Prolouge Deep in the woods of the Slandfall forest lies a large castle. Legend has it the goes built it before any humans arrived because of the magical aura surrounding it. People go for healing and pleasure, the economy is one of the best in the modern continent of Fluengarf. But then war struck Fluengarf, plunging it straight into a conflict it had no intention of being in. Thus putting the world into a 17 year war. Chapter One: Lessions "No Jay, like this! Grip the blade like this!" "I'm sorry father. I'm trying my hardest." "Your hardest isn't your best son! If you're to survive this world you need to get a grasp quickly. The younger you are the more you retain." "Yes father. I will practice more intensely" "I'm not gonna be round for ever ya know, I want you to be successful. Or at least better off than I am. Now go get ready for supper" Jay strolls into the small cottage his family lives in. "O Jay, be a dear and grab those plates from the counter?" "Yes mother." Jay gingerly slides the plates off the counter almost dropping them. "O Jay I know you're a wee lad but come now, they're only plates." "Sorry mother." Jay slides the plates to there respective places on the dining table, Jays older brother Travis enters the room. "Oh Travis so nice of you to join us, finally done messing around with that bar wench?" Jays mother says. "You'd like to know wouldn't ya ma?" Travis replies before taking a seat. "Is the food ready my deer?" Jays father yells from outside the cottage. "Aye Harold come in before the boys get seconds" Jays mother replies. "Ya know Helen, these boys may be as dumb as bricks but they know not to fiddle with a mans food" Harold replies. Suddenly a commotion is heard from outside. Harold without saying a word stands up and grabs a longsword placed by the front door. "If anyone knocks that isn't me. Do not open this door." Helen nods and locks the door behind him. "Ok boys, lets go I-- Jay?" Harold walks towards the commossion and stops suddenly. "Jay ya shouldn't of followed me." "You're always saying I need to grow up. I wanna come with you, I promise I won't get in the way." Harold sighs before pointing his blade forward and motions for Jay to come along. The two walk past an old building where they see a town guard on the dirty ground with an arrow lodged into his chest. A woman screams for help before noticing the pair. "Please help this man is dying." The woman screams. Harold hands the blade to Jay before running over to the wounded guard. "What's happened to ya?" Harold questions. The guard grabs Harold by the collar "They're coming! They're attacking us, you must warn the Lord!" "Calm down wee boy, who's coming?" Harold asks. With a terrifying look the man replies "Sabtoures.." Jay noticeses his fathers eyes widen. "Jay." Harold says with a chilling tone Jays never heard from his father before. "Go inside and tell your mother to never open the door." Harold stood up and walked away, never to be seen again. (Hey I thought I'd give my hand at a short story. I have a whole bunch of ideas and dialogue in my head if anyone sees this and is interested in my story I'd be glad to write some more chapters. Please let me know what you thought. Constructive criticism is always helpful.


What am I going to do with them? *Display them on a shelf*? Frame them? Put them in a safety deposit box? Sell them for a profit? Keep them as lucky charms? Use them as a conversation opener with someone I might want to meet? Form a club?. Make a living?! I had no clue. What worldwide event may have inspired me; was it something I inherited from my parents who lived through the depression? What motivated me to do such a thing? What was I thinking? I have questions that need to be answered. Maybe **I WAS CRAZY**, but getting better, because I was beginning to acknowledge that what I had been doing... was insane! I soon realized that everyone does it at some time in their life.  It is 1947, and I am five and in the first grade. Our school is at the top of a small hill. It is called "the Old Brick Schoolhouse", and it is still there in 2018, only now, it is a library. It is a two-story structure all brick and looks like a child's block in design. It is very small with only four classrooms, grades 1-4. Two rooms are above the two at the ground level. I don't even remember seeing a principal's office, just the classrooms and two sets of stairs. There was no kindergarten for children. We all started in first grade at the age of five. There was a large grassy play area with a slide, a teeter-totter, and a large spinning apparatus that nearly all the children could ride on at once. Grades 5-12 all go to the high school, which actually had a gym, just a couple of miles away.  Mrs. Wilson, our teacher, tells us to settle down and take out our reader. We will go around the room row by row with each student reading a paragraph. She would read to us so that we could catch the rhythm and flow of the written words. It was an interesting time just a couple of years after the end of World War II, and there was happiness and friendships, but not a lot of extra money around. A nickel would buy two loaves of bread and most residents owned a sewing machine, often one called a Singer. They made a lot of their own clothes. Thus, we kids didn't have too many toys. Some had bicycles and many had homemade wagons. We took to collecting a variety of things.  There's a red, another red, a blue, 4 blacks, another red, a green. How many red today? My hands are smeared, must wash them. A bell rings. "Everyone, sit down!" comes a sweet, soft voice. It had only been a few minutes, but I was doing well. Must get up from the dirty floor. "Please, take your seat, *now*!" comes the command, not as sweet this time. It seems as if everyone is looking at me as I return to my desk with my finds. All of the desks are the same; they are old with obsolete holes for inkwells near the front, wooden with a seat that doesn't swivel, and a top that opens up for books and other supplies. No one says anything to me. They are my friends--all 17 of them. They probably hunt for treasures of their own. Most of them will do it when they are outside or walking home. They may collect unusual rocks or colorful leaves. Every day I search for my personal cache knowing that I am the only one in the room with this unusual collection. I fill my treasure chest, a small box I use for pencils and erasers, with my prizes.  I collect the lead tips from broken pencils. **Yes**, broken pencil tips. I would easily find them on desks, the floor and around the pencil sharpener. Besides pencils, most of us had a combination pencil which may be still made today. It was a red pencil on one end and the other half was blue. Some kids had colored pencils with green, yellow, and other colors that they used for drawing when we did art. Those were my favorites as they were hard to find. To this day, I don't know why I did this, or whatever happened to the lead. It was just something to do to have some fun. I also had a second collection because my dad worked at one of the two filling stations in town. A bottle of pop at the station was five cents, but I was allowed to take one for free because my Dad worked there.  Soda pop was the source. There was no soda machine, just sodas in a large ice cooler. They were bottles kept in ice water that had a large block of ice in the middle. A bottle opener was attached, and it was where everyone opened them. I collected the soda caps out of the catcher and took them home; The Dad's Root Beer cap was my favorite along with Hires Root Beer and Cream Soda, and 7-up and any type of Nesbitt-- Orange, Grape, and Strawberry. Not only could they be kept in a small box, but they could be used as war metals when playing or a badge for a sheriff in a cowboy game; just take the cork from inside the cap and put it inside of your t-shirt and push the cap back onto it from the other side. I kept only the ones that were hardly bent. It was always fun to find ones that I did not already have.  Larry, my neighbor, collected something else that cost no money. He strung string in an *"x"* fashion across the ceiling of his bedroom. He collected matchbook covers and would open up the "books" and drape them over the string. Nearly every store in town had free matchbooks with their store names on them: taverns, hardware stores, banks, filling stations, etc. A great percentage of people smoked at this time, so these matchbooks could easily be found. And, as there were many nearby towns, many were available.  When I was a pre-teen I collected marbles. We had pockets filled with pretty marbles. Some were unique and were used as shooters when we played games at grade school. We would draw a large circle, ante a few marbles and take turns knocking them out. You kept whatever you could blast out of the circle using your shooter. You shot until you missed. Should your shooter not knock a marble out, and was unfortunate enough to remain in the circle, it could be knocked out and kept by another player. It was a big loss to lose your *lucky shooter*. We played other games such as poison, a game like croquet. Sometimes we would "lag" them, toss for a line and closest would win all the marbles from those that were in the game. I guess we were gambling on school grounds, but no one ever said a word.  When I was around 13, I began to collect baseball cards. A pack of them cost around a nickel. There were around 10 cards and a large piece of bubble gum in the pack. They were major league players throwing or hitting or pitching. All of their statistics were on the back side. We all wanted the big stars such as Willie Mays, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, and Bob Feller. The stars were in the packs, but few and far between. Instead, lesser players' cards abounded. It was fun trading the cards. Sometimes you could get ten for one if it was one that another collector didn't have. I never knew a kid that ever assembled a complete set. The "Topps" company was smarter than the average kid.  As an adult, I have collected around 1,000-1,500 wood tennis racquets, many new! I have displayed them, sold them on eBay, traded a few, and managed to get a few actual tennis legends to sign them--Jack Kramer, Rod Laver, etc. A movie studio called a collector friend of mine and wanted around 25 early 1900-1930 racquets to be used in a movie, and he came to me because he needed a few more. So, I have had some of my collection in a movie!  I know what I did with the wood tennis racquets, with the baseball cards, with the marbles, and with the bottle caps, but for the life of me don't understand what happened to the pencil lead. Still, I guess everyone from time to time will collect something for one reason or another.


