It had spent a lot of time in this universe. *Tick... Tick... Tick...* It is not like a watch was needed, but somehow It *liked* this universe and a constant reminder on its heartbeats on the way to entropy seemed somehow fitting. It had created universes before, but those it had to *refuel.* This one would *never* be refueled, it had *vowed.* A process of *unstoppable decay.* It viewed it as a meditation. *Tick... Tick... Tick...* It felt a bit alone. Sometimes, it pondered, *maybe* it hadn't been the best decision to say "I am", *casting* itself into an existence of *watching* and *creating.* So, a meditation on *loneliness* and *decay.* Not that it would *decay* anytime soon. *Tick....* Did it just seem like that to it, or was the clock going *slower?* "Hello? God? Are you there?", a voice said. Startled, the God searched around the universe. What was that? "My mother is sick, God. Please heal her.", the voice said again. Galaxies blurred into stars. It had found the source. Small water planet. It went in closer. *Most curious!* A small, ape-like creature, sitting next to the sleeping site of a *more* ape-like creature. Both still had some fur on them, and the small one wore some sort of leather around its loins. The god was *intrigued.* In all the universes before, none of the life it had created had been capable of ... *communicating* in this way. It turned the wheels of creation. The mother healed. The little one became a shaman. Shamans turned into priests, priests turned into warmongers, warmongers turned into mass murderers. But there was good too. Love, compassion, Sharing. That was the stuff that it liked most. The prayers kept floating up to it. Some attributed an idea to it, some called it a he, a she, an adversary, some were bitter, and some were sweet. Company, at last. And God smiled. Even though it would end someday. *Tick.... Tick.... Tick....* It valued every second of it.


Today was the day. The console chimed cheerily as the icon for Earth popped up on the dash. After a communication issue with ground control some while ago, the pilot of ship 45-B had lost consciousness and the system had warped into deep space. Sometime later he had reawakened from the quiet warmth of cryosleep. He wasn't sure of how long he had been away, but he was sure the world would have changed for the better. The warning lights flashed on as the ship decelerated from hyperdrive. The void brakes activated on the winglets and the ship shuddered to a halt. The pilot deactivated the auto-travel system and moved the controls into position, pressing forward, the ship began to move towards the planet. The surface of the continent below was shrouded by a thick cloud cover. He spoke into the microphone. "Ground Control, I'm descending. I can't wait to tell you guys what I've seen! My family will be waiting, right?" Nothing but static. The pilot dismissed this as a minor error in the comlink. When the ship broke the cloud cover, an expanse of brown and grey was laid out before him. Crumbling ruins of the once proud nations were strewn across the landscape. Seas drying up, forests burning, streets empty, cities crumbled. The ship chimed again as it picked up the faint transmission coming from an empty landing pad. Descending through the city, he stared desperately out of the cockpit waiting for signs of life. Everything was still. The ship landed with a soft bump and the crew cabin opened. Compressed air shot out of vents clearing any remaining debris off the ship... the apparent one remaining shining example of humanities success. Dashing out of the ship, he fastened his helmet and began running. Past the main gate, past the guard booth, and out into the street. Rubble was strewn across the avenue, cars crushed and still burning. Moving over to a decrepit news stand, the pilot rummaged through the papers until he found a readable copy. The headline read "End of Days? War Breaks out Between Super Powers" and a picture of a hydrogen bomb sat in the center of the front page. Returning to the ship, the pilot ordered a full scan of the surface. In minutes, the scan completed and returned with a red warning. The details included tidbits about dangerous radiation levels, abundant toxic materials, and a despairingly thin atmosphere. The pilot, however, was transfixed on one statement. Human Population : 1. Location : Local. Everything was gone. Families. Friends. Cities. Nations. Everything. Defeated, the pilot walked to where the park would have been. He sat and dreamed of the days before launch, where the birds would sing and the skies were blue and life was good. As the wind picked up, the Pilot looked into the horizon. An alarm went off in the suit warning of an incoming storm. A radioactive sandstorm of sorts. Removing his helmet he turned to face the approaching wall of wind and debris and readied the kill switch for life support. He spoke softly, a single tear forming in his eye. "Major Tom to Ground Control. I'm coming home." Writing Prompt based on images.


In the early days of Reddit, they used it as their logo, one of them had drew it and it looked cute, they even made a stuffed version and named it Snoo because the name also sounded cute. Snoo was kept on top of their computer and they adored him. But one winter, one cold cold winter, that ragtag band of the people who maintained Reddit huddled together in the last burning embers of their fireplace, for they couldn't pay the heating bill. They were growing colder and colder, and their hope of seeing the future of their small but promising site, Reddit. Suddenly, Snoo rose and spoke, "Fear not, my brothers, for I am your Savior Snoo" this of course scared the daylights out of everyone in the room besides Snoo who now had forgotten the cold and gathered around Snoo and asked him questions as to why he had suddenly spoke. Snoo raised an adorably small hand and said, "You mortals will not yet be able to comprehend my existence, only know you have a great piece in the puzzle of the universe, your site's members shall be many, do not lose hope for you shall survive this winter, you will one day by the last hope of the free thinking universe" One among the eager crowd inquired the Snoo, "But how, our fire is quickly waning and our bodies will not produce heat much longer" The Snoo turned to him and said, "Do not worry, that is why I have come, I know I must sacrifice myself to save the universe in the future, it is my piece in the puzzle and I shall take it with dignity" With one final adorable salute he cast himself into the fireplace and stoked the flames. This bold sacrifice somehow kept the fire burning for eternity, and it still burns to this day. The Redditors who witnessed that bold, and strangely vague sacrifice decided to make effigies of the Snoo so that his face and his sacrifice that saved Reddit would be remembered. Of course, they profit off them in the Reddit Store, but it's the thought that counts.


I can feel it, you know. The taint on Saidin. The male half of the true power has become covered in something, like scum on the surface of pond. I know what is coming too, madness. Insanity. I would not bow to... to "Shai'tan". That I said aloud, and finally I had said it. Some believe it is bad luck to speak the Father of Lies' name aloud. I'm too far gone to care. *Beware, they're watching. They're watching us*. The world was slowly being torn apart by the madness of my brothers. My sworn brothers who had embraced Saidin, who had been the greatest Aes Sedai of an age. Men were naturally stronger in the One Power than women, and it showed in the fury with which we wreaked havoc upon a helpless world. *The dead, the dead see me!* We had gone to Shayol Ghul with Lews Therin Telamon, the greatest of us all. We were his hundred companions, and I marched proudly at his side to contain the Dark One, to put him back in his prison. It was a great and bloody fight, but we won. Barely. We put him back in his prison, Lews Therin sealed the most powerful of Forsaken, the thirteen, in the Bore with the Dark One. *And now they're watching me, watching us, watching the world shatter and break and fall to pieces and oh by the Light they're watching*. And then the Dark One, in his last act upon this world, struck back. He rendered them insane, all of us insane. Of the hundred and thirteen of us who went into that black pit, sixty eight came out. We were all horribly insane. *I'm* insane. It's a sick thrill realizing that I can't be rational anymore. Some days I can just feel the eyes of the dead upon me, other days I can see them. *AND THEY ARE WATCHING ME!* But no matter. I've found them you see. I've found some more of the Forsaken. Those who were not locked away in the pit with *the dead, the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead ENOUGH*. I won't, I won't let the insanity claim me. I won't. I'm stronger than that. I. Am. STRONGER! I am. I know I am going insane, it's a horrific thing to know that. Didn't I already say that? Oh god is my memory going? No matter. No matter at all. There are thirteen of them in this valley, and thirteen hundred trollocs. And Myrddraal. The trolloc's twisted leaders who bear blades forged in the depths of Shayol Ghul. Quenched in black waters and the blood of innocents. Men, women, children. It's said there are Myrddraal who prize blades quenched in the blood of children, they say those blades cut deeper into the souls of men. I breathe out, and reach for Saidin. Of the thirteen down there, seven are men. They immediately look up, shocked, surprised, but not terrified. Not yet. They don't know who I am, because they aren't dead. *Because the dead know, the dead are everywhere and they are watching me. They will watch me KILL THESE FORSAKEN BEINGS!* A shriek of pure fury crosses my dried and cracking lips, as the fury of Saidin flows through my veins. There is nothing quite like it, channeling. You're more alive than ever you could possibly be, everything is just... more. Not the dead though. When I channel the dead are quiet, the dead don't look at me when I channel. It's moments like this when I'm lucid again, when I'm embracing Saidin. It's why the world is breaking, men who go insane can't stop themselves from channeling, and the best kind of channeling is to take as much of the One Power into yourself as you possibly can, and release it in a blow of fury. We don't use balefire anymore, not since we learned what it does. It's in moments like this that I can realize balefire is wrong, that it simply unmakes things. And the stronger the balefire, the more unmade something is. It can undo things people did in the past. Lews Therin Telamon put everything he had into balefire once. Every drop he could channel. His army was destroyed around him, utterly and totally destroyed. I stood at his side, ready to die with a curse on my lips. His balefire was so strong it undid what the enemy general had done. He remade his army. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. Such power, so easily abused. I rain fire down on the valley, and the trollocs burn. They burn and burn and scream. The Myrddraal scream as well, and they burn too. The thirteen Forsaken don't burn, they danced through the flames, and returned the gift of death. They began to throw lightning and fire. They turned the air to water and raised barriers of rock to drown me. I blasted forth pure fury, and screamed as I shot lightning from my hands. It's the rage that really made it work. I cleansed the air and shattered the walls, I blew through the shields of one, then two, then three of the Forsaken. I cackled aloud and rained fire down on them still. We fought for hours, hours. Slowly, inexorably, my shields were weakened. My counters came slightly slower. My ability to hold Saidin withdrew, but still I hurled death from my hands. I ruptured the earth, and it swallowed three more of them whole. They fell into the pit, and I closed it on them. I could feel the two men's channeling snuff out. I could feel it when my shields collapsed and my skin began to crackle, then burn as the remaining seven hurled themselves at me. Two of the women had linked, and were more powerful than before. I howled, and began pulling forth Saidin from my sa'angreal. I obliterated the two who had linked, pulled their bones from their skin and crushed them to powder before the eyes of the other five. I just wanted to kill those five. That was my desire. I knew I was mortally wounded, my burns were that severe. My eyes were gone, melted into my face. My hands were lumps of blackened skin and melted flesh. But you don't need eyes to see with Saidin, and you don't need hands to throw lightning and fire and most importantly, death. The madness crept back into my mind then, as I approached death. I could feel the eyes of the dead on my burned skin. I could hear them whispering, like a chorus of mice. But I could hold that in the back of my mind. I could focus, and with focus I could ignore even the blistering agony that was my body. I defeated an attempt to end the battle by one of them. He shot forth balefire, I deflected it with the corpse of a Myrddraal and then rapidly expanded the air in his lungs. His chest blew apart in a spray of blood and bone and gristle. Two of the men broke and ran then, the last two. Leaving two more women, who had linked to try and save their skin. The two men opened a gate to another part of the world, I opened a gate through their heads. The edge of a gate is sharper than the sharpest razor blade, and stronger than steel. They crumpled, their bodies falling to the ground and their heads disappearing to wherever I had opened the gate to. I didn't care anymore. Two more women, two more. *Two more women, and two dead. Twenty dead. Two hundred dead, no two thousand, no two million. Standing there. Watching me. Why, why are they watching me? WHY WON'T THE DEAD STOP LOOKING AT ME!* I screamed aloud again, and pulled through more Saidin than I could safely handle. The two women died screaming as I boiled the blood in their veins and ripped their beating hearts from their rib cages. I collapsed, suddenly unable to channel. I had done it, I had gentled myself. I had pulled more Saidin than I could handle, and I couldn't channel anymore. But I could still feel Saidin. I could still feel the taint. I rasped a breath out of lungs that no longer worked, and fell over, burning. I could sense what I had done, and I had done terrible things. For hundreds of miles around me there was nothing but desert. Rock and sand, baked dry. Massive mountains rose to the west, and the dead danced circles around my body. There were living things, but horribly changed by the magics thrown around. Harmless snakes now had venom that could kill a man in literally the span of a heartbeat. Lizards that now would attack anything they saw viciously, and try to eat it. Tiny, minuscule pools of water still remained, but they were nothing compared to the vast lakes that had once given this region a name that translated to Fields of Water and Life. Now it was a waste, and I laughed dryly as the pain blazed through my body, took one last rasping breath, and died.


