All the kids in the neighborhood knew he was a superhero. It wasn't a myth, it wasn't a rumor, it was a fact. I only told people who had sworn to secrecy but apparently everyone else saw it too because it spread like wildfire. No one had to tell me he was, all the signs were there. He kept to himself, people would never visit, no one knew where he was from, I barely knew his name. Well, actually I did, Jedd. I knew from when I would ask my mom about him. I was pretty sure she knew Jedd was a superhero too, she just didn't want me to know and tell the wrong person. When asked about Jedd my mom would turn to me and sternly say "Now Monty, don't get tangled up with Jedd, you don't want anything to do with him" which of course, made me want nothing more than to talk him. It wasn't that I didn't have the chance to, everyone knew he watched over the high school, keeping kids safe from the evils of the world. Jedd had informants inside the high school, keeping tabs for him. I would see people, usually alone or two at a time, walk up to Jedd and they would go over to his car to talk alone. Upon leaving Jedd would thank them and tell him they always knew where to find him if they needed him. I had been watching Jedd since he moved in last month, just to make sure he was the guardian I had hoped. As soon as I was sure I went up to him and told him I knew his secret, my parents had told me; which wasn't exactly the truth, but that's what had confirmed it for me. I told him that I told all the kids in the neighborhood, but only after they had pinky promised not to tell anyone else, but I think that other people had caught on too. He looked at me shocked and told me to go home, he was busy, which was understandable, superman never needed a sidekick. So I went home with a warm fuzzy feeling, I had just confirmed what I had for so long knew. Later that day, about five minutes after my dad got home Jedd pulled up in his car and my mom came up stairs to tell me dad was having a friend over and she would stay in my room and play with me until he left, which was nice, my mom was always out of the house or in the garage, where I was never allowed, with dad. After a few minutes I heard shouts a few snippets were all I could understand, things like "he is only ten" "how did he find out" "what if he tells the neighbors". I heard my name a couple of times too, but when I asked mom what they were fighting about she told me not to worry and that I had built the best wooden tower she had ever seen. Suddenly I heard a loud bang, followed by a loud series of footsteps coming up the stairs, my mom turned quickly toward the door and said quickly "hide!" and pointed to the closet. "lets play a new fun game! And dad is coming to play too!" but when the door opened it wasn't dad, it was Jedd, who pointed at my mom and another loud bang came from his hand. My mom fell in front of the closet mumbled "...not to get tangled..." and faded off again. Jedd came over closer to my hiding spot and slowly opened the door and the last thing I saw was my childhood super hero, the guardian of the high school standing over my moms body with a silver tube in his hand that flashed, and my world exploded into darkness.


“You’re completely worthless. You don’t do shit around his house. All you do is eat my food, and cost me money. I can’t wait till your gone.” When my Dad first started speaking to me like that, it was jarring to say the least. It was about a month after the funeral, and I spent the night sleeping in the backyard after crying myself to sleep. The death of my Mom opened up the dam on all the repressed anger that he had been holding inside for the first 10 years of my life. But by this point, 3 years later, I took it all in stride. What else could I really do? I more often than not tried to avoid confrontation as a kid. It’s not that I didn’t have witty comebacks, or the physical ability to fight for myself. It just never seemed worth the effort. “Your sister was never this worthless. She worked from the day she turned 15. She did shit around here. She’s a good kid. Not like you!” He was standing at the doorway to my room, while I layed on my bed reading a library book. I don’t remember what I did to set him off that day, assuming I did anything at all. I was getting tired of hearing all of this however. I sat up, and stuck a torn slip of paper into my book to mark my place. I spun my legs off the side of my bed, and I rested my forearms on my knees as I leaned forward. I was done with this for today. “If you like her so much better than me, and think she is so much better than me, why did she move out the second she turned 18.” I spat out, staring down at the aged, stained blue carpet of my room. He laughed; a light, airy note from him which was in stark contrast to his usual deep rumble of slurred words. “She married Will. He’s a real man! A man who can take care of his wife! You should wish you could even be a quarter of what he is!” I felt my blood beginning to boil finally. “Yeah, he’s a real swell guy. Can’t even keep the lights or water on in his house. A real fucking model man, ain’t he.” “You watch your mouth you little shit! Or I’ll throw you out on the curb like the fucking garbage you are!” He screamed at me in retort. He was bad enough sober, but when he began drinking and taking his “pain meds”, he really became a monster. The distinct slur in his words told me that no matter what happened today, this was not going to end well. “Fine, throw me out. Or better yet, I’ll just kill myself. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I shouted back, rising to my feet and turning to face him. Even at 13, I was a few inches taller than him, and had the build of a rhino. I knew if it came to blows, I could take him. That meant the police would come, however. He backed up slightly from my doorway, eyeing my carefully. “Yeah. I would. It’s your fault you know. She’s dead because of you. Don’t you ever forget that.” he growled at me, his fists balling up and his face turning red. That was the final straw. I stormed forward, pushing into his chest with enough force to send him stumbling backwards several feet. I stormed out the back door, slamming the screen behind me. In the furthest point of the backyard was an old, gnarled apricot tree. I kept the area beneath free of pits and fallen fruit, and would sit under it to help gather my thoughts and cool down. It had the added benefit that my dad never bothered me, because he never went into the backyard. I guess he assumed if he never looked at it, it would magically take care of itself. I mowed it with an old manual mower my grandfather had left, and raked up the dead fruit every week to keep the odor and pests down. I flopped down beneath the old giant. Clenching my eyes shut hard to hold back the tears, my mind rewound the conversation over and over in my head. Killing myself. Sure, why not. My sister was a much better child than me. I guess so, she was married with a house and a husband. I killed my Mom. Yeah, I guess I did. My Mom had discovered the lumps in her breasts not long after she discovered she was pregnant with me. The doctor recommended an abortion so she could begin chemotherapy right away. She chose to carry me to term, and wait another 3 years so she could properly breastfeed me. By the time she began treatment, it was too late. She tried. She tried very hard, for several years. But it was too late. A few tears finally broke through, and I rose my gaze upwards. A low hanging branch was above me, thick and strong. I could nail my belt to it, and use it to hang myself. No one would discover it until the smell started. I could finally get away from everything. Maybe have a fresh start, provided reincarnation was the true end game. It was as these thoughts danced in my head, that I heard a commotion in the yard next to mine. The scrape of plastic patio furniture against concrete. A conversation in spanish. Laughter. I blinked back the tears, and wiped my face. Someone had moved into the house next door? When did that happen? I hoisted myself to my feet, walked up to the rusted chain link fence, and was greeted by two boys. One younger than me, and one about my age, both sitting in the plastic furniture I’d heard a few moments before.


A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, splitting the dark clouds, illuminating the sea ever so slightly. A small wooden ship, with no less than three men, rocked back and forth on the stormy sea’s surface. The helmsman gripped the wheel as best he could, so as not to slip off the wet surface of the deck, while the captain shouted orders directly to him. The orders turned to an argument, and conflict of ideas with the helmsman who questioned the Captain’s beliefs. The Captain marched off below deck to a man, seated on a chair, that with each crashing wave slid to and fro across the mess hall. “I really ‘ope, ye ‘re whatch ye say ye ‘er, stranger.” The Captain maintained a wide stance to steady himself, glaring down at the stranger sliding across his mess hall. The stranger was garbed from head to toe in black, his hat tipped down – no response so much as uttered from him. “If ye cann’t do it, ye might’s well say so now. We might even get out of ‘ere alive.” The stranger’s head began to rise. From beneath the hat, two eyes peered out, eyes that showed no fear, eyes that told a story of what they had seen; things beyond the Captain’s imagination. His voice was quiet, but not soft, firm, but not commanding, “It’s time.” A wave crashed against the ship sending the stranger’s chair across the mess hall once again, to the table the chair was originally meant for. The table had not so much as moved, kept still by the weight of the sword that lay across it. The stranger picked up his weapon and started off for the deck. On the deck, the helmsman cursed and shouted – holding on for dear life. The stranger, followed by the captain had come to join him topside. The stranger held out his sword to the captain, wishing him to hold onto it. The blade was enormous, needing two hands to be held upright – the sword was a brilliant hue of blue, and the hilt was a darker metal of which the captain was also not familiar. Once the weight of the sword was fully handed over to him, he couldn’t help but have his knees buckle and tremble below its weight, it was all he could do to stand. The Captain’s eyes widened, taking in the stranger’s figure, who could carry such a weapon without so much of an effort. The stranger stripped down to his pants, the water beading off of him as he held out his hand to the captain. He returned it back to its rightful owner, who without so much of a heave took it into his own hands, and turned to look out at the sea. That was when it arose, from the depths of the sea. The water bulged and parted, unable to hold the creature at bay. Its head emerged first, maybe 50 yards long. Its teeth roughly 5 yards and sharper than any human’s sword. As its emerged from the water, they stared down at the boat as if acknowledging the stranger and not once wavering in its view. More and more of the beast begin to slither out from the sea, and the captain fell backwards on the deck, in fear. “…L-Leviathan…” It was the serpent-dragon, Leviathan. Only thought to be myth to some, but more than legend to others. The stranger swung his sword onto his shoulder, and bent his knees. The captain watched idly by, unable to stop him, unable to even ask him not to go. The stranger’s muscles tensed beneath the skin, and he leapt into the air – higher than any man the captain had ever seen. No sooner than he thought ‘Maybe this man can pull it off’, the stranger was snatched out of the air by the dragon. The captain, a burly man with clear over 20 years on the sea, looked up into the lightning filled sky and wept. He wept for the first time since his childhood. He didn’t cry for the stranger, no, he cried because he knew that both his helmsman and he were next. The Leviathan would spare no one. It was in the moment of doubt, that moment of terror where the captain could not control the shuddering of his own body, the beast stopped moving – its head turned. A dark liquid rained over the boat, and the dragon’s eye ceased to glimmer brightly in the storm. A single hand emerged, pulling the stranger to the surface of the dragon’s eye, coated in its blood. He tossed himself atop the Leviathan’s head, a screech coming from the creature that nearly shattered the captain’s eardrums. In his hand, he held a brilliant, glowing ball that shined a vibrant blue. He knew. The captain knew exactly what was in the stranger’s hand, without a shadow of a doubt. It was something he had only heard about in bed time stories. The helmsman shouted to captain, in a panic, “What, what in the seven seas is that?!” The captain responded calmly, “That there’s the Leviathan’s soul itself.


