He had been going to the same coffee shop for nearly a year now. All for her. She was his everything. He thought about her while working. He thought about her while eating. Hell, he even thought about her while thinking about her. To him, she was perfect. And he had never even said so much as a single word to her. He first saw her clearing tables across the restaurant; her tight black skirt giving the perfect outline of her backside. The way she had glanced back as if she could feel his eyes burning holes in the fabric made his heart race. Her raven colored hair and rounded, black eyeglasses made her porcelain skin glow even more. He could remember it like it happened mere seconds ago. A taut white blouse, black skirt, and glossy black sneakers. She always wore the same outfit to work. It was the same attire the others wore, but he never paid enough attention to them to make the connection. When he was in the coffee shop, he only had eyes for her. Each day he went to the coffee shop to see her. He noticed she was quite shy and even when nearing his section, she kept her head down. This never bothered him, so long as she was close by he would take what he could get. He noticed she was being trained to replace an elderly server retiring soon. If only she would come by his table, he would be able to profess his love for her. Then one day, he got his wish. She seemed to glide as she made her way to his table. “I’m Amy. I’ll be your waitress today,” she breathed, as she looked up from the checkered tile floor toward his expectant gaze. Finally, their eyes met. Her beautiful smile was the perfect match to his glowing face. As she brushed her hair softly behind her ear, she slowly pulled her glasses down from her face. In that moment, his heart seemed to burst from his chest, for she had a lazy eye. “Welp, plenty of fish,” he murmured to himself as he exited the shop.


I'm an odd memory in most minds. Like a harrowing communal conscience of migratory birds or a sea breeze that took a train to the prairies and is seen walking along the street. I suppose I'm a sort of stationary, a figment used to paint a portrait of understanding but this is really strange since I am not at all like a brush or ladle or roller or whatever would make sense to paint something. I've been a transient congested throat in days gone by. I swam from seashores to deep blue waters and sailed away. All in all I think I've had things pretty good up until now. But right now I feel like a bag of squeezed lemons left to rot, like I've gone through a garlic press alongside the garlic, I feel like I can't even like this situation and I really wanted to like it. Let me clarify. I believe in god about as much as I believe in myself. If you get to know me you'll find I don't believe in myself that much. But if you get to know me better you'd know that I've met him. I'm not saying him in that god is male it's just that calling him *it* seems strange and it's a default. With that in mind it was a day just like today with me on a stage but I was in the middle of a wheat field and opera singers dressed as vikings were scattered around looking for cues, lines and presumably marbles in the dirt. It hit me that I shouldn't be there, I was supposed to be somewhere else but I felt if I left now to I would likely be eaten or worse, stood on, read then knocked around by the vikings. It was at this point that god pulled up in a brand new jeep made out of a thunderstorm and waved his arms in a motion that very distinctly triggered a perhaps unbelievable but entirely real sense that he was god and I should get on his thunderstorm-jeep-of-love to ride away to eternal safety and abundance. So I hopped up onto the cloud and into the passenger seat. He looked at me in a way only god could with eyes as deep as artesian wells, with a sort of sisyphean tenure gained only after watching over everything for ten times eternity and then started speaking with a very plain voice. "Would you like to take the wheel?" he asked and I didn't really want to but this was sort of troubling because.... why would anyone turn down an offer from god and he said "It's alright, with the exception of your neighbor nobody has actually wanted to drive the thunderstorm the first time meeting me. In general it is an odd question to ask, isn't it?" I smiled politely. Then he said "Alright here's the deal. You get three questions answered. Anything in the realm of conceivable knowledge of the infinity that is me. Three of them. Just ask whenever and I'll answer but when I answer the last one you will die." "What!? Why?" I blurted out of shock as he looked at me. I looked right back at those constellations within constellations within a walmart parking lot folded over into itself and back out towards the sunrise. I smiled realizing the game was ruined and asked "Are you serious?" Then he laughed, we drove a short while in silence and he dropped me off a block away from home still a little agitated by his interactions with my neighbor the week before. "You can't screw this up by just asking silly off the top of your mind questions. Here is my email address. Send your questions there and I'll have an answer for you written out within a day or two." god said as plainly as before from inside his thunderstorm with the window rolled down while gesturing blindly in the air to make a point or sign what he was saying but it was entirely lost on me. He could tell by my glazed look it was time to go so he simply said "Get a job" and drove off. So now. Slightly but not entirely glazed in circumstance I am struggling with this interaction. I can know anything in the universe via email at the cost of my life. I don't really have a desire to acquire knowledge or a need for something like this... so here I am a bag of lemons staring off at the sky like it is staring back in part of that endless crashing gaze of god wondering what the hell I should do with myself. Aside from getting a job.


Batman looked out the empty window to see an empty chair in a field full of pansies all up staring up at him with their little faces. Some were a deep dark purple and others were varying shades from sky to royal blue. There were also some yellow and white ones which were only just yellow or white. This year was unseasonably warm but the flowers didn't seem to mind. If they were asked they would say they really enjoyed the warm weather, each others' company and the extra lifespan given that the lawn hadn't been mowed in over two months. Batman simply stared out the window in a typical Batman-grimace way as he was unable to appreciate the pansies. He was actually upset the lawn hadn't been mowed. The pansies didn't mind. The chair probably didn't mind either since it was just a chair and not pansies or Batman or any kind of flower at all. -- I really like pansies. For most of this year I had forgotten what they were called until I asked my mom "What are the ones with the faces?". There was a lot of them in my yard this summer. Then one day my dad came over and mowed the lawn.


Peerless was her name, and in every way throughout her short, thirty-three year life, she was a paragon of excellence--just as her name might imply. Valedictorian, Rhodes Scholar, possessing prefect penmanship: everything about Peerless was without flaw, including her exactingly cerulean blue eyes that never saw a moment of bloodshot. Her honey-blonde coif was always neat, with never a hair out of place; and today it was held nicely in French braids, without a fray in view. The stylish shoes she wore were never scuffed; and the seams of her white stockings were always straight as an arrow from her heel up to beneath the neatly pressed skirt that covered areas polite ladies simply do not discuss. In her, perfection was personified; but the problem of perfection is boredom. For Peerless, nothing ever went awry; nothing unfolded in any way that wasn't exactly as it should. Though perfect to external eyes, she dreamed of new discoveries that didn't exist in her world--a world which made her weary. Even now, while sitting on a park bench, contemplating her end, she showed impeccable posture. Try as she might, she simply could not slouch. This was typical Peerless. Even the gun she brought with her was polished to an unearthly sheen. She had only one bullet--after all, she wouldn't need more. Aiming at her chest and pulling the trigger with her thumb she fired, and felt no pain. As she calmly set the gun beside her, she felt the eyes of many upon her, but she was used to that, sadly. Looking down, the perfect rosette of blood formed on her white blouse, and not a single petal of the red unfolded in a manner unbecoming her legacy of exactitude. She had hoped for irreverent chaos, splatters, or gore. Instead she was a picture-perfect soon-to-be corpse as the blood billowed outward in circles; yet not a drop fell on her skirt. "Dammit," she said, "I can't even screw this up." Then she closed her eyes as if going to sleep and breathed her last. Peerless left nothing out of place for the police and paramedics as they rushed in moments too late. In the end she got what she long desired, just not for herself: a chorus of glorious noise surrounded her body as she quickly grew cold. Someplace, wherever it is that spirits go, Peerless found some satisfaction in the mess she finally was able to make.


1 It had only been a few days since we had left the mainland, and only a week since the infection had been first reported. Corpses scattered across war zones, covered with the settled remnants of radioactive dust from chemical weapons had begun reacting... twitching... moving. It was only a day later that the first scientists and reporters became the first victims and the first living humans turned. From there, the destruction and rate of infection had exploded. Within 24 hours of the firsts, reports came in of massive hordes of reanimated corpses occupying major cities... turning all that stood in their way. Several countries tried sending their armies to quell the situation, but that only worsened it. Guns only did so much to zombie armies, hundreds of thousands deep, and with large explosions from tanks and bombs, came even wider contamination due to the chemicals in the corpses being disturbed and pushed higher into the atmosphere. It had become airborne... The only escape was to rural areas, or to the sea. I chose the latter... it was only a matter of time before even the rural areas would not be as safe as people had hoped. "LAAAAAAND!" An island... Those in charge had said that there we would be safe from any sort of infection. We were students and teachers. Soldiers and doctors. Men, women, and children. We were, quite possibly, one of the few hopes for maintaining the species. "Where the hell are we?" Sgt. Reynolds barked at one of the older gentlemen who had been appointed captain of the vessel. The original captain was... well, he didn't make it. Reynolds was a former Drill Instructor and has taken to appointing himself the leader of our group. At least we had someone to tell us what to do... Most of us were so disillusioned with the situation that we could barely talk. There were only a few dozen of us who had made it onto the ship from the harbor. It was a miracle any of us had made it off the mainland alive, and even more so considering the only food we had we were lucky enough to have recovered from the bowels of the ship. It seemed as if the original captain had been preparing to live at sea until he could come up with a plan as to how the hell he could survive in a world full of flesh devouring corpses... But food for one man only goes so far between a group. Zombies. They were fucking zombies. All of the films and stories had done nothing more than make us lower our guard as to how real a possibility the walking dead were. "I have no idea, but we don't have the resources to care right now." Most everyone was on deck, now, staring at the monolithic island before us. Whether we liked it or not, it was our new home, for now anyways. I, for one, was eager to get off the ship. I had always been afraid of the emptiness of the ocean. Funny how little your fear of the unknown matters when you’re faced with fear of something much greater and much more terrifying. Still, it felt great to know I would be able to step off of that heap I considered to be my floating coffin. Staring at the coastline, all I could see was sand, and a thick tree line leading into a lush forest. I was looking at trees I had never seen before that looked like they had been there for far longer than I could imagine. Vines and thick brush started to come into view the closer we got. And then something in the trees... Fruit! Or at least something that resembled the fruit I was familiar with! We were going to be able to survive for at least some time longer. Relief flooded my body. Relief that we were going to be ok. That I wasn't going to die at sea with no hope of survival. Relief that... My eyes locked onto something in the underbrush as we closed in further on the island. Something reflective... but what? The relief turned to panic as I realized what I was staring at. We were being watched. Those were eyes. I glanced around for Reynolds. We needed to be prepared that we might have company when we landed. The undead? Impossible. Not this far out, there was no way. By the time I had looked back, the eyes were no longer visible to me. Maybe I was seeing things... "Start unloading some supplies for a reconnaissance team to check out the island and we'll see if we can find any food, shelter, or signs of intelligence on this rock." Reynolds booming voice effortlessly carried itself. I had convinced myself that I just needed to get off of the boat when a shriek erupted from the forest. A sound like nothing I had ever heard. The sound of a screaming jet engine combined with the emotional tones of something living... something communicating. Birds flew from the canopy of the forest as we all stared silently into the mysterious interior of the island. "It doesn't matter, we can't stay on board," Reynolds projected over the deck, already knowing what we were all silently wondering. "Besides, nothing can really be as bad or as frightening as what we've all already seen and been through..." None of us could have possibly known how wrong he was.