>Everything is silent but the wind. An empty bus stop is across the street. The faded green metal of the shelter is rusted, and the glass has long since been graffitied. Trash is overflowing a nearby wastebin. A young man, thinly built sporting a tattered leather jacket, red beanie, and jeans comes into view. He is smoking a cigarette. >Cut to close up view on his grey eyes - you see them flick upwards, you can see he is vigilant and aware of his surroundings at all times. He blinks. >The sun is bright overhead. He solemnly approaches the bench and stands in the shade, leaning with his back against the shelter. Hands in his pockets, he glances left. >A lone stranger is staggering down the sidewalk across the street. His movements suggest psychosis. Jagged hand movements and reactions to imaginary surroundings, he is clearly under the influence of reality altering chemicals. >A bird chips in a nearby tree. the branch sways in the breeze. >Cut back to main character, light smoke curls around his face as he exhales. his eyes are trailing the stranger, face completely blank. He blinks. >The bus driver is clearly frustrated. His face is screwed up in brewing emotion. Eyes watery, face red and bushy eyebrows angrily clenched down. In the back of a bus a baby is crying, cell phones are going off, noise is building up. One of the passengers is becoming aggressive and is about to cause a commotion with another. The driver is glancing in his mirror. >The staggering stranger, is reacting violently to nothing. His movements are erratic. He steps into the street. There is froth at his mouth, eyes dilated. Incapable of forming words, he moans and blurts incoherently. >The main character glances right. >A young adult female is driving her car. She is listening to loud pop music, her hair is in her face as she dances in her seat. She glances down at her radio console, which has a glare coming off it from the sun's reflection. >Close up of her gas gauge, it is rising. She is still looking at her radio, changing the channel. Her elbow bumps her coffee and it spills. She gasps and makes a desperate attempt at saving her drink. >Cut to main character. He glances left. The bus is approaching. He starts to finish his cigarette. >The bus driver yells at the passenger. Threatening to kick him off the bus at the next stop. The passenger raises his voice. The baby is wailing. >The young woman reaches for the cup, hot liquid pouring all over the interior of her car. She is looking down at the mess. Her music is is still blaring loud. >The raving madman is seen for a fraction of a second in her windshield. The music volume, combined with her speedy distracted driving, she hits him hard. >The bird takes flight. >From main character's point of view, time is in slow motion. The stranger impacts the car and his limbs splay out at an inhuman angle. His flesh ricochets off the metal car. This bag of fleeting mortality lands in the path of the bus. About 6 feet in front of and to the left of the main character. His face is a bloody mess and the left leg is shattered in many places. A bloody pool forming around his mangled body. >The bus driver has his head turned. Attention towards the back of his bus. He hits the brakes a little harder than he usually would to spite the standing passenger that was making his day shit and yells at him to get off the bus. >As stranger gurgles blood in the road, the bus drives over his head. Brains splatter on the driver's side wheel. The bus barely feels a bump as it rolls to a stop. The door to the bus opens and a man storms off in the same direction the bus was heading without looking back. >Main character takes one last puff of his cigarette, flicks it then steps onto the bus. >Cut to black.


He was no stranger to this, this strong pain resonating from his forearm up. This was a normal act, almost routine to perform. Josh had blood streaking down to his palm, pooling in his hand. The gleam of the metal in his other hand had reminded him that there he wasn't done yet. He curled his hand into a fist and struck again, the box cutter tearing apart his clean unscarred flesh of his arm. This time was different, he didn't feel any pain and didn't feel the need to stop. He was going to keep going. He knew this was coming though, he had planned this night. He went into the kitchen earlier while his parents were asleep and had shoveled as many pills as there were in the house down his throat. This night was different. Josh had scars all over his arm, he couldn't wear anything less revealing than a long sleeved jacket around other people including his own family. In school he had friends at one point, but everything dies off eventually. Those friends found that it was too much work to be friends with someone who shared so little of himself, all he is is cutting though, and he could not share that. He was a smart kid though, he planned it out well. He knew he couldn't tell anyone, that was his previous mistake, he learned from trial and error with this and made the perfect plan. This was a perfect night. He kept going until he couldn't see the pale white of his skin color on his wrist. He wouldn't stop. Josh was determined this time, he was pushed to the limits. Earlier that evening he watched his ex-girlfriend of two years go with someone else to prom, he asked and she said yes. That was a cold reminder that he was alone. Josh would rather be dead than alone. His plan started with the pills, washed down with bleach, now he was sitting on the edge of the roof, wrists cut, and vision fading. He missed one part. The note. He was frantically fighting for consciousness now, he couldn't leave his family without saying goodbye. His stomach was on fire and it was burning upwards towards his throat, his vision was fading, too much blood lost, all he could do was claw his way indoors. He wouldn’t make it though, there wasn’t enough time left. The next day the police arrived to the scene of a young 13 year old boy named Josh fallen on the fence next to his house, it was an obvious suicide. Josh’s younger sister would forever be scarred with the mental image of her brother almost cut in half by their fence when she went out to get their morning paper. Josh had wandered off a lot in his sleep, so him missing in the morning wasnt out of the ordinary.


No-one knew that the briefcase contained the means to erase mankind. Most of the homeless population beneath the Orwell Bridge assumed that it was stacked with cash and left unfastened in a naïve act of compassion by some businessman, or other. After all, it was no secret that the majority of the city’s homeless spent each night beneath the rusty iron bridge. There was simply no reason to suspect anything sinister, especially considering the kind nature of the countless visitors that had come with charity in mind. Who could have known that within the briefcase, neatly placed upon the cream cushioned interior, were eight vials that were filled with a clear but apocalyptic virus – the virus that would soon be airborne? Such thoughts would be considered irrational, surely. Is it not natural for man to come to the aid of his suffering kin? With this forever in mind the vagrants were quick to tear into the briefcase like hyenas into a ravaged carcass. You can imagine their shock once its contents were revealed to them. *What…what the fuck is this?* One of the vagrants exclaimed, disgusted by what could only be a practical joke of the sickest kind. He removed the first vial from the briefcase and held it close to his nearly blind eye. *Hmmm, looks empty to me, whatchu think?* One of the other vagrants snatched it from his hand and began to inspect it for himself. *Yessir, definitely empty!* There was a high wind on this cloudy afternoon by the riverbank, which laced the air with a potent chill. From the comfort of his car a man in a black suit watched as one of the vagrants tossed the open briefcase into the garbage, the vials smashing and releasing their contents into the howling wind.


“I am committed. I want to be with you. I know sometimes I come across as inconsiderate or selfish or uncaring or an asshole or whatever. I’m sorry. I really am. I want to work on it and want to make this work.” These lies slipped through his thinly parted lips as easily as the smoke vaguely exhaled in their wake. With his right hand, he put out the remains of his cigarette on the concrete bench. Passing the butt into his left palm his elbow gently brushed her side as he slipped the cigarette into his pocket. Glancing out of the corner of his left eye he mumbled a rye apology with a crooked, half-cocked grin. Were he alone on the bench he would have just flicked the still-burning cigarette away into the patchy grass. In the pregnant silence that followed, he wore a mask of contrition and introspection knowing he was further proving his earnestness. The silence swallowed the words he wished he knew how to say. “I don’t feel the same about this relationship as you do. I don’t feel the fire or burning attraction. I kind of just enjoy having someone in my life and don’t see this as serious or long term. I just want you around so I feel better about myself.” He was always incapable, always dragged along in relationships, always cared for far more than he cared to be. Pulling a pack of gum from his right pants pocket, he thumbed out a piece from its foil and plastic bubble and slid it between his still-parted lips. Replacing the packet, he turned to face her and held her gaze, letting his eyes fill with hope and replacing his contrition with a confident grin. “I feel optimistic.” He lied. He felt trapped. “I love that we can talk about these things openly and I know we can work through it. I realize I have a lot of room for growth and I want to grow. And you’re worth going through these growing pains. I’m grateful for you and know that things will get better if we can keep communicating and keep growing together.” He swallowed his gum which he would have typically just spat on the ground, hoping some sad sack would find it later on the bottom on his shoe and his living room carpet. The hard lump of gum went down easier than the most recent batch of falsehoods. But they both went down easier than bringing the truth up would have been. So he swallowed his gum and his feelings and let the moment stand for what it was. He took her right hand in his and brought it too his lips. He slipped his left arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, kissing her head and letting her left hand fall to his thy. She sighed, smiled heavily to herself, and sank into his embrace. “Thanks.” She said, hopeful and in love. “Thanks.