"Nice tits!" Carlos had been pedaling hard, his legs moving in circles, his ass and hamstrings burning, when he passed the woman. A hiker with stick and backpack, deeply tanned and wrinkled, with thin, kinky shoulder length brown hair, the hiker was about fifty years old. And she'd just insulted him. _Nice tits!_ Nice TITS? Was she saying he _had_ tits, or that she _liked_ his tits? It must be the former, he decided. She was simply mistaken, that's all. He chuckled, slowing to an easy pace. Tits! Some people on the trail, especially far out in the boonies where he sometimes rode his bicycle, were just crazy. Raving and mad from the heat. Tits! He slowed again as he approached the trailhead and the lot where his truck was parked. Next to it was a small modern building with water fountains and benches, so he took the path leading to the water fountains. As he approached, he noticed his reflection in the building's smoked glass windows, and let out a small sound. His cycling jersey was very tight, and small breasts were visible, casting little triangular shadows on his thick torso (thicker than he remembered) in the midday light. _Nice tits!_ His body, the way it looked wrapped in Lycra, was not suitable for public display. Carlos felt a lump form in his throat as he noticed again how prominent, how _proud,_ his tits and their pointy nipples were through the thin fabric of his cycling jersey. How had this gone unnoticed? He turned around quickly on the path and rode back in the direction he'd come, but not before he got a second look at his reflection. His helmet, cheap and full of dents, looked too large on his head. His mirrored glasses looked out of place on his face, slightly crooked, with lenses too large. He slowed and looked at some of the other cyclists. Most were very lean and muscled, with fancy equipment and expensive clothing. He looked again at his reflection. _Nice tits!_ ** Carlos had finished email for the day and was getting ready to hit the Indian buffet when Jaleel, his assistant, appeared with a small package. "Ah, I know what that is!" He plucked it out of Jaleel's massive hand and removed its brown paper wrapper. They both stood admiring the coffee mug. "A classy little number," Jaleel said. "There's a story to it." Jaleel shook his head and went for the door. Carlos paused, staring. He wasn't sure why he'd paid for this mug. Maybe it was funny. Maybe he hated himself. NICE TITS, it said.


The crackle of the Geiger counter was the only thing stimulating the senses. There was nothing to feel through the body suit, nothing to smell or taste but the thick material it was made out of. The visor gave everything a hazy yellow tinge, not that there was much to see here anyway. Miles upon miles of wasteland with the occasional hill or tree in the distance, a sentinel watching over what's left of the land. The earth squelched with each step, as if it were autumn and the leaves had piled up half a foot tall, that was when you were lucky, Occasionally you would step on something hard and not know what it was or worse, had it snap then you knew exactly what it was. A gunshot rang out, there was no way to tell where it came from or how far away, sound seemed to travel forever across the barren wastes. "No threat." The voice was startling, as it always was, and was the only real thing that snapped you back to reality. How much longer was it now? * * * Moths seemed more abundant than ever. Maybe I'm a fucking moth. He looked up, their mission had led them on a path that seemed to follow the moon, looking around he could see his fellow soldiers all moving stiffly in their suits, holding back a chuckle he realised he had started talking to himself a lot recently. "Radio is for emergencies only, you don't know how much power you'll need." So there the group of moths followed the moonlight in silence. The increasing number of gunshots should have been alarming, but no one seemed to take heed of them. Too engrossed in their monotonous march to even notice or if they did were keeping an unnerving composure about it. A mixture of "No threat." "Threat Down." "Threat Escaped." was all that seemed to break the silence up until the sound of rapid gunfire followed a buzz alarm. The sound provided stereo feedback, all turned and aimed their weapons at the sound. No one saw anything. "No threat?" The tone was different, it was questioning, uncertain. No response. The group stopped and held their weapons as a single man approached the location of the sound. "Leakage, his suit let the air in..." No one seemed to speak up, it was the same voice that came over the radio. "...he's dead from inhaling too much, let's move on." Why would he suddenly fire so many rounds if he was just breathing too much of the air? No one else was questioning it, so why should he? They resumed their march, though the moon was long gone now it left an eerie glow over the horizon. There was a sound. The sound of metal or chain ringing followed by the group lifting their weapons, a shot went off incredibly close, as if just over his shoulder. "M-miss-fire." He was so irritable he was about to say something over the radio before realising what had caused the sound in the first place. It was a barely standing wire fence. The barbed wire on top had pieces of fabric blowing, it looked like a babies blanket now that they were next to it. "East side fence located. Proceeding in the morning." Finally having a chance to sleep would have been a relief had it not been stuck in the same suit for the last week. He ran things through in his head, wondering how he ended up in this shit hole. The memories were like a streaming newscast in his brain. "North Korea have tested a new kind of nuclear warhead, it's elements are unknown and no nation admits to supplying nuclear material......North Korea present to the world a new radioactive element, more destructive and can be used as a bio-weapon due to it's slow acting exposure......Missile tests prompt the US, South Korea and Japan in the area to issue warnings, the UN unanimously condemns Pyongyang and even China imposes severe sanctions....All ambassadors and envoys are called to leave North Korea, tourists are no longer allowed to visit as the information black hole of North Korea grows....Two months from the initial missile test there has still been no response from the North Korean government. No new tests have been detected or announced as the world considers lifting the severe sanctions....Guards disappear from the DMZ and Chinese Border, DPRK troops are questioned at Vladivostok before promptly leaving." How the fuck didn't we know? Eventually he could feel his eyes growing heavier and eventually sleep would come, though it just continued where his thoughts had left off. "Satellite imagery shows less activity on roads and streets than usual....Rolling power cuts grow more frequent and in many areas power isn't returning....Silence from DPRK prompts the UN to encourage Chinese investigation. China and Russia veto.....Leaked documents of US Trained South Korean special agents lose contact with the west....Fierce debate goes on between those who want to investigate and those who see it as an ambush..... Conspiracy theorists claim its proof of North Korea using their vast underground cities. There's no way millions of people can disappear like that otherwise." When he woke it was hard to tell if it was actually daylight. The clouds hung heavy and dark in the sky. Even better.


I’m sitting alone at a bar. But, not even a real bar, it’s a bar in a chain restaurant. A Lone Star to be exact. I chose the side to sit that had no other people around it. I look across from me and see a middle-aged couple that’s still trying to show an interest in one another. The man has his arm around a woman who I assume to be his wife, while they both stare at her cell phone with the same vacant smile on their faces. Adjacent to them sit three slightly older than middle-aged men, drinking and talking sports and retirement. Two of them drink beer, but the one of the far end is drinking something harder, like a whiskey or something dark. I think of him as the smartest of the three. In a booth, a woman glares at me from time to time. When she’s not staring at me I look behind myself to make sure there isn’t a TV, or something behind me she might be looking at. There’s no TV. As the bartender offers me another beer a man takes the seat next to mine. We nod to each other while he proceeds to make a mundane joke about the weather to the woman behind the bar. “They say it’s going to rain tonight,” he jests while water drips off of his body, clearly just stepping out of the rain. “Oh no, I hope not.” She replied. She didn’t understand the joke… Across the way I notice a young girl and her friends talking, and eating dinner. While she’s talking she periodically bites her cell phone. I can’t help but think about the amount of germs going into her mouth. I’m not a germ freak or anything, but I can’t help but feel like there are just some boundaries you don’t cross. I wouldn’t just rub my hands all over a public bathroom and then just stick them in my mouth, which is essentially what she just did. Some time goes by as I wait to hear from a friend who I’ve been expecting a phone call from. While I sit and wait I’m silently praying that the guy who sat next to me doesn’t try to engage me in conversation. I can tell he has wanted to say something since he sat down. He seems like the kind of drunk that will spew anything he has to say to anyone with ears. He finally sees his opportunity. A one-armed UFC fighter has come on the television, it was just the kind of thing he was looking for. He looks at me and says, “looks like they got a handicapped fighter. Bet he’s a vet.” “Yeah I was thinking the same thing.” I don’t know why I said that; I hadn’t been thinking it at all. As the fight continued he said all the platitudes you would expect to hear. “See that left?” “Good defense, good defense…” My phone goes off. The friend I’ve been waiting to hear from messages me saying to head over to his house. I call over the bartender and pay my tab. As I walk out I wonder why I bothered to come here.


I'm not even sure where to start. This last month has been one that I wish I could erase from my memory. I wish I could just abandon all reason and crawl back into denial, but there's no denying the wreckage that stands before me. The bodies strewn on either side of the street, and the rivers of blood that run forth from them. And so here I stand before what will surely be my final moments. I draw what would be my last breath as I charge forward, running towards what you may perceive to be a honorable death. You would be wrong. This is no act of courage, this is an act of cowardice. Everyone I know is dead, my wife, my children, my friends, everyone. I'm charging forward because I don't have the courage to continue to fight, because death seems so comforting next to the alternative. Massive hands wrap around me, crushing me, and the last month replays through my mind like my own personal horror show. Exactly one month ago the human race met God. He was not loving, he was not gracious, and he sure as hell wasn't forgiving. But he was powerful. Beyond belief. He created us in seven days, and washed away our filth in less than thirty. Now I stare into the face of our creator, and an inferno stares back. It sears and burns away my clothes, and I'm naked before him. My frail body breaks, and cracks in the palm of his hand under the weight of every sin I've ever committed. One unintelligible word breaks forth from his mouth like a tidal wave ripping away my flesh in its wake. My eyes roll back into my skull as I fade from light. I have no idea how long I was out, or if I'm even still alive. I'm writing this now only in an attempt to cling to sanity for a while longer. I think I'm dead. I think I'm dead. I'm dead, and this must be hell.