He woke up in a cold and sterile room. Sickly green curtains hung limp over the window, adorned with lilacs and daisies. The room was strangely devoid of personality. There were no clothes to be seen, everything was neat and orderly, and there was no dog-eared journal, yellow and faded with age. "Where is my notebook?" he thought, angrily. He propped himself up in the bed and searched closer. Nothing. He did, however, notice the framed portrait of an old couple on the bedstand. "Oh." He realized where he was, and shakily stood up to get a coffee. As he hobbled down the halls of the nursing home, he looked around at the others in the entertainment rooms. They sat about, some talking, others watching TV, others still merely sitting and watching their lives fade away. The only thing they had in common were their eyes. Each one shared the same look, the same gaze, one of hopelessness and disgust and confusion. "Good morning Edward!" someone called out. He paused, unsure how to react, or to whom. "Good morning to you too!" he eventually responded, to no one in particular. His name was Francis. When Francis finally reached the kitchen, he paused again. Why had he come here? He began to rummage through the various drawers and cabinets. "What are you looking for, Francis?" The voice frightened him. He looked around, starled. One of the nurses stood in the kitchen, watching him quietly. "Oh, just whatever I find." he said, suddenly cheery. She smiled a sad sort of smile and left him to his own devices. The coffee machine gurgled on the counter. "Ah, that's right. Coffee." Francis thought. He pulled a stained blue glass out of the cupboard, and set it brusquely on the table. He shakily grabbed the pot and poured the coffee into the glass, spilling enough to dribble down the sides and onto the wood below. He set the pot back on the machine, and picked up the steaming glass. He cried out in pain as the hot glass burned his hand, and he dropped the glass onto the floor. "I'll get that" said the nurse as she swept up the glass and called for a mop. Francis stood, rooted to the ground, looking very scared, and confused. He didn't understand. The nurse returned with an insulated styrofoam cup, and filled it with coffee for him. "Oh, thank you Agnes." said Francis, with a warm and overlarge smile, as he shuffled out of the room clutching the cup. Her name was Alice.   Francis sat on the cold, hard couch and stared at the cup of coffee. A television played Fox News very loudly in the background, and, at another table, a man sat playing chess with himself. "Francis, your grandson is here to see you!" He looked up, to see a different nurse guiding a man to the couch where he sat. Francis smiled. "Hello Robert!" He said cheerily. "Hi Grandpa" answered Robert, somewhat meekly. "Would you like a coffee?" Francis asked. "The nurse poured me one, but I didn't really want it." "Sure, Grandpa." Robert said, as he grimaced and took a sip. "Thank you." Francis was very pleased. He smiled at Robert for a moment, then asked eagerly "So how is school going? You must be in the 11th grade by now, isn't that right?" Robert paused, unsure how to answer. "I'm in the 14th grade, Grandpa." "Oh." Francis said. "Well, I always liked the 11th grade. That was the year I met your mother!" Robert looked rather uncomfortable. "You mean Grandma?" "Ah yes." Said Francis, ignoring him. "Say, be sure to let your mother and I know if you ever need help paying for college." There was a long pause, and Robert teared up. "Grandpa, Grandma has been dead for 9 months." "No, she hasn't!" Francis said, airily. "She's right here with us! Agnes! Come over here Agnes, Robert has come to visit." The background chatter hushed, and head began to swivel towards the pair. "Agnes? Come on honey, don't you want to visit?" A note of concern began to enter his voice. Robert was crying. "Where have you gone? Get over here you old bat!" Francis stood up, and began to search for his dead wife. He stumbled down the hall, screaming her name, confused and angry, at this, at himself, at everything. Robert still sat on the couch, holding the cold cup of coffee, tears running down his face. Next to him, the spot where his grandfather had once sat was still warm. He was once a brilliant man, an engineer. He lived his live with vigorous pride and determination. He worked hard, retired early, and gained the respect of almost everyone he met. He was happy, and others were happy for him. His life was charmed, it seemed. But now, he hobbled through the halls of the nursing home, yelling at the empty frames on the wall and the empty people that lived there. He screamed and searched for his wife who would never be found. He could no longer understand. His name was Francis.


2/11/1373, 6/30/1908, 7/7/1997, 11/1/2011, 6/21/2013, 11/18/2013, ? 32492/ 6 = 5415.33 194952/365=534.115 902.55 The Bloop... That’s what it was called at the time, The “Bloop” , because I guess we didn’t have anything better to call it. And to be honest, after reviewing the audio several times, it did kinda sound like a bloop. The kinda noise when a large volume of water is displaced all at once. We were lucky on that one, or unlucky. Maybe if we had recognized it for what it was… I’m getting ahead of myself. I believe it was the Olmecs that first encountered the phenomena around 1831 BCE. There’s this monument, they call it the San Martin Pajapan Monument now, that was carved in approximately that time period. The statue is early example of their artwork, showing a young lord or demi god, holding up a ceremonial bar. The general consensus is that it was a figure meant to be establishing the center of the universe. What little we can translate of their culture and writing, the statue was placed at a location that they viewed as being a place of powerful energy. Maybe they saw something in the hills between those two volcanoes. Something that defied nature. There’s no fossil or archeological evidence, but it just fits, you know? By working backwards with the math? The first recorded incident was February 11th, 1373CE outside of what is modern day Baghdad, Iraq. I say this is the first “recorded” incident for a reason. What happened outside of the recovering city was never properly documented. The Il-Khanids, Mongol rulers of their captured Arabian lands, weren’t too keen on writing down things that didn’t involve the glory of the Mongol empire. What can be gleaned from the entire TWO historical documents concerning the event, was a massive shockwave tipped over several ships on the river, as well as toppling dozens of homes within the city. The writings from the era said that a pressure wave, described by them as “the air punched at our chests as if a forceful man ” , originating from the desert sands east of the city. I calculate the epicenter to have been 1 mile east north east of the cities’ harbor, of approximately 63 kilotons of TNT in strength, somewhat less than the destructive threshold of the atomic warhead dropped on Hiroshima by the United States during World War 2. The effects of being so close to a blast of that magnitude would have been similar to what was described by the accounts. I can consequently see why no one cared. It was not a great era of scientific curiosity. It was written off like any myriad of events during that era. The second recorded event occurred on June 30th, 1908. Centered around 5 miles South South east of Lake Cheko, in Tunguska, Russia. I’m sure you’ve heard of that one, though. What’s more commonly known as, The Tunguska Blast. Up until last month, it was easily attributed to a rogue asteroid or cometoid exploding in mid air over the deserted forest. Official estimates vary, but the explosive force rattled windows 400 miles away. It hammered the Siberian wilds with what we now know was around 2 megatons of explosive force. Speculation was, that had such an event occurred in a populated city in that era, say for instance, Paris, London, or New York City. The death toll would have numbered in hundreds of thousands. We were “lucky” though, it was a deserted location, very few people were injured. Hell it took months for a study team to even venture out into the frozen woodlands to survey the damage back then. Again, No one really cared.


There came a time when silence fell. But before that, there was noise. Explosions and screams and cries for help that were never answered. Grating metal screeches as corporate buildings fell, collapsing under the weight of their own lies. Children of children killing children. Yet, remarkably the sun still came up the next morning and shone down over the cold metallic remains. No cries. No screams. No breaking glass. Just silence and sun and an iron-like tang at the back of the throat. You would be forgiven for thinking that this happened in a different place, at a different time. It didn't. And that's when I awoke. "Hello?" I heard you call. "Hello!" "Where are you?" The voice was faint, thready. "I'm here!" I began to search. "No." A belligerent statement of fact. "No, I'm here. I'd see you if you were too. Don't you know where you are?" But we found each other, eventually. Together, we took off our clothes, and walked 'round our little town. We tore the paper from the walls, the carpet from the floor. We burnt those framed photographs and ripped out the wires. We returned all that oil to far underground, where it belonged. We took it all down, every building, brick by brick, until only scrub-covered ground remained. And then we sat, and compared notes on what it means to exist. And in a thousand years time when the aliens finally discover this lonely blue dot, they'll see us and they'll know that you and I, we didn't destroy ourselves. Or they won't, because we will be gone.


