The Houseless Problem S. A. Tawks ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I had a home but it wasn't a house. It was an apartment I shared with four others. One of these others was my significant other. We had a pretty great life together. But one day I realised how it could be even better. If we had more money, we could have more stuff and do more things. Stuff like the latest gadgets, clothes and accessories. Things like amazing holidays and memorable experiences. Stuff and things that would make everyone else stop and think, 'hey, they must have a pretty good life.' So what was step number one? What was the biggest money drain I could transform into a money pool? Rent. 'Rent's dead money,' say all the experts. The best strategy is to save as much as you can for a mortgage deposit and then chip away at the mortgage bit by bit until you completely own the property. I knew the biggest hurdle would be the stage where my significant other and I were both saving for the deposit and giving away that 'dead money' every week. But I had faith in us to make it through the challenge and be proud first home buyers. Then there'd be more stuff to be had and more things to do. I set our savings goal at 33% of our fortnightly pay. This was money we'd deposit straight away into a high interest savings account. The next step was to open a term deposit once three months had passed and transfer what we had saved into this, incentivising us not to touch the funds. Everything went according to plan and the cash was locked into the term deposit by the end of month number three. Month four came around and that's when I had a great idea. "What about this," is how I began my proposition to my significant other. "Instead of buying a house, let's buy a townhouse." She said she really wanted a yard and a big place to hold parties. I laid out my thoughts to make her see the benefit of my idea and I knew she wouldn’t have an argument. If we bought a townhouse, the mortgage deposit and subsequent interest and principal repayments would be smaller. We'd also have enough money for the deposit sooner and solve the problem of that dead money we were throwing away every week. I figured we'd have a good deposit for a modest townhouse by the eighteenth month of our savings plan. Six months in, I had another idea. It was more of a realisation. My significant other went to stay with her parents for a week because an aunt had passed away. I didn't do much that week besides work. I didn't do much and this resulted in not spending much. If my significant other and I could spend as little as possible, we'd have enough for the deposit sooner than planned. Eating in, biking or walking instead of using petrol, limiting electricity usage, staying in instead of going out...the list of possibilities was endless. I sold all these difficult, boring and time-consuming strategies to my significant other by telling her it was a small sacrifice now for a better future. Nine months down was when my roommates began to get on my nerves. It became obvious to me that they were all wasteful leeches. They'd leave all the lights on in the apartment, eat the food I'd bought, ask me to spot them cash - a fiver or a tenner - and never pay me back. It all became too much when we went out one night for dinner. We were a group of ten at an Italian restaurant. My budget and taste met at the equilibrium of spaghetti bolognese and I was kind of happy to pay the eighteen dollars for the meal. I didn't have any entrees, wines or desserts like the others because I couldn't justify it. When my significant other asked for a third wine, I told her to maybe rethink her purchase and was given a foul look. 'Whatever. Waste your money,' I thought about her actions and the actions of my other eight friends. Then came the bill and one joker suggested we split it. A few backed his suggestion and then it became the consensus. When the bill of $922.35 was passed into my hand, I couldn't hold my tongue. "Whoa, wait a second. We're all happy to pay ninety-two dollars and twenty-three and a half cents?" "We'll round it down to twenty-three cents," said the same joker who had suggested splitting the bill. "I only had the spaghetti and tap water. Eighteen dollars," I pointed out. "Please don't do this," my significant other whispered. Now it was my turn to give her a foul look. Then I announced to the table, "I'm not paying five times the price of what I ate." Eventually, after standing my ground, the others agreed to remove my $18 and split $904.35 nine ways. What a bunch of idiots, I thought. A month later my significant other sat me down and told me we needed to talk. She told me our lifestyle was suffocating her and I argued that we were more than halfway to our target. Eight more months and we'd have our townhouse and be able to