Despising the cocktail of cigarettes and fast food in his mouth, Randoulph put out his third cigarette of the night and pretended to watch another know-it-all become a millionaire. At this point he’s drowned out the pounding on his door. He knows who it is and what they want, and that he doesn’t have it because he spent it. Randoulph has long forgotten the fruitless efforts of his landlord and his thoughts have snowballed into a realization. Randoulph just realized that he’s leaving. Randy grabbed his keys, wallet, cell phone, pen, and notepad. Nearly running right into his fuming landlord he said, “Yeah, I got you on Thursday, don’t worry about.” He marched to his car, got in and drove to a gas station. The fuel was flowing and so were his thoughts, “Maybe I should let someone know.” he decided. Flipping through his phone he remembered why he decided to leave in the first place.      “Yeah, check please.” Randy requested from the waitress. It has been one week and he hasn’t settled down yet. At this point he’s feeling foolish thinking, “Yeah, right, like I’d actually just find some random town to fit my insatiable desire to be somewhere ‘different’ by driving aimlessly down the highway.” Turning back isn’t an option knowing the shit storm of unpaid debts and an angry chain of bosses. Randy did notice one thing. He can’t help but feel like he’s felt a tug, like a fish just took a nibble. He knows he’s onto something and doesn’t quite know what, he knows it starts with liberation and ends with content, and he knows that’s more than enough to keep going. The bell rings as the door swings open, and wanting to savor the taste of bacon, eggs, and pancakes he hesitates before lighting a cigarette. He settles in a quiet residential area with enough parked cars to avoid raising attention to his modest white sedan until morning.


I was there when my parents told her. I watched them sit my sister down in the lounge room; I was peering around the wall. I already knew. There must have been some expression on their faces as they sat in a moment’s silence. Because she knew. She was only 10, but she knew. The silence turned into a minute, a time during which I saw many expressions: confusion, worry, disbelief, sorrow, and pain. All in silence. Because she knew. “Pogo,” Dad finally said, and, before he spoke another word, I watched her eyes widen and glisten with tears waiting to waterfall down those smooth cheeks. “He’s been in an accident.” That was all that needed to be said, the key to open the floodgates behind the shiny, blue eyes. Because she knew. *She’d gotten Pogo as a puppy, only three years beforehand. A birthday gift, a basket and a bow tie and a ribbon. Sure, it was clichéd, but she didn’t care. Neither did Pogo, the bouncing bundle of fluff, who on seeing his new companion had leapt clean out of the wicker and showered her with licks. I had been there too; I had seen the eyes widen with happiness, not sorrow; I had seen the cheeks grow red with excitement, not pain; I had seen bright smiles, not quivering lips. He was hers and she was his. He knew that. She knew that.* Mum got up and sat next to her, arm gently around her shoulder, drawing her in tight. Dad did the talking; Mum was comfort. “Is he going to be alright?” The words were slow spoken and shaking, because in only that short time, her mind had put everything together. They would have been happier if Pogo was going to be alright; they would not have made such a big deal about it all. She’d be with Pogo right now if all would be fine, stroking his fur, and whispering comfort into those floppy ears. They would have been at the vet. But they weren’t. She wasn’t. She knew. “I’m sorry, darling,” said Dad, as Mum squeezed just that little bit tighter. “What happened?” She didn’t really want to know. “There was a car.” She stood up quickly, letting out a gasp and a squeak of shock. I reeled back from the corner as she approached, running to her room. She passed me, and in the second’s eye contact I felt her burn. I had been listening in, watching. She knew. And her heart, I feel, broke that little bit more. I wasn’t there for her. But I’m not good at comfort, at caring, knowing what to do or say, or even whether to do or say anything at all. Mum does that. Mum and Dad. I looked around the corner again. Dad had joined Mum on the lounge. He had her in his arms. “She’ll be alright.” **I remember it all, running through my mind as I stand in front of her door. Do I knock? Do I open it? Do I walk away? I am lost in the moment, sent back, reliving the same feelings, the feelings that sunk into my heart as she walked past. The torture of the past. I hadn’t known what to do then. How could I know now? And so I stand in front of that door, silent and still, wanting to enter and wanting to run. She didn’t know. I had to tell her.** I followed her to her room. I was in the hallway when I heard the door slam shut, followed by the creaking metal of the old bed springs and the muffled scream into the pillow. Again. Again. I stood in front of the door. Over time the screams stopped, replaced by perhaps a more heart wrenching sound: sobbing. I reached forward with my hand, placing it onto the cold metal handle. It squeaked as I pushed down. “Go away!” I turn and leave. She didn’t need me. **She needs me now. She needs me and she doesn’t know it, doesn’t know why. I have to tell her. So many years have come and gone, but right now the memory is as clear as if it happened yesterday. The house has changed and the years have changed us, but it’s still the same. It’s still me standing at her door, wanting to run. But I have to stay.** **The handle doesn’t squeak; she doesn’t notice me until the door is wide open. She’s lying on her bed, laptop flipped up, studying ever so hard, writing her thesis. She looks at me.** **The demon returns, that dreadful silence. I stand there. She opens her mouth to speak but then she stops and her lips close softly. She has seen that look before, the look I do not know I am wearing. I guess it must always be the same look, no matter who gives it. The laptop closes and she sits up, turning on the side of the bed. Our eyes haven’t broken.** **Then it’s my turn to relive the past, as her still-smooth face goes through the very same list from all those years ago: confusion, worry, disbelief, sorrow, and pain. All in silence. Because she knows. Somehow she knows.** **I open my mouth to speak. I wish I did not have to. I wish that Dad and Mum were here to do it, here to say what has to be said. I do not want to be the one to open those floodgates, release the shimmering stream from those deeper, blue eyes. But I have to be.** **Dad’s not here anymore, and never again will Mum hold her close.** **So I do.


Clarity, my dearest, I felt I should be clear, as now you have passed and there is nothing for me to hide from. You kept me sane, sociable, and suited in my days of sorrow and solemn sedation. I have come to understand the nature of things. (Kind of.) Poetically, this could not be more appropriate, as I am on my way out as well. After your wake, I was walking through our old neighborhood, near the corner of Carnahan and Stout, to be precise. That single streetlight still stands there; you know the one that I’m talking about. I jumped ahead. Apologies. (I don't mean that.) You see, as I walked among the thousand flickering bulbs that line the grid of this massive city, I began to think of *those* days. You know precisely what I am talking about when I say that. "Back in *those* days," you would say before delving into some old (and likely skewed) memory of something that we had once done. In *those* days, it was a joy to share your soul with another, to mix them, entwine them, and allow them to interact. You would do so without any regard for the soul itself, and exactly who it was mingling with. However, as any great story goes, there comes a time when that innocence must be lost. Whether it is at the hands of a lover, a family-member, or a random passerby whose presence pulls from within you an overwhelming feeling of self-loathing and regret, the world will break you. After the healing is finished, (as finished as it can ever be) you are expected to pick right back up, as you were, and push forward into the great unknown. (Though, really, we've seen those films and read those books; we know that it is far less “great” than certain philosophers may imply.) You are essentially expected to take the remnants of a shattered glass and piece them back together. But you don’t have glue; you have only your blood. Also, the room is on fire. But you can't do this. (Don’t you dare point out the physical impossibility of my metaphor. I know you want to and I resent you for it.) These glass-shattering experiences shape us, mold us into the person that we will become. The concept is romantic, I suppose, but the impact is a rather depressing reality. The “strongest” people are simply those hardened enough, indifferent enough, disconnected enough to labor on. (“Fuck all” is the mantra; I need a drink.) I apologize for getting so dark with this; it wasn’t my initial intention, but what can I say? I’m grieving. Here’s some light for you. (Literally.) The streetlight that sits on the sidewalk near my home was a source of solidity for me in my darkest days (*those* days); we’ve discussed this before, I’m sure. That streetlight, in my mind, protected me from the realm of uncertainty. I had, in the moments that I spent under it, light, and therefore the darkness was unable to claim me. But as I stood on that corner, confident in my continued existence, the bulb dimmed, and died. You see, we place so much confidence in these early interactions, entering into them with bold enthusiasm; but, as the streetlight showed, we ultimately end up questioning that initial trust, regretting it. There comes a point in life where you stop looking at your connections with unhindered positivity. There comes a point when the question turns from "how greatly can this person enrich my life?" to "how easily could this person break me?" I know you would never intentionally do so, but I can’t help but hate you for it. (But, I miss you.) How dare you leave me with this broken glass? (And I love you.) Still, I am/was always, entirely yours, even though I regret it now. (I do/don’t mean that.) Look at that, my glass is empty; I polished off the bottle right as I finished this letter. (How disgustingly, poetically, *perfect*.) Now what? A trigger, a loud noise, and emptiness (or the infinite; what do I know?). Either way, clarity. (And my thoughts will finally calm.


Haunted House Some people swore that the house was haunted—certainly years of neglect and an assortment of decaying junk in the garden made it look the part—but it was Mrs McKinnet who transformed her run-down house into something that truly terrified the neighborhood children. She barely spoke to anyone, and had the kind of severe demeanor that could make any child wonder what she might do if she caught you on her property. And she was old—old enough that she did look rather like a corpse. That meant, of course, that we had to go. Three girls, nerving ourselves up to do something to prove that we too could have an adventure just like the characters in the books we read. We resolved to sneak into her garage after school. It was a dare, but a tame one compared to tackling the house itself. We climbed the fence at the back, negotiated an overgrown blackberry bush, and turned the handle of the door at the back of the garage. It was open. Perhaps that should have been a warning sign. We ventured inside. Inside were dusty shelves of neatly packed items; boxes of clothes and decorations and papers and discarded appliances. We filed past them silently, like we were in a museum, or in a church looking at mystical sacred objects. In the center of the garage was a 1930s Buick, perfect and gleaming like it was fresh from the showroom. I took it all in silently, the giant trunk, the shining chrome, the small rear window. And then as I moved to better see the side of the car I saw her—Mrs McKinnet, sitting motionless and impassive on the back seat. I stopped in my tracks. I thought for a moment that she was dead, but she turned, just slightly, and her eyes locked with mine. I screamed and we turned and ran. Dianne and Amy didn't believe I could have seen her. They told me the car was empty, that I had been scared, and they mocked me for it. I didn't answer. I had seen her eyes. I had seen her sadness and regret; somehow I knew that she had tried to hold on to some happy memory so tightly that it had curdled in her grasp. I can't explain why I screamed, except that it was too somehow much for me to bear. But seeing me in that moment meant nothing to Mrs McKinnet. She didn't care about anyone or anything in today's world, just some lost moment from long ago, when things were different. I had witnessed a haunting that day, not of a place but of a person—a specter of the past that wouldn't let go. I fell out with Dianne and Amy over in the following weeks. The experience had changed me and they just couldn't understand. Nothing was ever the same again after that.