All at once your anger dissipates, so fast as to be smoke from a fire. You look and me and smile, a twisted line drawn across a clown's face. "Wanna see something cool?" You ask me, knowing how eager I would be to agree. You walk to the window and chirp, a bird like whistle that has me leaning in, fascinated. A bird, a robin with eyes brighter than the midday sun and wings like pointed razor blades hops closer, seemingly compelled to follow you. Closer, closer and closer still until it crosses the boundary, enters our world through the portal of a window frame. You reach out a hand, so slowly you are barely moving. And, to my surprise, it lets you. "Beautiful," I say, barely more than a breath. You continue reaching, until, at last, you finger brushes its wing. At once, it hops backwards, soaring straight for the window, but you get there first and slam it shut. The bird flies straight into it, chirping angrily; showing true terror in every action. You turn to me. "This is what they do to us" You say, expression blank, angry. "That's not beautiful, that's cruelty." And, despite the hurt done, I learnt more in that conversation than in all my years of schooling.


It wasn’t the way he moved his wrists. No, that was always elegantly trashy and it turned me on. It also wasn’t the way he would never take off his long, black socks; he was afraid that his feet smelled. I found all of his irritating habits to be endearing after I have my coffee. It couldn’t have been the way he danced in his dog-bitten-hole-in-front-of-his-dick-pouch underwear in the morning to Bowie, singing into my blue toothbrush. Maybe it was the way he would make love to me. Pushing himself against me and pounding away like a jackhammer, rolling over and falling asleep. I would run my aching hands between his soft chest hair and wonder what stars taste like in my mouth. I loved all of it. I remember the hours lost underneath the sheets, sunlight dancing between our pirouetted fingers. The texture of his redone tattoos against my exploring hands. Our tiny nightstand we stole from a dumpster at 3am. He sanded it down with utmost precision and detail and I wildly sprayed it black and the drawer red (now the red will have flecked off). Or the smell of coffee I had every morning to wake up to. So strong. I know what it is. The moment that shattered us. That scattered our lengthy dreams and quiet hopes. I came home and shook off the rain from my black umbrella. I shucked off my shoes and ran to get out of my dripping clothes. I noticed it. No, it wasn’t his cock in someone else’s body. It wasn’t even another lover. It was just his green, matted, wet towel lying on top of our bed.


"Coffee". "What?" "Coffee." "Yeah. So where do you want to go?" "I dunno, Kaka?" "Sure, like, why not?" "Let's go." "Wait." "What?" "Look, about last night." "Forget about it." "I... yeah." "What?" "Nothing." "Come on, spit it out." "No I just, wanted to say... that it was good." "Yeah." "So now what?" "Coffee." "No I mean now what, I mean what are we?" "I don't know." "No I mean, are we together now?" "I don't know." "You want to be... together." "I don't know." "Well say something!" "I think I love you." "What?" "Yeah." "Well, I... this is... I mean... Well..." "I said I love you." "I know what you said." "So...?" "So what...?" "Maybe I made a mistake saying it." "NO! No... I'm sorry. I just don't want to ruin our friendship." "I'm sorry then. I'll go." "No wait, don't go. I don't want you to go. I want to be with you. I want to spend this morning with you and you alone. I want us to be, together." "So do I." "Okay then." "What?" "Coffee?" "Yeah.


There was a tall man with a short hat sitting on top of a lamp post. A breeze blew by and the hat fell off, but the man continued to sit still, afraid that he would fall. He finally braced himself to look down at the landing place of his hat. The hat had pierced through the horn of a boar that snored below him. Furious about his now ruined hat, the man kicked his shoe towards the boar in an attempt to wake him. The shoe caught the breeze, landed in the boar’s yawning mouth and was quickly digested. A rumbling crept from the boar’s stomach (boars don’t react well to a specific type of rubber sole) and the beast kicked back his hoof in frustration, rattling the lamp post side to side. The tall man rattled about until his equilibrium was compromised, sending him towards the ugly pig. The man reached his lanky arms outward and grasped onto the boar’s wisp of a tail. Without a proper brace for his fall, he crushed down onto his right knee yelping with pain, but the boar continued to sleep. Curious, thought the man, but he took his hat and wobbled down the walk towards a local drug store. *I’ll take my usual* he demanded to the ethnic shop keep. Before the boy could grab the man a pack of Winstons and a stick of beef jerky the door hammered open. In walked the boar with sleep in his eyes. *Nice day* he snorted, grabbing a tin of antacids with three teeth and placing them on the counter. *Yes. Nice day*. Said the man, counting the floor tiles. *Why were you resting on top of that lamp post?* Asked the boar. *I’m a very tall man and benches rest too low to the ground*. He continued, rocking onto his socked foot, *Why didn’t you wake up when I dropped my hat, when you swallowed my shoe or when I pulled your tail*? The boar took a moment to wiggle his snout, *I take a lot of vicodin*.


Hey guys, I wrote this 2 weeks ago in my 9th grade English class. I would appreciate some feedback and possible title suggestions :) The sun was shining gently over the field, with the wind ever so slightly rustling the leaves of the great yew tree that shaded her family. She was wearing her finest white dress, her grandmother’s pearl necklace delicately wrapped around her neck. Her father walks with her down the red carpet, perfectly lain out in the grass. He cups her hand in his, warming it. He has tears in his eyes as he looks down at her, threatening to breach. They neared the end of the carpet. Where her fiance stood, waiting, with roses littering his feet. Her favourite flower. As they approached, her father tightly squeezed her hand, forcing a quick, brief smile at the relatives who stood by their sides. There they were. Her father hugged her fiance, gave her a hard kiss on the forehead, and walked away without looking back. Her fiance looked down at her. ‘Hey darling’, he says, managing a trembling smile. He leaned down and softly kissed her lips. He held his lips on hers for a long time. He rose, and gently nudged a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Bye darling’, he says, with his tears softly hitting the rose petals littered around the polished oak box. He straightens to his full height, turns around, and walks away. They closed the lid, and slowly lowered her into the soft, warm brown soil. Edit: Changed a word from past tense to present.


*By ColdChemical* The sun beat down on the dry land, blazing brilliantly against a perfect blue sky. The earth was dead and flat―every weed and insect choked with death by the toxic dust that had settled over the land. The air was hot and stagnant. A long time passed. Eventually a far, distant sound emerged. This sound slowly grew until it became a muffled roar―carried from miles away across the infinite flatness. This sound was shortly accompanied by a black speck on the horizon, a long cloud of dust billowing in its wake. Jedediah shifted uncomfortably in his seat and flicked his cigarette butt out the window of the jeep. His eyes, shaded from the blinding light by a pair of dark red sunglasses, drifted lazily across the wasteland before him. There wasn’t much to see. There never was. After three years, Jedediah was beginning to reconsider the job offer that he had jumped at just a few short years ago. What had promised adventure and danger had become merely one long and tedious journey after another, and they were only getting longer. At 26, he had already seen more than most members of the commune would in their entire lives. Not that they were missing much, as far as Jedediah was concerned. It was just wasteland as far as you cared to go. Still, he couldn’t deny that he treasured this freedom. It was boring as hell, sure, but out in the wastes there wasn’t nobody to tell him what to do, none of them narrow-eyed shopkeepers or stupid old men with their stupid talk. The wastes alone were his master. The long empty miles gave him a sense of momentum in his life, even though he was really no freer than the rest of the commune and was doomed to die just like the rest of them. Deep down Jedediah realized this, and unconsciously he hated himself for it. He longed for a life that he could never imagine, a life that did not exist and had not existed for many long spans of time. Yet it was this distant and long-forgotten past that the people of the commune were utterly and completely dependent upon. Scattered throughout the wastes were isolated vaults buried within the earth. Their dark steel depths betrayed little about their unknown creators, and all were identical in shape and mystery. Upon entering, one would be overwhelmed by the staggering immensity of their age, and the power and sophistication surely wielded by their creators. They defied the land, plunging indiscriminately into the bowels of the earth through soil and stone without any heed for the natural order. How unlike the communes above, which clung desperately to every rock and stone and were subject to all the violent whims of earth and sky. The survivors of the wastes, lacking any other defining feature upon which to settle, inevitably grew their towns upon the ancient relics which protruded from the surrounding plain. Shapaw, the easternmost commune, was where Jedediah lived. Hajiik was to the west and Guln in the north. The two southern communes, Apette and Illicagh, were rumored to have starved or fallen to some other similarly horrific fate, as no news had reached Shapaw of either in quite some time. Even Shapaw, the largest of the communes, contained less than five hundred residents. Some of the others contained scarcely enough people to merit a name at all. More than once some crazy band of fools had gone and tried to live inside one of the vaults, but the dampness and the creeping blackness inevitably drove anyone inside to madness. Most of the vaults, however, had not been touched by human hands for a long, long time. Their dark tomb-like caverns were usually braved by only the most fearless and curious of souls, who were invariably rewarded with a treasure-trove of strange and useful relics, the most valuable of which was a tiny blue pill. This pill alone kept the communes alive, for without the medicine within them, the people of the wastes―should they breath so much as a mote of the toxic dust―would be writhing on the ground in minutes. It was a violent and agonizing death. All efforts to learn the secrets of the blue pills had failed, and the people had resigned themselves to a life dependent upon them. As plentiful as the pills were, they would not last forever. After a time, the supply beneath the streets of Shapaw had been exhausted, and so it became necessary to send someone out into the wastes to gather more. These men became responsible for the resupplying of the pills by way of finding and raiding the surrounding vaults which had not already been robbed of their contents. Jedediah checked his compass, then craned his head back to gauge the position of the sun. Sixteen degrees southwest and just about high noon. He scowled. At this rate he’d have to spend the night in the back seat of the jeep. The wastes were scorched and burned by day, but the nights were sickly cold, and the back of a beat-up old jeep wasn't Jedediah’s idea of a good night’s sleep. He drove on. Eventually his thoughts turned to other things: the girl at Begunn’s who was always smiling, his busted generator, the price of the replacement part to fix the damn thing, the― Jedediah suddenly sat up and squinted. He threw off his sunglasses and rummaged around in the sack on the passenger seat, pulling out a pair of binoculars. “About time.” The grey disk that poked out above the earth could mean only one thing: a vault. As he drew nearer, the smooth, familiar features of the structure became visible. It looked the same as every other vault he’d ever seen, but then again, why shouldn’t it? He decelerated to a crawl, then braked and cut the engine. Double-checking the contents of the sack, he then slung it over his shoulder, and walked towards the embankment which descended towards the entryway. The ground crunched beneath his boots. Now that he wasn’t speeding along at 130mph he could smell once more the subtle sickly aroma of the poisonous dust kicked up beneath his feet. Jedediah slid down the embankment and came to a halt just before the imposing metal hatchway. He gripped the hot metal handle and pulled. After several minutes of strenuous effort, a loud clunk came from within, and the lock fell open. Jedediah braced his shoulder against the door, and pushed. The hatchway swung inward with an eerie quietness into the dark chamber within. Jedediah took out his torch and lit it. He stepped inside. Immediately he sensed that something was different; something was not right. Although his eyes could see nothing in the darkness, he was overwhelmed by a sensation of immense space. It was as though he had stepped into the center of a massive subterranean cave, rather than the usual maze of rectangular passageways which he had learned to navigate. Jedediah scowled and tightened his grip on the torch. His right hand moved cautiously to his knife-sheathe, where it stayed, tense. Glancing out the hatchway, he set off into the dark. His footsteps made no sound as he moved onward into the chamber. Nothing but blackness emerged out of the dark, and eventually the open hatchway was nothing more than a pinprick of light in the distance behind him. Jedediah stopped. “HELLO?” he shouted. A faint echo reverberated around him. He waited. Silence. Suddenly, from above, came a tiny mechanical clinking. After a moment, it stopped. Jedediah stood very still. “Hello.” cooed a soft metallic voice. “Shit!” Jedediah leaped backward, starring wide-eyed into the black abyss above him. “Who's there? Just who the hell are you?” he demanded. “I am a Long-Term-Data-Preservation unit. I have no name.” Its voice was cool and friendly, yet disturbingly inhuman. “Who are you?” He glared at the darkness. “Jedediah Ackerson.” “Hello Jedediah. I have waited a long time to meet you. I have much to show you." The surrounding air slowly became alive with a deep, almost inaudible humming. Suddenly, the entire chamber exploded with blinding light, and Jedediah slammed his eyelids shut. After several minutes, his eyes began to adjust to the throbbing brightness. He cautiously blinked open his eyes, and the sight that met his gaze paralyzed him. His entire body became frozen in shock, as though he had been turned to stone. In all of Jedediah’s short life, nothing―not even his most radical fantasies―could have prepared him for this sight. The breeze―warm and sweet―played across his cheeks. The blue horizon sparkled in the brilliant sunlight, and seemed to breathe in and out as it leapt up the sandy stretch below his feet, only to slink back upon itself. Jedediah blinked. He stared and blinked and thought no thoughts: a man overcome by the most beautiful thing he would ever see. "This," said the disembodied voice, "is an ocean.