Upon waking, the flood to my senses was impulsively deafening. Opening my eyes shone anything but comfort. I think in that moment I could have seen farther if I looked through my toe. What I could see was oddly familiar, like all those times as a child that I had pressed my palms to my eyes to view that kaleidoscopic spectacle. A practice of which I’m sure is not the healthiest for the eyes. It was as if the colors, dull and dim though they were, were sentient. Swirling and spinning in their own independent paths, but at the same time, in unison; all on the same voyage. I’m sure of it now that this was just my eyes’ last ditch effort to discern something, anything among the madness. Darker than my eyes could see, and yet what I felt could only be accounted as a sense of grey. The bounds of my being were indiscernible. I couldn’t sense where my body ended and the hell began. Upon trying to stand, I felt the overwhelming fear of falling and a disturbing lack of confirmation that I was moving at all. I was stationary with the ever-present awareness of hurtling toward something. It was a comatose consciousness, much like the sensation I can only imagine one suffers from Restless Leg Syndrome, enveloping my soul. My limbs begged to be outstretched. For a long while, I struggled and for a long while after, I didn’t. My thoughts were all that were left with me. My sanity became my purpose. I found myself philosophizing, for one reason or another. Life and Death were where I would eventually and undoubtedly find myself, because neither applied to me any longer. I would ponder that vastness of the Universe I once called home. I found myself wondering if amongst the infinite amount of infinite sets of infinite digits within the value of pi, the Universe had accounted for a way in which I would eventually end up nowhere. I hadn’t come here, I hadn’t been transported, I just simply was here and wasn’t where I had been. I had come here, by no means at all, for no reason at all; an effect without a cause. There was nothing here for me, and it certainly wanted to be noticed.


This is my first attempt at writing a short story. Please be kind. He could feel the stiffness settling into his joints and the pressure building in his chest. He'd been on this flight for nearly 10 hours already. He ran a hand across his cheek, feeling the coarseness of 36 hours without a shave. He was finally going home. He checked his watch and found that it was already approaching 8 o'clock, Georgia time. The ceremony had been scheduled for 10:00 that morning. He glanced up at the screen in front of him and saw that they weren't supposed to land for another hour and a half. Jim thought of his waiting family and smiled to himself. “Hurry up and wait” he mused, “That's how it's always been.” Jim started to stand and excused himself into the aisle. He reached into the overhead bin and fished out his razor. “Gotta look my best” Jim thought as he shook his head. He was wearing a brand new uniform he had never yet worn. Once he had found his razor, Jim walked over to the nearest lavatory and slid the door shut behind him. He turned on the sink and splashed a handful of cold water on his face. He raised his eyes and took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. He finally let himself relax his guard just a little and believe that he was truly on his way home. It had been 9 long months in that blistering heat and unrelenting dust. The sirens, the thunderous explosions, the screams of those he'd come to know and trust, they were behind him now. They were gone, but when he closed his eyes he was still there. It was as if the battles had never ended but had only just begun. Jim finished shaving and wiped his face clean. He walked back to his seat and checked under his seat to make sure his weapon was still there. He checked the screen in from of him again, still over an hour to go. He pulled out his iPod and headphone to listen to for the rest of the flight. He knew better than to close his eyes and try to sleep. “It's a new start for me, a new beginning. I'm finally going home and I can start moving on with my life” he thought, but he knew that he would never be the same, not after what he'd seen. Jim let his mind wander back over the previous months. He remembered the old adage his father had shared with him before the deployment, “War is long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.” “How true had that been?” he thought. Jim flinched as his buddy beside him tapped him on the shoulder, letting him know that they were about to land. Jim looked out the window and saw the green all over the landscape, real American soil. He smiled to himself, “It's finally over.” The soldiers all clapped as the wheels touched the ground, bringing them all back to home soil. They all were smiling and the mood was jovial as they gathered their baggage to disembark from the plane. Finally, the order came to start moving off of the plane. Jim grinned as he felt a wave of Georgia humidity wash over him. He went and turned in his weapon and all of his sensitive gear. He moved on to the staging area briefly before the order came to load onto the buses for the final stretch of their journey. Jim glanced at his watch, 1100 hours. He smiled, “No need to sweat the small stuff when you're on your way home.” He lowered the window by his seat and took in the smell of fresh rain. The buses arrived just over half an hour later at the location of their ceremony. They were ordered off the bus and given a brief block of instruction on how the ceremony would go. At last they made an impromptu formation. Jim could feel his heart starting to race, trying to beat out of his chest. He shook slightly and his breath became shallow. He took a deep breath to steady himself.


One time, when I was a kid, I went to Harris Teeter with my mom. It was right around Valentine's day and they had this candy hopper full of heart shaped jawbreakers. I really wanted some so I ask my mom and she says I can get a few. I'm about 10 years old and just pushing past four feet tall. The hopper is up above me a bit and I have to reach up above me to hold my bag underneath it. I pull the handle to open the hopper and the candy starts to pour in. It makes a satisfying sound and it soothes me like the rainsticks I had made in school. I break the spell of the sound when I have enough and I try to close the hopper but one of the jawbreakers was caught in the gears, so the door is stuck in the open position. I start to freak out. I can't go and get anyone because I have to hold this bag here, but the hopper is three feet tall and there's no way my little bag will hold it all. More jawbreakers pour out of the candy hour glass and as the bag fills the thin plastic it's made from starts to stretch. By the time the jawbreakers reach the top of the bag a small crowd of adults has formed, each of them saying "here, just close it, like this." They push hard on the handle but the jawbreaker was made to take such abuse. After a few seconds each one gives up and falls into the shallow circle, scratching their heads, waiting to see what happens next. By the time the jawbreakers reach the top of this bag my arms are killing me and the bag has these big holes in it where my fingers dug through. Then, in an instant that goes on for hours, the seam of the bag rips and jawbreakers go everywhere. The sound brings half the store over and the rest of the hopper sprinkling over the floor brings over everyone else. I just stood there, helpless like everyone else, watching the the colors flow. The guy standing next to me worked there, and I'm pretty sure now that he was the one who had to clean it up afterwards. I must have looked at him with such a pathetic "I'm sorry" face, because he reached out, into the torrent of candy. He came back with a small handful of heart-shaped jawbreakers. Without the smallest hint of a smile or scowl he said, "don't worry about it", and put them in my hand.


This weekend my girlfriend's dad wanted to take me fishing - doing that whole clichéd male bonding thing. All good, he's a nice guy so I was in. We drove from just outside Inverness over to the Isle of Skye (Scotland) which I was pretty stoked about because I've never been that far West before. It was a top day; good fishing, decent weather, funny chat - nothing to bother writing a story about on Reddit - until we hit this little pub afterwards. So we go into this pub in Portree, grab a table near the bar and have a few beers. Standard country pub for a Saturday - mix of old regulars, young kids trying to look 18, the local lads in their shit Ben Shermans trying to chat up the local 'talent' who barely have a full set of teeth between them. But I couldn't shake this weird vibe. Like I kept noticing people go quiet when someone else walked by, or people giving each other sideways glances. Nothing directed towards us so I wasn't too wary. Mistake number 1. Anyway, I go up to the bar for another couple beers and the barman offers the usual small talk. 'Just visiting aye?' 'Over from the mainland aye?' 'See the Old Man did ye aye?' Me: 'Yeah man, just over for a spot of fishing.' Mistake number 2. The place goes deathly silent. The barman visibly winces. If it had been a film instead of real life you would have heard a needle scratch over a record. This guy with horrible B.O. storms over to me and grabs my arm painfully. He looks at me like I just shat in his porridge and says through his teeth, 'Live bait right?' Instantly another guy leaps from his chair, crosses the pub in a flash and he's leaning on my other side. He looks the B.O. guy right in his slightly too-far-apart eyes and says 'No. He was fly fishing you prick, right?' I am in complete WTF mode. What are these two on about? Suddenly people all over the bar start chiming in. It was an instant split into two factions. 'Bait is for buffties!' 'Flies are for fags!' 'Bait is a wankers game' 'Shove yer flies up yer arse' Etc Etc It's all kicking off. B.O. boy grabs me, puts his beak right into mine. 'Well?! Bait or fly fishing?' 'F-f-f-ffly?' I stammer. Mistake number 3. Bam - sucker punch right to the eye. Then; pandemonium. It's an instant fist salad in the pub. People shouting, punching, kicking, throwing. It's the freaking wild, wild west coast of Scotland. I stand like a deer in headlights watching this country pub tear itself apart. I stand there uselessly, doing my best lighthouse impression, when a hand grabs my shoulder and yanks me outside in one swift movement. My heads spinning. I am three exits past confused. And can't see the square route of fuck all through one eye. It's the barman who has dragged me out, managing to grab my g/f's dad on the way. The three of us are stood there silent in the cold for what feels like ages, just looking at each other, a mexican stand off of staring. We can hear the mosh of the locals from inside. 'WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ABOUT!?' I finally manage to articulate. The bartender takes his time to catch his breath and stands up calmly. He looks at his pub and shakes his head like he's seen this a million times before, then just calmly says... 'In a Skye full of people, only some want to fly. Isn't that crazy?' 'Crazy.