buy more things and do more stuff. Then she said our lifestyle wasn't the only problem. Our relationship was also a problem. I was sad about our relationship ending but what really depressed me was seeing her half vanish from the term deposit the next time we could touch it without incurring a fee. I moved out of the apartment because my significant other became one of the other guy's significant others pretty speedily and I could no longer live with those wasteful leeches. I moved in with my parents because they said I could stay there rent free for six months. The time would allow me to save enough on my own for a deposit to buy a townhouse. I'd have to pay for mortgage insurance but it was the price I had to pay to avoid that dead money. I also thought I could stall and save for a few extra months if I made my folks feel bad about deciding to charge me rent. A forgettable but fiscally responsible six months went by and I had enough to buy my place if I was happy to throw mortgage insurance on top of a property's price. I didn't feel happy about this. I'd grown accustomed to looking at the large sum steadily growing in my term deposit. I thought if I could stay another year at my parents' place, rent free, I'd have enough for a deposit plus a nice bit of my savings left over. My dad brought up paying rent one night over dinner when I'd been living there eight months. I told him my plan was to buy my own place in a month and this saved me a month of forking out dead money. When he began to grow tired of my stalling, he questioned if I was actually serious about buying my own place. I was feeling a bit down that day and the way he delivered the question pushed all the right buttons to produce a reaction. "Of course I'm serious!" I snapped. "I wouldn't have pushed my leech-girlfriend and leech-friends away if I wasn't serious about buying a place. And I wouldn't be living like such a minimalist!" My father looked at me like I was a stranger and changed topics to calm me down. Four days later my leech-parents and my old leech-friends staged an intervention for me. They told me they were all worried about me and the consensus was I should see a doctor to make sure I wasn't suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. All of this pushed ten times the amount of buttons my dad had a few days before and I unloaded on them. They were telling me I was crazy so I told them they were all crazy and why. I called my ex crazy because she wanted to have a bunch of stuff and do a bunch of things now but didn't realise she could have had so much more stuff and could have been doing so many more things if she'd exercised some patience and stuck to our plan. I told one of my friends he was insane because he bought a new car every two years and traded the other one in at a greatly depreciated price. I told another friend she was a mad woman because she funded her overseas holidays with personal loans. I told a couple they were lunatics for paying double the rent for a place allowing them to be twenty minutes closer to work. I called my parents delusional because they wanted me to pay dead money for a room that would be empty if I wasn't there. Then I called them all wasteful leeches and stormed out of the house. That was five years ago. Today I'm between homeless shelters or out on the street. I came up with the ultimate strategy a few years back. I took a severance package, sold everything I had and put it all in a term deposit. I now have absolutely no expenses and if I search and beg really hard, sometimes I can scrounge up to fifteen-hundred dollars in a month. Of course, this all goes into my term deposit when the opportunity comes up monthly to invest more and push the snowball again. It's not the best life but, oh boy, my future is going to be great. I'll keep pushing and growing my snowball for a few more years yet. I'll stop growing my wealth when the time is right. Then I'll have a great house I can call my own and I’ll have so much stuff and be doing so many things. I'll make all the wasteful leeches stop and think, ‘hey, he must have a pretty good life.