“Have you ever seen a pig's tit before?” The farmer whispered in my ear. His hot breath filling my canal as his coarse mustache tickled my cartilage. I leaned away from him, unsure of how to respond. I had not seen a pig's tit before and if it was anything like a woman's, I'm sure it would be a treat. But I had just met this man and his question unsettled me. I wasn't sure I wanted to look at any kind of tit with him, let alone a pig's. I proceeded cautiously. “Are they big?” I asked him. “The biggest.” he responded. “And the nipples?” “Exquisite.” This was not going to be easy. We were locked in a mental chess match and it was clear the man was practiced. He was proud of his pig's tits and if they were anything like how he described, it would be hard to blame him. Even so, it was getting late. I simply didn't have time for this. “Listen Mister, I'm sure your pig's tits are great, and I'd really like to look at them sometime, but I should be going.” He looked at me with vacant eyes, his mouth slightly ajar. I was beginning to think I had deeply offended him when suddenly, he leaned close, and unleashed his secret weapon. “I'll. let. you. milk. them.” He said slowly, making sure I drank in every word. He can't be serious, I thought. No self-respecting farmer would let a perfect stranger touch his animals' tits, not to mention a pig's. Yet there he was, staring at me in anticipation, panting silently, eyes wet with excitement. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little excited too. These weren't just any ordinary tits, they were milkin' tits. The kind of tits you only hear about in stories. As I wondered if he'd let me taste the milk, I felt a hand grip me firmly by the arm and yank me backwards. “It's time to go Billy, didn't you hear me calling you?” Ms. Palanski began pulling me towards the school bus. “But Ms. Palanski, the farmer said-” “What farmer?” I turned back only to see an empty field. The farmer had vanished. I stayed silent while she escorted me onto the bus, my fellow classmates staring as I searched for an open seat. They have no idea, I thought. No idea how close I came to milking some tits. The bus roared to life and slowly started down the farm's dirt driveway. I watched the barn get smaller and smaller through a cloud of dust, wondering if I'd ever come back. Wondering if the tits would still be there when I did.


You walk through the doors, knowing it's going to be a bad night. The music's too loud and there are too many people. Everybody mindlessly dryhumping each other and with enough chemicals in them to think it's fun. You're not even sure why you came, your friends said you had to get out of the house for a while. They were "worried about you". Apparently it's possible in todays society to spend too much time alone. Even before everything happened you were a solitary man. Not awkward as such, you just happen to prefer your own company most of the time. There was talk of autism in school, borderline personality disorder, major depression. The list goes on, even to this day. Your friends herd you over to the bar offering a night of cost free ablution or if not ablution, then at least forgetting. Do you want to forget? Could you live without the memories? Would you be the same? You cheers the group, forcing a smile onto your face. Pulling out another mask to hide behind. The one used most often. "Happy" They take turns buying you drinks, trying to get you involved in a few little jokes. You can always make them laugh without trying. They seem to think this means you're brightening up. You do nothing to dispel this illusion. It's loud here. You're uncomfortable but the mask makes it easy to hide. Plus the affects of the alcohol are becoming stronger, perhaps it's time for a cigarette? Outside now. The air is crisp and you can see your breath after the smoke has left your lungs. This amuses you for some reason and for a split second a real smile shows through. Footsteps in the alley behind you. You turn. You don't know this man who is standing so close to you. He looks upset. You feel a warmth in your stomach. Perhaps this man is known to you after all. He turns his back on you. You feel cold. Your hand goes to your stomach. Your head tilts downwards. You stumble back, leaning against the wall. Slide.


P.O.V. of Tyler (Mostly) Sandra stared across at Tyler through the small fire. Her eyes seemed to glow with a strange menacing essence. The fire roared and flickered in her small green eyes. The tension between the two was clear. However, Tyler couldn’t read Sandra. She was as clear as solid wood. Tyler felt tense. They were surrounded by miles of forest, in the cold night. No one could hear anything except for him and Sandra, and there’s not much to hear when you’re dead. Suddenly; Sandra opened her mouth slowly, as if to say something. She closed it and glanced over at the tent, grinning. Somehow, outside of the fire’s glare, her eyes seemed to grow with a more malevolent light. She turned back to Tyler, this time right in the eyes. “I have a surprise for you, Ty.” She said, with a cheerful nickname as if they were old friends. Really, they were both escapees, only together for matters of survival. She turned before Tyler could read her expression. She stood and walked to the tent. Tyler heard some clinks and other miscellaneous sounds. Then, when it appeared she had found what she was looking for, she came back, holding something behind her back. She handed him a small box. It wasn’t anything special, just a dirty old Thai food rice container. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, leaning to the fire. “Blow out the candles..” then, she blew with all her might on the fire, sending flames rolling Tyler’s way as they dissipated, the fire extinguishing. He reached out to feel a box-like shape sitting in the ash pit. He picked it up and folded it open, fumbling his hand inside. The only thing on the inside besides a few grains of old sticky rice was what felt like a folded piece of paper, but no light to read. He realized he was alone in the light, with Sandra. Of whom he knew nothing about. Crazy, mysterious Sandra. He gripped the paper, his heart beating wildly out of his chest. He felt something tap his shoulder and he shut his eyes. “I’m so sorry Ty.. But one of us has to eat.” He heard a soft, recognizable voice whisper. Then, he felt a sharp pain in his back and made no attempt to wail, knowing it was hopeless- who would hear, and why would they care? Blood gargled out of his mouth as everything he knew started to vanish. People say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but it doesn’t. It disappears, everything you know, to the point of insanity. You forget what’s happening and all that’s going through your head is; ‘I am about to die.’ Managing to struggle to words, he choked out through all the blood, “I’ll never forgive you for this.” Sandra smiles in the dark, and then something wet drips on Tyler’s head. Then he realized; she was crying. “You won’t have time to fret on the past in hell, Ty..” She whispered, as he closed his eyes, just to never open them again. Candy and Pepper strolled through the woods when a morbid smell wafted through Candy’s nose. “Gosh, what’s that awful smell?” Then, suddenly she realized as they approached it; a body, pieces of skin torn off, blood splattered everywhere, as if someone appeared to attempt to consume it. The person was obviously a man. Folded in his hand was a small piece of paper. Pepper leaned down and picked it up, unfolding it, softly reading it to himself. 'See you soon, I figure I can’t live off you forever. I’ll never forgive myself, either. In our short time together I grew attached, but my life came before you in my eyes, Ty. Love, S.