He awoke in bed. Stiffly, he reached for the edge of the bedframe to prop himself up. His joints popped as he levered himself erect, and he faced the large interior of his lavish bedchamber. Moving towards the wall closest to him, he half leaned on it to shuffle towards his numerous dressers on the other side of the room. Sunlight streamed out of the large windows, looking into a courtyard of snow, as he shuffled along the wall. Reaching the other side of the room minutes later, he looked up, above the dressers, at the large mechanical clock fitted above the center cabinet. He still had thirty minutes. His stomach grumbled, but he knew it would be an effort in futility to try to eat. His lean, malnourished body demanded food, but his hands shook far too much for him to eat more than spoonfuls of the worst sort of soup. Ignoring his bodies promptings, he shuffled to the far side of the dressers, snatching his walking cane from the wall it was propped against. Armed with his cane, he shuffled towards the exit. He slowly made his way past the two guards, standing rigidly at their post, on either side of the door. They did not move as he limped past, instead staring straight ahead into space. They had been ordered not to escort him, on today of all days. It was the one day they had not been by his side in nearly a century. After what seemed like hours later, although it had only been a few minutes, he reached the door. It was a plain, wooden door, of average height and plain in appearance. Anyone who did not know what he knew would not think anything of it. Opening the door by its handle, the hinges complained noisily. Beyond the door, gaped a dark room, with only one window to give relief. The room was below him, bridged by a wooden staircase reaching up to the entrance and now-open door. Gritting his teeth, he put his foot on the first stair that led down into the room. Stairways were the enemy. Stairs should be ripped out of the entire city, he resolved, just as soon as this ordeal was over. Yet he had no choice, and so put his right foot forward onto the first stair downwards. Each passing stair took painful moments to navigate with his enfeebled frame. Finally, he reached the bottom, and moved several feet beyond the stairs, where a wooden bench sat amongst the gloom of the dim room. Behind the bench, barely visible were a set of plain white archway, leading nowhere. He reached down and grabbed the loaded crossbow below the bench. The sunlight coming from the solitary window played against the plentiful dust motes in the air. He waited. He had only just caught his breath from the harrowing ordeal that had been the staircase when he heard it. The door creaked open. Soft feet fell upon the stairs. A short figure approached him. A young girl, with short brown hair, looking of the age of 15, appeared in the dim light of the one window in front of him. She appeared startled, not expecting to see someone else. Why should she be surprised? He had been expecting her. He aimed the crossbow at her chest, and touched the spot on it that would trigger the release. A soft swishing noise followed. The girl laid sprawled on the ground, scrabbling for anything, making fast breaths. Blood pooled around her body. “Good”, he thought. He had been aiming for her lungs. It was much quieter that way. “I’m sorry it has to be this way”, he began, as she writhed on the floor. “See, I was like you. Just like you in fact. The gods chose me to lead the kingdom for my allotted century. When I was done, I decided I should talk with my successor - inform him of what I had done, and what he might do to protect the kingdom. It was a break in tradition, I knew, but I waited down here, by the arches, behind me. Imagine my surprise when I met my successor, and he was only a kid. He cared not at all for the work I had done. He insulted me and thought nothing of the work I had done, and yet the gods had chosen him to lead the kingdom!” At this moment, he set down his crossbow and reached for his cane. He hobbled up from the bench, his joints popping in protest. Winning the brief skirmish, by only external aid in the form of his cane, he resumed explaining his story to her. “The gods were fools, I decided. In a fit of rage, rage over the work that I had done and might be lost, rage over the waste, I killed him. Then I took his place, stepping through the archway. Imagine my surprise when I stepped out young again, rejuvenated and ready to lead for another century! It appears the gods didn’t care who stepped through their archway, the passage to heaven, as long as it was at the specified time. So another century passed. Near the end of it, I waited down here for every day for a month before I finally caught my next successor. Each century, I got a little bit better at predicting the exact end and appearance of my replacement. This time I only had to wait for 5 minutes.” He stopped talking, realizing he was alone. He turned around, and stepped into the archway. Some time later, he stepped out, and as he moved away, let his cane clatter to the floor, abandoned.


Miriam looked to the familiar sights of Disney as she walked down the deep red cobbled pavement of Main Street. Looking down she placed her feet, one in front of the other, following the near hidden lines of the train tracks like a ballerina on her toes. The crowd was alight with excitement and frenzied movement as the brightly clad cast members marked off the streets with bright yellow tape. She closed her eyes breathed in deep, the smell of slow cooked turkey legs, began to waft towards her. Jonathan saw the red of the ice cream umbrella and his hand entwined in hers pulled her towards it. The eager line moved quickly and they picked up their favorites before continuing towards the glisteningly pink Castle. Jonathan began bouncing on his toes as the crowd gathered around them to get a view. Miriam curled under Jonathan’s arm as the crowd got close. She jerked back when the lady next to her touched Jonathans elbow. Miriam shot the woman a look of pure disgust and loathing, then she moved to stand in front of Jonathan as he wrapped his arms around her. The music queuing the characters entrance began and Meriam turn her head up to look at Jonathan’s big goofy smile. His blue eyes flashed at her, twinkling with mischief. Mickey was the first out in his tailed tuxedo, he tried to “sneak” onto stage and whisper to the audience, waving his gloved hand around. He was asking for volunteers to come on stage. The audience, already bursting with excitement, exploded. Jonathan lifted Miriam’s little frame up by the hips and threw her up into the air! Yelling at the top of his lungs as he did so!, Mickey looked right at her and pointed, waving for her to come up on stage! Miriam's eyes widened and her cheeks turned a bright shade of crimson as she grabbed at Jonathan’s hand to bring him up on stage with her. She began parting the crowd not caring who she hit (in the face) or stepped over (on) to get to the front. As she began to take the steps in 3’s onto the stage her hand left Jonathan’s briefly as she was met with an embrace from Mickey and the whole gang of characters and dancers as they simultaneously ran onto the stage. Two dancers adorned as princesses grabbed her hand and sat her down on the bench at the corner of the stage and placed a pink pair of mickey ears with a tiara, on her head. Miriam then was whisked into the action as the dancers began to dance and twirl, around her the flashes of golden yellows and bright reds. As the characters began their script, they whisked her away into the realm of glittery fairy tales and true loves first kiss. Miriam was caught up in the moment, until her gaze made a full lap around the stage and she didn’t see Jonathan. She then turned and put on a smile (on cue) and looked into the audience. Still, she could not find him. Trying to enjoy herself, but uneasy, her heart began to race. Before the fireworks, but after she’d become seriously agitated, Jonathan appeared, across the stage from her. She squinted her eyes, and blink a couple times, unsure of what she was seeing. He was in full costume, dressed head to toe like a prince, and he stepped right in time with the dancers. Miriam sat on the bench cautiously moving to the music. Her faced was slightly askew with confusion. Not knowing what was going on, or that Jonathan could dance. As the music began to wind down, then ramp up for the powerful final notes. The dancers and characters lined up facing the audience and stood her up, Jonathan ran to the other side of the stage, and in time, ran and slid on his knees across the stage before stopping in front of her. In a suave and calm motion he reached into his pocket and got up on one knee. Grasping her right hand he said, “Miriam will you marry me?,” opening the little black box, to a shining ring. His voice seemed a whisper after the volume of the show. Miriam gasped, and covered her mouth with her off hand. She had been expecting a proposal, but her daydreams couldn't have created the splendor Jonathan had brought into being. The audience was quiet. Miriam was catching her breath, her eyes were eager to glance all around the audience and the stage team awaiting her answer, but his eyes remained locked on her. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. “Yes, I love you, Yes!” Miriam wiped her eyes and took the ring. If I could tell you thank you, And for a minute you'd look at me And possibly somewhere deep in Your heart you'd believe me, I would, and I'd want to because You were the first time I'd been In love, wild and reckless love The way I fought for your heart I battled down those walls you held Til finally for me you fell I was at a loss, so emblazoned With this heart and love so alight I would do anything for you nothing you did was ever anything But perfect in my eyes Miriam walked down the quiet hall to the door of apartment #30 with her handbag and got out a singular brass key into the lock, turning the deadbolt slowly to the left and opening the door with the twist of her other hand. She walked in, with a graceful and calm walk, not bother closing the door behind her. She dropped the key on the floor and used the light from the hallway to grope along the walls for the light switch. The shoebox apartment was barren from floor to ceiling. The unpainted walls had taken on a murky grey. She walked into what had been the living room, and put her bag down on the dusty wooden chair in the middle of the room. She took the couple of steps to the sliding glass door that opened to the patio. It overlooked the rest of the apartment complex, and Miriam pulled the blinds back. Her cloudy eyes counted each of the lights that were still on, and accounted for anyone out on their patio. She flipped the light switch to the chandelier hanging above the chair and walked back to her opened her bag. She removed a razor and a pair of sheers placing them on the chair. Miriam stood up and began to unbutton her white collared shirt, starting under her chin working her way down. She leaned back and let the shirt fall off her shoulders to the ground. She reached back and unhooked her bra, and let it slide off her arms. Miriam stood and her pale exposed skin reflected the harsh light above her. She leaned over and repeated the process with her pants and underwear. Then she folded the clothes and placed them in her bag. Walking to the bathroom, she plugged in the sheers. She turned it on and placed the sheers on her forehead using her other hand to keep a close steady line. Then she slowly pulled the clippers through her long dark hair hesitating at her forehead with every stroke.and watched it fall to the ground around her. Again she put the clippers to her head and shaved the long soft strands of hair, following them with her eyes as they fell to the ground ticking her butt, and falling softly against the backs of her legs and around her feet, like wet feathers in a soft puddle around her. Miriam shaved off every hair. She turned on the shower and left the pile of hair on the cold tile floor. She stepped into the shower while it was still cold and proceeded to shave her legs, and her entire body, even her eyebrows, while the goosebumps were still smoothing. When she had finished, she turned off the water and stepped out, razor in hand. She had not brought a towel. She brought the razor with her to the sink, and began taking it apart. The individual razors fell onto the white marble of the sink and she picked one up, pricking her finger. She watched the red liquid pool on the top of her finger. Her steady hand put the razor to the skin of her chest, above her breasts and with slow and careful motion carved in two words, then on her stomach she wrote one more. Miriam did her best to keep her face taut, but slight winces broke though. She saw and she began to feel the warmth of blood running down her body. A hint of a smiled touched her lips as the flesh around her letters rushed with a bright crimson color sharp contrast to her pale skin. When she finished, she put the razor down in the sink, and walked towards the living room. Blood dripped from her body, and soaked hands onto the wood floors as she walked up to the chair. Miriam inhaled deeply, and exhaled as she stepped up onto the chair, and carefully turned around looking out the sliding glass door. She put her head through the rope hanging down from the chandelier and tightened the knot around her neck. She kicked the chair out from under her and didn’t struggle. She became a beacon for the message on her chest. “The other woman.