there once was a boy with knives stuck in his voice. No matter what he said, it hurt the people around him, the boy just couldn't help it. Even if he didn't say anything offensive to someone, it still hurt them, just the sheer noise produced, a high, cutting pitch, something never heard by the likes of man before, would make the inner workings of your ears bleed, if you listened to it long enough. All he wanted was a little affection. just somebody, for once to actually love him. a mother, a father, a friend would have sufficed. he should have known the first time a whole village abandoned him in the middle if a woods; no one wanted him, or his foul remarks. but he didn't learn, he had the simple mind of a child. the boy would walk during the days, crawl in the darkness of night, just to find a home. but every town he found, just kicked him out again. but he didnt learn, he had the simple mind of a child. his cry's pierced the silence of the forest at night, birds flew away in fear, his shrill scream lured hunters to him, believing it was an animal, dying in their traps. but all they could hear when they saw him was, just as ghastly as his voice. the poor child, he was just an unidentifiable bulk. you could hardly call him a bulk though, he was nothing but a remnant of his former self. the boy hadnt eaten for days from the looks of it, his skin was peeling, hair grew in patches. his ribs, they were hypnotic, just watching them stretch the pale, brittle skin. scabs were beginning to form, at nearly every inch of his body. the two hunters felt pity for the boy. they left some food for him, and then left as fast as they could, they were horrified of the grotesque child. if they really felt pity for him, they would've killed him. the night the boy ate was the first night the forest heard true silence for so long, no one actually knew.that night the boy actually slept. the dreams were the sweetest thing he had ever experienced. the dreams gave him a new feeling of life, he didn't have the will to death any more. or was that the food? the boy learnt to fend for himself. he admired those hunters, he wanted to impress them, be like them. to him, they were to first people to show him any compassion. but the boy was as much a terrible hunter, as the villagers were terrible humans. he never learnt. his voice scared of every single one of his prey. except the fish. the boy was expert in catching fish from a river. the joy on his face was unmatched, as he pulled his first fish out of the stream with his bare hands. many nights passed after the night with the hunters, and many dreams accompanied them. the boy had found something to cherish. night after night he went to his den, night after night a scream let out, sounding so much like a childish laugh. his den was a crude piece of art. tightly packed under the roots of a relatively young oak in the forest of elders, its roots resembled aching joints submerged in the depths of the river, the boy used grass for a simple beading. old fish bones were hung up from the tops of the roots. oh he was proud of his fish bones. one day, the boy was out “fishing”. there was one fish he had his eye on. it was too fast for him, even heading upstream. up and up they went, the boy wasn't going to give up. before he knew it, night had fallen. the boy was scared, he had come a long way from his little den, so far upstream he was on a slope. that was the first night the forest had heard the boys crys for so long. he didn't sleep at all, he was scared he just wanted to be home, to be loved again. after the progress the boy made, it was undone in just one single, sleepless night. the following morning, he woke in a pile of golden red leaves. autumn had arrived. the ground was damp and boggy. he tried to set for home, following the river downstream. the boy dragged his feet through the mud. for hours, he walked and walked and walked, still no where closer to home. he was surprised at the distance he traveled the day before chasing the fish. Then he heard it, a scream,a cry for help. it was a sharp noise, but it didn't make the boy cover his ears, only pay more attention to it. at first he thought it was himself, but how could it be, if he was here, and the noise was over there. the boys childish nature made him curious. step by step, he trekked through the mud. it soon began to dry out as he made it closer to the noise the forest was thinning, the noise was increasing. he thought he could hear voices thrown in hear and there, laughing, tormenting. the boy had reached a clearing on a plateau. it was most likely the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, or will ever see. the field had patches of scarlet poppy's in between patches of long white grass. and in the middle of that, the noise. a black cloud, dancing around in a single fluid motion. the boy got closer and saw ravens, hundreds of them, words flying from their beaks, taunts and insults thrown to the centre of the mass. and in the centre, a single carrion crow, half the size of the ravens, and not able to fully form words like them, but screams, the same screams that caught the boys attention. he screamed. the child screamed, drowning out the noise of the ravens. the crow joint in. the boy started running in and out of the group, trying his best to scare the ravens off. but they laughed at his futile attempts. this made him scream louder and run faster. eventually the crows got bored with picking on the crow, and lost all interest in the child, waving his arms about like a madman. they were gone. it was just the boy with knives stuck in his voice and the crow that couldn't sing. the screams lessened and lessened, until all you could hear was the far of call of the ravens caught in the wind, and the slow steady breathing of both boy and bird. on closer inspection, the crow was actually much bigger, but in poor condition. still not as big as the others, it had fresh blood dripping from where the ravens talons took swipes at him. its feathers were torn out in patches. and it was weak, malnourished. they boy tried to pick him up as gentle as he could, but the crow struggled. finally the boy got hold of him. the boy could see he was hungry, but he had no food. he had the next best thing a carrion crow could wish for; living human flesh. the boy bit his finger, making it bleed, only with a small yelp of pain. he tried stuffing it into the crows face, but that didnt work. at long last, the crow got the taste of blood, and pecked at the boys hand until he was satisfied, all the while, the boy screamed. but he tolerated the pain, not flinching his hand away during the feeding. the path back to the river was a long and tiresome one, the boy was feeling faint. the crow wanted to stay with the boy, so he let it sit on his shoulder. they screamed at each other the whole way, having some strange conversation in the most bizarre of tongues. he had finally found someone to love, and to love him in return. the boys dreams had come true. that night, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, and blood on his neck from success. a dreamless sleep soon fell upon him. the boys body became entangled in the branches of a relatively young oak tree in a forest of eldars, its fingers submerged in the waters of the river. the crow was perched above. it flew down and landed on the corpse, pecking strips of flesh away from the bones of the bloated, floating body.


Fear. He thought he understood the idea. When he was younger he had been told to not be afraid by his parents, but this was different. This was paralyzing. His parents had finally left him home alone. He fought for this right. Now, with the window broken from the outside in, and a shadowy figure making his way around the house, all he could fight for was to keep his hands steady as he dialed for the police. He strained to hear the operator over the relentless beating inside of his chest. Fear. He knew he understood the idea. But this, this was something he had never experienced. Something new. What was once an emotion reserved for times of solitude had suddenly, relentlessly even, shoved its way between him and his fiancée. The man across from him, who had already demanded his watch and wallet, looked weathered. The knife in his hand glistened with the light of flickering neon signs. He didn't care about the wallet or watch but when the attacker turned his eyes to his fiancée, that was when he knew what had to be done. The drum that was once a distraction, now played a welcome song of war. Fear. It was no longer an idea. Sitting next to her like he had done for so many years before, he knew it was close. The doctors said she could go home, she would be more comfortable there. The sound of his heart inside his chest didn't matter anymore. This was fear. The fear that comes from true helplessness. Unable to run, unable to fight. He would fearlessly take her place if he could, but he couldn't. This was fear. He longed for a time when the sound of fear was his beating heart. The sound of fear was now the sound of an electric beat. An electric beat that was ever slowing. Fear. Silence.


I am not sexy, I am not pretty. I am ridiculed by you and your peers. If you do not like me, why must you continue to keep me around? I do not cling to you too tightly, as a matter of fact, I rarely even see you. I am always honest, and I bring out the real you, whilst your other friends shape and shift you to the point the real you is unrecognizable. I try my best not to stand out and you try to hide me from the world. If people see us together, they may laugh, they may judge, they may show hatred, but I love you and never get to express it. I dress bland to perfectly counteract your beautiful style, even though our time together may be brief. It may be taboo, but I don’t care. I love you, and our relationship will always be able to rekindle, whenever that next time may be. You push me to the back, but I always will be there when you need me. I am happy to call you my woman, and you should not be ashamed, to admit you wear laundry day panties.


I don't think it should be mandatory, but it would be interesting to add a system of flairs that could show what genre of short story it is. Here are some ideas I had in mind: Sci-Fi: Basically Science Fiction, robots, advanced space travel, extraterrestrials, etce. Fantasy: A story with fantasy elements such as mythical beings, magic, etc. Realist. Fict.: Realistic Fiction. Hist. Fict.: Historical fiction. Other: For stories that don't pertain Meta: For meta posts. Those are just a few suggestions I had in mind. You could also add a system for certain flairs to be filtered or only certain flairs to be allowed so users could read more stories that pertain to their literary interests.