The man answered me hoarsely, a queer smile playing across the corner of his cracked lips, "It is said that when the gods wish to punish us... they answer our prayers." His face, a map of scars, was strangely familiar, like a distant place long forgotten. "Speak not in riddles old man," I snarled, "You will make your peace with to whomever gods you pray well soon enough. Until then, you answer to Me, and pray, pray now, my vengeance is kinder than theirs." His sunken eyes shone dimly, and bore no fear. "Then I truly hope my debt to them is paid," he laughed, wistful. "Tell me, what did you wish of them, Barabbas? What shining stone did you cheat from the Wardens' lot? What coveted prize did you squander on stolen time? What dungeon's claim did you lay away on halcyon roads? Was it Love? Riches? Power? Tell me. Tell me before I send you back to the hell from whence you came, wretched man." "I sought something. I think... I sought knowledge. Understanding." "Then you are a fool, old one. Tell me, out of perversion, what did you learn, living out your wasted days? What carnival spectacles did the wilds divulge, as you wandered far and away? What secrets did the amber halls and dim-lit alleys whisper to prowling ears? What shrouded facts sought their way through dead tomes, spilling torrid wanderlust into grey matter? Was it Techne? Logos? Pathos? Teach me. Teach me, before I snuff out your pathetic spark." He took a deep breath and exhaled, a visible shudder traveling through his frail skeleton. I saw his eyes glimmer distantly. I saw him strain, the furrows of his brow crossed in wrought exertion. I watched his frail hand reach across the distance between us, stretching as if to grasp something unfathomable and then, a solitary tear fell onto the cold ground. "I cannot... I can no longer remember. I am old and my mind is not what it once was." He closed a pair of weary eyes and hung a tired head, anguish painted across his worn features. "Once a fool, always a fool, I can see," I spat, seizing his slacking jaw, and peering into cloudy eyes, a visage of sorrow. "Tell me your story. Show me your sins. Show me your joys and regrets, your dreams and sorrows. Show me it all, the last thing you do before these damned eyes are shut forevermore. SHOW ME!" Silence. Grimacing, he forced his eyes shut, face a contortion of singular will, summoning every scrap of concentration he could gather. Time stood still. Then, suddenly, his eyes sprang open and the clouds parted within revealing a sudden inner light, a clear and piercing gaze. His brow lifted, his focus sharpened and a sudden strength found itself within him, wresting my hand away. Hands astir, he gripped my hands, arms, and face frantically, some terrible recognition dawning over him. Clasping my head with his palms, he suddenly collapsed onto the ground, drained. "Speak, you despicable thing! Tell me your name! Speak, damn you!" I growled, anxious to hear his last words. Crouching, I knelt beside his haggard frame. He spoke, after a time, eyes aglow with perception. His words were slow and deliberate. This is what he told me. "You... I remember my wish. I wished to know an old man’s secret, once. My name is... but, ah! that, you know already. Let me teach you what I have learned. Let me show you, eager one.” And he smiled, a wry smile, breathing his last. As he closed his eyes, I opened mine to curse him, but he was gone, and I awoke lying alone, cursing only myself.


I'm not sure this is the appropriate subreddit for this. Please enjoy. A man walks into an ice cream shoppe. He approaches the ice cream server behind the counter. CUSTOMER- Can I have a vanilla ice cream please? ICE CREAM MAN- Sure thing.(Scoops ice cream into cone) Here you go.(Hands to customer) CUSTOMER- This isn't Vanilla. ICE CREAM MAN- Why of course it is. CUSTOMER- No, this doesn't even look like ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- Well, wait a minute. Let me see that. (Takes cone from customer) Oh dang, you know something? This is vomit. CUSTOMER- What? ICE CREAM MAN- My vomit to be precise. CUSTOMER- Why did you give me your vomit? ICE CREAM MAN- I must have been keeping it in the vanilla ice cream container. CUSTOMER- I have a couple questions. ICE CREAM MAN- Ask away. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit in the vanilla container? ICE CREAM MAN- It's the closest one to me. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit contained at all? ICE CREAM MAN- Well I normally don't but I've been sick lately and instead of running to the bathroom every 20 minutes I just vomit in this container. CUSTOMER- You can't honestly think that's acceptable. ICE CREAM MAN- I do though. CUSTOMER- I'm going to have to talk to your manager about this. ICE CREAM MAN- I'm the manager. CUSTOMER- Well then I'm going to have to ask you not to do that anymore. ICE CREAM MAN- Do what? CUSTOMER- Throw up in the ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- But there's no ice cream left in this container. CUSTOMER- So you're out of vanilla? ICE CREAM MAN- I'm afraid so. CUSTOMER- Shoot...um...do you have strawberry? ICE CREAM MAN- Coming right up.(looks in container) Oh you know what? This is diarrhea. CUSTOMER- Do you have anything that didn't come out of your body? ICE CREAM MAN- Let's see... I have mint chocolate chip. CUSTOMER- I don't like mint. ICE CREAM MAN- Well that's all the ice cream I have left. CUSTOMER- But there are 16 containers here. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- And they're all full to the brim. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- ...I guess I'll have the vomit. ICE CREAM MAN- Excellent choice sir. Here you go. (Hands cone to customer) CUSTOMER- Thank you. Feel better. ICE CREAM MAN- I'll try. Have a nice afternoon. The man walks out with his ice cream cone, never to be seen again.


“Good job, Katy! One gold star for you. You can use it to get something in the Learning and Motivation store.” Dr. Biff Skinner, my psychology professor. He’s pretty funny and makes the class experience enjoyable, even when the material is boring and dry. He’s one of my favorite professors, but he’s the only one that I want to fuck. And I have a plan. I went to his office later that day. His door was open and he was on his computer. I stood and watched him for a few seconds before I knocked. He looked up, smiled, and welcomed me in. I walked in and shut the door behind me. He looked a little surprised that the door was shut, but didn’t say anything about it. “What can I do for you, Katy?” Dr. Skinner said. “I’d like to redeem my gold star, Dr. Skinner.” I said with a grin. “Let me guess, you want an ‘A’ on your next exam?” he replied jokingly. With as much courage as I could muster, I replied, “No. What I want is for you to bend me over your desk and fuck me from behind.” He seemed a bit startled, but quickly recovered and said with a devious smile on his face, “Well now, you’ll need more than one gold star in order to get that.” “And just what would I have to do to earn enough gold stars?” He stood up from behind his desk, looked me in the eyes, and unzipped his pants. “This would be a start.” I walked over to him, got down on my knees, and took his cock out of his pants. I started licking up, down, and all around his cock and balls, allowing the tip to go in my mouth every few licks. When his cock was covered in my saliva, I slid him all the way into my mouth, letting my tongue play with the underside of his cock as he was thrusting in and out. My hands went to his balls, massaging them and rubbing his taint while he was thrusting and moaning. His hands were bunched in my hair, guiding his cock into my mouth. He was moaning that he was cumming, so I sucked harder. He shot his load into my mouth and it slid down my throat. I swallowed it all, stood up, wiped my mouth, and asked him with a wink, “Did that earn me enough gold stars?” “Oh God, did it ever!” He replied breathlessly. He pushed me over his desk, pulling my shirt off in the process. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so I was naked from the waist up. He pulled my panties down in one fell swoop, pushed my skirt up, and thrust into me hard. I moaned so loud I was sure someone would hear me. He thrust into me harder, holding my waist to keep me steady. It only took five more thrusts and I was gone. I came so hard that I shivered. He came again seconds later. I lay breathing hard on his desk for a few seconds, trying to catch my breath. When I got up, he looked at me and whispered with a smile on his face, “Good job. One gold star.” I put my shirt back on, pulled my skirt down, leaving my panties on the floor of his office as a little remembrance for him. I winked at him, opened his office door, and walked out with his cum running down my legs. As I passed the student aid, she openly stared at me, so I knew that she had heard at least part of what happened in there. I put my finger up to my mouth to tell her to keep quiet and walked out of the building. I can’t wait to earn some more gold stars.


My grandfather was born in England in 1926. In 1939, World War II broke out. Like many English children of his generation, he was sent by his parents to live in Canada to escape the Blitz. When he returned to his home country he barely recognized it. England had been ravaged by the war and he felt as though there was nothing for him there, so he left. He went back across the Atlantic, but this time to Philadelphia. It was there that he met my grandmother. Before she met my grandfather, my grandmother had been previously married to a US Air Force bomber pilot who was stationed in England during the war. While in England, he began an affair with another woman that caused the disintegration of his marriage to my grandmother. She eventually met my grandfather, they got married, and they gave birth to my mother who eventually met my father and gave birth to me. I use to joke to people that if it weren’t for Hitler starting the war then I would never have been born. The other day, I told this to a friend who told me that if it weren’t for every single event in the history of the universe, from the Big Bang till the precise moment when a single sperm from my father entered a single egg from my mother, then I would never have been born. It’s comforting to know that I no longer have to exclusively thank Hitler for my existence.


Viktor sneaked inside the remnants of a collapsed parking garage just in time. Two Toxins walked by, talking loudly, boasting about their 'accomplishments,' such as beating up a defenceless twelve-year-old. Cowards. But with Tox in command, and his private army of Toxins patrolling the streets, this was the way of the world. Viktor himself had been recruited as a Toxin. He was plucked from the street and had to start training under strict surveillance. After the first round, he received an 'E' rating, meaning he had the build, speed and intelligence to train for the elite squad, Tox' personal guards. This also meant the surveillance measured were slacked. Within a week Viktor had crafted a knife of a piece of bent metal and some charred wood, held it to a guards' throat and ran of. That's why he had to be so careful to stay out of sight. The wisest thing would be to hide, to run off into the woods and never go back. But Viktor knew he was the only one capable of overthrowing the reign of the maniac Tox had become. He had seen an inside view of the guarding system. He was lean, swift and bright. He could craft a weapon out of nearly anything. Most importantly, he wasn't afraid of some blood on his hands. It's not as if he walks through the street randomly cutting out young boys' gobs, like some of the Toxins do. But he wasn't one to let harm come upon himself and he wielded his knife in any way necessary. When the Toxins were gone, Viktor crept out of hiding and continued his path. At seventeen, he was one of the oldest boys still alive. When the collision drew near, it was decided that all fifteen-year-olds would live. They were old enough to take care of themselves and eventually reproduce, but young enough to adapt and create government in the new world. When all the fifteen-year-olds were saved, the remainder of places in the bunkers was distributed to anyone between twelve and eighteen. Viktor had been lucky, unlike many. The silence was pierced by a shuffling sound and Viktor turned with a start. There was no one there, except a rat gnawing on something that looked suspiciously much like human flesh. Irritated by the distraction, Viktor threw one of his knifes. The rat let out a shriek as it was skewered, then dropped dead. It tumbled off of the beam it was crawling over, into the basement of the garage. It was a shame to lose that knife, but Viktor was happy. In the end, he would only need one. Tox' lair was in sight and his training, carried out all alone in the woods, proved solid. He stowed away his other weapons and starting creeping along the final mile.