This is my first post of my writing. Feedback, good or bad, is appreciated. Enjoy. Dr Howard Corbin Dr Corbin was eating dinner with his new wife and her ingrate son. Chicken, 3 months of marriage and they had chicken 32 times. His child bride, Sheila, was 23 years his junior. He used to love chicken. His mother would wring its neck and bleed it out Sunday after church. He would watch it die, discretely. He was fascinated by that instant when the certainty of one's death is accepted. As a young man, in the triage tent on the "front line" of Vietnam conflict, he used to work with an erection. Not a raging one. It would just waggle in his boxers and rub against his thigh. He was a demigod, choosing who would receive grace through his over skilled hands and who was not worth the effort. He had met Sheila 8 years after his first wife left him. He hasn't done anything wrong. You aren't the man I married his ex would scream, every fucking fight. Of course I'm not, we got married 22 years ago. "I" grew up. She would slam the door of the house she had wanted, he had paid for, get into the sl500, slam the door on the car he bought her. Then drive to the bar and would buy her drinks on his amex. Maybe after a bad fight she would take a bar fly to a motel near the airport paid again with his credit card. Sheila had been introduced at a dull dinner a friend had thrown. She had walked in just as soup was put on the table. It was a magical moment. He had just put a large forkful of salad in his mouth. A rivulet of dressing slid down from the corner of his mouth unheeded. To say she was striking would be ungenerous. Mrs Sheila Corbin Sheila was born in Cambodia in 1974. She always thinks of it as being sold into slavery. In reality she was adopted shortly after her birth because most of her family had been killed, Her mother dying during Sheila's birth. She was fortunate to be "purchased" by a kind english family. She was fed and schooled with the other children by the rest of the house staff. She was released from service to attend college and never looked back to Asia, there was nothing there for her. She came to university of Maryland on a partial scholarship. The boys went crazy for her, Asian with a clipped British accent. She took lovers. They gave her things. Beautiful things. She donated them to churches, she was not a whore paid in jewelry. In her junior year she was dating a poly sci major. He was going places, he had interned in a senator's office. On Saturday night after an epic party they went back to his swanky apartment. They made beautiful love and Ryan. She didn't hate the baby, just resented him. He represented a door that had closed for her. She barely finished school while raising an infant. The poly sci major slowly pulled away after she told him that it was immoral to have an abortion. He sent her a $3,000 check after the birth. What the hell was $3,000 for and how did he decide on that number? She cashed it, only because she needed the money. She was 29 when she met Dr. Corbin, Ryan was 9. She loved him almost instantly. She had tried, on her own and through therapy to find out why. He was old and white so he seemed so much older. White men after 50, yuck. They are falling apart from the roof to the basement. He is kind and a doctor, if there had been a doctor at her birth at least her mother would be alive and she could have stayed with her family in Asia. That was the best answer she could come up with. So much kinder and serene than those self proclaimed spiritual men. 9 out of 9 times what you saw is what you got from Howard. One therapist said it was transference, never knowing her own father, I desire to have an intimate relationship with him. At the end of the session she invited her to coffee, on the pretext of talking about the therapy. She politely told her no and that she would be cancelling the rest of her appointments. The Corbins The doctor, as she always thought of him, had swept her off her tiny feet. They sat drinking brandy in the library, after the dinner party, until their friend, almost physically, kicked them out. They went across Martinsburg to the waffle house that was barely open. It was 3am and the Beaver Dam strip club hadn't swept its citizen debris to this side of the street yet. They talked, they laughed, his honesty drove her to truth. Her pat story of her childhood unraveled until the thread of history lay bare between them. Of course the "truth" is not a complete factual reenactment, but the omission of the all the lies. They had finished their pecan pie and drinking the dirty water, represented as coffee on the menu. Three sirens walked in. Their clothes unsuited for the November night. A down vest over a white tank top over nothing. Yoga pants and ugg boots. Was it the uniform of strippers going home? They ordered quickly, the young man behind the counter was shy but his desire radiated off him like a neon sign. The girls flirted, probably without realizing it. After they made their orders, and the man's night, they sat in the back giggling and waiting for the numbers to be called. A pair of street toughs walked in loudly. Without making eye contact with the boy behind the counter they turned to the booths. They had already cased the joint. Walking by the doctor and Sheila, the black one looked in the dr's eyes, puts a hand with bloodied knuckles on his shoulder and says nice pull grampa. They sit with the girls, boxing them in. Used to being in control of their interactions with the "clients", one of them start berating them. The Dr can't see what is happening past the high backed booths but he does see the kid behind the counter move down the bar and reach for an invisible shotgun. Howard, the dr, excused himself from Sheila. He walked over to the table that the 5 of them sat. What do you want old timer asked the scrawny white one. Just making sure these ladies were enjoying your company Howard replied. He casually drew back the right side of his sport coat revealing the pearl handle of the Colt .45 he had carried with him since he moved to WV. The gun was his sidearm from Vietnam. The handles a gift from his father for returning safely from fixing the boys when they got shot up in the war. One of the girls felt the temperature drop and almost knock the black teen on his ass pushing her way out of the booth. Your order is ready said the counter boy, the girls went to collect the greasy bags. The toughs retreated giving Howard a hard look. Helena gave him a kiss on the cheek on her way past.


[Potentially NSFW – swearing] Originally a from /r/WritingPrompts I thought it would be long enough for here too. If this is against etiquette of the subreddit, please do let me know! ***** “Memory Lane: Relive your favourite* memory like it was today.” I chuckled to myself as I popped open the bottle and picked out a multi-coloured pill, swallowing it down with a swig of nearby water. Looking at the description on the bottle I couldn’t help but wonder what my ‘favourite’ memory was. “21, not exactly a cushy upbringing, but not scraping the barrel either, and a girlfriend of 3 years. Ha! Should be fun.” I thought, as I cycled through the immediate memories that sprung to mind; the beach holiday with my family was one of the greatest times of my childhood, but it was the beach holiday with my girlfriend that really made me a man. I laid myself on the bed and closed my eyes. I’m awake, I’m stood up, and in my hands is a rifle. I look up and see I’m in a locker room facing a closed red door. To my left is a heavily armed marine, to the right is the same. They look nervous, very nervous. Why are they nervous? Why do I have a gun in my hand? What am I doing her… BANG! The red door shook. The two marines raise their guns to the door, eyes down the barrel at the door. BANG! I jump with shock in my armour, my heart rate now feeling like it is trying to punch out of my chest. A low rumbling begins around me and the marines are looking more on edge, slightly swaying with nerves as the whole room begins to shake violently. “WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE?!” I shout, only to receive “RAISE YOUR GUN SOLDI…” bang. The silence following the final subdued bang was deafening, broken by the creek of the red door as it begins to wane and bulge under the pressure behind it. “Raise your fucking gun” he whispered. “What the fuck is going on?” I whisper back, raising my gun to the door. I clasp my sweaty fingers around the trigger as suddenly the door BREAKS from its hinges and unleashes a torrent of black…things…The shooting begins and on my immediate left the marine is sliced down by the monsters. I turn my eyes forward to see enormous spindly legs extended toward me as I’m thrown to the ground, my chest pierced by the sharp legs of the monsters. “FUUUUUUUUUUUCCKKKK” I cry, the searing pain coursing through my body is unbearable as more legs extend into my body. I can’t move as I’m pinned down and can just make out a monster raising its leg over my eye. I wince as I try to turn away, but it’s too late. I’m awake, I’m stood up, and in my hands is a rifle. I look up and see I’m in a locker room facing a closed red door. To my left is a heavily armed marine, to the right is the same. “I’ve been here before” I mutter, the memory of what just happened is forever burned in my mind, I’d never been stabbed before but I’ll never forget it now. BANG! “We need to go, we need to get the fuck out of here now! We don’t have much time!” I plead with the other marines, but they stand fast with their gaze at the door. BANG! “Fuck fuck fuck fuck, oh my god I don’t want to die again”, the room begins to shake violently, my eyes rush round the room trying to find something more defensible, I begin to shake as much as the room, I can’t catch my breath. I..I just can’t I can’t. I throw my gun on the ground, but it spins around my body, attached beneath the metal plates. I claw at my armour looking for something, anything more explosive than the gun I’ve just disowned. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING SOLDIER?!” The marine on the left bellows. bang. “Raise your fucking gun” he whispered. “We are so fucked” I whisper back. The door wanes and I start shooting, the monsters explode out of the door and lurch straight toward me, pinning me down on the ground. The phantom pain I just experienced was nothing compared to the feeling of the knife like legs impaling me to the floor. The seconds of this intense pain felt like lifetimes, god I just wanted it to end. I’m awake, I’m stood up, and in my hands is a rifle. I look up and see I’m in a locker room facing a closed red door. To my left is a heavily armed marine, to the right is the same. I turn around and run, “GET BACK HERE SOLDIER!” I hear behind me as I push through the double doors of the locker room and into a winding corridor. BANG! I scramble through the maze of corridors as I hear the second BANG! Slipping on the freshly waxed floor as I go, my sweaty hands desperately searching for traction on the walls to try and pull me up. Finally at the end of the corridor is a T junction of corridors with a lift. I press the button as I hear the gunfire in the distance start, my hands shaking as I repeatedly press the button, the ground shaking as the monsters get closer and closer. Suddenly they crash round the corner of the far corridor I’ve just slipped on, there must have been hundreds of them. These nightmarish black creatures who only brought death, and I’ll be dammed if they’re going to get me again. I look right, down the T junction and see a set of double doors with people sat down behind them. I sprint toward it crashing through the doors into a Chinese restaurant, “GET THE FUCK OUT, NOW!” I yell as I shoot the ceiling, sending the occupants to the floor and to the door I just came from, through which the nightmares stampede toward me. I look forward and run toward the large pane glass window ahead of me, shooting the glass as I leap onto the frame, springboarding out of the window to a ledge on a billboard in front of me, which I grab the edge of just in time. I look down and see about 30 floors worth of air below me. My body broken, I pull myself up onto the ledge and lie on my back. The bloodcurdling screams from the restaurant become silent within seconds, as I look back to the window I just jumped from and I see a nightmare preparing to make the jump to me. “Not again, never again” I quietly speak to myself, as I roll off the ledge and fall toward the ground. I’m the one in control and I would rather die than go through this again. I close my eyes in acceptance of the end. I’m awake, I’m lying down, and in my hands is the hands of another; my eyes open to an unfamiliar ceiling with a girl who I swear I know sat over me “Wake up, you’re safe now” she says, as she kisses my forehead. She pulls away and I recognise my room, I recognise the bed I’m lying in, it’s mine; and I recognise the girl, the same girl I had just seen a second ago in my memory. “Hand me the bot..tle” the words barely making it past my lips, as one hand grabs the bottle and the other searches my body for wounds. *Favourite memory is purely subjective, Memory Lane will take the most vivid memory you have of anything your mind has experienced and expand upon it. Please note that the human brain, while researched, is not fully understood, and repression may be an important factor in your experiences.