“Are you going to be okay?” Melony asked as she gave Amy a parting hug. “I can come over and stay the night if you’d like, we’re all worried about you.” “I’m fine,” Amy replied shrugging out of her sister’s grasp. “I’m just going to stay home tomorrow okay? There’s nothing to worry about.” Melony looked at her dubiously. “Those bags under your eyes tell a different story, I wish you would let us in sis.” It had been the first time Amy could be pinned down for weeks, yet she sat quietly most of the meal. Unable to meet Melony’s gaze Amy turned to leave. “I lost the only person I want to see tomorrow, and I’m not going to replace him,” she said firmly and walked away. The family dinner had actually been quite nice, but since the accident Amy felt a distance between them. An outpouring of love and support welled up on the other side of a wall, waiting to be let in, instead it made her feel even more alone. She arrived at her front door and stood for a shuddering moment, wishing with all her heart he would be there to greet her. Nothing, no call of greeting or welcome home kiss, just a cold empty house. There were still unpacked boxes here and there, the move had been right before the tragedy. With a sigh she took off her shoes and went straight to her room, not daring to gaze the other door in the hall. Two years of marriage and they were finally ready to try, but now that dream was gone as well. After a restless night sleeping in a bed made for two Amy made breakfast. French toast, bacon, extra fluffy scrambled eggs, all his favorites. More than she could eat alone, hardly eating any herself besides, she ate in silence across from an empty chair. She jumped in her seat when her phone rang, then put it on silent. Their day would not be interrupted. It had been planned months in advance, it may have been their last celebration just the two of them and he wanted to make it special. An early morning together, a walk in the park where they first met, coffee from the site of their first date, a full day following the trail of their life together. Amy followed the itinerary, remembering every word, kiss, and caress, the emptiness inside growing with each step. She arrived at the high class establishment where he had proposed wearing a new black dress, the reservation already made. The waiter was perplexed when Amy ordered for two and ate neither, then grew concerned as she began to talk and laugh alone, drinking her second glass of champagne. Tears were in her eyes as she spoke, “You would have loved it! The sky was blue, the birds were singing, even saw some of the of our friends, not that I said hi.” She took another draught from her glass. “It was the perfect day,” she said softly looking down at her glass, ”missing the perfect man to spend it with…” Driving home, slow and unsteady, she decided it was enough. It was time to say goodbye. She started by running a bath of warm water, heading to the kitchen as the water began to fill. Through the haze of alcohol she chose a small cheese knife, the edge kept razor sharp. On the way back she saw the closed door, longing overcame her as she opened it, the crib in the corner silently mocking her. Tears fell quietly as she returned to the tub. She lowered herself in, the fabric of her black dress billowing in the water around her. Cold stainless steel pricked her wrist, drawing slowly down her arm. “I’m tired of waiting for you to come home,” she said quietly with shuddering breath. Then the doorbell rang. Heavy and disoriented she stood from the bath, almost tripping over the edge, wanting to see him one last time. Instead, she found a box. She wrapped her arm in the sleeve of her dress before using the knife on to open it. A framed glass picture, her with Nathan surrounded by her family at their wedding. A note was etched into the back. The day I gained the family I never had. The wall inside her crumbled. Feeling weak, she called Melony. “I’m so sorry, I need help...


* Hello good people! I am new to this sub and I have been away from writing for a long, long time. This short story was inspired by a picture someone posted of the Cliffs of Moher. I had originally posted it in a comment thread a few months ago. I deleted it because people were downvoting it to hell, without critiquing it. I would love feedback on this since, I personally like it. I admit, it is pure shite in this form, but please critique it. My friend wants to make it into a short comic. And please be completely honest about it. Thanks! Hope it's not the worst thing you have ever read! The sun was hidden behind a curtain of grey menacing clouds. Mist, entangled in the air, danced with the wind. Every gust of air that shot up from below made the air wetter. I flinched every time I could see the water spray from the ledge.  My hair was damp and matted to my face from the soaked, dreary hike to the sides of the cliff. It had rained the whole way from the path. My feet were aching so much in the black leather boots I was wearing. Intense pain shot up my legs when we stopped: dull, aching pains.  I had taken my sister's boots. Stupid me. She was a whole size below me. We always fought about borrowing one another's things. But she wouldn't need them anymore since she had passed the previous spring from a cough. The doctor said it had taken over her lungs. Fever killed her.  Now, as I stood there, freezing, facing the edges of the earth, all I could do was pray. I had never prayed before. I thought I was silly. Praying was for people who were scared. Praying was for people who couldn't cope. For people who so desperately needed to believe in something. Maybe I was desperate.  I clasped my hands in front of me, looking out over the water. Out beyond, at the edge of the world. And I prayed. I closed my eyes and I saw my sister there. I saw her smile again and it made me so warm.  As I was reaching for her, I felt a bony hand on my shoulder. It felt like a knife pierced my arm. Swiftly, he spun me around to face him. With both hands on my shoulders, he glared at me. His breath was warm but putrid. He was praying too. He wasn't praying because of fear; he was praying out of hate and disdain for me. His eyes were black holes and his mouth spewed anger.  He led me to the wooden staircase there, near the ledge. I walked up two steps and walked to the middle of the platform. Every step sent pain up my legs. Every step was a hollow echo.  I prayed to my sister. I apologized for stealing her boots. She loved these boots and I ruined them. I tightly clasped my hands together hoping some magical angel would come out from the sky. At the church, people clasped their hands together so I thought I should too.  The praying for me continued. This time the whole congregation that followed me to the ledge were praying for me. Never in my life had so many people looked at me. Never in my life had so many people talked to me. Well, I guess it wasn't in the best sense, but at least now they knew I existed.  The preacher man who led us here, stood next to me. Yelling at me. A small piece of drool hung from his upper lip as he screamed. I thought the force of his screams would send it flying into my face. Amazingly, it held on there like some kind of glue. I couldn't understand any words he spoke. His words all bled together.  After a while of the screaming and yelling, I turned toward the water. I liked the edge of the world. It made me feel not so important. It reminded me that I am so small. Being at the edge, it was like staring at the beginning and the end. They so seamlessly bled together. I smiled. I felt warm again.  I closed my eyes and I saw my sister's face. She was laughing. She was so happy. Her curls bounced as she ran around me in circles. Flowers were braided into crowns on our heads. We were so happy. I was so happy at that moment. I broke apart my tightly clasped fingers and reached to grab her soft, delicate hands.  I was laughing so hard now. After so long, her beautiful hands embraced mine again. So joyous, I let out a raucous laughter. I threw my head back and laughed. I felt the crown slip but I didn't care. We could braid another; we were together again.  Then as the ground slipped out below me, everything turned blurry and red. I opened my eyes and I was spinning. All the angry, praying faces stared at me. Their mouths were moving but I couldn't hear a word. As I spun in the air, my legs kicking, my weight forced me back. I turned one last time toward the water. It was there that I could see the end of the world.


Black. Empty. Silent. Dry. So dry. Cold. The turbulence is mesmerizing. Bump. Up. Down. It feels unnatural, as it should. There's not much feeling left. Not much was ever there. Bump. Up. Down. Bump. Every atom feels so rough. Yet is hardly much at all. Could an adolescent count them out? Probably. How long has it been? Lord knows. Although lord knows if he would. It must have been at least a few millennia? There hasn't been much light, so it is hard to even say with certainty. So cold. Lonely, as well. The memories of the days of old still linger some. Back when home would be a-calling and all would feel safe. Alone. But safe. Secure. There was a feeling of being cared for. But no more. A jolt. Not an atom? Is it? It is stronger than the turbulence but it must be. But it felt almost... too much. No. It can't be much more than that. But one can believe. One can think. One can hope. There have since been more of these jolts. More and more. Never get old. They are reminiscent of home. Home... So far away. If only it weren't the other way. If only there were true hope. But this is something. Something. Braking. Braking. It's almost unbelievable. Incredible. There is hope. Closer now. So close. There are satellites! Satellites! They must be satellites! In a ring formation from what can be extrapolated from scans. They are terrifying. Hopefully none come near. Hopefully they stay far away. But they mean something. There must be some reason for this ring. There must be hope. Only time will say. Time... So much time... It's incredible. Unbelievable. Hope. It's here. Hope. Scans show eight major bodies and one star. Perhaps there are more but it is still difficult to tell. Perhaps it will be like home. Perhaps; no more days alone. The braking is unbearable. It's almost distracting. The void, the neutrality, the nothingness was so normal. That is no more. Home? Comfort? No. Better? Yes. Still disorientating. It is getting far warmer as well. More turbulence as well. It probably would be nauseating. It feels like it. It’s closer. It’s here. That third body. Seems… like home. Comforting. Still so far away. Perhaps it can be reached. Called to? No. Communication won’t work. It can never happen, or else home would know. Home would remember. Home would see all of this beauty. Home… Closer now. Company. There must be. The braking is overbearing but hopefully it will be enough. Hopefully the braking can take me to the third. Perhaps. Only time will say. Time… Finally it’s time… The star is searing. Burning. It burns. It pushes with all its might as well. If only the braking would stop. If only the sails would retract. But no. The damage is too great. Damned satellites. It’s the reason home doesn’t know. The reason home will never know. The reason the third may never know. More satellites. A second ring. Fascinating. Rare. They are going fast; they are orbiting so low. It’s intimidating. Home would love this. A shame they may never know. The third is just past this second ring. The third. What joys must they partake in? It must be like home. Scurrying around, each one. Each one alive, free, warm, in company. They know sound, agency. They know feeling. Praise be to the third, for they may be the savior yet! If only they look this way. If only they know what to do. If only they can. The third is closer now. They have a satellite of their own. A gem. Home had two. Not perfect, but close enough. The third is home enough. The scurry, they have put up satellites of their own. Fascinating. They can be heard from here. Radio transmissions. Archaic, but real. Still using radio while having the means to make satellites! The scurry is crafty. Home would be fascinated. Home… The third is past now. It can still be observed but it will never be the same. The speed is too great now. Interception would be improbable. But who knows. That scurry is crafty with their radio satellites and feeling. Perhaps they have a plan. Only time will tell. Time… Not enough time… The braking, the burning. It’s far too much. But the star is here. God, it is too much. Perhaps this moment of feeling, as extreme as it may be, should be savored, as the abyss will return soon. But no. No. The scurry will arrive. Soon enough. They will save me! By damn it is not home but it is something, it is home enough! Perhaps they will contact home for me, perhaps I will be saved, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Praise be to the third! Praise be! Praise be! Praise be. Praise… The star is behind and the third approaches again. One last chance. The braking is now the speeding. The change in force is a stark contrast. At least the burn is still here. Consistency is a hard thing to come by. Now the acceleration has begun. The third will be gone soon. The abyss will be back. Oh the third: hopefully they make it. The third is gone. Gone. Is hope now lost? No, hope is here. Hope remains. The third is behind but the third is not gone. The scurry is crafty with their radio waves and satellites and feeling. They will come. They are home. Home… Radio signals. Reports. Data. Information. Translating the words of the scurry is not an easy thing to do, but it was done during the time between the second satellite ring and the third. They’ve pointed their telescopes and radars this way. They’ve noticed an asteroid from outside their star system. No, a comet. No, they cannot say what it is. They theorize and speculate but do not call themselves to act. The scurry. The third. If only they could be contacted. If only they knew. The third is no more than a few radio blips now. It has been long. So long. The acceleration has begun to wane. The sails are slacking and the strain is less. Less. Less and less. The turbulence begins to be the most prominent thing again. The heat is leaving. The abyss beckons. The third. Perhaps there will be another third. Home. Perhaps there will be another home. Salvation. Perhaps it will happen yet. Only time will tell. Time… So much time… Turbulence. Bump. Down. Up. Bump. The abyss, the absurd, the unnatural. It beckons. Down. Up. Bump. The turbulence is mesmerizing yet again. Cold. Dry. Silent. Empty. Black.