It was a beautiful spring day at Yost Park, the birds were singing, the bees were humming and the trees were bursting with color. Steve was alone and walking through the woods. He came across a man that looked like a garden gnome, only he was six feet tall. The man wore a red pointed hat and had a long, snow-colored beard. He had a shirt as blue as the sky and was smoking a pipe made of a corn cob. His eyes looked as gray and fogged over as the sky in the smog-filled city of Los Angeles. Steve knew the man had to have been blind, but he seemed to watch him as he approached. When he said hello, the man screamed like a little girl and ran away. “That was disturbing”, Steve said aloud. “What was?” said the man, suddenly appearing behind him. This time it was Steve who ran away, screaming like a little girl. Steve was out of breath, so he decided to sit down on a bench next to the path. The bench groaned under his weight, it was obviously very old. Suddenly, without warning, the bench collapsed under him and high-pitched laughter, like the cackle of a hyena erupted from beside him. When he looked over it was the man again. Steve ran away once more, this time he made it to his car. Frantically he tries turning on the car, but the engine just sputters. Steve looks in the back seat and there the old man is once again.


I met a peculiar man today. A man, a tall man, broad shoulders, thick hair, a man much like the rest. A crooked smile here, a calloused hand there, just like any other man. But this man seemed particularly peculiar in my mind. Maybe it was because he decided to talk to me. I was sitting on my bench, as I always do when I can get around to it. Pigeons pecked around my feet as breadcrumbs fell from my fingertips. It was routine, hell, it was practically ritual, that I come down here, drop bread crumbs for the birds, and stare off into the dark green and brown made up by the cool grass and the tall trees. I have done it for quite some time now. Some days it's harder to make it down to my bench than others. But it's really all that I have, my bench, the birds, the trees, the moments there in time. And it was on this day, just like any other day when I am at my bench, that this man walked past. He walked past so swiftly, head down, direct, like most that walk past me. But after he had made it a few steps past me and my bench, he stopped, and spun on his heel, like someone was using him as a top, a child perhaps. He was tall, at least six feet, with a dark grey hat that made him seem even taller. He matched it with a grey suit, and carried a newspaper under his arm. He smiled at me, in a way so vulnerable that this man no longer seemed so large. I smiled back, wondering why the man had stopped so suddenly. He finally opened his mouth, with his hat in his hands; "Excuse me, Ma'am, but would you happen to have the time?" It took me a moment to react before I found the words to answer him, as he stood smiling sheepishly, like a boy who had forgotten his school assignment. "Oh yes," I answered, "let me check my watch." I reached into my bag and pulled out of all the clutter a pocket watch, the one I always carry. I opened it, and saw what I easily knew was an incorrect time. I held it up to my ear, and heard not a sound from inside the watch, nothing echoing between its many gears. "Oh lord, this thing never works, I'm afraid it's not kept the time sir, I'm sorry." "Oh it's alright Ma'am, thank you for looking," he said with a smile. "I must say, it is a fine looking pocket watch Ma'am, reminds me of one that belongs to my father." "Well I'm sure his probably kept time, unlike this junk I've been carrying around," I say as I chuckle to myself. The man chuckles a bit too. "May I ask then why you keep it on your person, Ma'am? Seems like a broken watch serves no good to anyone, especially not to a nice lady such as yourself." I look at the man and smile. "It's my husband’s actually, and I don't think he'd take kindly to me getting rid of his favorite watch!" Both me and the man laughed aloud, and I motion for him to sit on the bench with me, and he obliges. He put his hand forth, and shakes my outstretched hand. "I'm Howard," he says with a grin; "I'm Alice," I replied. "Well I am pleased to meet you Alice." I handed him a chunk of bread, and we silently fed the curious pigeons their meals, us both content to just sit and enjoy the company of each other and the birds for a bit. I looked over at this strange man who had decided to sit with me, an old lady who feeds the birds. Not a very glamorous way to spend the afternoon for a man such as this at his age. "Were you going anywhere important just now?" I inquired. I seemed to rouse him from deep thought. "Hmm? Oh no, not very. Just some errands to run is all, but I can't seem to get the wherewithal to concentrate on them," he replied and his head turned back down towards the birds, a certain light gone from the once innocent looking man. "Is there something on your mind young man?" I pressed. He exhales deeply, his eyes focused on his feet. "If I’m being honest, I'm gonna be called off for the war soon," he answered. "I just got the notice this morning. Making sure to pick up milk on my way home for the wife seems a little more insignificant with that perspective." He leaned back against the bench, brought a hand to his perspiring head. He sees me looking at him through his hand, and tries to compose himself; "Not that I'm scared or nothing!" he stated with a bravado that only rung half-true. "Just a bit nervous is all." "That's nothing to be ashamed of young man. War is a place filled with frightful things. Why, my husband was not much different from you when he was called to fight. He was nervous as all heck, but he knew it was the right thing to do, so he fought." I look down at my cool, calloused hands in the morning light. "He seems like a good man," the young man replies with a small smile. A smile breaks across my face, one I cannot hold back as I think about days long forgotten, and I even let out a laugh remembering back on our time together. "He was a good man," I replied. The smile starts to fade as I look up towards the sky, and then back down at my hands. "Oh god, how I loved that man,” I said in a soft whisper. Howard put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and it was warm and I felt safe like I haven't felt in so very long. "If you don't mind me asking," the man asked quietly, "is your husband passed? Did he die in the war?" I can't bear to look up at the moment, only staring down at the bench and the newspaper the man had put down from under his arm. "No, he came back from the war. But," I had trouble getting the words out, "my husband did not come back the same. He was plagued by nightmares, terrors of the horrible things he had seen while fighting. It drove him to drink, it drove him mad, and it drove him to forget about…" I start to stammer as my fingers run over a dark scar hidden under my sleeve. "He forgot about how we used to be. The combination of it all proved too much for both him and me. My husband is now passed away, to answer your question." And the true answer, I screamed in my head, is yes! Yes, yes, my husband died in that awful war, for the man who came back was not my husband, only an empty shell of a man for which there was only room for sadness and sorrow. My husband went to war, and never returned. The man next to me, Howard, sat silent for a bit. I could tell that he didn't know how to respond, but whether it was because he didn't know how to react to such a story, or if he feared that a similar fate would befall him and his situation, I did not know. After what seemed like over a minute, the man spoke up. "I'm sorry to hear what happened to your husband, ma'am." "Thank you, it means quite a lot," I said, as I looked up at Howard and saw what seemed to be a familiar kindness in his eyes, something I haven't been privileged to in years. I grab a hold of the hand he was resting on the bench. I fight back tears as I arrange the words I want to say. "You have no need to worry though Howard. You will make it through that war, I know it. You will make it home to see your family." "I appreciate you saying that, Alice" he replied, his voice softer than before. He checked his wrist for the watch that wasn't there, and we both laughed, breaking some of the tension. Howard stood up, and donned the grey hat he had taken off. "Well, I better get going; I still have to pick up that milk before heading home." He stood there awkwardly, as we didn't know what to say. "Thanks for the talk Alice; it means a lot, even to a guy like me." He cracked that crooked smile of his. I smiled back at him, "Your welcome, Howard, I'm glad I could help." He smiled again, nodded, and turned to walk away. He walked maybe a total of seven steps until I called out "Howard!" He spun around again, in top-like fashion. "What is it, Alice?" I had trouble getting the words out. "Please, come home this time." He looked down for a moment, and then looked back up, his eyes showing a pain that hadn't been there, even moments before. "I will, Alice. I will." And off he walked, into forever, as a dropped newspaper with a long past, but never forgotten date blew past my bench, and became nothingness.


My footsteps echoed across the bare room. The white walls were lined with dirt and grime, leaving me to wonder how a room that lacked walls and windows, could become the dirty, eery looking room that stands before me. I turned my head to the right, and notice a single mirror leaning against the wall at such an angle that I could see my being staring back at me. My red hair was slightly frayed, with the area surrounding the brim of my forehead pointing towards the ceiling as it always does. My face, freckled but strong handsome, had a layer of dust on it as if I had been abandoned in an abandoned room for days. My blue and black flannel shirt drew itself across my torso, and was rolled up at the sleeves. The white undershirt lie matted against my skin, wet with sweat. My blue jeans looked as though I had been rolled around in the dirt for hours, as did my boots. I have always been physically fit, with naturally dense muscle, but I was always too lazy to work-out so I never had the body of Zeus, but still I was well-built. As I turned to look away from the mirror, it seemed as though my reflection continued to stare at me, un-phased and unchanged. My gaze returned to my reflection, which was following my every move once again. I must have been imagining it, I thought to myself as I turned to walk around the room. I approached the wall on my left and noticed something that I hadn't seen before. Dirty handprints lie sprawled against the wall, from the ceiling to the wood floors. Grimy footprints faced the wall, and as I crouched down to examine them, another footprint appeared, facing the opposite direction. Surprised, I fell back onto my rear as another print appeared about a stride's length from the other. I stood quickly and followed the footsteps as they traversed to the center of the room, then turned to face the mirror, momentarily resting before finishing its trek towards the reflective glass. When the footprints reached the mirror, I glanced up at my reflection, to try and determine exactly what had just happened. My eye caught a movement at the bottom of the mirror, the footprint had made another move. The heel of the print was stamped into the ground just before the mirror, but the other half... the other half continued into the mirror, as if it never existed. It travelled across the floor being reflected by the mirror. I almost wanted to attempt to go test to see if it was stable myself... "It's as real as you are." My voice entered my ears, but they did not exit through my lips, where could it be coming from... I looked up to see my reflection staring at me. His lips moved freely as he used my voice. "This world is filled with wonders. Even some you can't explain. Sometimes, you just need to take a leap of faith, and see what comes of it. After all, the brave don't live forever, but the cautious don't live at all." My hand reached out to touch the glass, but as my fingers touched the reflective surface, my hand passed through it, the reflection rippling as if it were a liquid. I took a step through into this mirrored world. I took a step into this new world, and walked across the identical room. I turned towards my reflection, but he wasn't there, not even in the world I came from. I felt the world begin to shake, and a deafening sound of laughter filled my ears. The violent quake caused me to topple over, and my body hit the ground... My eyes bolted open to see three of my friends standing above me with a can of shaving creme in on of their hands. I felt the creme slide off my face. "Really guys?" was all I could say after that dream. "Ah come on, you know we love you," my bestfriend Michael said with a smirk. "Yea you better love me," I retorted as I wiped the shaving creme off of my face and threw it at him.