Did you know that snow makes sound when it falls? Most people imagine snow as a silent event, a quiet whispering, but snow can actually be loud at times. It falls with a SPLAT against the ground, hitting the windows and leaving streaks as it drops along the pane. It's like a *pssmtpssmt* sound, the impact of it. She thought such things to herself throughout the day, her mind much more silent than the snow around her. She clunked her boots against the stone floor, knocking off the remnants of ice from a journey to the wood shed. Pulling her sweater around her neck, she lit the kindling and turned on the water to boil. Her movements were automatic, rehearsed, predictable. The motions were the same today as the day before and would be followed by the same tomorrow. For the most part, her mind was quiet. The silence filled the rooms with waiting, a haunting devoid of life and energy. With a cup of her homemade tea, she sat at the desk next to the stove, staring at the window before her. Another day, another page. She wrote the number at the top of the page, a long script in the right corner. 3652. A number for each day she wrote a page, for each day she had occupied this one room in the forest. Alone. She sat back for a moment, staring at the blank page. Ten years gone then, she thought. Ten years since she began this seclusion, bent on discovery. She had been a researcher then, a mind dedicated to the next big adventure. She had traveled the world with her companion, seeking the newness of life in other places. Her world was hailed as extraordinary, as revolutionary, as dangerous. People questioned her sanity in undergoing the events she had for the sake of publication. Then, just over 3652 days ago, she hit upon her biggest idea yet. A test of the human mind, a study of sanity and silence. What if a human were to be completely isolated from society, from the advances of the age, for a decade? What if they were to be silent that long? What if they did not see another human face, including their own? Her colleagues dismissed it, too radical, too risky. Who would agree to such a thing, to be the subject? She thought herself the perfect subject after all. No family, few friends, no lasting connection in the world. Who would miss her? To test the human brain, it was worth the price. What better test subject? So she disappeared. Off the grid, in the tiny cabin of some long lost relative's last testament. Packages of supplies left quarterly at the front gate but her one trusted companion. No face-to-face meeting though, no talking, otherwise the experiment would be moot. One page a day, to record thoughts, observations, curiosities. Someone would dissect them, interpret them, see the patterns of her brain change with time. She continued to stare at the page, it's blankness looking back at her. It bothered her. What should she write? Should she mention that it is time to return to the world? That she missed other beings, of hearing voices? That she's happy it's over? That she's not? She grunted under her breath, frustrated. Who the bloody hell cares?! Just have to write the honesty of it all, just have to think and write, just put the pen on the paper. 3652. She picked up the pen and began to write. *Today is the end of the testing. Subject is relieved (pause) and slightly nervous at the concept of returning to the world.* She nodded and set the pen down. There that should do it, good enough. She stretched and went to put on her coat. It would be a long walk to town in the snow. She grabbed the snowshoes hanging by the door, strapping on the leather, and the compass on the table. It took a few hours by the sun's time to reach the nearest town. To her it was an amiable walk. After all, she had been in these woods a decade now. She knew which animals lived where, at watched generations come and go with time. From the hill, she could see the small town below her, a mountain town not prone to visitors. Would she scare them, she wondered. After all, she had driven through there ten years ago. A couple more hours later, she found herself at the mouth of Main Street. Something was off. It was quiet. Silent. No cars were moving, they all remained parked. Strange vehicles she had never seen before lined the road. The store fronts were dusty, filmed over in sepia. The road was covered in snow, and had been for a while. She turned in circles, brows knitted with confusion. Where were the people? She kept walking. Nothing. There was no sign of struggle, no broken glass, no trash. She walked quickly to a newspaper stand, searching for a date, a period of time that something could have happened in. Nothing, not a single paper. No date. No sound. Nothing. She kept walking, toward the town square, the center of it all. Still nothing. She turned the corner, the large white courthouse looming in a snowy shroud. The cloudy sky continued to let the flakes fall.*pssmtpssmtpssmt* As she got closer to the steps of the building, a shape. A man. He stands. She freezes mid step, eyes widening, breath ceasing. He smiles broadly. "Hello Amelia," he says, evenly. Her eyes bulge and she hears a sound, from far away. Her own voice. It's screaming.


A couple of people asked me to post this on an askreddit thread when I mentioned it, so I thought I'd post it here, it seemed like it fitted. Michael stood with his back to the body of his dead wife, and took a long, weary drag on his cigarette. A lonely pearl of sorrow rolled down his pale cheek, and fell to the ground below. He was told it would help to cry. He was told it would give him ‘closure’. But all it did was remind him how much he missed her. He breathed out, allowing a suited arm to fall to his side and watched, detached, as the smoke drifted away on the breeze, carefree and untroubled by the worries of men. The cigarette was nearing its end. A second tear cruised down his cheek. He sighed. "Dadda” That one word carried for him more emotion than anything he had heard in his miserable life, a stark contrast to the innocence with which it was muttered. Michael turned with a heavy heart to see the short, stunted steps of his beautiful son. His cigarette was almost entirely finished now. Another tear crawled towards his chin. Felix’s messy, blonde hair matched his fathers, but he had his mother’s eyes, pools of wisdom, fascinating and vivid. But they only served to remind Michael of his guilt. Her eyes had been the last thing Michael saw that day. She had died of asphyxiation, from the smoke of the fire. The emergency services were already there when he returned from the shop with Felix. The stove had been left on; Michael had been the one to cook that night. The cigarette was gone now, lost in the jungle of grass. Michael shed one final tear, before wiping the sadness from his face and pulling his son into a tight embrace. Michael took a deep breath, and they turned to face her together. He resolved there and then to do everything to protect Felix, all he had left in the whole world, and to never let him go. Michael was at war. He slashed left and right through the enemy, dragging them to their knees. But all too soon it was over, and Michael stood, resolute among the bodies of the fallen, his vindication shining through the destruction surrounding him. He knew it had been necessary, to protect his son. His young, vulnerable son. He found relief, not pleasure in his actions, seeking only to shield Felix from the world. Only then was the billhook allowed to fall to the ground, replaced by a can of petrol. Michael spent a minute catching his breath, before dousing the ground in petrol. He reached into the recesses of his pocket, withdrew a box of matches, and lit one; it twirled through the air on to the bed of nettles. He looked on grimly as they slowly began to wither and curl in the flames, painfully aware that he could not prevent their return. Michael lit a cigarette. Michael sat in the empty, desolate shell of his house, on a dark September morning gripped in the throes of an autumnal battle, and watched the son he had spent 19 years nurturing and protecting leave his life. He was not a happy man. He had spent the years since his wife’s death keeping his son away from the world, and now he had failed. His son was leaving for a university on the other side of the country, where Michael could not protect him. Where Michael could not ensure he went to bed at the right time, or ate well, or went to the doctor for every tiny ache and pain. So he wept. He allowed the cascade of emotion to erupt from his very soul, and welcomed the feel of pain in his chest, comforting him with its familiarity, until no more tears came. Then he lit a cigarette. But it did not hold the same appeal now, the arid smoke slowly choking him like ash filling up his battered lungs. So he cast it aside, and once again began to weep. Michael stood with his back to the body of his dead son, and stared out across the rolling green ocean stretching out in front of him, punctuated by regular markers of death. There were no tears now; he had none left to give. He knew now it would not help to cry. He knew he would never get ‘closure’. He turned, this time alone, to face the graves of his family. He remarked on their passing to himself. A fire and a car accident. His son had been drunk. It was the last in a chain of mad stunts. Michael blamed his constant restraint and protection. To him, his grave was here now too. This time, there was no cigarette.


Blood was everywhere. The sea of red was flowing to every corner of the room. Her body was lying there in a pool of itself, the knife standing in her chest, each moment, losing more blood, fighting the pain to breath. The anticipation of death grew and grew. Life was done, over, completed to say the least. I looked directly in her eyes as each breath got slower and weaker. Then suddenly the deep wheezing stopped. At that moment, the urge subsided, the uncertain arose, the ringing stopped, and the silence grew. As I proceeded to the kitchen, I realized, I didn’t even bother to learn “Her” name. Actually, I don’t remember anything up to the point of being in her house. The last thought I could recollect was seeing her at the bar. I don’t know if it was the brown eyes, her straight brown hair, her long legs, or the friendly smile, but I was attracted. That’s all it took, that brief moment of enticement. The pressure began to build, the ringing became loud, my heart beat rose, and the room went black. The next thing I knew, I was straddling her, telling her if she moved, I would make it slow and painful, telling her, there is no hope. She then asked the typical, quite frankly stupid question of, “Why, are you doing this?” and telling me the typical victim lines, “I have a family that loves me, I promise I wont go to the Police.” As if she was magically going to change my mind, she didn’t understand that anything she said or did wasn’t going to help her, I had to kill her, I needed the feel of control, I needed the peace. That feeling of the knife going through the sternum and puncturing the heart, that feeling of life drifting from the veins, it’s indescribable. I pulled out my hanker chief, and proceeded to wipe the room clean of my prints. I put on my hat, gloves, and coat and left. I went back to my normal life, my dead end job, my friends. Both things I hate, My job is tedious and has no meaning, My friends are demanding and intrusive. To be honest, I prefer to be alone, the solitude suppresses my urges. When I have nothing to entice me, I don’t kill. The fact that I don’t need to kill makes me feel almost normal. I wonder if one day, I wont have to kill anymore, when the ringing permanently stops, and the pressure is released from my head. No one knows what I’m doing or who I am, to them I was a normal part of society, and quite frankly I was, I tried to convince myself that I was happy, but I knew the God’s honest truth, that no one is ever happy. The only thing we feel is power, anger, lust, and, revenge. I have one thing that keeps me under control, more like friend who, is there through the thick and thin. I will have this burden for the rest of my life, every day the clock spines and spines until the day it stops. I will always be looking, watching you from a distance, you never know if I’ll hear the ringing, maybe my heart beat will rise, and the pressure will come back. Tick tock, tick tock, I wouldn’t watch the clock, cause all I see is black.


I'm stuck. Not in glue, not between two cushions, and definitely not between relationships. I am stuck in mediocrity. A life based on being nothing more, and no less than average. I could have trials, and I most certainly could have tribulations, but I don't. I want adventure, i want to be taken away to a life of grandeur, or even a life of doubt, filled with challenges of the unfamiliar. Packed with steps for me to stride up or fall down. Anything changing, slowly, quickly, Honestly i don't care, just different than mediocre. And I wonder....Is this life I have been given truly a gift. My worries are not true worries, and things I have taken for granted are treasures around the world. Things I know in my everyday life of mediocrity could be life changing to the right person. A generation of poverty stricken people walk miles for the same life fluid I put into a toilet. Is this wrong? I really have no clue. I am too busy waking up day in and day out doing the same exact thing as every other person stuck in the state of mediocrity....Being content with my life. It stops now.... I need a change. I need explosive days, and powerful feelings that strike a nerve, and make me unhinge my normality. Life that flows through the soul and out my body, radiating into everyone around me. Changes that I start, and commit to finishing. Steps to move myself forward or even leaps that can alter this mediocre lifestyle. ... ... But.... .... I am already in bed, so I'll start tomorrow.