###Intro We’ve known for decades that The War on Drugs was not turning out positive results, reguardless, it continued. Did we ever consider the possibility that we could lose this war? Finally, we have. The war is over and mankind is on the losing side. They called it an epidemic. Everyone was hooked or knew someone else that was. People stopped hiding their addict friends and families from one another and started offering actual support instead of minimum term sentences. Too little, Too late. Flacca, or bath salts as some might refer to it; a rocky looking white substance that completely swept the nation. It’s effects were instantaneous but short lived. The effected would hallucinate, experience euphoria and completely lose themselves in the drug. Reports of cannibalism were scarce at best. Probably just some loser who took too much, started seeing shit and went bonkers. Most however, enjoyed the effects. When Zacca came around it was big news. It wasn’t just the underground. Wealthy teens in overprivileged suburban neighborhoods, homeless junkies in alleyways and high rollers alike all awaited the hyped release. Police did what they could to stop it. No one knew, or knows where it came from. Right on time. Just as promised. Zacca Landed.. *“-first reports came from Florida, and experts say had they gotten a handle on it sooner-* *“-potent drug almost virus like in the way it spreads from person to person. Do not consume the drug and stay far from anyone who has. The effects have been devastating. The CDC knows very little, and the information they do have, they’re not releasing to the public. What we do know is this; those Induced are are out of their minds. They don’t feel pain and can’t be stopped without lethal force. They are dangerous, with cannibalistic like tendencies, the only weapons they use being tooth and nail.”* *“Densely populated areas like New York City and Chicago are in absolute chaos, the phenomena seemingly unstoppable with no end in site, the body count? In the thousands and climbing. Stay away, stay safe. Think rural, until this gets rectified, you need to take your life and your safety into your own han-* Meanwhile.. ****** Carlos hated the Wilson’s house in particularly. It wasn’t the amount of work he had to do; acres of grass to be kept trimmed and bright green. A menagerie of topiaries ranging from obscure cubes to adorable animals to shape and prune. The garden that ran the perimeter of the esteemed colonial mansion that Carlos found excessive for a family of 4, which needed careful maintenance and attentive weeding. No, Carlos never minded the work. It was that fucking bitch MILF and her wretched, whining children. Her only redeeming quality was the way her perfectly doctored tits bounced and swayed when she came huffing across the lawn to chastise him as if he were a child, and of course, watching her walk away was always doubly as satisfying. Today he hadn’t heard boo from the Wilsons and Carlos was not going to question this. He was in the front lawn when it happened, his truck open on the side of the street. Headphones on full blast so he could hear his edgy tunes over the motor of the leaf blower. A tugging at the back of his baggy white shirt.. Devon, the youngest. But- “What the fuck!?” He jumped away, but not before the child’s teeth sank into the side of his torso. “SHIT!” He backhanded the gray skinned child sending the toddler reeling to the ground. “AhhHhh!!” Carlos screamed like a little girl when he looked at his side, blood pouring out of the tiny child’s teeth marks. Devon was crawling now, crawling towards Carlos using his small fingers to pull himself across the freshly mowed lawn. “AHHHHhhhh!!” Carlos shrieked again, throwing the head phones off and chucking the leaf blower at the kids head. “Aahhh!!” The kid still came at him, slowly. The leaf blower sputtered out, allowing Carlos to hear the sounds around him. The daughter Lacey, a typically tight little nubile teen with an ass like her Mum was stumbling across the yard towards him. “Aaah!” He ran to the truck, digging through his pockets for the keys. “It’s a fuckin’ zombie! Shit! Foh real dog! I just-!” He looked at his oozing side. “I just got bit by a fuckin’ ZOMBIE!! C’MON MANN!! Aaahhh shiiiiit!” Lacey and Devon advanced, Carlos gave up on his keys and jumped in the back of the truck. He grabbed a pair of shears, opening them and aiming at Lacey’s chest. “I’m sorry lady!” He speared her right between her tits, black blood spurted out and sprayed Carlos in the face, staining his shirt. “Aaahhh!!” His little girl shrieks continued, attracting the attention of the neighbors whom at first came out to stop Carlos’ assault on the poor children but soon realized the dire situation. Lacy didn’t stop, the pair of giant scissors sticking straight from her front, black, lifeless blood oozing from her ripped skin, hands grasping at the air, reaching for the gardener. This was it. Carlos was a goner. He frantically searched the bed of his truck for more tools he could use defend himself. Rake, hoe.. chainsaw? Classic. As he reached for it a smile crept across his face and his pace slowed. So pretty.. has the chainsaw always been so brightly colored?.. Carlos started laughing. “It’s going to be alright..” the chainsaw coo’d, it’s silky smooth voice encompassing Carlos fully. And it was, wasn’t it.. damn, Carlos had never felt so good before. So good, he didn’t mind sharing the truck with Lacy anymore. She was a messy eater, but Carlos *really* didn’t mind.