Cody had no sense of smell; he had no sense of taste either, but it's not fair to only talk about what he wasn't. He laughed and cried, the same as you and me. Cody was a human being, and he was just as pissed off about it as anyone else. He was different too, it's fair to say. When Cody was a baby a brick struck him in the face while playing near a construction site. They were building apartments, and his parents got a wad of money from the construction company as a way of saying sorry. He was permanently blessed with a dent in his head, a line across his forehead that made it look as if he was always pressing his face against a pane of unseen glass. My great grandfather had a dent in his head, a small round divot above his left eye. He got it in ``the war'', laying on the ground working on the engine of an American tank. Another soldier was sitting on top of the engine and dropped a big wrench straight in to his mellon. I don't think the military gave him any big wad of money or said sorry, but the event provided him with a fabulous story for the rest of his life. The other soldier, my great grandfather said, was a celebrity who was proudly serving but had no real business as a mechanic. I have no idea who this celebrity was, but my great grandfather lived to be 95 years old, and told this story with a grin until he lost his mind. Whether the ding in the head of my proavus really came from a celebrity or not, this was truly a great story. He would tell it to us loudly, waving his hand about, and we would laugh and smile. This story is my fondest memory of him. Cody was too young to remember the brick that had smacked him in the head. Even if he had been older, that brick probably would have still excused itself from his memory, politely bowing in to faint obscurity. That brick took his sense of smell, and taste, and left his incredible brain a jumbled mess. Sometimes Cody would be confused, but never angry. That was his blessed gift, to never be angry, and it served him well. We all cherish the stories of our scars, they are the physical record of our triumphs over death. At any good party someone will show off their old battle wounds, even if they were just the result of an errant golf ball. My great grandfather happily told the story of how the famous actor introduced himself with a wrench. Cody loved to spin his tale, even though he couldn't actually remember it. In his rendition the brick struck him at high noon, in a blistering summer heat, and his dear mother had to run 50 city blocks to the hospital while carrying the baby and the brick. The brick didn't stay lodged in his head after impact, Cody told us, but his mother brought it along anyway, ``just in case!'' Everyone laughed at that point in the story. And then Cody would remind us how lucky he was to survive that brick, and how good his life was as a result. You didn't feel sorry for Cody and his dented forehead. He was intelligent and funny, and just a little confused sometimes. People called him stupid, but he wasn't.


I grab my coat from the dusty old closet. Slipping the coat over my arm, I grab my hat and fit it snug on my head. I open the door into the world. It greets me with a gush of wind that pushes me aback. Taking a step onto the wooden porch that creaks with each step, I shut the door. I swing the coat over my shoulder and put my arms into it’s sleeves. Then I run. I run with each step pounding hard against my knees. The trees around me start to blur. I push myself harder. The wind at my back, I spread my arms. I can see the land ahead comes to an end. I keep going. I know I can fly. As I come to the edge I thrust myself forward. Giving no second thought that I can’t achieve my goal, I take a leap of faith. As I soar though the air, I can see the ground below and it makes my heart flicker with light. I can smile one last time.


I am getting married next year and I had this nightmare I wrote down. It made me cry in a way I rarely experience. I apologize for its inevitable typos and poor quality. I just had to share. Jaclyn, We were together for 8 magical years. Three blessed years of marriage. Every moment was amazing. It had its ups and downs but no one in the world could doubt our love. Nothing in the world matter besides you, then came that day. August 12th the day the world turned upside down. A rainy day, warm and gentle on my face as I wheeled you in the hospital, the doctor took you from me and told me to wait in the lobby. Four hours of pacing, four hours of never knowing what was coming next, no notice of progress or status. Then the nurse came out and said, “Mr. MacRory, please come with me.” I was brought to a hallway and shown a little girl in a pink cap and socks. My daughter, Melody, smiling back at me, I had never felt such joy. Then it all came crashing back. I was told there were complications with the birth and that my wife, my wife who was my rock, had not survived the violent birth. I was given a few minutes to say my good byes. How could I express my loss or say what I wanted to. How could I possibly say good bye to the woman who made very day brighter. I cried and said how much I loved you, or how I could never go on living without you. Two or three minutes I was given with her before I had to be removed from the room. Two minutes and that was the last time I ever saw that soft delicate face. I asked the nurse if you had seen your daughter before you left us. She said you had and that your face beamed with pleasure at seeing your little girl cry, before your heart gave out. I had to place you in the ground the same week that I had to care for our new and lovely daughter. It was the ultimate perversion. The joy in seeing my daughter, every moment with her is special, yet every time I saw her smile or see her eyes light up, I saw you, my wife who was not here to enjoy these moments. I went to your grave every night for 3 months and stared at that piece of rock that was all I had left of you. I struggled to keep a grip on my life for a bit, but I pulled through knowing you would have had I left you. After all, I had a wonderful new daughter, who would need to grow up knowing what a magnificent woman her mother was. Being a single dad was no picnic but I pulled through knowing there were others that counted on me. I also knew what I saw your face again that you, always joking, would have something witty to say had I failed. I wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of being able to say you would have done better. I was going to raise Melody to be as amazing and special as you were. I had a picture of you by my bed and I would look at it every night and softly cry in bed missing you lying next to me. I know you would always have something comforting to say to me. I would grade my student’s papers and come across something amusing and I would stand up to go show you and forget that the house was quiet and that I had no one to show this to. I started to get better day by day, time heals all wounds as they say. It never takes away the scars. I took Melody to figure skating classes knowing that you would have loved to see her doing her jumps and winning those trophies. Not only did she have your smile and eyes, she had your brain thank god. She succeeded in almost everything she tried. I raised her with not only my ideals but I would always considered what you would say when an issue aroused. I would always tell her stories about you and what an amazing person you were. It is something I can never forget. I miss you still after all these years, always stopping to look at a cat or a hummingbird knowing how much you would have smiled at those sights. Melody got into high school with incredible grades, not only finding success at figure skating but also taking up my skills at bowling. She won 3 gold medals in figure skating and made the varsity bowling team. I even, against my better judgment, gave her my blessing when she started dating her dancing partner Kurt, knowing you would have. She went to college and earned her doctorate in Pharmacology, something I know would have filled you with endless joy. She got a job testing new medication for cancers. Soon after she married her high school sweetheart like I did. Our granddaughter was born July 16th, your birthday. Melody named her after you. I held baby Jaclyn in my arms and my eyes filled with tears instantly, joy at having a beautiful healthy granddaughter, and immense sadness knowing you weren’t there to share this moment with me. I lost you 33 years ago. I never once took off my wedding band. I lay here in my hospital bed knowing I will finally get to see you soon. Melody is working around the clock trying to find something to slow the cancer eating at my body, but I know nothing can help. I feel dread knowing how she will feel losing her father, or knowing I will never get to attend my granddaughter’s graduation. I told her not to worry, but she has your stubbornness built deep inside her. I looked at that picture of you every night before I went to bed and talked to you, told you about my day and what was troubling me, knowing you would have known the right thing to say every time. I wish I had that picture with me now. Looking at your beautiful face would always ease my fears. Childish as it seems, I fear the end. I always feared the unknown. Tomorrow though I will be back in your arms a place that seems so far off and yet so familiar it seems like I last kissed you a few minutes ago. I have, since our first moment together, loved you. After losing you all those years ago, that love never ceased, and I will continue loving you into whatever awaits me. "After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure" I will see you soon my love, we have so much to catch up on..