Mrs. Lyons bent down as much as she could and pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. She stuck a shaking hand into Rosemary's hair and ran it through her knobbly fingers. “Aww. She's a pretty wee lassie you've got there,” said Mrs. Lyons. “Aye, aye, she's alright,” I answered, laughing a bit. I patted Rosemary's head. “Beep blop boop,” said Rosie. Rosemary had been behaving strangely since she watched one of those crazy old kid's programmes on the BBC that they only show when it's so early it's still dark outside. It was one of those ones from the 80s or 90s that bring on an immediate headache as soon as the horrible title music starts, along with that sick feeling that lets you know that you're up too early. There was this robot puppet guy in it. I think he was a friend of the main character or something, but it seemed like this episode was about him. I only really began to watch it halfway through, my attention (and alarm) summoned by the clear five minutes of silence that had passed in the living room. I stuck my head round the door to make sure that my daughter was indeed still on the rug where I had left her. She was, and transfixed at that – mouth open a little, eyes focused still. I hadn't seen her move so little in perhaps her entire life; even in her sleeping hours Rosie raged against inertia. I came in and stood behind her and joined in watching, amazed, hoping that I might be able to absorb and harness for myself any of the apparently hypnotic powers that the television show was exhibiting. To me it seemed the basic plot pattern was that this ragdoll girl – who seemed to be the focus of the programme – would walk around the 'village' with the robot and show him some particular human being activity. The two I saw were drinking tea and painting. The problem was that since he was a robot, he didn't have a mouth (or digestive tract) and therefore couldn't consume tea, and he couldn't seem to paint anything except squares and rectangles on his canvas. Ragdoll was getting melancholy because they had nothing they could do together. She opted to try one last activity, dancing, but admitted that she couldn't really show him how to do it because she was a terrible dancer. To Ragdoll's, mines and Rosemary's surprise, as soon as that music kicked in, Robot needed no instruction anyway, and was busting moves like nobody's business (well, really, busting 'move'. Specifically, the Robot). He was a natural. “Beep blop boop, beep boop boop,” he said as he cruised around on his wheels. Ragdoll started joining in with the dance. They had found something to do together. “Did you like that, Rosie?” I asked when the credits were on the screen. “Beep boop boop,” answered my daughter. We met Mrs. Lyons in Tesco three days later. In the interim I had not heard my three-year-old produce a single utterance that wasn't compiled of some combination of 'beep', 'boop' and 'bop'. Oh, and how could I forget – 'blop'. It was actually kind of funny at first, like our own little private joke about how daft it all was. I enjoyed it especially when I took her out in public and she showed off her new vocabulary to unsuspecting old ladies. However, Mrs. Lyons was now maybe the fourth person to fit that description and the whole Robot Girl thing was beginning to seem less humorous and more like my daughter really was a robot that needed a few bolts tightened. Mrs. Lyons' eyes widened, then she laughed. “Oh, that's funny,” she said, while booping Rosie on the nose. “Well, it was lovely to see the both of you. I really do hope you're keeping alright, Stephen.” I smiled and said we were. I waved and mouthed goodbye as Mrs. Lyons made her slow retreat into the aisles, and kept looking over at Rosie to try and make her imitate me. She could not have possibly seemed to hold any less of an interest in the situation, though, and stared open-mouthed down from her seat at the handle of the trolley, then started bashing it with her palms. I looked at Mrs. Lyons and we laughed, but when the old lady was gone I lifted Rosie out of her seat and held her in front of me so that we were face to face. “What's going on with you, little one?” I asked. “Why won't you talk to anyone? You know loads of words. You're always so chatty.” She looked me in the eyes silently for a second, as if she understood. “Beep,” she said. I sighed and put her back in the trolley. Next on the day's agenda was a visit to my sister's. We took a route by the country roads. At three, kids have a really, really short attention span and I realised she hadn't been out the house very much in the last few days – nursery was on holiday for a few weeks – and maybe if I exposed her to some fresh stimuli (cows, sheep and hills were all previous show stealers) she might switch her attention to one of those and forget about the whole robot noises thing. I craned my neck round to see her in the car seat, and check what she was looking at. “Do you see those wee white things on the grass away over there? What are they called again Rosie?” For one lovely short moment I thought she said 'sheep', but no. Just a 'beep'. I look onwards towards my sister's. We arrived quite quickly. After a few minutes of Rosemary's making Abigail laugh I pointed to the toys in the corner of the lounge and talked in excited tones until she plodded off to amuse herself amongst them for a bit. At least she still got a kick out of all the usual colours and sounds. I had been half worried that she'd start taking an interest in the washing machine or gas meter. I sat down at the other side of the room with Abigail and explained, between sips of coffee, what had been happening. “I'm just worried about her.” I said. “Oh Stephen,” said my sister. “It's not worth getting worked up about. It'll just be a wee phase. I remember when Connor was little he wouldn't get into bed without us first telling him that Emma, each of his teddies and the dog were all already sleeping. We – or, well, I – had all these visions of him as a grown man stoating about at night checking everyone's rooms. But he grew out of it. They always do.” “Hmm,” I said. I wanted to say 'this is different', but to a competing parent that garners nothing but the all-knowing smile. “I don't know. It's just getting a little bit beyond a joke at this point; it's starting to concern me.” “Rosie will be fine, Steve. It's you I'm more worried about. How are you getting on, really?” “What?” I asked. “Oh. Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine. Good and bad days, you know.” There was a lull. “I'm going to speak to Dr. Ford after this, actually.” “Oh, good, that's great. I love Dr. Ford. He's a fantastic therapist. Speaking of Connor, actually, Ford really helped me with him. He helped me push through that first year. He was a brilliant help.” “Aye, I remember,” I said. We both took gulps from our mugs. “It's not always so easy, having kids.” Abigail nodded slowly. I was focused on my cup but I could feel that her eyes were still on me. Rosie came ambling over. She looked tired. “We better get going,” I said, checking my watch. “That appointment is gaining on us, can't keep the doc waiting.” We all hugged at the door and Rosie didn't say anything – not even a beep.


The air was stale and carried an unusual stench. The kind of scent that makes you think of bleach or drain cleaner. It was a foreign scent to me, but seeing as Tom and I hadn't gone for a walk in this part of town for so long, I chocked it up to unfamiliarity. I strode through some overgrown vegetation covering the pathway into the abandoned warehouse. I looked down at the freshly minted green stain on my old jeans. It was nice to be out and about like this again. Usually Tom would have met up with me by now, though I didn't mind enjoying the peace and quiet by myself. After about ten minutes of traversing the foliage and old broken brick that lay about, I stood out front of the warehouse. The stench was stronger here, so much so that it stung the senses. It was unusual for Tom to be late, more often he was early and I was the one dragging my feet. I reached into my pocket and retrieved my phone. If he was still a fair distance away I would suggest he meet me elsewhere. The air here just wasn't fit to breathe while discussing life. As I sifted through the contacts list on my phone I heard the distinct sound of glass breaking from inside the building. I shrugged off the sound and called Tom. Much to my surprise I heard a phone ringing inside the warehouse. I waited for an answer but when he didn't pick up I began to get inquisitive. Making sure to tread carefully for fear of cutting myself on broken glass, I climbed through a front window and glanced about at my surroundings. The warehouse was much different now than it had been years back. There were large wooden crates around and what appeared to be laboratory equipment perched all throughout. It was unsettling upon the eyes. It took my brain time to catch up with my eyes. The reviling scent, the lab equipment, the boxes; they indicated one thing above all, illegal activity. I searched around for Tom, taking great care to move as silently as I could. As I navigated my way through the makeshift aisles and dark corners of the warehouse I heard a loud crack come from beneath me. I froze. My every instinct told me to crouch low and hide, but instead I stood as still as a statue. My hands were numb and tingling; the hair on my arms stood vertical. I looked down and saw a piece of glass underneath my shoe. "Hello? Is someone there? Can you help me?" I heard a panicked voice say from the other side of the boxes. That was Tom's voice. It was slurred and slightly less coherent than normal, but it was unmistakably my friend. I slunk my way around the boxes to see him tied to a chair. His face was swollen and he had blood streaming from cuts too numerable to count. Taking in my surroundings I noticed a line of shelves behind where my friend was trussed up. Upon them I noticed a shotgun and a small flip knife. I crouched low and shifted over to the shelves, first taking up the knife and then the gun. I crouch-walked my way behind Tom and began sawing at the thick ropes with the knife, all the while making shush noises to quiet my beleaguered friend. After what seemed like an interminable time the rope finally gave way and Tom's hands were unbound. I handed him the gun, pressed my index finger to my lip, and motioned for him to follow me. I figured the best way out would probably be the way I took to get in. I hadn't run into anyone else so I hedged my bets that we might be just as lucky on the escape. As we reached my infamous glass footrest I leaned closely into earshot of Tom. "How many people are here?" I whispered as softly as I possibly could muster. He didn't say anything, but instead held up his pinkie, ring, and middle fingers. So, there were three that he knew of. Maybe more that he didn't. The last thing I wanted was to run into some tweaked out drug dealers. Being this close to Tom's face I noticed with more clarity the seriousness of his injuries. It looked as though his jaw was dislocated and one of his eyes was nearly swollen over. I motioned for us to continue on and so inch by terrible inch we moved closer to my point of entry. As we crept through the warehouse periodically we heard voices. None of the voices were close enough to make sense of conversation, but whenever we heard them Tom and I stopped moving and listened for signs of commotion. I needed to know if his escape had been discovered. Eventually, after what seemed like hours we made it back to the window I entered through. "Alright buddy, you go first. I'm right behind you." I whispered. He climbed out the window quietly, albeit a little clumsily.I cleared the window just after him and made the executive decision for us to start running. We sped through the plant life and down the overgrown pathway. Vegetation whipping at our skin as we sprinted our way to freedom. We rounded a corner and came face to face with another man. He was a tall and slender fellow with a large nose. He panicked as he saw us and scrambled for the pistol waiting at his hip. As Tom brought the shotgun up to bear, time seemed to freeze at that moment. It felt as though I could look around and study the scene for hours before anything transpired. The whole world felt like a game on pause; like everything was ready to resume whenever I wanted. I watched as the man brought his pistol up and leveled it at my friend's head. A loud boom erupted in my ears. I watched as blood and bone and brain matter blew passed me. The world was no longer on pause. Nothing was frozen anymore. I charged into the man, knocking him to the ground. I reached out for anything I could grab and came away with a fist sized rock. I brought it down over and over upon the tall man's face. I struck him until my arm was weary with fatigue. I looked down at him and let the stone fall from my grasp. My hands were covered in blood. Next to the stone lay the pistol. I reached out and picked it up. It felt heavy in my hand. I pushed myself to my feet and looked down at the man I had beaten with the rock. His body jerked unexpectedly and I squeezed the trigger on the gun, discharging a round into the dirt next to his shoulder. The sound of the gun threw me back into realization of the situation I was in. I turned around quickly and looked at Tom. He was barely recognizable after his injury. I picked him up and slung his lean frame over my shoulder. I held the shotgun by the barrel in one hand and the pistol rested in my pocket. I held onto the legs of Tom as I trudged through the overgrowth and headed towards assistance. "Don't worry buddy. Everything is going to be okay. I'm going to get you some help. Fix you right up." I don't know if I whispered or if I was shouting, but I repeated myself many times. I could feel a hot wetness across the back of my shirt, but I ignored it. I forced myself to believe it was not a concern. "It's okay." I said. "It's okay." My legs were beginning to feel like they were aflame and my lungs must have been close to bursting. Just when I believed I could not carry on any longer I reached paved ground. "The sidewalk, this is good pal. Just a little further. You can make it." I tossed my shoulder up to gain a bit more of a grasp on my friend. As I did I heard a sickening splashing sound behind me. I didn't stop to look. I just continued moving down the sidewalk as swiftly as my body would trod on. I had no stamina left and my limbs were working mechanically, driven mostly by the little adrenaline I had remaining. I must have passed at least three people but for some reason my mind kept telling me to push on. It kept telling me that I hadn't found a single soul yet. "Sir please drop the weapons and place the body on the ground." I stopped moving. I closed my eyes and shook my head. It was a hard shake, and to any onlookers it probably looked as though I was on some kind of drug. When I reopened my eyes I saw people all around me. I saw a car with red and blue lights dancing with one another on the roof. I blinked rapidly. I opened both of my hands and heard the clanging of steel touching cement. I balled my hands into fists to reaffirm that I still had hands. My body was numb and everything seemed out of focus. I reached up and lowered Tom into my arms. "Hey buddy." I said. "Don't worry. All these people can see you. They know you need help. I told you I would get you nice and safe. I'm sorry. I never should have asked you to come for a walk with me. I just wanted it to be like the old days. Like it was before I made so many mistakes with you. I missed my best friend, but it's okay now. We're back again. Everything is back again." I rested Tom on the ground. It took me a moment to realize I was on my knees. I felt hands pulling something from my pocket. I heard the familiar clink of steel on cement yet again. I watched as the ground rose up to meet my face, like a cold, hard and welcoming pillow.


