidentified deceased 21 year old found.' And I knew... He wasn't going to be coming by for his birthday.


A dog chases a cat who chases a rat. The rat runs away with two other rats and plots against the cat. The rats make their attacks against the cat who is wounded. The dog sees this and attacks the rats. The cat watches waiting for scraps, it eventually gets some once the dog has finished playing. The cat takes a rat body to its owner, who punishes the cat. The owner is sad and takes solace in his dog, the dog chases the man. This cheers the man up, he forgives the cat and feeds it. One rat survives and goes to tell the others. They plot and plot and decide that they must kill the man. They send their sickly a plague is started, many men die. Leaving the dog and cat alone. The dog chases the cat but the cat has no-one to chase. The dog grows tired and kills the cat, the dog is alone. He finds other not other dogs millions of rats, the rats eat the dog. Then the rats eat each other. The cats body feeds a flower, and a bee lands, and flies away. Soon it rains and the flower grows.


The electronic rings and chirps of her notifications had kept her up most of the night. Words that were so hateful, so full of spite and unleashed aggression, that they still made her young brown eyes swell with tears. “You’re what’s wrong with this country!” “Go back to Nazi Germany!” “Welcome to the oven, snowflake!” “Please,” one statement read, “just do us a favor and keep your right wing, fascist, ideology off the internet. There’s plenty of white privilege here already.” Josie wasn’t even full white. Her mother was Hispanic, maiden name, Gonzales. These people were so hateful and ignorant. Josie’s statement had received 30 responses in just 4 hours, and she even recognized some of the names. “Josie Long,” the post had been tagged, “how can you support such a disgraceful and disrespectful individual? He’s the worst president in history! And it’s a mockery to the United States to have such a racist, and immoral, figure leading our country. Please consider deleting your comment, before others that actually know you, find out what you’ve said.” There was a familiar face of a red headed girl just below the statement. “Too late,” the comment read, “we already know. Josie Long, you’re a terrible person and I’ve already unfriended you.” Josie had woke up and started crying. Her own classmates, peers that she had known since Kindergarten, were pouncing upon her like a pack of hungry hyenas. Bashing, condemning, voicing their hatred in unrelenting rage. Josie sat in class, her eyes still red from the hurt. The room filled up around her, some had even flashed their disgust of her by quick flicks of the eye. She looked into her opened backpack. The cold black steel of her father’s .45, resting on the white binders. Freedom of speech, and keyboarding warriors, had killed her love for those she once considered friends. Josie Long reaches into the bag, feels the wood of the hand guards in clasp. School is going to be different today. With eyes swelling in hurt tears, with all the words ringing like a bell in her young mind; Josie Long pulls out the gun. A shot rings out...followed by seven more.