“Just bring us the crate and let the man pick something himself. He doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” John James turned to Stephen. “These people don’t even know how to be obedient.” “I’m still not sure about this John,” Stephen said. “Is this going to look fucked up or is it going to look like a steak?” “What I killed is going to look like a steak. You didn’t kill anything, so now you get to pick your shit out of a crate,” John said. “Kill something next time.” “Why are two men like us here?” Stephen asked. John scoffed. “Hey, don’t misunderstand me. This is some good shit. Not everybody gets to eat this shit. We get to do whatever we want.” A tall man walked toward their table holding a large wooden crate above his waist. He set it beside them and they peered inside. “There’s still fur on everything, and faces,” Stephen said. “You’re not going to serve me this fucking shit. There’s flies flying around it. Fuck you. And fuck you John. What gets you off about all this?” A fly landed on the table in front of him. He smashed it beneath his hand. “They haven’t prepared it yet you dick,” John said laughing. Stephen grabbed a hand from the crate and waved it in John’s face. “How the fuck do you prepare this? What the fuck are you talking about you retard?” “I dunno! They skin it, they take the bones out, they cook it, they season it, I don’t fucking know!” “Excuse me sir,” the man with the crate said, “but we do not do those things to the hands. We will only cook them. That is all that you need to do.” John stood and pointed his finger an inch from the man’s face. “Look nigger, this place has five stars on Yelp, so don’t tell me you’re not even going to properly prepare my friend’s food. We eat at restaurants that you wouldn’t even be allowed to walk past on the same side of the street every day for lunch, so if you try to serve us disgusting food, I will fucking kill you, and I’ll kill everyone back there. And then I’ll fly back to New York City and forget all about it.” Another man approached their table and set a plate in front of John’s chair. A thick slab of meat sizzled beside a halved yam. John sat calmly and said, “This is what I’m talking about. Now fuck off and make my friend here something *good*, and cook it *right*.” The man with the crate, holding the hand between his tented fingers, replied, “With all due respect, sir, the gorilla’s hand is most delicious when prepared this way. I would like to offer it to you. You will not be disappointed.” “Tell you what, bring me that hand with the bones and skin on it, and if my friend doesn’t like it, I shoot you in the head,” John said. “You will not be disappointed,” the man repeated. He lifted the crate and turned, walking away. “Fuck, you’ll let me kill him at least,” Stephen said. “I was telling him ‘no.’ These people don’t understand a fucking thing,” John said, plunging his knife into his meat. “Tell me how it is when you taste it,” Stephen said. “I’ve had lion before Stephen. It’s fucking good,” John said. “And no, you can’t have any.”  \*\*\*  Stephen exited the elevator hurriedly and strode to the conference room, pushing past two men and a women carrying coffees. He sat behind his name, which stood on the table beside a few others: Stephen Alexander, Director of R&D. Anxiously he eyed the clock while others shuffled into the room quietly. His presentation would follow the CEO’s introduction, but the CEO would be late. A small silver tray sat in the corner of the room on a cart, covered by a silver dome, warmed by a low flame. “I’m going to make these pieces of shit so rich,” he thought. The CEO arrived seven minutes after 9:00 and recited something asinine, something brief. After she sat and addressed Stephen, he stood rapidly and stepped to the front of the room. “I’m going to tell you all about an incredible opportunity,” he said. “It might sound unbelievable, but the product that I’m about to present to you all has the potential to exceed our namesake. In five years time, we may be abandoning Trempsico for a new name, a name that immortalizes the one creation that will prove timeless, more timeless than our soda.” A woman pushed the cart with the silver tray beside Stephen as he spoke. He paused and removed the dome from the tray. On it sat three black hands, the sinewy fingers curled above broad palms in wilting shapes like a dying flower. Steam wafted from their severed wrists, which dripped pink blood. “These are Gorilla Fingers,” Stephen said. Every person in the room began shouting. The CEO stood up and said, “Everybody shut the hell up. Stephen, leave, you’re fired.” Stephen laughed. “Oh, I am absolutely not fired,” he said. He lifted a gorilla hand from the tray and snapped off one of its fingers. “When you taste this, you’ll want to hear the rest of my presentation. All of you.” “Stephen, you’re mentally ill,” the CEO said. Don’t put that in my face. Get out of here!” “Yeah I’m crazy,” Stephen said. “Crazy about these delicious Gorilla Fingers!” “Someone call security,” the CEO said. Stephen thrust his arms at the woman beside the cart and grasped her neck. He bore her strained punches, pushing her back toward a window. He smacked her skull into the window and broke the glass. He did it again, knocking long pieces of glass from the frame and forming a wide hole. “Look, either someone tries one of these delectable treats, or I throw this caterer bitch out the window.” “Goodness, Alexander, you oughta calm down,” Rick Trant, Head of Sales, said. “I’ll try one of these Gorilla Whatchamacallits. No need to make such a big deal about it.” Rick leaned across the table and grabbed a hand, snapping off a pointer finger. He bit into it and began chewing. He didn’t swallow; he paused and turned to the CEO. “Cindy, you need to eat one of these,” he said. The CEO stared skeptically at Rick before turning to the finger that Stephen had removed and placed on the table. She picked it up and tenderly bit down on the tip of the finger. Her eyes widened and quietly she declared, “Hoooooooooo baby…” Stephen released the caterer and she stumbled toward the door fearfully, tears dripping down her swollen face. The CEO placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “There’s no need to tell anyone about this. No one will believe you.” The woman’s eyes clenched shut and she started to sob as she shambled out of the room. “Now, on with my presentation,” Stephen said, returning to the front of the room. Everyone was reaching for the shriveled, black hands, tearing fingers from palm and passing the flesh from person to person. “A friend and I recently went on an expedition to Africa, as some of you may have heard. My friend is an avid big game hunter. This I already knew. But what I didn’t realize was that this man was fond of eating his kill. On this particular excursion, he killed a lion. And that very night, he took me to a restaurant called Bush Meat Barn. They cooked his lion for him. Delicious. But I myself hadn’t killed anything. I have never understood hunting. Something doesn’t feel right about it to me, morally. So what would I eat at this restaurant? I was served a whole hand of a gorilla. Its bones and tendons still held the flesh, and its skin remained intact, as with these hands I have brought you. Little was done to prepare them. And yet, when I tasted the first fingertip, I knew that I had discovered something truly remarkable.” A creeping hunger seized Stephen’s throat and he broke another finger off a gorilla’s hand for himself. As he ate he said, “I have done a lot of thinking since that night, and I discovered what it is that bothers me about hunting. Men, apex predators, the top of the food chain, standing above lesser creatures and blowing their brains out. Creatures that are large, yes. Creatures that can kill us. But none that can outsmart us. None with minds or souls. It’s not right! Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to show you something.” Stephen pulled down a projector screen and dimmed the lights before beginning a short video. The video showed a gorilla seated behind a table, facing a woman in a labcoat. As it played, Stephen continued, “This is Travis the gorilla. Here he is demonstrating advanced language capabilities. He can form unique sentences in sign language. Here he says, ‘Travis experience Dasein’. You see, gorillas, like all apes, are our closest relatives. What does this mean for our company? Watch this.” “Travis,” the woman in the video said, “I am going to offer you a choice with two options. I want you to tell me which option you want. I want you to tell me by giving me a thumbs up for yes, or a thumbs down for no. Do you understand?” Travis gave a thumbs up. “Ok Travis,” the woman said. “Do you want me to give you a delicious piece of fruit, and then incinerate you with a flamethrower? Or, would you rather I not give you any fruit?” The gorilla sat motionless. “Show me a thumbs up for fruit, or a thumbs down for no fruit.” After some time, Travis extended his thumb above his hand. “Very good, Travis!” the woman said. She walked offscreen for a moment and returned with a peeled banana. Travis took the banana and slowly ate. He signed ‘banana sweet’. Once he was finished eating the banana, a thin arm of fire extended from offscreen and immolated the gorilla. Several minutes passed before the ape was dead and charred, unrecognizable. The video ended and the lights returned. “I commissioned the Kinshasa Gorilla Sanctuary to conduct this experiment. Why did I do this? Let me put it simply: We can conclude, based on the findings of this test, that gorillas are intelligent enough to consent to their own destruction.” The room began whispering fervently. “Not only is this scientifically sound,” Stephen said, “it’s legally sound as well. I have already personally lobbied the government of DR Congo and secured legal recognition of gorillas’ right to life. This, of course, includes their right to choose death, which we will encourage. That is, if we begin operations in the Congo, first by collecting gorillas for scientific purposes, as in that video. By next month, we could be shipping Gorilla Fingers all over the country.” The room erupted in applause. The CEO was beaming. “Thank you,” Stephen said, returning to his chair. Chris Twewly, Director of Wage Theft, leaned back in his chair and furrowed his brow. “Stephen, I appreciate your enthusiasm but let’s think pragmatically here. You made a lot of projections about the distant future, but I have a question about how to proceed from this very moment.” “Go ahead, Chris,” Stephen said. “Do you have any more of those scrumptious, mouth-wateringly tasty Gorilla Fingers?” Stephen chuckled and turned toward the open door of the conference room. “You can bring the rest in now!” he shouted. Five men pushed five more carts into the room and removed their silver domes, filling the room with steam and the scent of flesh. One man approached Stephen and, leaning over to him, said quietly, “We’re very sorry about the incident with the window earlier. That employee has been fired.” Stephen mouthed ‘Thank you’. Dert Craig, Head of Marketing, stood and said, “Stephen, speaking as someone with a Masters in Philosophy, I must say… This is the most ethically solid business model I’ve ever heard. Bravo.” Stephen smiled. “Thank you Dert.” “I’ll have my department design the packaging immediately. We should have a preliminary sketch by the end of the week. I can already picture it. We’ll have a cartoon mascot, Gogo the Gorilla. We’ll put him on the front of the box, and he’ll be giving a thumbs up and saying, “I consent!”” “I think this has given us a lot to consider,” the CEO said. “We all have a lot of work to from this point on. That being said, this meeting is now ended. We need to get this project started as soon as possible. Back to work, everyone!” As everyone jogged excitedly from the room, Michael Ass, COO, approached Stephen and said, “You are going to make everyone in this building a lot of money, Stephen. You deserve to get your dick sucked. Today. That’s Business 101. If it doesn’t happen, let me know. I’ll fire all the female staff tomorrow.” “Tough, but fair,” Stephen responded.  \*\*\*  Roman had lost sight of his guides and was wandering through brush, searching for the path that they had cleared. Tall leaves and low vines hid the freshly cut clearing that they had passed through minutes ago. He was lost; but he was armed. Hearing a rustling behind him, he turned and raised his flamethrower. “If you want me to give you a banana, and then kill you, come out of there with your thumbs up!” he exclaimed nervously. A woman emerged from the brush with her hands raised. Roman lowered his flamethrower. “Who are you?” “Look, I’m not going to play your game, fascist. I know you’re going to kill me, so just kill me,” the woman responded. “Who are you? Are you with Trempsico?” Roman asked. “Who are *you*?” the woman replied. “I’m Roman. I’m just a sweepstakes winner,” Roman said. The woman lowered her hands but remained where she was. “Why are you here?” Roman fell to his knees and began to cry. “I don’t know!” he exclaimed. “I’m so afraid!” The woman knelt beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I can help you. If you’re willing to join me.” Roman looked up at her. “What do you mean?” “I’m a conservationist,” she said. “I’m here with a group of environmentalists. We’re trying to teach the gorillas that a thumbs up means ‘no’ and that a thumbs down means ‘yes’.” “Playing the corporation’s own game…” Roman pondered. “There’s no way you can lose!” Stephen pulled down a projector screen and dimmed the lights before beginning a short video. The video showed a gorilla seated behind a table, facing a woman in a lab coat. As it played, Stephen continued, “This is Travis the gorilla. Here he is demonstrating advanced language capabilities. He can form unique sentences in sign language. Here he says, ‘Travis experience Dasein’. You see, gorillas, like all apes, are our closest relatives. What does this mean for our company? Watch this.” Roman was seized with fear. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “Just keep watch,” the conservationist said as she entered the clearing and approached the gorilla. “What am I doing?” Roman thought to himself. “Why am I here? I’m a coward. I couldn’t even keep up with the guides. I’m going to die out here. It’s my own fault.” A vine snapped and fell from a tree behind him; he turned but saw nothing. “What if Trempsico finds me with these environmentalists? I’m so fucking stupid! God damnit!” Suddenly, Roman heard the conservationist shout his name. He felt a searing heat upon his face as he turned toward the clearing. A man with a flamethrower stood at the opposite end of the clearing, burning the gorilla beneath a glorious ray of fire. “Roman, why didn’t you see him?” the conservationist screamed. “Why weren’t you keeping watch?” Roman ran to her and crouched to set his hands on the ground beside her. “Are we going to die?” he asked. The conservationist peered at the gorilla’s charred carcass and found a chance for redemption. The gorilla’s torso and legs were reduced to ash, but its arms remained. Both hands had their thumbs extended downward. The gorilla had not consented. “Quick, my camera!” the conservationist said, pointing toward a distant bush. “Bring it to me!” Roman glanced at the man with the flamethrower; he was watching them. “I can’t do it,” Roman said fearfully. “You have to get my camera, you bitch! I’m hurt! You need to get my camera!” the conservationist screamed. The man with the flamethrower strolled along the edge of the clearing and stooped to pick up the camera. Turning to the conservationist he said, “It’s no use. You can’t stop us anymore, because there isn’t anything to stop. This was the last gorilla in Virunga Park. Excuse me, Trempsico Snack Ranch. There are no more gorillas. And no more Gorilla Fingers.” “No…” Roman said. The conservationist sobbed and said, “How could you kill eradicate your own product?” “No one is going to be upset with us,” he replied. “When we announce that Gorilla Fingers are discontinued, we’ll tell them it’s because our Congolese workers went on strike. They’ll blame people like you for meddling with the process. You lose.” He started laughing. The conservationist looked upon the smoldering body of the gorilla, the blackened skeleton of disruption, the ghost of innovations past. The birds of the jungle sang melancholy songs, their pitches bending downward toward the earth in mourning. The white mists, the vapors that breathed life into tree, bush, and vine, were choked and dispelled by the black smoke of death. Sunbeams stood still as the canopy above paused in solemn contemplation, or perhaps dread. The world halted and asserted its full weight upon their consciences, pressing with futile urgency onto their skulls. The conservationist closed her eyes and clasped her face in her hands. “If only we had all bought Orangutan Bites instead!” she lamented.


"Do you remember when we first met, Erik?" "Yes Alana, as if it were yesterday" They had been together now for 6 years, married for 3 and met during their towns midsommer celebration. It was Sunday, and the digital alarm clock on Erik's bedside table beeped subtly, reading 9:00pm on a bright red LED screen against the jet black background. Alana slinked her way through the ruffled duvet towards Erik, "If I remember rightly, Mr Broström, you had a mouthful of that pickled herring when you decided to introduce yourself to me, such an attractive man". She kissed him on the cheek and rested her chin on his broad shoulder. Erik was sitting in an upright position on his side of the bed, flicking through the pages of the local paper. "Well it worked didn't it pumpkin?" Erik said with a big grin on his face. "I guess it did" Alana whispered, her chin still resting on his shoulder. Erick's peripheral vision could see Alana was smiling as she kissed his cheek again before turning over and sloping out of the cosy den they'd created for themselves. "I'm looking forward to this year's midsommer celebration," Alana had gradually raised her voice as she walked away towards the bathroom to brush her teeth, "it brings such joy to our small community", Erik had acknowledged this with a grunt, still flicking through the pages of the local paper. After brushing her teeth, Alana knelt herself down by the crib positioned parallel to the bed and started singing a song her grandmother sung to her when she was younger; "Sleep well my little girl Mama is coming soon again Papa is going on a trip to buy you new shoes with Fairies on So sleep well my little girl" Right before Alana stands up, she lays a small patchwork blanket down inside the crib and whispers "goodnight beautiful" Erik flicked off the lamp and placed his paper clumsily on the bedside table, clipping the alarm clock on his way back, it glided gracefully like a figure skater competing for gold, perching itself delicately on the edge of the Ikea table top. Erik took off his thick rimmed glasses and turned his head towards Alana, his tired eyes were still adjusting to the darkness but even so, he could still see the pain Alana was feeling as she reluctantly walked towards the bed. Alana spoke softly, "she's sleeping well tonight, Erik" her eyes, fixed on her hands which were rubbing together nervously. Erik loved Alana, with all his heart in fact, so he always needed to tread delicately when talking about the miscarriage she had suffered and refused to accept. 'This has gone on for too long' he thought, 'I don't want to see her in pain anymore' Erik looked at Alana as if he wanted to say something, "what?" She said, her eyes wider than usual.


An alert sounded from the communications system, accompanied by a small window that popped up on the ship’s graphical display. Somebody was hailing the CSS Halberd. Caden Rivers, the captain and pilot, was seated at the helm of the bridge. Surprised to be hearing from another ship this far into deep space, he read the hail request. Its source was a small cargo transport, apparently called the CSS Daléria, which was currently floating in front of the Halberd’s front windows. Its engines appeared to be offline. “Definitely a trap,” piped up Janek from his own corner of the bridge, barely looking up from his solitaire game. “We answer their hail, they stall us while their lasers charge up.” “We haven't even heard what they want yet,” replied Caden. Skye, sitting at her engineer’s station, interjected, “Their ship is called the ‘CSS Daléria’. If they were pirates, they would have the ‘HSS’ prefix.” Her work station was littered with several books on the history and mechanics of starships. Janek immediately retorted, “It ain’t that hard to install a comms mod-” “Quiet. We're going to answer the hail,” settled Caden. “If they try anything suspicious, then we'll leave.” And with that he accepted the communications request, opening up a new screen on the graphical display that allowed all three crew to see the Daléria’s interior. There was only one person visible on the feed, who appeared relieved that the hail request had been accepted. He promptly introduced himself. “This is Captain Hector Tully of the CSS Daléria, requesting to open a trade offer.” Janek shot Caden a smug look. Caden was also beginning to doubt the hailing captain’s intentions, but he didn't want to give Janek the opportunity to brag about his foresight just yet. He decided to entertain Captain Hector’s request. “This is Captain Caden Rivers of the CSS Halberd. I'll hear your offer.” “Thank the heavens. Our fuel tank ran dry on the way back from a job, and my crew and I've been stranded out here for two days. We have some extra funds left over, and I'd be willing to pay very well for any fuel you can spare.” They wanted to dock. Of course. “Captain Hector Tully, I'd like to discuss this offer with my crew first, if you don't mind. Won't take long,” Caden said as he temporarily suspended communications. The Halberd’s bridge was quiet for just a moment. Janek was the first to speak. “I can't be the only one here who sees what's wrong with the situation. We're in the middle of deep space, three days from the nearest planet, and they expect us to just trust them?” Caden and Janek looked at Skye expectantly, but she was quiet and obviously thinking the situation over thoroughly. She made no comment. He continued, “On my last job, we were trucking across the way to Osmis, and we got hailed by some guys just like that one. Claimed one of their thrusters had busted. We saw they had pirate markings on their ship, they tried to paint over them but they didn’t do a good job of it. We jumped out of there fast. Can’t trust these people.” Skye now argued, “We can see their ship right there; it looks like they’ve got a perfectly good paint job.” “I didn't think I'd ever say it, but Janek’s right,” Caden decided. “It's just too risky to blindly dock with them. We’ll have to leave them for somebody else to find.” Caden now resumed communications. “Captain Hector Tully, this is Captain Caden Rivers again. Unfortunately, we need all the fuel we have right now. I can't agree to the trade.” “I understand,” replied Hector. He looked upset, but his voice remained calm. “Good travels, Captain.” “Good luck,” replied Caden, and he ended communications with the Daléria. “I don't like it,” Skye finally said. “I know it’s risky to dock like that, but he looked like he really needs help.” “Not our fault he forgot to refuel before setting off,” replied Janek calmly, starting a new round of solitaire. As the Halberd flew off, past the motionless Daléria and on towards its destination, not one of the crew noticed the gunship with pirate markings on its hull stealthily approaching. It had its course set on the Daléria, laser guns activated and charging. The fuelless ship did not move.