He awoke in the forest, though this was the limit of his knowledge. As the ragged looking man woke up in the middle of the far stretching wilderness, he found himself amiss in the falling leaves and trees of the stretching landscape. When he came to, he realized he had no memory of who he was or how he had gotten here. With any kind of memories blank, he soon came upon seeing if he was alone. “Hello!” he shouted, hearing his voice echo off throughout the forest. After a few more times, he grew content that he was truly alone. He soon noticed that he seemed to be exhausted despite lying asleep for what he felt was quite awhile. He turned and looked to find a table with various supplies on it. The table had a lighter, binoculars, duffle bag, survival knife, a pistol that he recognized as a .45 caliber M1911, a note, and some tight string and spears. He checked the clip in the gun, noticing it had no bullets in it. The note said “ Enjoy your desolace” it what appeared to be black ink. Confused by the note, he decided to save his questions and pack up what was apparently his equipment. In the miss of the chirping birds and swaying tree leaves feeling his ears, he heard the gentle hum of a stream. He decided to investigate this surprise. Despite not having a memory of who he was, where he was, or how he got there, for some reason survival came naturally to him. He quickly used his spears to catch fish at the stream with enough ease that it surprised him. He found a suitable campsite between two boulders just next to the roaring currents of the stream. He gathered logs from within the forest, and made a fire with some of his excess spears. As he ate as twilight set into the sky, he tried to piece together the fragments of memories in his mind. One memory he remembered was walking down the bustling street of a city, though he did not know what city. He would cross the heavy traffic, making his way to large a building. This is where he assumed he worked. There was also the memory of a woman. While the relationship he had to this woman as well as her basic information were unknown to him, his memory of her was vivid. Long black hair, deep green eyes. Whenever he imaged her in his head he felt sadness. The last memory he had was walking in a dark and small apartment. As he approached the counter in the living room, his hands trembled as he reached out for a small brown jewelry box. Any memory beyond that was lost to him. As he lingered around the rocky area near the river, he took time to admire this odd location. The stretching trees that seemed to never end, the whisping birds overhead, the desolace of it all. Despite how lost he was in his mind, he wasn’t scared or worried at all. Perhaps not having any memories of who he was made his mind numb. It was if he came here on his own accord, a thought which intrigued him. However, to him the whole place felt disconnected, in a way that seemed like it wasn’t real. You could go to the Himalayas or Mount Everest and admire its scope and beauty, but he felt that you could still feel like it was grounded in reality. But with this place, with the lack of any people, made him feel uneasy. The silence of anything but the river and the wind brought him peace yet also worried him. Was any of this real? A dream perhaps? Even though he had knowledge of the world, he felt like he was a fragment. He had no memories, no life. A shell. As he finished his meal, he looked up to the sky and discovered something odd. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it until now, though we was quite out of it. The sky still seemed to be in twilight. After all the time had gone by, at least three hours from his estimate, it stilled seemed that the time was still around six to seven o’clock. It should have been dark out by now. He decided that the only way to discover what this place is was was to venture out. As he gathered up his duffel bag on his shoulder and the rest of his gear, he looked at his reflection in the water of the river. It was the first time he had saw himself since he awoke. Long and mossy black hair, slight beard, it wasn’t like looking at himself. It was like looking at a stranger. It didn’t seem to matter how far he walked, the forest seemed to never end. He was hoping to see something but trees, anything at all, but it seemed like it was never ending. After walking for about an hour, he caught his breath and sat by a nearby log. It still wasn’t dark, and the longer he wandered in this limitless expanse of land the more weary and lonely he became. Was there anyway out? He wanted to hear someone's voice, to know he wasn’t completely alone. He closed his eyes, thinking to himself this had to be a dream, hoping to wake from it. Suddenly, the coo of the cicadas and all the other creatures of the forest ceased, and his eyes snapped open. He could hear a voice whispering in his ears, a gentle yet mysterious wisp echoing silently. “Come” it said. That much he could make out. He began running and shouting towards where he heard it. “Wait!” he yelled desperately. “I’m here!”. He ran and ran, as if finding who it was would free him from this lonely and monotonous world. As he ran, the voice boomed louder. “Come!” it said. As he ran, he soon came across a clearing, as if the trees had made a way for him. The voice now seemed to cease, though this didn’t hasten his pursuit. Once he ran through it, what was on the other side caused him to stare in disbelief. He found himself on a great cliff, and before him was a seemingly never ending ocean. The stretching water reached out far beyond the cliff, and beyond in the distance was a great veil of fog. Small lights popped in out and mingled within the fog. He could hear roaring waves crashing against the cliff. He came dangerously close to the edge, his body flirting with falling off. He saw a small rock chip off and fall, watching as it slowly made its way to the bottom, until it was consumed. He closed his eyes again. “Should I jump” he thought. To him, this world surely couldn't be real. As he reached his foot out, he suddenly stopped himself and backtracked. Gasping, he realized how close he came to falling. As he looked on at the fog, the distant lights suddenly began spinning wildly. They then consumed the sky with their light, so much that he had to close his eyes. When he opened them, he found that it was daylight once again. The sun shined, and seagulls flew above. He was astonished, but it did nothing but confirm his suspicions. This did not take him off in the least. Now accepting the lack of reality, he went on his way, fearing what could lie ahead. For now he knew anything could happen now. The cliff may have ended where he stood, but when he wandered off to the left he found a clearing that lead him back into the forest. The ocean was a breathtaking sight, and he was saddened to find himself back within the never ending expanse of trees. The world around him now seemed to be more ever changing than solid truth. After seeing the lights change the very sky, he came to the conclusion that not everything was absolute. It could change within an instant. Walking down the path, he realized he had been here for at least eight hours. He was no longer hungry, tired, and was devoid of any physical feeling of pain (he had scraped his knee on a jagged rock earlier, though he felt nothing). Could it be that basic necessities were unneeded here? That pain and human frailty meant nothing? He was curious, and so he bravely took one of the spears from his duffel bag and put the point of it on the top of his hand. He closed his eyes, human instinct telling him to brace for pain. Though when he did it, he once again felt nothing. No blood was drawn. He did it a few more times, even trying to pierce his gut with the spear. When he did, no matter how hard he pushed, it wouldn't budge. It was as if his skin was made of stone. “To bad the pistol doesn’t have any ammo” he thought darkly. “That would really put it to the test”. After a long trek, he eventually made it to another stream. A small water fall lied at the end, connected and dotted with large and jagged rocks. Since he no longer felt hunger for some reason, he assumed he had no need to eat. Though his sense of taste was still intact, as far as he could tell. He found a small rock to sit on, admiring the clear water as the sun reflected off of it. He watched as the bass swam under its surface, actually smiling as he admired the beauty of nature. He saw his smiling self in the crystal clear water, wondering just what type of person he was in, well, the world. Could it be this was all he has ever known? All he will know? Perhaps he was sent here, though for how long? In his pondering, he saw something that caught his eye. A large wooden door….. engraved on the largest rock. “That wasn’t there when I got here” he thought curiously. “Couldn't have been”. While he was caught off guard, after what he saw with the lights in the sky it didn’t throw him off. He had grown, even in his short time here, to accept the strange and questionable nature of this land. It had become almost like mirage of random and strange events, and anything happening now he would just grow to accept. He approached the door, realizing how silly all this was. He was about to enter a room within a rock, which was only about three feet wide and nine feet tall. When he opened it, he wasn’t even surprised to find a large and sprawling cave. Impossible, of course, but that was the nature of the neverending forest. The absurd was the norm. He closed the door, wiggling the knob to make sure he would not be locked within. The cave itself wasn’t big as he previously, perhaps a little bigger than the average living room. There was a small puddle in the middle of the cave, with dripping water from the top of the cave the only notable sound. The victorian era looking door at the end of the cave caught his eye, aswell as the figure lying on the floor. He gasped, and rushed over to help who ever this may be. For since the daylight returned, he had all but given hope on meeting any person here. He was glad his doubts had been proven wrong. When he approached, he noticed he was wearing the same clothes as him, and had a burlap sack over his face. “Hey, you alright?” he asked swiftly. Noticing no response, he removed the burlap sack. What he saw took the breath out of him. It was him, same face and all. He noticed he had blood coming from his mouth. He let out a rough cough, enough to wake him out of his shock and shake him. “Enjoying your stay?” he asked ruggedly. “I….. I don’t understand” he asked. “Are we one in the same?”. The man laid his head to the ground. “I…. am you…. and you…. are me” he said struggling. “Though who we are…. inside….. differs greatly”. “You…. sent yourself here, this world is you’res”. “This is what you wanted, not what…. I wanted” he struggled to breath as he forced out his final words. “Had… had to see…. the world you choose for yourself…… who you were.” He sighed, and coughed up more blood, his life fading. “I’m sorry…. but there is no escape from this world” “You are its sole occupant, forest has……. mind of its own.” “Will keep you here, path never ends, just makes more.” “He told me to tell you…. this… is your... damnation” “For taking away most precious gift”. “Who!” he yelled in dispiration. “Please, I have more to ask. “Sorry…. but…”, and in a slow but steady pace, the mans duplicate died. He didn’t know much of what to think at this point, he had saw himself die right before his eyes. Not wanting to linger for longer, he went through the door to exit the cave. When he opened it, he was in the living room he remembered from his memories. He saw himself reaching for the jewelry box, just like in his memory. “Hey!” he shouted at himself. He yelled more, but he did not seem to be able to hear him. He reached out to touch him, but this seemed to have no effect either. His duplicate reached into the box and pulled out a gun, the same M1911 he carried in his duffle bag. He put the gun to his head, and, after some delay, pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed all over the floor, and the gun shot somehow produced a shockwave that tore apart the room. Frightened, he ducked under a table in front of the tv. Once the bustling tore apart the framework, he found himself at the river he first discovered, or at least thats where he seemed to be. Shaking and distraught, he quickly pulled out the M1911 in his duffle bag. “Its…. the same” he thought.