Starcraft: Marine I hate the drops. Drops were the worst. The idea behind performing these “tactical insertion operations” is to “selectively disrupt enemy production capability” but most of us jarheads just think of it as a bug stomp. We drop in near a bug hive and kill everything we see, preferably, while the main swarm is off fighting something else, than jump out. Word from intel said that the main swarm was on the move to southern ridge of our base. They had already eaten their way through Camp Eagle and Camp Limley here on Typhon and were itching for a third meal and, since we were the last remnants of Limley, we were tagged with the “opportunity” as Lt. Korvic calls it. So here we were in the APOD-33, me and seven of my buddies jammed in tighter than a porn stars cooze at a gang bang. The only thing that could make it better would be if a flock of Muta’s showed up while we were flying over the canyons. They look like worms with wings, worms that shoot bug bullets out of there asses. I’ve seen these bullets, these “glaive worms” as the brain boys like to call them, make swiss cheese out of the AAV-5 tanks so I could only imagine what they’d do to the APOD. Korvic would love that. I’d probably enjoy it to just to see Korvic’s face as we go down in her precious ship. Bitch. I can’t rag on her though; she keeps the boys alive and is our ride out of here should the shit hit the fan. Dawn is hitting the eastern side of the ship. Drop time is coming up soon. I bark the command to perform pre-drop prep. Each of my guys reads out the HUD on their medical conditions then they start their own suit diagnostics followed by weapons checks. All of this information is relayed back to my suit which I pass on to Korvic. This was all done prior to loading up but you can never be too sure. I amble my way up to the bow and glance at the windows. It looked completely bright outside but I knew that it really wasn’t. I don’t understand the whole technology behind it but it had something to do with the ships sensors and VR displays or some nonsense. I could see the hive in the distance, once I focused on it my HUD began restating our mission objectives and highlighting key spots to target. I still haven’t gotten used to seeing these things even after three years in the corps, which, considering the life span of a marine is a long time. A skyscraper made of bruised flesh and bone, once the ship optics focused in you could see that it was crawling with the worm larva. The Intel geeks say that the larvas are “genetically versatile” which meant that they could become almost anything in the swarm, if the right conditions were met. I reminded Korvic to scan the area for any of the growths in the area as a result of those conditions. They say that the growths are similar to tumor. Once the Zerg get wind of opposition around there turf they immediately make some kind of virus which infects one of there worker bugs. Once the worker bug is ready it becomes a growth feeding off their creep and other shit around the area. The tumor forces the larva to become bigger, badder bugs. They say it’s some kind of “immunal response” from the hive like how white blood cells attack infections in the human body. I don't pretend to understand it, all I know is that blowing up the tumor buildings, yeah buildings, stops them from making meaner bugs. At the base of the hive were cocoons, which lord only knows what was growing inside of them. With my luck it'd be Ultras, big, fanged and armored bastards that could tear through ten marines in a single swipe. Korvic didn't scan any radioactive deposits in the area but I wouldn't rule them out either. The Ultras eat rad deposits or some shit like that and is a strong sign that Ultras might be nearby. West of the hive was our target area, the mineral mines. Korvic’s telling me that conditions look good. We managed to avoid the max range of there Overlords, the bug eyes in the sky, and the ones hovering near our dropzone were dispatched by Vike’s on an earlier skirmish. SATCOM says Zerg hadn’t had time to replenish their number in this area with the exception of a few hundred drones. We would be going in undetected to the mines and kill all the drones, no drones no minerals. No minerals no bugs. Simple. I shout at my crew, not that it’s necessary, the audio in our armor can filter out the background noise of the ship, but to get them pissed and ready. I remind them what the bugs have done to us, how they are eating everything they see and that they want to be the toughest sons of bitches in the universe. I remind them that once they hit the four year mark they’ll be pardoned and that all the pussy in the universe will love them and thank them for their service. I see glassy eyes and hear grunts and howls. I can tell Korvic’s pinged there suits for stims. We descend very suddenly, then immediately slow, the APOD is in its vertical take-off state. Korvic and the pilot hit it just right; we are only 10 meters above our DZ. I hear a small compressed whine within my suit. Korvic’s started my stims. As the ramp opens I can see the men stand, helmets closing on their faces, almost foaming at the mouth as the stims take effect. The dawn light hits us and I remember how I came to the corps, how I killed all of those people and that I’m only a year away from my pardon. Why would I want to leave? I can’t give this up. I don't even need the stims to kill. I sight in on the helpless worker bugs, pull the trigger and smile.


I am the person you pass on the street without noticing, the person you cross the road to avoid. I am the one you turn your head away from in disgust, as though just looking at me tarnishes your good name. Oh, don't act like you don't understand. Don't deny it, don't you dare. You see, to you I might be another piece of trash lying at the side of the road, but to me; to me you are everything. Think. Think back to the last time we spoke. Do you remember? I was once like you, a long time ago. I, too, had a job and a family, and friends and a dog that yelped excitedly every night when I came home. Can you see it now? Does my face look familiar? You don't even stop to look me in the eyes as you drop a penny or two into my outstretched hands. No wonder you don't recognise me. You move on quickly lest I begin to pester you for more change; lest I inquire why a man such as you leaves me only a few pennies when you could obviously spare much more. I, too, once wore a suit just like yours. I know how the silk feels against skin, and how the polished leather shoes enhance the illusion. Now my shoes are torn and tattered, dirty and battered. And you know what? That doesn't make me any less of a person. So why won't you look at me? Tell me, please. Why won't you recognise me? Do you still have the picture we took, the one where we're fishing? You caught so many fish and I caught nothing, only a dirty old boot that you threw back into the water. As an act of kindness you shared yours with me; I had been grateful because we hadn't brought anything else to eat. Life gave you fish, and me it gave a dirty old boot. Unlucky, I guess. Now the only fishing I do is in old trashcans. I live with the night, and go where it takes me. Everyday is a new day - a day with a start, middle and end. The days dont flow into each other anymore, that is one thing I am thankful for. You're still stuck in your endless cycles. Wake up, go to work, come home at night, go to sleep. Repeat. Over and over, day in and day out. Now, I don't understand you. How can you stand it, the monotony, the boredom? As children life was exciting and fun. Somehow the innocence mutated, became something else, something so much worse. So. I don't envy you. Can you understand that? I rage, but I don't envy you at all.


Context: Cat/housesat for a coworker, wrote this when they returned from their vacation to let them know all that’s happened. Posted it on facebook as my status and got positive feedback, so I’m sharing it here too. My name is Boris Kuslitskiy. Please don’t steal this. Thursday. You leave, the cats are plunged into the unexpected onset of Feast 2012, gorging on dry cat food. Friday. Ryan leaves us, the going away party includes alcohol, as does the bar I attend after. Arriving home at 5AM, I decided not to grace the cats with my presence again just yet. Saturday Evening. I arrive to feed and water the cats. Simon is friendly, Lionel chooses to ignore my presence. Sunday. The cats starve and dry out, reduced to only helping themselves to endless amounts of dry cat food. They operate with a different definition of starve than we do. Monday Evening. I stop by on my way from the movies with a friend, Sasha. Simon is distant, and fat, while Lionel is nearby, and fatter. Sasha confirms my analysis. Tuesday Night. I arrive late, commence furtending, continue furtending, and, finally, complete furtending. Having nowhere else to hang my work clothes for the next day, I prop open the bedroom door and hang them off the top. This lets Simon sit on the living room table and stare into the bedroom, into my eyes, and into my soul, were I to have one. He does this without fail, slowly falling asleep and staring at me through drooping eyelids as the minutes pass. I have broken his sense of order and he is no longer nice to me. Without shifting his gaze, Simon invents a time machine, locking me in his unrelenting stare for approximately 2.6 eternities. This is unsettling, but eventually the time machine falters and I sleep. Wednesday Morning. The first thing I see upon leaving the bedroom is Lionel rolling over to expose his belly. This is irresistible and just about cancels out having a shorter commute to work. Soon after, I scratch the underside of his cheek, and Lionel pushes his not unremarkably soft and fat face into my hand until it’s pressed down firmly against the ground. Noting the unforgiveable interruption in scratches, he graciously lifts his head, allows my hand to rise up to meet his cheek, and proceeds to push it down to the ground again. This repeats. Wednesday Evening. I arrive, Sasha joining me soon after I finish the furtendings. Beer, wine, and scratches flow furily. Sasha titles Simon Flat-Face. In response, his face is emotionless, flat, and furry. Lionel adopts the name Fat-Face, and my hand. I will file to reclaim custody shortly. Sasha sleeps over, being offered the bedroom while I claim the couch as my own. Night between Wednesday and Thursday. Sasha wakes up to see Simon inches away from her face, staring at her. I have the vaguest inkling of a feeling that Simon does not particularly like it when anybody else sleeps in that bed. Thursday Morning. Lionel is adorable. Simon is a cat. Thursday Evening. A different friend comes over. Lionel remains fat while Simon remains a cat. Together, they mostly are fat, and hide, their hides being fat, and hidden. Friday Morning. Reclined on the couch with my hand scratching the nearby Lionel, I conceive of an experiment, utterly moronic in hindsight. What if, just once, I choose to not spend every free moment scratching Lionel? Still purring like a tractor with a megaphone, Lionel jumps up onto the couch, wanders across my body and then, first gently, then heavily, struts his way across my neck, leaning his side against my face and forcing his furriness into every crevice, his fat molding itself to my face, leaving no respite and much hair. Sunday Evening. I stop by to pick up my things and scratch Lionel. He seems to have acquired a better invisible megaphone, as he purrs even more loudly. Monday. I miss them. Tuesday. I miss them. Wednesday. I fondly recall the fat smothering my face as Lionel saunters across my neck. I can almost taste the fur now.


Hour 60 without power: As I awoke this morning from the brief respite provided by the sweaty sleep, it occurred to me just how forsaken we were. The ritualistic sacrifices of vegetables from our fridge had clearly appeased no power god known to man, our choreographed dances and songs to the same purpose were unheard and unseen, and charging my iPhone™ from the car was just plain annoying. We had realized about 20 hours after the power was out that we would have to fend for ourselves for food – and to this end we had begun to drive around 15 miles to the Tysons area for food. Forsooth, we were a ragged crew. The locals had, for the most part, abandoned our powerless village for more fluorescent pastures, and the choice few that remained had sold their family members for generators and the requisite gas to make them run. And yet we had stayed, clinging to order in a brutish world; and yet we had stayed, when the hours turned to days and the gluttonous eating of food before expiration had begun; and yet we had stayed, and harbored hope that Prometheus would once again bring us fire. Perhaps you’re right – we were foolish. A though that had more than once occurred to us as we looked about or shelter, vestiges of power hauntingly lacking that jolt which gave them their life, their purpose. But we were young. We were foolish. We were naïve. And while you sit swaddled in cooled air, your electric addiction fueled by your latest hit, think of us powerless ones. Remember us fondly. Because a world in which I can’t crank up the AC, reach into the cool fridge for a chilled beverage, and watch trashy television is a world I cannot long endure.