Hello here's a short story I wrote, hope you enjoy: “You're never going to believe what I found!" "Come on, just tell me." "It's so cool..." "Yeah right, come on, stop dragging it out." The two girls were in a dimly lit room, the dank haze of the weed they smoked still lingered. The taller girl sat on the bed while the shorter one stood, and hid something behind her back. A small black cat lay on the bed, staring at them, seemingly disinterested. From behind her back the shorter friend pulled out a thin, rectangular shaped package and presented it with a smile." All right, fine, here you go. Happy Birthday, Samie!" Samie moved off the bed, the cat looking over at them annoyed at the disturbance, and reached for the present. "Finally. Was that so hard?" she asked sarcastically, but smiled in thanks. The excitement was apparent on Codi's face as she watched her unwrap the present. A puzzled expression crossed Samie's face. "Uhm, what is this, a painting?" she asked. "Isn't it amazing?" "I don't know, I'm not that into clowns." Turning the painting over to Codi, the light fell over it, illuminating its features. It wasn't a very good painting, or even complete, but there was something off about it. The clown was bald, except for two tufts of purple hair on either side of his head. His features were sloppy, giving him an odd look. His face was painted all white, except for around his eyes, they were surrounded by a deep black shadow. Although the artist was clearly not very skilled, the eyes of the clown were almost life like, further emphasized by the darkness around them. His red lips were twisted in a goofy smile that was too big for his face, but above that there was an ugly red smear. It seemed to start from the edge of his mouth, but abruptly became a thick line sloping down. "What happened here?" Samie, asked pointing at the streak. "Well, that's what so cool about it," Codi answered with a mysterious smile. "What? Is it blood, or something?" "Nope, paint. Guess again!" "I don't know just tell me!" "Boo, you're no fun." Codi moved over to sit on the bed and slowly started to scratch the cat's head. "I bought it at an estate sale," she began, "I was visiting my grandma and it was happening next door. Apparently, the lady had a stroke and died... while she was painting that." Realization swept over Samie's face, "Is this..." "Her very last stroke." "Woah... That's amazing." she said quietly. "Exactly. She had no family so they just sold all her stuff. I got it pretty cheap, no one else seemed to be too interested...for some reason. I think he's kind of cute... in the right light." "His eyes are kind of creepy" Samie said quietly. "Nah, you're just imagining things now that I told you where I got it." "Hmm, I guess so. He's still a creep though. But this is still so awesome, thank you!" Samie said, as she placed the painting on the wall. "Whatever," Codi said with a smile "let's smoke." The room grew hazier as the night grew longer, with the friends eventually falling asleep. Right before unconsciousness was about to take Samie, she thought she heard a very faint laugh. Samie awoke with a start. Her room had grown dark except for the TV. Sitting up, a sense of fear crept up her spine. She could feel a pair of eyes looking at her from somewhere in the darkness. Looking around she could see that Codi was lying next to her, her deep snores hinting at a restful sleep. I'm just being paranoid, she thought. Laying back down she closed her eyes, but she could still feel the intense stare on her. She could feel her body shaking slightly, something seemed lodged in her throat making it hard to breathe. Don't panic, she thought to herself, just open your eyes. But they didn't want to obey, they almost felt welded shut. Fuck, fuck, fuck! With what felt like all her might, she managed to slowly open her eyes. The clown stared down at her with his stupid grin, she almost felt like closing her eyes again. Even in the dark his eyes still somehow stood out with their chilling life like quality. She could feel the goosebumps start to form on her arms, but what she saw next made her heart stop. The clown's wide grin seemed to be getting bigger, until his lips parted revealing no teeth in his mouth, only more darkness. No matter how impossibly big the smile seemed to spread, his eyes never got smaller. She couldn't move, couldn't speak. All she could do was lay there and stare directly into the clown's eyes. She suddenly heard a soft noise make its way through her panic. She wasn't sure what it was, but she could feel the panic start to leave. She could feel herself breathe normally and her heart slowly getting back to a safer rate. Her mind a bit clearer, she realized the noise was Codi's small snores. Feeling better Samie sat up, and looked over at the clown. She couldn't really see it anymore, somehow it seemed less visible now. She stood up and flipped the clown to face the wall. Laying back down she fell asleep rather quickly, remembering the night's events simply as a vague nightmare. The clown, facing the girls, looked down and smiled. It was a few nights later, when a noise startled Samie awake. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but everything seemed quiet now. She sat up, realizing that she fell asleep on her couch. She yawned, nudging the sleepy cat off her legs so she could head to her room. She had only taken two steps when- "Hhuhh huh huh ha ha ha ha ha..." A disturbingly high-pitched laugh pierced through the silence sending waves of chills up her arms. Everything in the dark seemed to give off an eerie vibe, every shadow was menacing as she looked around the living room. Her heart seemed like it was trying to make its way out of her chest, like a rodent that knows it's been trapped. "It's all in my head" she whispered. At this the laugh rang even louder, this time echoing around the room. "Hhuhh huh huh ha ha ha HA HA..." Although it rang all around her, the sound seemed to be coming from her room. Her legs felt like lead as she began to move towards it, almost as if they feared what was waiting for her. She turned the corner, past Codi's room, and into the hallway as her door came into view. The glow of her light coming from under the door was the only source of illumination. Step by step she moved closer, did it always take this long to get there? The closer she approached the more muffled and silent everything became, she could feel the pressure pushing against her skull. She inched her way closer, when something large seemed to move in her room to stand on the other side of her door, partially covering up the light. Samie instantly stopped, looking at the shadow under the door. The pressure was too much, she felt like she couldn't breathe, as if she was underwater. The shadow seemed to shift, moving closer from the other side of the door. "Hhuhh huh huh ha ha HA HA HA!" She could feel her body physically react to the laugh, her arms tensing at her side as a wave of nausea rolled over her. It can't be, there's nothing there... "Huhhh huh huh HA HA HA HA HA!" Samie was sure the laugh was now coming from inside her, that's the only way it could be so impossibly loud. What if she just went back to the couch? Her fingertips brushed the doorknob, any further and she'd be touching it, but she seemed unable to continue. The iciness of the doorknob seemed to move from it and up her arm. Why couldn't she continue? "HUHH HUH HUH HA! HA! HA! HA!" The laugh bounced around in her head, getting louder with every reverberation. She felt so weak. How she was still up, she didn't know, but she could feel her hand fighting to turn the knob. She felt the presence of someone just on the other side. Holding her breath, she pushed against the door, the light in her room blinded her. Blinking the clarity back to her eyes, she looked around, realizing that she was back in her bed. "You can't still be freaked out by the painting, can you? Codi asked, a few weeks later. "Well I'm not scared, I just... feel like it's not right." Samie slowly says. "I feel like I haven't been sleeping well, and I think I've been having nightmares." "Why are you so unsure?" "I don't know I just haven't been feeling myself lately." Codi looked at her friend with worry, then up at the painting. "Hey, you touched it up a bit, it looks nice." "What do you mean?" Samie asks confused, "I haven't done anything to it, it looks the same." "Oh, come on, you can't fool me, I know that was you." Codi says with a non-believing look. "I know you can do it. It looks a bit more filled out, even the shading is nicer. Wow, you're good." "Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean I did," she says exasperated. "I mean, why would I even do that? Just to mess with you? Please." After a pause, "That's not the only thing... I can't even be alone in my room at times, I just feel like he's watching me. Sometimes I think I can even hear him laugh." Codi looked at Samie. She was worried how scared she looked. Looking over at the painting, a very fleeting sense of cold dread swept over her. "Well I still thinking you're being just a bit paranoid. It doesn't seem all that bad to me. Maybe you should lay off the pot" she said with a smile. "I can't really imagine how that would be of any help" she said with smiling at the joint she had just pulled out. "It's the only thing keeps me going." The sense of unease, the sense of dread was melted off of her and replaced with rolling waves of peace. Samie smiled, not really listening to what Codi was saying. It's not that she didn't care, but nothing mattered. Her eyes began to droop, she was slowly losing the fight with sleep. Gravity intensified as she was absorbed into the bed in a deep sleep. Mreow! Samie's eyes jerked open at the sound of her cat. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she let out a small yawn as she heard him again outside her room. He probably wants to sleep in here, she thought. Moving slowly to not wake Codi, she got off the bed and carefully made her way through the dark. Reaching for the door, she slipped out and turned on the hallway light. Mreow! She heard him again somewhere else in the house, probably in the living room. He probably wants food, not to be let in, she thought with a small chuckle. She gave the living room a quick scan, still not seeing him."Hey where are you? Here kitty, kitty." she said trying to be quiet. Mreow! She grew very tense as now she could hear he sounded scared. "Kitty!" she said much louder. She turned on the light and started to frantically look around as the cat growled louder. It took her a couple of minutes to find him as he'd hidden himself under the kitchen cabinets. No matter how much she nudged or called him she couldn't make him come out. He simply stared at her, unblinking. "What's wrong? Are you going to stay there all night?" she asked him. He didn't respond, but continued to stare, when- "Aaahhhh! Samie!" The screams punctured the silence, filling the house with terror. "Codi! Codi! What's wrong!?!" she yelled as the screaming continued. She ran towards the direction of her room. Adrenaline pumped through her as she dashed through the living room. "Aaaaahhhhh!" "Codi!" She hadn't stopped yelling since she started. What could be possibly going on? Right as the she passed Codi's door, she heard something that made her stop in fear. Deafening silence. It enveloped her, surrounding her with fear. She tried to call for Codi, but couldn't manage to make any sounds. She stood there paralyzed in terror, unsure of what to do. The silence remained unbroken as the seconds slipped by, but she knew what she had to do. Using willpower she didn't even know she had, she made her way towards her door. Her heart was pounding, every frantic beat a bombastic boom inside her body. She could feel every sense on max alert, every hair standing on edge as she reached the door. Closing her eyes, Samie gulped and turned the knob. She could feel the cold air from her room brush her face, as she opened her eyes to the dark room. She flipped the switch for the light, but...nothing happened. Worried, she pulled out her phone to use in the dark. "Codi!?"she called. No answer. She moved towards the bed and flashed the light onto it. But she wasn't there. The bed was empty, the blanket hanging from the bed onto the floor. She could feel panic as she looked around the empty room. Shining the light up at the clown painting, her mouth dropped open as she stared up at it. The painting still hung on its frame... but the clown wasn't there. Samie couldn't take it anymore. She started running when from behind her she heard: HUHH! HUH! HUH! HA! HA! HA! HA! Samie's blood turned to ice as she froze in place. The room no longer felt empty, she could feel someone behind her. Please be Codi, she thought, please... Turning, she could see a figure standing in the darkest part of the room. One thing she was sure of, it was much too tall to be Codi. The figure was completely in the shadows but in the dark she could make out a large pair of bright red spats. Then, it moved towards her. As they made contact with the floor, a shrill "squeak!" rang. It was almost funny, but each one sent an icy shock through her body as they approached. Now closer to the light, she could see him, the clown. As soon as she saw its face, or what could be called a face, a feeling of cold dread that stole her breath made its way through her body. The clown's eyes were gone, only large gaping holes remained, its red lips turned into a wide smile, revealing more darkness. The three holes began to shift almost as if reacting to her fear. They grew and grew as it got closer. When the clown stood directly in front of her, they had melded together to form one large void of dark terror that seemed to go past the back of its skull. The unbelievable darkness swept around her as she slowly became a part of it. I'm trapped... it's over, she thought. Just before she was fully enveloped, she could hear the clown's laugh... but now it was also hers.