I pass a book on the side of the road every day when I drive home from work. It’s a hard-cover book, pretty thick, and from what I can tell it’s face down on its cover. The dirt and gravel are constantly keeping me from seeing exactly which side it’s on. For months I would see it. Some days the pages would be swollen with moisture from a recent rain, some days they’d have dried back down and it would look to still be in good enough condition, besides the slight warping of the pages from the water. Every time I saw it, I’d tell myself that one day I would stop and take a look, maybe even pick it up and take it home. Maybe just throw it away if it was in too rough a shape. Everyday I’d fantasize about what the book could be about. Fiction? An autobiography? A signed copy of the Bible? Whatever it was, the itch was in the back of my head every time I’d see it, but fade as soon as I was another block or so away. I never even told my wife about the book. She’d laugh and tell me to go get it. She’d probably drag me out of the house at any hour and go with me to get it. She was compulsive like that. She saw a certain beauty in the randomness of the universe. Running into an old friend right after she had been thinking about them? It was obviously the universe putting them together. Finding a coupon in her purse that she swears she has no memory of when she just so happens to be right next to the store she could use it at? Destiny. Then my wife died. A stroke while driving. She was at a red light when she went. It was quick, she felt nothing. But her foot came off the brake and she rolled through the intersection and got hit, spinning her car around several times before rolling off the road, being stopped only by a light post. The shattered glass and being knocked around made it look like maybe she had just randomly decided to slowly run a red. They didn’t find the cause for a while after she was dead. In that time before finding the truth, I was devastated. Was this a suicide? Did she really try to creep through a barrage of cars? Had she seen something that she thought was the universe beckoning to her? The autopsy results provided little relief, but something was better than nothing. It was almost a month before I went back to work. I had been blessed with a dream job, and a boss who defied all odds by being efficient, friendly, commanding, and, most importantly, empathetic. I used all of my vacation and sick time, but he gave me another week, paid no less, just because he could tell, deep down, that I wasn’t ready to come back just yet. He was right. My wife was my world. My everything. We had met in passing when we were both in our late twenties, and went several more years without seeing each other. But then, by ‘the Universe’ as she would always say, she became friends with a friend of mine who mentioned her ‘nerdy but kind of lovable’ single friend. We all ended up at the same birthday party for yet another friend and instantly remembered each other. We began dating immediately and were married less than two years later. We only got five years together. So, in my book, whatever the Universe was pulling, it was fucking bullshit. My wife didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, barely partied as a young adult. She volunteered at an animal shelter in her spare time and we talked often about adopting a child once we were both in a slightly more financially secure place. That and that she wanted as much of me to herself as she could get before getting a kid was the only thing keeping us from starting the adoption process. Now that she’s gone, I’m glad we never did it. My first day back at work was like swimming in a dream. So many stern faces and sympathetic looks. So many cards littering my office desk. Flowers, little succulent plants, fruit baskets. The kitchen was loaded with a varied buffet for my return. It was nice to be the center of attention for a moment, but the reason behind it was just a reminder of what I had lost. I think I only said the words ‘thank you’, during the entire day, but over a thousand times. I didn’t get a single thing done that day. I left a little early, to the surprise of no one. I drove the speed limit, maybe slightly over, but in no rush to get back to my empty home where I was surrounded by the memories we shared together. To the neglected pile of laundry that I would, unashamedly, poke through and press to my face, longing for her scent again. To the dishes that she had washed after our last meal we cooked together. Still on the drying mats next to the sink, amazing that they were still stacked, considering her haphazard way of laying the varied sizes over each other, yet allowing them to drain and dry easier. I would probably sell the house soon, but I needed more time with the memories before starting the selling process. Then I saw it. Or the lack of it. The book was gone. It was the spot, I was sure of it. I had passed it countless times. I perked up enough to get over to the left lane and flip a u-turn and then another one, slightly further than I probably needed to, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t confused. But, no. It was definitely the spot. I slowed almost to a crawl as I drove past, craning my head to look out the passenger window to verify that it hadn’t been just covered or maybe finally demolished enough to look like it was gone. It was gone. The car honking as it flew by snapped me out of my stupor and I drove the rest of the way home fantasizing about what could have happened. Did someone do it? Did they finally see what I had seen so many times and stopped to satisfy their curiosity? I imagined that dozens of people, maybe hundreds, more even, had to have seen that book there on the side. A simple book, suffering in silence, the product of someone's hard work and dedication. Finally