technically* a short story, just a short part (actually I guess it's pretty long) of a story, but i think it still fits. I've always liked the post-apocalyptic genre, and the fantasy genre too. But these types of stories seem like a dime a dozen nowadays, so a few days ago I came up with what I think was a cool idea. What if I mixed the two together? So I cranked this out, figured this would be the best place for constructive criticism, not only on my writing but if the plot/story/genre itself is good. Anyways, here it is:** “I wonder what day it is,” Drake asked, looking at the sky. The sunlight cut through the irradiated atmosphere, giving the world a red tint. The color was different everyday. It could have been beautiful, in another situation. “Like, what day of the week? Or the date?” Zach replied with little emotion. He kicked at a rock as they walked. “The date. Or just the month at least,” Drake muttered. “The fuck does it matter,” Zach spat, “it’s either the day you die, or the day you almost die. That’s the way it’s been, the way it is, and the way it’s always gonna be.” Drake wanted to argue, to yell at Zach and tell him he was wrong, but deep down Drake knew that Zach was right. Time was irrelevant. A human creation forged out of fear, a fear of the unknown. Whether Zach’s idea had been that deep, Drake had no idea, but the point still stood. The pair walked along side each other at a slow pace, the broken gravel of the road crunching at their feet, the sun beating down on their heads. There was fields of sand all around them, only broken by a single road. “Do you remember sunscreen?” Zach asked. Drake shook his head. “Ugh, it was fantastic. A lotion that you rubbed on your skin, and it protected you from the sun,” Zach grunted, the nostalgia clear in his voice. “Of course, I never really needed it before, but now I would...” Zach stopped. “What?” Drake motioned after a few seconds of silence. “You would what?” “Shut up, I heard something,” Zach stood still, his eyes scanning the horizon. “There’s not a building for another mile, if someone were here we would see them,” Drake said with confidence. He was young, only eleven. One of the youngest in the tribe, he had asked to go along with Zach on his daily hunt for supplies. Zach reluctantly agreed. As a senior member, it was Zach’s responsibility to help train the young, although Zach himself wasn’t much older. At sixteen, he was the youngest member on the council, but by far the strongest. There were rumors that his veins flowed with the blood of the gods themselves. Zach didn’t believe in the gods, however, and only laughed when he heard the stories. Zach didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t kill. “It almost sounds like a car,” Zach said, ignoring Drake’s comment, “no, it couldn’t be…” Suddenly Drake heard something too. A low rumbling sound. He felt vibrations through the ground. “Take my forty five and run behind that big rock over there,” Zach commanded Drake, “if anything happens to me, fire it into the air and run. We’re close enough to home that the others will hear it, and they’ll come and get you. You understand?” Drake nodded, afraid. Zach gave him a push and Drake ran as fast as he could, sliding behind the rock. Zach looked at the car heading down the road. It was big. Zach tried recalling the name. *Ess you cee?* Zach thought, the name on the tip of his tongue. *Ess you vee!* He remembered. *Large, with good suspension and shocks, made for traveling rough terrain*, Zach mentally checked through his brain. The SUV was closer now, half a mile away. Zach cleared his throat and took a swig from his canteen. He knew the car would stop. He didn’t move a muscle. As the vehicle roared closer, it began to slow. *Fuck*, Zach winced behind his face, *I forgot how loud these things are*. The car screeched to a halt a foot in front of Zach. All four doors flew open. Three men, and one small woman, climbed out. The largest one was carrying a baseball bat, the other two had small pocket knives. “Who the fuck are you?” The woman shouted. Zach’s face turned to stone. He eyes burned through each of them. “Does it matter?,” Zach asked. His words were colder than ice, yet they still carried humor. Or at least Zach thought so. He calmly pulled his knife from it’s sheath on his lower back and pointed it at the group. “Get your asses back in the fucking car, turn it the fuck around, or you die where you stand.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Zach didn’t like silence. It always led to something worse. The man with the club began to laugh. A deep chortle, as if he truly meant it. Zach knew he didn’t. As abruptly as he started, the man stopped, and immediately lunged at Zach. He swung the bat. Zach ducked and kicked the man’s arm at his wrist, causing the weapon to fly across the road. Zach reached up and grabbed the man by his neck, pulling him down to eye level. He silently thrust the knife into the man’s neck, twisted it, and pulled it back. Blood spurted out, caking Zach’s face. The man slumped over, gargling and choking, hands clutching at his throat. *What a pathetic death*, Zach chuckled to himself. One of the other men yelled and began towards Zach. He took a step towards him and kicked his foot into the man’s chest with all his strength, and felt the air leave his lungs. The man landed on the hood of the car, rolled off the side, and began to cough blood. Zach flipped his knife over in his hands and flung it at the last man. It lodged into his skull with a soft *thump*. As the lifeless body fell back, Zach saw the woman’s face of smugness turn to pure fear. Zach carried the same face he usually did; boredom. He glanced at the man on the ground, hacking and coughing chunks of flesh. *Well that’s different*, Zach surprisedly thought. *How the fuck did I kick him that hard?* He lifted his foot into the air, and brought it down on the man’s face. The man screamed as his nose shattered and his jaw dislocated. Zach did it again, and again. The screams turned to whimpers and sobs. The face had become a mashed combination of skin, bone, and blood. Zach crammed his heel into the center of the mass, causing the skull to crack and ooze brain. The crying stopped. Zach stared at the woman with his electric blue eyes. Her mouth was agape, trying to find the words that kept slipping her tongue. “Y-y-you’re an animal,” she finally whispered , shaking with fear, in too much shock to cry. Zach gave a short laugh. “I’ve never heard that one before!” Zach smiled, “Monster, psychopath, demi-god, but never ‘animal’. I like that.