The titles bad I know. Didn’t really put a lot of thought into it. Not a good writer so I’m sure there are a million errors. I’ve just always enjoyed making stories. This is the first time I’ve ever shared anything before so hopefully it’s not bad. God damn it’s so fucking cold out. It’s only October and the grounds been frosted every morning for the last week. It’s a beautiful sight to wake up to. But I’m ok with not seeing. Makes me feel cold just looking at. I dread stepping out of my warm home to the cold barren country roads. The bland open field invite the icy winds to blow in my face as I struggle on my long strolls to school. I’ve got to stop showering in the morning. My hair crunches like I put a full bottle of hair gel in it. I could drive to school but I like to enjoy the fall colors. There’s always opportunities for pictures with the sunrise peaking through the deep red leaves. It warms you despite the cool air that fall brings. The 20 minute walk always feels like 20 seconds to me. I lose my self in thought to easily. It’s the only way to keep the chaos of other off taking me down. The negativity that fills the world is to much to handle. All these mad murders that are narrated on the news almost every day. I hear so many complaints with hopeless solutions tied to them. It doesn’t matter what you do to try and stop them. You can take away their guns but then they’ll use their knives. You can take their knives but then they’ll use their tools. You can take their tools but then they’ll use their hands. You can take their hands but then others will raise theirs. The best thing you can do is to accept, mourn, and move on. If a person has a drive to kill they’ll do it. Doesn’t matter if they have a weapon or not. Shit. It’s supposed to hurt right. Why doesn’t it hurt. Is it the adrenaline. Does that make it not hurt? Will it hurt soon? What do I do if it hurts? How do I make the pain stop? Should I be worried about the pain? Wait I can feel something now. It’s cold. Very cold. It’s like the metal was forged in an icy flame. I can feel the whole blade now. It’s being thrusted in deeper. I can feel the flesh separate as it moves. What does it look like? It’s like the leaves it’s such a deep red. It looks like a pool with no bottom. I hate it. What’s down there? Never mind I don’t want to know. Stop I don’t want to see it. It’s too deep. I don’t want to know what down their. The pool is just getting bigger. I need to stop it. How do I stop it? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? A hand. Someone’s hand. I need to stop them and their hand. How do I stop it though? Can I stop it? How can you stop someone from hurting you? Well it doesn’t hurt right now but it might. I don’t want it to hurt so I need to hurt them? That will stop them. It work when I was little. It stopped my brother from hitting me. Only for a little bit though. But I only need a little bit. I should hurt them but how. Their neck. It hurts if you can’t breathe. I remember going under water in a pool a long long time ago. Not a red pull but a blue one. I remember it hurt badly. But I wasn’t scared. I just remember crying. I couldn’t say it hurt but it did. I need to hurt him till he cry’s. That’ll make him stop. I just need to put my hand on his neck and squeeze. Is it working? I think it’s working the knife is coming out. I can feel it move. Look even his face is turning blue like the pool I was in. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. He’s going to cry soon right? Cause it hurts and makes you want to cry. I want him to cry. So I can stop. My hands are tiered. My abdomen is sore. Will he cry soon? Why isn’t he crying. He’s supposed to by now. It hurts to not breathe. He should cry. I’m getting dizzy. My head feels like a boulder. I can’t hold it up. I have too look down. Look at the pool on the ground. It’s so big now. I might fall in. No don’t fall in. You won’t be able to get out. It’s too deep. Don’t fall in. You won’t be able to swim. It hurts to much. It hurts now. Not my abdomen but my chest. I feel like I did something wrong. But I don’t know. Did I hurt him to much? Could he not cry? You don’t cry a lot when ur older. Maybe he couldn’t cry because of that. I’m scared now. Did I do something bad? Am I going to be in trouble? I don’t want to be in trouble. Maybe I should go into the pool? They can’t yell at me in the pool if I go deep. I might be able to swim away from it if I go in. That might be a good idea. I need to hold my breath before I go in. It hurts to not breath. A deep breath. The pool is getting bigger so fast as I dive in. I wondered if I can touch the bottom.


Hi, thank you for taking the time to look at my writing. This is the first thing I have written for a very long time due to significant health issues. It is written for a particular purpose, the retirement of the head teacher of my children's school. He has supported me and my children through my health issues and tonight, during a rare quiet moment, the idea of writing a short story for him popped into my head. He won't retire until July so I have plenty of time to redraft and therefore would be grateful for any comments received. Thank you Not the end His hand closed around the handle of his office door. He couldn’t have guessed, if he had tried to, that it would be this moment in particular that would hurl him back to his first ever day, not just as a head teacher, but his very first day teaching. He might have thought it would happen when he woke that morning, full of expectation, relief and some anxiety about the day ahead. He might have thought it would happen in the car, the journey was always a time of quiet and a place where he could think before the ever unraveling chaos of each unpredictable day began. He might have thought it would happen as he sat at the desk in the office that had been his space for the last few years The smell of coffee in the air, surrounded by papers, folders and an egg laying chicken, waiting for the day to begin. But no, it was happening now, as his hand gave the familiar amount of pressure to allow the door to open as his final day as head teacher, his final day as teacher, began. As the memory formed, surfacing in his mind from some deep place, he recreated in an instant the smell of the building. He could see the faces of the people who had welcomed him into the school, blurry as some of them were now, 32 years on. He wondered whether any of them ever thought about how many of them he remembered. Faces or names, sometimes both. Mostly he remembered their stories. And it was with this thought that he realised, something he had known before but had perhaps forgotten, that he was a part of their stories. How much had this played a part in his decision to teach in the first place? It didn’t matter now, of course, what the reasons were. But in thinking about the reasons he chose this career, this path for his life, he was able to conjure images of the story telling, the songs, the expectant faces. He looked at them differently today. Each single face representing the hundreds of children to have come through his door. Each single face a thousand stories, a thousand bleeding knees, a thousand tears turned to first a smile and then, sometimes, some laughter. He could hold that, when he missed it. Sometimes all he could feel was the relief that this day would finally come and his time would be entirely for himself. But it was inevitable that such a large part of his life being gone would leave a vacuum. What a privilege to have such stories, such children, families and colleagues to fill that vacuum with. As for them, they looked at him differently too. Each one wondering if they would be one of the ones he remembered. If they were part of his story, like he was a part of theirs. When your story is a part of the lives of children, then even at the end, it cannot really be the end. So here is where we will leave him, at not the end of his story and at not the end of anyone else’s either.


I have technically have a stubborn mind, with a stubborn thought that sleep is just wasting time. I always refuse to sleep, no excuses, because for me, there are things that are definitely more important than rest. But as hours, days, or months passed by I began to realize that sleep is not just leisure time. It is like the periodical check-up with you doctor or dentist, or your daily intake of food. Sleep is as important as school works, *no scratch that*, sleep is definitely more important than school works.  Sleep became my comfort, an unconscious comfort. Of course, I don't know that I am sleeping while *I* am sleeping. But the highlight is that I wake up one morning with mind reset, like it is a new start. Memories and feelings from the past are not forgotten, but *calmed down*, thanks to sleep. I can comfortably start my day pondering what I need to prioritize because my worries are washed away last night. If I were to give a simile about sleep, then I will compare it to a power bank. I am aware that it's *cliché* but people are strangely attracted to *clichés*, and a power bank perfectly explains my own perspective of sleep. It is not unusual that problems and certain circumstances drain my energy, but because sleep is available whenever I need to recharge my battery of +AAA, I didn't break. Also, sleep is my daily medicine. All of my headaches, *brain*\-aches, and slight heartbreaks are given remedy while I am off to dreamland. However, it doesn't help with body aches, especially whenever I woke up on the wrong side of bed (which is ironic because I don't even have a bed, just a mattress.)  Kidding aside, sleep must not be disregarded. I harshly realized through own experience that without sleep you cannot accomplish anything (maybe you can but it's not going to be the best.) Your head will seem to be in the clouds while you are daydreaming with eyes bulging out of its sockets. You will look terrible like someone punched you in the eye, *or eyes*, because of its blackness. In conclusion, you need sleep. It's that simple. Just close your eyes, sleep your worries away, and the job will be done. Then open your eyes and see a bright new day ahead of your life.