seeing print, maybe being a best seller, maybe being something self published online and only printed as a physical copy for themselves or a few close friends. Maybe it really was that signed copy of the Bible and Jesus was mad that no one ever picked it up, so he came down and got it himself. Maybe it was never there in the first place. I pulled into my driveway as my garage door slowly rolled open. The sun was starting to set, but I still had a few hours of daylight left. Looking through the scattered boxes on either side of the garage was enough to trigger another wave of memories. My breath caught in my chest and I found myself gripping my steering wheel with rage as hot tears rolled down my cheeks, onto my ragged beard and into my mouth through my clenched teeth. I had cried plenty since the day of the accident, but this was different. There wasn’t a racking sadness behind the tears now, it was a red rage. I felt my blood boiling, my mind furious and longing for someone to blame. Anyone to direct my rage at. Something to turn my hatred to. I don’t know how long I sat in the driveway, seething through my teeth and clenching my eyes until stars and blobs of lights formed behind them, but when I finally looked up, I was in the parking lot right next to the intersection where my wife died. I was parked and facing the same light post where she rolled to a stop. I have no memory of the drive, or even being aware of moving through the streets and following traffic laws, but a quick glance around showed no flashing lights or destruction that would hint to reckless driving. I was alone in the parking lot. The sun had gone down. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 1:45 in the morning. How was that possible? I had gotten home before the sun had even set. Even if I had been taking the longest way possible, this parking lot was only three minutes from our house. ‘Is this you, Universe?’ I thought to myself. Working my jaw a little, I could still feel the tension from when I was grinding my teeth together in a blind rage. ‘Is this what you do for fun? Why the fuck do I need to see where my wife died? Why the fuck do I need to be this close to her death? It’s already all over the house, on the looks I get from her family, her coworkers, anyone who knew her. Who touched her. They are a constant reminder. So why the FUCK DO I NEED TO BE HERE RIGHT NOW?!’ With a blink, I was outside of my car, about twenty feet away from it. I looked down at my body, still feeling the rage that was slowly being replaced with confusion. I glanced back to the spot where my wife had rolled to a stop. I was about ten feet away. I looked at my watch, still 1:45. No time had passed since my mind had folded in on itself in a rage, screaming internally at the universe for doing this to me. Fear had started to creep into my mind when, with another blink, though I hadn’t closed my eyes, I was standing in front of the pole that my wife's car had been stopped by. I was standing in the street, but with the late hour and a quick glance just to be sure, I was alone in the intersection. From where I stood I could see a slight discoloration around the base of the pole. A slight dent from where her car hit, maybe going a couple miles an hour. I took a few steps to get a closer look. There was paint from her car rubbed off onto the dull metal of the post. The orange paint was definitely from her car. It was such a random color. They didn’t even offer the same color on any newer models of her car, as it apparently didn’t sell as well as they had hoped. I remembered being almost embarrassed by her choice of color. But it was her choice, and it matched her personality; random and bold. My watch still showed 1:45, even though the second hand was moving normally. The fact that I was popping through space without losing time was a faint worry in the back of my mind as I stared at the paint scrape on the pole. The movement in my peripheral vision was almost unnoticed. But then it was accompanied by the sound of pages fluttering. I looked to my right, and along the side of the road, near the storm drain was the book. I recognized it instantly. It wasn’t a book, it was the book. I took a step towards it, but then stopped. I looked at my watch. 1:45, second hand still flying by. I looked around me. The streets were empty. Not a sound but the wind in the trees beyond the parking lot where my car was sitting, still parked and waiting. I took another few steps towards the book and could finally see that it was indeed lying face down. The back of the book still obscured by dirt and grime, so I still couldn’t tell what type of book it was, the pages still warped with rain and neglect, pushing the cover of the book over. If I were laying down on my side, I could possibly see how the book ended before I even knew the plot. My hands hurt. I looked down at them and saw that they were balled up into tight fists, but I had nothing to fight. There was nothing around but the wind, the book, and me. Me standing near a drainage ditch, staring at the impossible existence of both the book and me being here with no explanation. I took the last few steps and picked it up. The weight was much more than I ever expected. Turning it over in my hands, it was quickly apparent that the weather and traffic had torn away whatever title and information used to be on the back and front. The book was not destroyed, however, and I could see vague depictions of stars and galaxies on the back and front covers. But the spine still had some information on it, and I could make out the writing that said ‘There it is’. I nodded. ‘There it is. The Universe.’, I said out loud, and turned the book again to open it. I was smiling to myself, as I opened the book closer to the middle, instead of the front like people normally do with books. It