This is my first time posting my work anywhere, so I'm nervous. I hope it's enjoyable :) A Grim Inevitability by Austin Cates My favorite bar smells like any other bar, and it's filled with the typical bar folk you'd find anywhere else. It's also one of the last bars in town that you can smoke in, which is good for me. I take my usual seat at the bar, near the end by the jukebox on the wall, then order a shot of Jameson and a Guinness in a cold mug. The bartender gets my order ready while I play a song on the jukebox: Hurt by Johnny Cash. I take my seat again, pay for my drinks and stare at the shot of Jameson. The beautiful amber liquid stares back at me, filling what's left of my soul with a sense of warm familiarity. Pulling my cigarettes from my chest pocket, I let Mr. Cash sing in my ear. The Zippo my grandfather gave me on my 18th birthday, engraved with the three things he swore by, is struck and the flame roars to life before it meets the Camel Menthol between my lips. The three things are as follows: "Drink, Smoke, Love." My grandfather wasn't the most outspoken of men, but he knew what he wanted in life, I'm much the same way. A drag brings the minty smoke into my lungs and I breathe it out in a thick, silky cloud that masks my face from the world for a fleeting moment. Three fingers grab the Jameson and I knock it back without so much as a twinge in the corner of my mouth. Irish Holy Water, my grandfather called it. "Drink a glass a day and it'll keep the Devil at bay." He'd tell me. "Why would it keep him away?" I'd ask. "Because even the Devil knows not to fuck with a man that drinks Jameson." Would be his response. "But remember one thing kid, spilling even a drop is a sin." He'd finish. The bartender, Raylan, watches me stare at myself in the mirror and I can tell that he's curious. He says nothing though, just watches me stare at the rough, stubble ridden face in the mirror. Cash laments with his raspy voice and it parallels my appearance. Time has made me weary and withered, what looks like 50 is actually 31. Too many long days and short nights I suppose. The Camels and Irish Holy Water don't help, I'm sure. A man walks up behind me and takes the seat to my left. He's wearing a black jacket over a black shirt with black jeans and boots. "Afternoon." He says, his voice is harsh, yet somehow intriguing. "Afternoon." I nod, then push my shot glass to the speed rack on the bar and Raylan walks over to refill it. "Make it a double, yeah?" I ask, and he nods. "Never got a handle for Jameson." The man states, his tone implies he wants conversation. I sigh before turning my head towards him. "Jack Daniels kinda guy?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "I prefer Appleton rum, to be honest, but Captain Morgan will do in a pinch." He says, his voice makes him sound like a lifelong cigar smoker, yet he can't be more than 25. "Never liked rum, too sweet." I tell him as Raylan sets my double shot of Jameson down in front of me and takes 9 bucks from the cash I have on the bar. "Understandable." He nearly wheezes. "You okay?" I ask, and he laughs deeps and hardy. "Never better kid." He chuckles with a stiff pat to my back. He's strong as an angry bull. He listens to Johnny Cash finish the song and he smiles with the corner of his mouth. "I met him once, y'know." The man tells me. "Only once though, and I don't think he liked me much." I don't what to say to that, so I simply nod. I drink the Jameson and set the glass in the speed rack with a nod to Raylan to refill it. "You really like that shit huh?" The man asks rhetorically. "Obviously." I mutter, slightly annoyed. "Aw, someone's.touchy." He laughs and smacks me on the back again. I swivel my stool towards him and stand up, ready to beat him into the dirt. "You're gonna wanna sit back down kid." He says with that corner-of-the-mouth smile. "Or what?" I ask, enraged. "Or this is gonna go a different way than it has to." He replies with his grin still in place. Something in my mind tells me to sit down and I can't control it. "There ya go." The man says. Nobody in the bar seemed to notice. The man looks into my eyes and it feels as though I'm being drained of willpower. "You know who I am, kid?" He asks, and I shake my head. "Don't worry, I'd be amazed if ya did." The man's stare is unbelievably horrific, yet he somehow engages me. "I'll give ya a hint: I've been around a long time, longer than anyone and almost anything." His words ring with truth, and I know the answer immediately, but he can't possibly be right. "Don't doubt me kid, it's only embarrassing for you." He mutters with a flair of pride. He's Death... "Ding ding ding, we have a winner." His corner-of-the-mouth smile turns into a full fledged grin that could rival The Joker. "Before you say it's impossible, just know that it isn't." The gravely voice he emanates hooks my soul and grinds my mind to bits. He grins again and it occurs why he would be here. "So this is it huh?" I inquire, knowing the answer, and he nods. "Unfortunately so." He replies. I swivel back to the bar and drink my Guinness almost in one go. "You want a drink?" I ask him without looking at him. He stares at me with a quizzical face before nodding. "You're not gonna try and geGerit out of this?" He asks. "Can I?" I ask back, still not looking at him and again knowing the answer. "Nope." The man, Death, says. "That's why I didn't ask." I mutter, then finish my Guinness. I wave for Raylan and he comes over. "Double of Jameson Single Barrel for me and a double of Appleton Rum for him." I tell Raylan. "Pretty expensive stuff, you sure?" Raylan asks. "Can't take money with me when I die." I chose my words carefully and the man laughs heartily. "Ain't that the truth." He utters in that voice that sounds like a truck pulling in a driveway made of loose rocks. Raylan pours the liquor and I give him 40 in cash and the rest of my money ($512) as a tip. "I can't take that." Raylan says, looking at the money then at me "Don't worry about it, buy something for your wife." I suggest, then he nods. "You sure?" He asks, really uncomfortable with my offer. "Like I said, can't take it with me." I reply with a nod. "Well thanks man, really." His face shows a gratitude I haven't seen in a very long time. We nod to each other and he walks away. "Tryin to do one last good deed before ya go?" The man asks. "Something like that." I answer, then grab my glass, lift it and look at him. He lifts his glass and looks into my eyes. "Drink a glass a day and it'll keep the Devil at bay." He says, and for a second I see my grandfather sitting on the stool. I blink and it's just the man, Death, who winks and we drink our shots. I light one last cigarette and stand up. "Let's do this." I tell him, and he nods. "After you." He says in that scratchy voice, then motions for me to walk to the door. I take a drag and let the smoke loose through my nose as I walk. The man walks ahead of me and opens the door, then we exit into the light.