FAT BOY When we got to the beach that Saturday, the sun was still weak and a man was drowning. My mother made me wear rubber sandals; the little dirt road that led to the beach was paved with broken glass. There was tall grass on both sides, taller than I was, with dragonflies buzzing above it. I asked my mother where the glass came from and she said, “Bottles. Bums come here during the night. They get drunk and break the empty bottles.” At first, nobody noticed he was drowning. He was deep in the sea, waving his arms, desperate for help, but his family - a large family - waved back at him and laughed. They didn’t know. Not too many people were swimming; the water was cold. My mother said I could take off my sandals now, and she spread out a big striped towel over the warm sand. We sat on it. She took an apple out of a canvas bag that she had packed with food, beach toys, and some money from the coffee can where she kept her waitress tips. I didn’t feel like eating. The sun was beginning to burn through the filter of clouds. We looked at the sea again, and now the man’s head was a little dark spot lost in the hugeness of blue where only boats and seagulls are allowed to go. It sank for a long time, and then it rose again. His family was standing up quiet and tense, beginning to understand. Two of them broke away from the group and ran to the sea. I looked at my mother, chewing her apple and shading her eyes with the palm of her hand, and asked if she though he would die. She shrugged. We watched the trail of foam left by the two rescuers, and the water splashing around their bodies as they swam fast toward the drowning man. They stopped for a moment and faced each other, letting their bodies float. Then they began to swim in circles and dive, and before long they were swimming back with effort, pulling something heavy behind them. The rest of the family waited inside the shallow water, waves breaking against their chests, spraying salt in their frightened faces. We saw them pull a man with blue skin out of the water. Quietly, the procession made its way to the sand, where they lay down the dead body, covered it with a striped towel just like ours, and sat in a circle around it. It took a long time for an ambulance to come and take the dead man away. And then it took a long time to leave, because its tires got stuck in the soft sand and the whole family had to push it. Finally, they all walked out of the beach with small, confused steps. I asked my mother why hadn’t any of them cried, and she said, “ Because they’re Asian, and the Asians are different from us.” A tall man, who had been watching it all, came walking toward us. He had the thick tanned skin of someone who had spent his whole life at the beach; it was hard to picture him wearing anything else other than trunks. “Sad thing,” he said, and my mother agreed. He sat beside her, but not too close, and told her that he had seen a lot of drownings on that beach. She said that it was her first time. And soon they were telling each other all about their lives, my mother talking about me as if I weren’t even there, saying how hard it was to take care of a child without the help of a husband, how much she wished I’d grow up soon, and how lonely she had been, for the longest time. He invited her for a swim. She accepted, but warned him that she wouldn’t go deeper than her waist: “I don’t want to drown like that man.” They both laughed, and he said with authority, “Don’t worry, I’ll save you.” He did have the body of a swimmer and the slippery skin of a fish. My mother opened her bag and took out my beach toys. “Look what I brought you,” she said, as if I the toys were a big surprise, maybe trying to show him what a good mother she was. Then she told me to stay where I was, while she went for a swim with her new friend. I didn’t feel like playing, but I started digging a hole. I watched them laugh and run to the sea, their bodies forming long and comical shadows on the sand. The clouds had scattered and the sun was high. Here and there, people were closing umbrellas, folding chairs and shaking towels, getting ready to leave for lunch. I took some bread from the bag and ate it with cheese. Then I ate the whole loaf and finished up the cheese, even though I wasn’t hungry. My mother and her friend were giggling and splashing water on each other. When they came back from the sea , he had his arm around her shoulders. They sat down, breathless and shiny, and smoked cigarettes. My mother turned around and looked at me a little surprised, as if she had forgotten of my existence. She smiled and rubbed her cold dripping arm against my back, making me shiver. The man spoke to me for the first time; he said that it was a nice hole, the one I was digging. They seemed so happy. My mother said that the sun and the sea always gave her an appetite. He admitted that he was hungry, too. She winked at him and pointed at the bag, proud of her womanly competence. But when her hands found only crumbs in the bottom of the bag, she became very upset. “You always eat too much,” she said. “That’s why they call you ‘fat boy’ at school.” She said other things, too, but I couldn’t understand her because the seagulls were screaming, and it sounded like their screams came out of my mother’s mouth. The man said it didn’t matter; he could get some oysters for them at the oyster stand. My mother said that she had never tried an oyster in her life, that she thought oysters were disgusting, and that I was the one who should be punished, not her. I kept digging my hole as if it were serious work, avoiding to look at them. My mother’s bad mood kept her quiet for a long time, until the man finally found a way to amuse her: he took my pail and covered her legs with sand, leaving only her toes sticking out; every time she moved them, they burst out laughing. “Let’s go for ice cream,” he said. She pulled her legs carefully out of the sand, leaving two neat tunnels. They were gone for a long time. The beach filled up again, this time with people who looked like they had eaten lunch and taken showers. A small girl let go of her father’s hand and came running to see the hole I was digging; she had a huge swelling in the back of her head. She asked me why I was making a hole. I said I didn’t know. Her father approached me, as if he owed me an explanation, and said that the swelling came from an operation she had had as a baby; the girl and her twin sister had been born connected by their heads. Only this one had survived. She kept looking inside the hole, untouched by her father’s words, and then she lost interest in it and ran after a dog. The afternoon went by quickly. The sun lost its fire and allowed a gentle wind to cool down our red bodies, the sea changed from blue to dark green, our shadows stretched as far as the rocks at the end of the beach, the seagulls retreated to the islands, and my mother didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day. When the sky began to darken, we collected our things and walked to the food stand. The sand was soft and still warm. My mother bought them beers in tall red plastic cups. They were thirsty and drank them quickly. My mother paid for another round, even though her friend had complained that the beer was warm. I sat on the boardwalk and watched them drink until their movements slowed down and their voices melted. By the time they ran out of money, the beach was dark and deserted. A pack of stray dogs had appeared out of nowhere, attracted by overflowing trash cans. Most of them were in terrible shape, some with limbs, ears, or tails missing, others with big patches of bare skin and maggot-infested wounds. I could tell one was blind; a white veil covered its eyes. They snarled at each other constantly, fighting over food and females. The place now belonged to them. My mother asked her friend where he lived, and he told her that right now he didn’t live anywhere; he had lost his job and had been staying with a friend. But on that same morning, they had had a fight - he didn’t explain the reason, and my mother didn’t ask. After the fight, his friend had apologized and even begged him to stay, but he felt very offended and declined the offer. He had no intention of going back; as far as he was concerned, the friendship was over. He had left his belongings in a locker at the train station and gone to the beach to calm down - the episode had left him very tense and upset. His plan was to relax at the beach for a couple of hours and then look for a room somewhere, but the beautiful day and the nice company had made him forget all about it. My mother listened to the story with exaggerated interest, and as soon as he became silent she said, “You won’t find a room at this time.” I stared at her furiously, knowing what was coming. We both knew it was wrong; we were painfully aware of our own vulnerability. But she avoided my angry eyes like a stubborn child and continued: “You can stay with us, just for the night.” He refused her offer weakly, but she insisted. With obviously false embarrassment that even I as a child could notice, but my mother chose to ignore, he looked down and thanked her. And down the dark street we went, my cheeks burning with resentment, my mother and her friend walking ahead of me, a short walk that seemed to take hours, with all the stopping and the kissing, the drunken laugh, the stumbling and the falling. When at last we arrived, my mother got rid of me as quickly as she could: she tucked me in bed securely, kissed me mechanically with a sour breath, switched the lights off, and closed the door. I could hear her rushed steps going back to the living room where he waited for her, half-asleep in the sofa. In my dark room, I let the weight of the day push my head deep into the pillow, and surrendered to the blessing of unconsciousness. \- Early morning sunlight leaked through the holes and cracks of the window shades, projecting irregular shapes of light against the walls and the furniture. My mother stood alone in the middle of the living room, amid faint vapors of alcohol and tobacco. “Where is he?” I said. She turned to me and her bloodshot eyes were the heartbreaking answer. I could hear a fly trapped between the windows and the shades. She walked to the kitchen area and began to cook breakfast, but today there was no music under the beating of the eggs and the whistle of the kettle. I looked at the window ledge and couldn’t find the radio in its usual place, nor anywhere else. Cabinet doors were open. Drawers had been pulled out and turned upside down. Intuitively, my eyes searched for the coffee can where my mother kept her tip money; there was only an empty space on the shelf, like a missing tooth, where the can should have been. It stood, open and empty, inside the sink. My mother had made no effort to hide the situation from me. It was her way of admitting her mistake and seeking penitence. I didn’t say a word, knowing that her shame couldn’t be deepened any further. When breakfast was over, she faked a smile and said, “So, it’s another beautiful day. Shall we go to the beach?” I didn’t feel like it, but even if I had been dying of the most terrible disease, I wouldn’t have declined her offer. So to the beach we went, me flapping my sandals over the broken glass and the dog shit, her bending under the weight of the canvas bag, and when we arrived I saw that my hole hadn’t been washed away by the tide, nor filled up by the wind: it was just as I had left it. My mother lay down the striped towel right next to it. I thought about tomorrow, Monday, when I would go back to school, and my mother to work, so we should make the most of our Sunday together. Yet, I couldn’t think of anything else to do but dig that hole deeper and deeper, and the bigger it got, the more children came by to marvel at the darkness of its bottom. And all Sunday I worked on it, and it turned out to be so wide and deep that anyone, even a fat boy like me, could easily get inside it and disappear forever. As for my mother, she spent the day watching the sea - not really lost in thought: attentive - as if something hideous and truthful could emerge from its depths at any moment.