took a second to realize what I was looking at. It wasn’t words. It wasn’t an ancient script lost to the ages. Each page I looked at was clear and legible, but it wasn’t writing and it wasn’t pictures. It was the experiences of everything my wife had felt from the moment she met me, to the moment she died. Everything insignificant and casual and ignored and in-between, every fart and blemish and missed connection and racist encounter and unexplained or ill-advised act was there in full color to my entire being. It was as if I was my wife during those moments. I was there for the shame she felt when she made a social faux pas, but I was there when she sang like a rock star in front of dozens of people, culminating in a standing ovation by not only our mutual friends, but the strangers in the bar as well. I was her when the.. Oh god! I can see myself! I can feel her eyes on me over the years! I can see and feel her true feelings about me. I know how she really felt when she was presented with my… my … ME! With me! I know how ridiculous I was a lot of the time, I see how she felt when dealing with us… ME! She was so patient and understanding, and we were always so… Not ‘We’, just ‘Me’... ‘I’ was just so… I wasn’t there. I could have done so much more. I could have made us better, but I was always too afraid. I feel the book sliding from my hands as I fall to my knees. Are they my knees or just the knees the book wants me to feel like I’m kneeling on. It’s just me now. It wasn’t her. It was my subconscious projecting itself onto things. I’m kneeling in front of the pole. The book isn’t in the drainage ditch. It’s not right next to me where it just fell, or maybe fell in my mind. The book is nowhere. The pole in front of me gets brighter for a second before I turn my head. The headlights must have just turned on. I turn to see where they come from, but all I can see is the orange color of the car. Behind the glare, I see the silhouette of a woman limp behind the steering wheel. A beautiful woman. A woman the Universe sent to me. As she gets closer, I see her closed eyes open for a split second and gaze at me with recognition. Thanks a lot, Universe.


The 'why' is unclear. To humanity, it was the world's greatest accomplishment; they defeated world hunger. Nowhere on the globe did any child go hunger. Food was plentiful for everyone everywhere. To them it was the beginning of paradise. Things were a little different in the unseen world. Angels, demons, and spirits felt the tangible shift in the world. They knew the truth. Humanity didn't defeat Famine; he was murdered. It was ironic in a way. Death was born when a brother murdered his own brother, so it was only fitting that he would do the same. Perhaps Death thought he could save himself by ending Famine, reducing the mass deaths caused by starvation for the slower pull of old age. Perhaps Death was jealous, and wanted Famine's power to himself. Perhaps Death was just that. Death. Perhaps his relationships mean nothing, and he wants nothing more than to kill every thing alive. The why remains unclear. What is clear is what happened next. The remaining horseman, Plague and War, panicked. In a last ditch effort they split up, hoping to escape their mad brother. But Death found Plague, hiding among the filth of an unwashed cult. A battle naturally ensured, but Plague was never a fighter. He tried to escape, jumping from body to body, and casting vexes as he went. Vexes that didn't even slow the pale rider. By the end of the night, another horseman was dead. Humanity rejoiced. The unseen quivered. They knew what would come next. War wouldn't wait to be hunted and killed; he would challenge Death. And he did. And when Death failed to arrive, War became enraged, and he sent the humans after each other. It was a great war, so terrible and bloody and never ending. War only started the spark, but the humans kept it alive. The war burned for ages, until the prosperity of former generations was forgotten. It was now when Death decided to strike. He found War waiting where he challenged him all those years ago. A small private clearing in the forest with plenty of room to duel. War was in the center of the clearing, sitting on a discarded piece of a turbine. Waiting. It was evident that he had been waiting for a while, as the forestry began to grow on and around him. But when Death came War knew. He called out to his old brother, letting him know he knew he was there. 'You know, I knew it would be one of our own that would kill us all. It takes a horseman to kill a horseman. I just always thought it would be Famine. You know how he gets when he's hungry.' War chuckled at his own joke as Death stepped out from behind the treeline. They were facing each other, Death looking silent as ever and War looking up into Death's eyes. 'You could at least tell me why. I think you owe me that.' 'I think you know.' War's smile dropped. He gazed deep into the abyss of Death's eye sockets and was no longer amused. He stood now, casting off the plants and clenching his fists. 'What of our duty! We have a job to do here. What of that!' To this, Death laughed. It began as a small chuckle, but evolved into full blown laughter. Reflexively, War drew his blade and gun, but Death didn't attack. He instead kept up his unearthly cackle as he slowly circled his prey. The trees above became alive with activity as the animals rushed to escape the Grim Reaper. The grass under him withered and died the moment he touched them, leaving a path of death in his wake. He turned now to address his brother. 