After I passed through the gate into the lane I felt different. My feet were fatigued. My mind in a whirl of worries and uncertainties. The typical english weather specifically suited to my temper, a torrent of water pouring down onto the frosty, lifeless, dark green grass. The wind battling with the branches. Suddenly I see a light , a red light in the middle of the darkness surrounding me. An ear-splitting sound puts me back into reality and I realize that my trip to the lane might be over… I came to life by hearing a loud beep from the heart rate monitor getting faster by the minute I lied down faster than I got up but I didn’t lay there for long. The nurse at the hospital told me to get up and get out as there are many others in a worse condition than me . Whatever she meant by that , I had to go out fast. I didn’t quite know where I was , who I was or where I was heading but I knew this would make my life different than it was before .Before leaving I had a quick look in the mirror,the same old me greasy jet black hair in a messy pony tail , I was thin and starved but I also had a peculiar scar on my left leg , it looked as if it was still fresh even if it didn’t feel like it. When I left the hospital , I found myself standing in the middle of nowhere with just the continuation of the lane to lead me somewhere. As I walked I decided to look back , what I found was just an addition to all the questions I already had . The hospital that was there 5 minutes ago had completely vanished. I decide to sit down and look around me . The sky that was once blue is now covered in a pitch-black blanket, the sun and moon have been replaced with nothing, the weather is like no other I've seen before, no resources to be found, no trees , no water, no animals or human beings. The world was bare. Deafening silence filled the area that I decided to call hell. I have nowhere to go ,nowhere to live, nowhere to go back to. There is nothing that could save me , nothing that could help me . I am alone , sitting on the now unseen ground. I cannot stay here any longer , I decide to run into pitch-black smoke surrounding me . Is there a chance of survival? I am starting to have a headache but I don’t stop running. I feel as if wrapped in a blanket of fire, but with no feeling of pain. After wandering for what seemed like eternity to me ,I stopped and realized I have nothing to run for , nothing to live for. With no sources of food or drink , It appeared to be almost impossible to endure in this desolate landscape. I was certain death was coming soon. Seconds, minutes, hours, even days went by , my stomach kept shrinking , It was almost gone .My bones started to become more visible than my flesh . My face hidden behind misery and depression. Every part of me shaking as I crawl on in the search for hope. At last I find an object, a key to a better place . It was a dark red sign and in big ,bold, black, letters it said "HELL".


A man and his wife are in their home on the countryside, excited about and decorating for the coming fall season. The wife is happily placing pumpkins and corn husks around the house, when she asks if the husband wouldn't mind a quick trip to the market to pick up something she'd forgotten. The man leaves the house on foot and before long is confronted by a grim looking witch. The witch demands that the man leave his wife, or she will curse the town. A great fight erupts and the man and witch have it out, crashing through the woods and causing much havoc. Finally there is an impasse. They stop their brawl and in the pause realize the futility of their actions. They strike up a conversation and manage to hit it off. The man finds himself intrigued by the witch, and as such often makes trips "to the market" in order to see her. The two fall madly in love. They meet in secret for years, never telling anyone of their arrangement. Many years later, after much decorating and priming for the fall holidays, the man and his wife find themselves in front of their home admiring their work. There is an enormous puff of smoke and the witch appears. Having grown sour over years of meeting in secret she arrives at the house furious and looking to expose the man. She tells the man the deal is off - he can agree to a life with her and all will be forgiven. If he declines, she will conjure a great vortex and all that he loves will be sucked into it. While pausing to consider the vortex begins to swirl around the witch. The townsfolk can be heard screaming in the distance as the massive vortex gets bigger and bigger. The man, seeing only one solutions decides to act. He throws his wife into the witch, knocking them both into the vortex. With squelch the vortex disappears. The man walks away relieved.


I crouched down into the icy branches with the sound of snow crushed beneath boots and angry German voices. I peered down on them from my tree and saw my new target practice. There were at least ten men, their sergeant striding ahead his carbine drawn ready to place a bullet through my skull if they could just spot me in amongst the trees. They were all after me specifically and I could tell from their faces they were unhappy about it. None of them were ever thrilled to fight in Russia anyway but the ones that came my way were the bottom of the pile- the ones sent to find and kill me. I had once been an ordinary defender of my Motherland just like they were of theirs. But I had proven an uncanny knack with this here long rifle. As the bodies started piling up and my legend spread through the Fascist ranks eventually I found myself here- the forests of the Siberian wilderness. I had been here for months by now and had nothing to eat but berries and squirrels for almost as long. But it was all worth it for the look of panic a single well placed bullet could lay on a hundred Nazis at once. I slid my rifle into position on my most North westerly facing branch of choice and placed the sights over their sergeant. With the zoom I could make out the long ragged scar across the left side of his face. He had thinning greying hair and a nest of crows gathering around his eyes. The young men around him were just boys, barely old enough to understand what deep shit they were in. I exhaled slowly so my aim would steady and blew the old fucks face off. Sudden terror gripped the rest and their carbines were pointed from tree to tree: landing on every tree but mine. I ejected the spent case and aimed again- picking off another poor sod and bringing the desperate aims of carbines to trees nearer and nearer mine. I aimed on another one- must have been about 16. His face made him look even younger though and I was suddenly gripped with how familiar his face looked to me. I fired and tore his skull open spraying blood and shards of bone all over his companions. They screamed out in terror and I fired again knocking one clean through the forehead and only minimal splatter as the bullet bounced off the back and lodged itself inside his mangled, but mostly covered, brain. With every shot a little more off the Nazi war machine was sapped away and the Legend that knocked Nazi morale away piece by piece only grew. And the White Death was content.


Back in the olden days, people would fight with knives and swords instead of guns. It made war much more slow and gruesome. Like if you were in the war you'd be going "This is taking WAY too long to chop this guy's head off." And you'd get bored and kinda walk away from the war and maybe get a beer. But then you'd have to walk back through the war again to get back home. So, then you'd have to fight again and you'd be like "Man, this is taking forever to stab this guy to death." But then you're not paying attention and this other guy takes an ax and starts chopping your torso in half. And then you're like "This is taking way to long to die." That's how war was in the olden days. *Bunker Buster* In the last days of the war, we had run out of ammunition for the big guns and had to use P.O.W.s as artillery. Sure, a human body cannot destroy a carrier, but a charred human body with branches taped to it and fake fangs in its mouth can really scare the shit out of a person when it comes flying at you at 100 miles an hour. *Night Vision* In the night, no one can see you. Just your eyes. We moved through the town and took up positions waiting for the convoy. When it came, we took life like vampires in the night and there were no survivors. It was beautiful. Night vision wins wars, make no mistake. But it totally makes masturbation out of the question. *The Enemy Must Be Shot in the Face Several Times Before It Counts* Evan and I had started a game. We began betting packs of cigarettes on who would have the most kills for the day. I won most of the time. But one time, we bet a carton and there was a giant dispute over whether this enemy soldier was really dead or if he had just been shot in the face. Evan figured he killed him. But I could have sworn the guy walked away. So, we went back and we found the man. He was very much alive. So, I shot him some more in the face and won the bet. Tough shit, Evan. *Don't Forget to Die* Our company stopped by the river to rest. We had been hoofing it since France and we just entered Michigan. Plus the guy reading the map was on acid. But Detroit was beautiful. *POW* The thing they don't tell you about a P.O.W. camp is that there are no rules. They sit you in a bunker with a bunch of prisoners and a Monopoly board. No one had played Monopoly in years. We all forgot how to play. And there were no rules. Totally lost. Just a board and pieces. We had to make up the rules. I still don't know what GO meant. *GI Joe* When I came back from the war there was a party. But there was no job, no wife, and no money. But they made sure to give me a party. Like some sort of celebration as if I had been with them all the last four years and not out killing kids younger than me. It made me sick. Except for the pinata - that was totally cool and kinda made up for their lack of understanding. But the pain is still there. *Betrayal on the Beach* I looked at Salter. We both knew what he had done. And we both knew it was going to cost us the war. And we both knew that only one of us would live to tell or not to tell the story of his betrayal. We eyed each other and waited for the other to flinch. But neither one of us did. Finally, he blinked. I knew then that it was Ramirez who did it. But we continued having sex with the prostitute for the time being. There would be time to kill him and Ramirez later. *Hand Grenades to Hell* I once knew a guy who would pull the pins on hand grenades and juggle them and toss them at the enemy mid-juggle. He died SUPER quick. *The Battle of Unspecified Nation-State* I was on the hill overlooking the ambush. It was a nightmare. We were losing men by the dozen. I tried to run down, but Hank stopped me. "Patterson, that's not your war." "But we gotta do something!" "Patterson, a general once told me you have to know when to hold them and you have to know when to fold them. We are folding." "That's a Kenny Rogers song." "Yes, Kenny Rogers, the general." *The Bridge Over the River Dead Bodies* One thing they don't tell you in the movies is that war can be delicious. Every new town we would explore we'd eat local foods and they were delicious. I remember I came back home and missed the exotic foods. Sure, we had our International district, but it just wasn't the same. That's why I'm reenlisting. Does that sound crazy to you? Anyway, two adults and three children for Frozen. *Bloody Hill of Blood and Flags and Blood* I turned to Johnson "Call in a strike!" Johnson turned his head towards me and I realized he was... His face... Was gone. He had put on clown makeup. Boy, that came as a surprise. You need humor if you are going to fight a war. He beeped a horn and I laughed. Then someone blew his clown face and his real face off.


She wondered how it had come to this. There was boy whose eyes were as dark as the deepest abyss, and burned her like hell fire. There were days when she thought he might of loved her. Those were the days where his eyes weren't quite so scorching, but more like a pleasant warmth, like you would get from one's fire place. His touch would dance across her skin, playing a master piece only he could see and only she could see, as notes bloomed in his wake. He would be her protector, her kind, wonderful, protector. The one that would keep the demons at bay, while allowing his own to ravage him. His smile would be as sweet as a summer's day, and his kiss would be divine. Other days she wasn't quite sure. Sometimes, not only his eyes, but his words would burn her to the bone. His touch wasn't a master piece, but a disaster. He would rave and writhe and curse her, scream at her, and collapse in on himself and sob. There were days where he would taste like blood and ash, and she would wonder briefly, boy of mine, where have you been? There were days where she knew she loved him. Those were the days when he would smile and teach her to fly across the roof tops, or teach her to waltz to music that they could only hear, music that could no longer play in the world they lived in. He would tell her stories of the days before this, of the ocean and of him. He would bandage her knee if she fell, and hold her if she cried. He told her he thought her wings were beautiful, as molted as they were. She knew she loved him then, and there were no days where she could truly bring herself not to (but she wouldn't admit this if he asked.) Sometimes she wondered when her life became a walking cliche. He wondered when he had become so naive. When they finally found them (of course they would find them, they always knew their days were numbered, so really it should be no surprise) They rip the remaining bits of her wings from her back, and he screams and she thinks, maybe he loves me after all. She wondered how it had come to this. She was falling towards the ground, wingless and numb, but in a weird sense, elated. (She was tired of playing this game.) She wondered why she thought she could ever have a happy ending. Because after all, the villain never got one. And the dragon never kept her prince.