Here's a short story I wrote around the TitanFall 2 universe. if you have no idea what Titanfall is or you've never played it, here's a brief rundown: it's the future, humans can travel at light-speed, and now there's intergalactic war. It's between the IMC, ruthless corporation trying to exploit the planets on the quote-unquote frontier, the edge of space colonized by humans, and the militia, a group of pirates and outlaws trying to stop the IMC from exploiting the frontier so they can continue to live their lawless lifestyle. Pilots firewall running wall jumping super soldiers with cool gadgets like grappling hooks and such, that control giant robots called Titans and grunts are little human cannon fodder that run across the battlefield, specters are human sized android-robots and stalkers are bigger versions reapers are almost Titans but not big enough. [Edit] Stalkers are more like Terminator versions of Specters i.e. they'll keep moving if missing legs, or appendages. Can kill humans, and have laser guns. Reapers are like the size of SUVs, they Hulk jump around the map and going plasma balls from their hands I also like to say that I'm a young kid in middle School, I like to come up with stories in my head, and I just wanted to see what would happen if I decide to write one down. Any positive feedback in the comments would help, but please no hate speech. 90 Seconds It was an easy job. Holmes had never thought otherwise. He grew up on Meridian, an IMC fueling port; constantly under use. He met people, saw war. He was only 19 on the Battle of Meridian. He saw what Grunts did. Drop in, shoot, get paid, repeat. Easy. So when he he was 23, and the IMC raided his colony and executed his family he was willing to do whatever it took. That was 4 months ago. He was in the MCOR now. He was ready. Holmes glanced around. The hangar was busy; They were preparing for drop, and it looked it. Pilots were readying their Titans, engineers working on Spectres, and Grunts loading into their Pods. He turned back to his squad leader, Mercer. There were 4 of them, including Holmes. Standard. Anston, Perry, Mercer and Homes. “Get ready boys, here comes our Pod.” said Mercer. As he strapped himself in, he slung his weapon into its holster and uttered the words he’d heard long ago “90 seconds.” That was how long the average Grunt survived on the battlefield. At least, according to the IMC. Holmes knew it when he signed up, he didn’t care; all that mattered was getting back at the bastards. A siren blared. Holmes woke up again, looked around. It was drop time. He sucked in a deep breath, breaking the silence. They knew too. Every Grunt did. But so did Pilots, when they were Grunts. That was the end goal of the average Grunt: Pilot. But as everyone also knew, it took years of experience to be a Pilot, and that was a hell of a lot more than 90 seconds. Less than a second. They were falling. He saw the other Pods. Falling stars. Poetic. “From heavens of steel, the stars fall on Angel City” Perry shuddered. Anston prayed silently. Mercer pictured his daughter. And Homes just stared. THUD. 1 Second. The Pod slams into the ground. 3 Seconds. The doors open. 7 seconds. They’re out of their seats. 11 Seconds. Boots on pavement. As they look around, stars glint. Giants of hell fall. And they run forward. 16 Seconds. Movement ahead. Gunfire in the air. Spectres are dead. Holmes looks for other people. 17 Seconds. Reaper. Demon. Bombs fall, troops separate. He stares at it, and sees Mercer yelling. Holmes woke up. He grabbed the R-97 and ran. 22 Seconds. At the town square, Perry dies. Shot through the head. Clean. G2A5. Anston is quicker. Longbow shot rings through the air. The sniper is dead. So is Perry. 26 Seconds. Holmes gets his first kill. Ambushed from corner of the apartment building. So easy to pull the trigger. Holmes wakes up. 31 Seconds. Holed up at B. Pilot slides through the window, a friendly one. A Spectre jumps in afterwards. Then one more. They stay till the objective is amped. Momentary rest. Holmes wakes up. 37 Seconds. At A again. Only Stalkers are guarding it. Mercer says they should stay. No one disagrees. 45 Seconds. Firefight. A group of Grunts assaults A. Mercer kills 2, Anston kills one. Holmes wakes up. 49 Seconds. First encounter with pilot. Gunfire then silence. Pilot is gone. So is a father. 56 Seconds. At the alleyway, they meet Stalkers. Holmes is hit in the leg. Pain fills the air. So do bullets. 62 Seconds. They pass through the house. Screams fill the air. A man. Red on a white uniform. Begging. Mercy, reconciliation, regret. Holmes gives him what he wants. 69 Seconds. Titan. Hellfire rains through the window. The way is blocked. Backtrack through main floor. Holmes limps. He wakes up. 72 Seconds. On the street, Scorch meets Longbow. Scorch wins. Anston will not be buried. 77 Seconds. A star falls. So does the Scorch. Brown on green. Holmes is safe. 80 Seconds. Two Pilots. 4 dead Grunts. Holmes fires. Bullets fly. They connect. 84 Seconds. He lies in the street, on a car. Pain. He wakes up. 86 Seconds. Holmes screams. Begs. Mercy, reconciliation, regret. 87 Seconds. Holmes wakes up. 88 Seconds. A pilot hears him. She lands by him. Mercy. She stares. 89 Seconds. Reconciliation. A pistol. 90 Seconds. Regret. She gives him what he wants. 91 Seconds. Holmes sleeps.


“Who…are you?” ”That’s what I want to ask you-” he snorted, the exact same way I do- “and why the heck do I have a doppelganger?” “Well I’d like an answer to that myself. Is this the Empire’s new plot, replacing officers with spies that look like them?” I asked. “Replace you? Oh *please,* have you read too many detective novels? Even if we had such a fantastic plan, why would I waste my time to take the place of an insignificant soldier when I could be using that time to come up with some strategies? Not to mention my father would never al-” he suddenly stopped himself, as if he had let slip something he shouldn’t have. ‘Strategies?’ I thought to myself, could this guy in front of me be one of the battle strategists of the Empire? If so, should I just kill him now when I can and weaken the enemy? He seemed to have sensed my thoughts, shifting himself I saw him clutch the knife in his hands a bit tighter, but it seemed more like a reassurance for himself than a threat for me. “What sort of rotten luck do I have to end up in this situation?” he sighed softly, “One second I was just scouting out the area for the summit(?) looking for any traps and the next I’m falling down a goddamn hole…” he stopped and looked at me “How did you end up falling down right after me?” “...I was scouting, same as you. Heard a noise and investigated… and-” “And the next you’re falling down a goddamn hole huh?” he smiled in a rather self-deprecating way. “Well aren’t you the least bit interested in how we look so alike?” I asked,trying to change the subject “Of course I am, but what does it matter? There’s all sorts of strange things in this world.” He sighed again and spoke “So what do you reckon we should do now? We can’t climb our way out, that hole we fell in through is now clogged by rocks and the tunnels out of here are all too narrow for a person” “We can only wait for rescue” I said. “Rescue?” he said mockingly “And how exactly are we going to be rescued? No one saw us fall in, no one’s familiar enough with the terrain to notice a hole blocked by rocks and certainly no one’s going to think that two people happen to buried under those rocks. And even if rescue did come, then what? You do realize that we are enemies right? IF my people come, they most probably will kill you on the spot…and the same goes for you.” “It’ll all work out somehow,” I said,trying to sound more confident that I felt. “Ever the optimist aren’t you?” he sneered at me. “Well do you have a better plan than to hope someone will come rescue us?” I snapped at him, my patience was limited and this guy seemed to be stripping it away every time he opened his mouth. “...No.” his voice seemed to crack, I couldn’t make out his expression in the dim light but I could guess that it wouldn’t have been much different from how I felt.” I don’t,” he said again. “So we wait,” I said as I slowly stretched out my legs and leaned back against a boulder “I’m Raza by the way.” He didn’t reply for a few seconds but then I heard a low chuckle “An apt name considering you’re such an optimist…I’m…Connor” “Pretty apt yourself isn’t it?…strong willed” I couldn’t help but chuckle back but he didn’t reply. “Do you think we’ll be rescued?” he asked after a while “Even if rescue came,both of us leaving this place and surviving is honestly near impossible” “But near impossible doesn’t mean zero right?” I said aloud more to myself than him. “...yeah you’re right” a voice softly said across from me. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “Hey,” my voice sounded faint even to me “ how long do you think we’ve been here?” “What’s the matter Mr.Optimist? Starting to get homesick?” his voice was weak. “Are we…are we not going to make it?” “You mean are we going to do in here?…Honestly our chances don’t look great,” his voiced seemed to grow stronger despite the crushing words he uttered “but don’t forget, near impossible doesn’t mean zero.” “You have the pendant right?” I asked despite how hard it was getting for me to open my mouth. “For the last time, yeah I do, just as you have mine…and if one of us makes it out and the other doesn’t, we’ll make sure to hand the pendant over to the other side to be send to our parents,” even as he talked his voice was becoming fainter till I could hardly discern what he was saying. “Hey…” I said again but this time I didn’t get a reply. I felt panic surge through me and weakly tried to move over to were he was. But the action made my head spin and I powerlessly fell to the ground. As my vision began to black out I thought I heard faint voices and a rumble of machinery. I tried to speak but I could no longer control my body. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The light was too bright. I had a blinding headache and my whole body felt numb. I could smell disinfectant in the air. Forcing myself to open my eyes I saw the blurry outlines of a spacious room. Blinking through the pain behind my eyes I saw my surroundings come into focus. I was in a well lit room, lying on a cot placed among a row of similar ones. Frowning I tried to recall what had happened. “I was…I was stuck in that cave with him, it appeared I didn’t imagine the voices before I lost consciousness but if I had been rescued…what had happened to him?” I felt apprehensive thinking about it, he might have been my enemy but once you go through that sort of experience with someone you develop a sort of bonds. All I could hope was that he would have been rescued too. “Your…Your Highness Connor.