'War... Plague... Famine... If you ask me, those are just fancy ways to say death.' Death's laughter sparked again with renewed vigor, but War seethed with rage. He bellowed and rushed Death, firing preemptive shots from his rifle. Death's laughter cut off in an instant as he quickly ducked to dodge the bullets. He tightened his grip on his scythe and rushed his younger brother. Death has always been the faster, but War was the best fighter. He pushed the flat end of his blade toward Death and dodged slightly to the left, deflecting Death to the side. While Death was off balance, War fired again into his back, slaying the pale rider. Death dropped in a heap on the ground, groaning and dissolving before disappearing completely. War was the better fighter, but he didn't fight fair. He groaned and sighed. He didn't want to kill his brother, but he didn't see any options. But that wasn't the only reason he mourned. Now, War was truly alone. There wasn't another soul like him. Not man or devil, angel or other. He always had his brothers. Now he had no one. He cried as he went to grab the weapon of his brother. He picked it up, and struck it into the turbine he was sitting on. He turned around, eager to leave this cursed ground behind. He turned, and stared Death in the face. Death appeared unfazed, as if the battle hadn't begun yet. He gripped his scythe as he had before, and rushed War again. War defeated him again. Until Death rose again, only to fall again. This happened over and over, as War was a tirelessly immortal and Death kept rising again. But just because War didn't physically tire, the hopelessness of killing the unkillable over and over was beginning to wear him down. He stopped after a particular false victory and leaned on his blade, holding his gun at the unwavering Reaper. Death kept walking towards War, until the gun pressed into his abdomen. War looked up at him and Death looked down at him. 'Why keep fighting? I am inevitable!' War knew it. Deep, deep down he knew. Death couldn't defeat him in combat. But Death could keep him here. He could keep him in this hell forever and forever. War didn't want to do it anymore. He didn't want to live like this. He could. But he wouldn't. He dropped his gun, and cast his gaze away. Death made it swift, beheading the horseman. He then walked away, contemplating his next move. And humanity rejoiced.


"I'll help you wrap it," she said. It was her Christmas present, and she has said the same thing every year for the last thirty years. "No," I say, "I can do it myself." So, saying that, I close the bedroom door. She will stand at the door and turn the knob threatening to enter as I have the package exposed sitting on top of the first Christmas paper I find. "Can I help you find anythingscissors, scotch tape, ribbons, bows, name tags?" "No, I'm just fine", I'll say. "Now, where are the scissors?". "In the top drawer of the desk," she says from the outside of the door. "The scotch tape, the ribbons, bows and name tags are in the box under the ironing board." "How does she do that?" I mean, I didn't say anything out loud. I think we've been married too long! Come to think of it, she always knows what is in the package before she opens it. She finishes my sentences. She'll say things like, "an In-N-Out hamburger sounds good", when I've been thinking about it. I hope we're not beginning to look alike because I don't think she would look good with a bald spot. Well, back to work. There were two gifts to wrap. The first was a package of two plug-in flashlights. It would have been easy to put them into a shoe box and wrap the square edges, but I thought it would drive her crazy to wrap it as it had come from the shelf. This way I didn't have to be neat. As long as all parts were covered, the job would be done. I covered the holes I made with Christmas stickers--looked great! Scotch tape the corners, slap a bow and name tag with 1-4-3 on it (code for "I Love You") and one down and one to go. Better get another roll of scotch tape. She must use dozens of rolls with all the packages she wraps. "Sure you don't need any help?", she says each time she passed the bedroom. I didn't. The first package took twenty minutes. If you want to do something right, it takes time. I once built a car from a weekend kit. The directions said it could be done in one weekend. I took ten months. Things take time. The second gift was in a box with square corners. It was an espresso/cappuccino maker and about a cubic foot in size. I turned the package upside-down because I wanted all the taping to be on the bottom. I cut the paper the right length, but there seemed to be too much paper on the sides. How do wives measure the right amount? No matter, that's what scissors are for. I tried to fold the corners into little triangles that folded together at the center. Too much paper. Get the scissors. Now the corners fit, almost. Some of the box showed. No problem! Cut a patch and scotch tape it over the opening. The corners seemed to bunch up. No problem! Get the fat ribbon and pull it over the corners. How does she tie the ribbon? No problem--scotch tape. Put a ribbon in each corner and a name tag in the middle. Done--30 minutes, a new record. Looks good! "Are you alright in there," she wanted to know. I said, "all finished, and by the way, you ran out of scotch tape!" Now it was time to make a grand entrance with both gifts. I would have to give her a couple of innocuous hints as to the contents, and a few phony places where I had shopped, and I was finished (until our anniversary in January). I put them under the tree next to the ones she had wrapped for me. Maybe it was the change in the air temperature, or rough handling, or just bad scotch tape,but the presents just didn't have that professional look that they did in the bedroom. But, it didn't matter. For thirty years we've done it this way. It's expected. It's a ritual. It's our ritual. She knows that it's DONE WITH LOVE, and she wouldn't have it any other way.    This song embodies my goal for this short story; it is meant to uplift people through hard times.