When 6:00pm rolls around, my maggots all go home to their little maggot wives and their even smaller maggot children. They swarm to me because I provide the manure that they live off of, and swarm away once they have been given just enough to fund their little maggoty lives. They watch television shows that instill morals and values in their head that are required for them to continue ignoring their maggotry, read books on the virtues of a hard-day’s-work, and go to bed with dreams in their head of living a life that is anything but their own. It is these dreams that are dangerous. It is popular to believe that if maggots didn’t dream, there would be no need for the escapism that is the hours between 6pm and 10pm. Television, radio, novels, stories, plays, movies, theatre; all of it useless if maggots had no aspirations, no morals or ethics or values. Of course, then they wouldn’t be maggots. This is where I come in. I am personally of the opinion that maggots need dreams. These dreams are the only thing standing between the maggots and the rest of us. I say ‘us’ because I am hoping, perhaps to strongly, that I have found a like-minded person in you, dear reader. We are the great ones. I am the king of my castle, though admittedly my castle is filled with maggots. I would have it no other way; maggots are simple to control. What is ‘popular’ is what is expected of them, and creatures with no backbone always do exactly what is expected of them. I am not swayed in the least by what is popular. I do not care what is popular. I have never bowed to the whims of popularity. I have my coffee exactly as I like it, my cigarettes exactly how I like them. I dress how I like to, I watch whatever tickles my fancy, be it plays or television programs or movies. I make up my own mind, just as I am sure you are doing. We do not dream. We plan. But dreaming has its purposes. I have said that I like that maggots dream, that my ‘contemporaries’ dream. To dream is to aspire to something; to dream is to wish for something; to dream is to indulge in a fantasy. We do not live in a fantasy; we live in reality. Maggots dream. They dream stylish dreams, cool dreams, fashionable dreams. Dreams that I use to my own advantage. You see, most people dream to be like us, dear reader. Most maggots want to be exactly like you and me. Unique, ambitious, and driven. But most maggots believe that we got where we are based upon some notion of ‘working within the system’. We both know that is not true; that this is yet another contemporary maggot fantasy. But we can use it to our advantage. Just look at me. I have 492 maggots under me. Every day, for the 15 minutes between 6:45am and 7:00am, I step on every one of them. Every day, all of my popular maggots propel me to the top floor, to the 42nd to do it themselves. Maggots make maggot decisions, popular people make popular decisions; but the great people make the great decisions. Maggots can no more be great than they can stop eating manure. But we let them dream, dear reader. We let them dream that they, too can be great, but we let them dream this in a controlled way. floor. Every day, I make decisions for these maggots as they cannot be trusted Television, radio, books, ethics, morals, virtues; all of it is bullshit. All of it is spoon fed to them and they accept it without question. It all either comes from maggots writing for maggots, or from great people for maggots. Maggots must be told what to dream, just as they must be told what to eat. Maggots must dream of achieving greatness, while being told that the method of achieving this greatness is simply through more manure. Maggots must be told that maggots are great, simply for being the maggots that they are. Maggots can be nothing other than maggots, so why tell them that they are wrong for being such? Tell them that they are right, tell them that they are great now, regardless of their maggotry, because of their maggotry, and that they can be even greater if they just continue being the same maggots they already are. Do you see what I am saying, reader? You may not have been consciously aware of this before reading it in print, but I am sure you knew it all along. It is quite simple. I keep the maggots alive, keep the maggots working, make sure they are working efficiently, and make sure they never get so comfortable that they stop working. The maggots are told that it is through this work that they will eventually be able to stop. This is a blatant lie. It is, however, a very popular lie. So at 6:00pm, the maggots go home. I and those maggots who consider themselves my ‘equals’ stay until 7:00pm, since it is popular for maggots to seem like they are working late, and it is my job to seem as maggoty as possible. Every effort to maintain the illusion of the ‘dream’ must be maintained. But after 7:00, I go home. It takes another 15 minutes to walk down the 492 stairs, and yet another 45 minutes to get home after that. I eat dinner, consisting of a steak, a glass of wine, mashed potatoes, and green beans. This has been the popular choice for men of my stature for decades. It is not popular to eat anything different. Then I repeat. I go through the same motions, every single day. It is no longer popular to skip work on Sunday, though I predict it may become popular again soon. It is contemporary for what is popular to become unpopular. I am Fenris. I am chained. This silk ribbon that binds me should be as obvious as day to you now, dear reader. As in the ancient Norse myth, the great wolf Fenris was bound by a measly and insignificant ribbon, though as opposed to Fenris, I am bound not by any mystical or magical means, I am bound by what is popular. I must continue acting like I am a maggot. Imagine ages past! Imagine the mighty Thor acting as if he had no power! Zeus acting as if he were merely mortal, Caesar acting as if he were plebian, Xerxes as if he were anything but a God. Imagine Napoleon claiming that he was not destined to rule the world, Hitler acting as if he could, possibly, be wrong about the Jews! These great men did not pretend, they did not bow, and they did not need to cater to the whims of such an insignificant and petty thing as coolness. But, dear reader, we must. Or at least I must. I write this in the hope that you will find a way for us to stop acting as if we were maggots, to stop acting like we are cool or contemporary, I hope you will find a way for great men to be great, truly great, unashamedly and unwaveringly great! I hope you will find a way for those of us who are great to cease pandering to the fancies of the weak, to cease bowing to the whims of the maggots. I am Fenris, and I fear. I fear that all of the great men and women of our time and times to come will continue to view themselves as Fenris. I fear a time when what we do today, when the stairs that we currently climb, when the maggots that we rightfully and righteously manipulate, will cease to be worth manipulating. I mean, look at all we have gained! Look at the power of Germany! Twice was Germany led by great men, and twice the Germans stood against the world, in defiance of norms and values and ‘virtues’. Twice the Germans stood up and fought for what they believed in, and twice it took the rest of the world to bring the Germans, just the Germans, back down. It was through the power of great men that the mighty Roman Empire spanned the Mediterranean, a feat that has not been accomplished, by any power, since. It was great men that brought the Roman Empire to its knees, and great men who kept the idea of Rome alive. It was Great men, leaders of maggots, that built all that we have! Imagine if it all were for naught! Imagine if what I do everyday were no longer worthwhile. Imagine if the company that I built, the people that I hired, the maggots that I control and manipulate and direct; just imagine if all of that were for some simplistic purpose! Great men never fought for such things as justice or freedom unless it were for some other purpose. It is my belief that you, dear reader, must find this purpose. I have searched all my life, and I can do so no longer. I have continued in the tradition of the likes of Napoleon, Xerxes, Caesar, and yet I am no closer to finding their motivations, their raison d’être, than ever before. IT MUST BE THERE! I am great. You are great, I am sure of it. Throughout history there have been great men! They were great because, as Freud said, their attributes were completely foreign to those of the multitude! I AM NOT THE MULTITUDE! I am great. I should not be feeling as though their attributes were foreign. They must have had a purpose, a drive, that was higher than anything I can comprehend. But comprehend it we must, for the good of humanity! I apologize. I let myself get carried away. It is not acceptable to let ones emotion get the best of oneself. I am Fenris. I am caged. But I must be just as caged as those maggots under me, right? I must be less so, in fact. I, at least, am aware of my own cage; that in itself must afford me some kind of freedom. I will go to work again tomorrow. I will climb the 492 stairs, naming each one of my 492 employees, and I will stop at the 42nd I will act popular. I will act stylish. I will act cool. But I will do it safe in the knowledge that I am great. Because I am. I am great.


I left on the boat today. The boat with my darling. We drifted from the port of Weymouth, heading due south. It was one of the days that you only daydream about. One that you think that you’ll see, but you never do. A bright, warm day where the birds chirp and the leaves blow and everything in your life seems almost perfect. Almost. We loaded all of our luggage to the yacht. Everything that we would need for a day on the sea. She over packed, and I under packed. We were always polar opposites. We set sail at around 10AM that morning. It was the ninth of May. I remember that day very clearly. She had looked at me with loving eyes for the first time in as long as I can remember. She saw me as her world again. As the one she would spend the rest of her life with, the one. I had seen her that way since I first laid eyes on her, but she was never one for absolutes. Until that day. The wind was on our side, and so was the current. We planned to take it lazily and let the sail down half way through our journey for some fishing. We made it half an hour before it started. Borderline personality disorder is something that no one should ever, ever have to deal with. I thought that I was her cure, her saviour. But you can never know with this. You think that progress has been made. You make it 6 months of her loyalty, and then it happens. And it happened that day. She had recently been promoted in her job. At the same time that they had hired a new boy. A young boy. A courier for the company. Now, she didn’t see anything in him. She thought he was annoying, even. It didn’t have anything to do with who he was. It was just that fact that he was new. That’s all it took. She started telling me about him. She used language to evoke jealousy from me, because she knew that if I got jealous that she would have that to use against me and thus have a reason to be angry at me. I knew how it worked. She had done this so many times before that I knew better than to take the bait. Until she crossed a line. She told me that she masturbated to this boy. That she wanted him to fuck her. I was upset, obviously. The second I showed it, she took it as distrust. She said that I should expect more of her. Whenever you try to converse with a BPD sufferer like this, you should know that you are going to lose. Whatever you say, however you take it, you will come out on the bottom. I knew I was pinned. I told her to think whatever she wanted, as long as I was the one she came home to at night. But she kept pushing. She told me that I was keeping her on a leash. That I should set her free and not be so demanding as to want a monogamous relationship with my wife. Borderline personality sufferers do not heal. There is no cure, and no amount of therapy can cure such a thing. One in ten sufferers take their own lives because of their severe lack of empathy and understanding of human feelings. This was the sixth time she had done this to me. The sixth dumb, pathetic obsession she had had with a boy that she barely knew. This would never, ever end. I was done. I entered this relationship as a somewhat normal man. Now, I am a depressed, anxious alcohol that uses any drug that I can find to escape the shitty reality that is this marriage. But I love her. I love her enough to fix her problem for her. By now, we are two hours into our trip. I can see Guernsey on the horizon. I pull down the sails. I am calm and precise in my actions. I know that I can never see her leave me. She asks what’s going on. I tell her that I just stopped to look at the view and to talk with her. I take my fishing rod, unwind some string and wrap it around her neck. Tight and firm. She has caused me a lifetime of pain, and now it was my turn. I bury the hook deep into her neck to ensure the strangling line stays steady. I make her look into my eyes. I tell her that it will all be over soon. That she will be free from her madness in a matter of seconds. I tie two of the heavy sandbags from the yacht to the line, kiss her tenderly on the forehead, and throw her overboard. The world would be a better place now. I light a cigarette and pour myself a large glass of vodka. I don’t feel any regret, and I don’t think that I ever will. Off to Guernsey, I sail.


Aug 1995 Hi Dad, Mom told me we are going somewhere. She didn’t look happy like before. I think she is tired. She dressed me up and was mad because I was dressing up slow. When I was dressed, Mom put me in the back seat with some boxes. My toys are sticking out of the boxes beside me and I see some of the pots and pans are inside the box too. There’s a lot more boxes in the back with different stuff like Christmas decorations and other home stuff. Are we moving? Will the house be nice like this house? Are we going to have a swimming pool in our new house?? Can we let the fishes swim in our swimming pool? How come TJ is in the front seat? He always sits beside me and mom sits in front with you. When will I get to sit in the front seat? Mom is taking so long to get ready for our trip. Why is she bringing more boxes to the car? I’m getting squished with all the boxes beside me! It’s not fair that TJ gets to sit in front. Mom is making the car go backwards now. Dad, do you know where the bike and the jeep is? It’s not here in the car or in the garage. How come the other car is gone? I saw the car was outside of the house when mom put me in the backseat. Where are you dad? Did you bring the fish tank and the fishes with you? I don’t want them to be left behind. How come you’re not in the car with us? Where are you? I only see TJ’s, Mom’s, and my stuff in the car.