It was the first day that I had been able to venture out alone. My Sherpa had been keeping me in closed quarters until now, but she felt I knew the terrain well enough now for a solo wander. I set out early, crossing through the wooded area, and the cold slate flats before taking some respite and food, a mixture of soaked grains and meats to keep me from becoming dehydrated should I not find a water source. By mid morning, I came to another wooded area I had been through once with my Sherpa, but was not very familiar with it. Two pools and an almost dry waterfall framed the terrain neatly, beyond this was unknown to me. I decided to push no further and began to explore the dry basins, scrambling over hardened clays that so recently held water. I came to an unusual looking raised area, the shapes too regular to be natural, though in material it seemed to be wooden. Yes some sort of wooden structure, a man made object all the way out here? My curiosity peaked and I couldn't resist the urge to climb up and explore. I leaped and scrambled up the side, which proved smoother and more difficult to get a grip on then anticipated, as if its creator had been attempting to deter such actions. Of course, this only spurred me on further. At the top, unseen from below was a plateau. Some signs of long since ceased activity still showed here, but it was the eastern side of the plateau that caught my attention. A raised lip in the midst of the flatness. I wandered over, to discover that the lip shielded what seemed to be some sort of hole. Whether natural or man made I could not say. After poking about for a few moments and realizing from I could not see far into this cave, I weighed my options. My sensible side yielded, the stern voice of my Sherpa echoing in my ear. We didn't have a common tongue, but I knew a warning from her when I heard it. But my wild side won out. I am a strong climber, I could descend a little and have a better look and come back out if the cave looked too dangerous. Tentatively I lowered myself over the ledge, gradually sinking into the crevice. My leg reached for the next foothold just as I lost my grip, the surface smooth and polished - in a flash I found myself free falling into the darkness. I've been deemed lucky and told I always seem to land on my feet in life, something I have scoffed at in the past but fortunately rang true this morning. I blinked in the darkness, mentally checking over my body which appeared injury free after the fall. As my eyes adjusted slowly to the dark, the light from above began to reveal the shadowy shapes that made up my surroundings. The cave had an unnatural smell, musty and a sickly sweet almost synthetic fragrance singed my nostrils. I set out to familiarize myself with my surroundings, and most importantly, seek out a route back to the ledge I had climbed down. Unless I had become completely disoriented, I discovered that the east and south sides of the cave did indeed seem to be of stone. The hairs on my neck began to raise - what was this cave, part nature and part constructed. What and where was that sickly sweet smell coming from? I followed the southern wall of the cave around until I met what must have been the western face I had climbed, it's smooth and constructed surface mirroring that I had just found. Underfoot I heard a rustling and froze... was there more than one level to this cave? I shuddered at the thought... though perhaps that could be my way out. I decided to continue mapping my surroundings first, turning north. With a sickening thud, my entire body rebounded of an unexpected surface. I reached out to feel a smooth, highly polished surface, cold to the touch. This was not like the stone or constructed walls I had encountered. No, this was something entirely different. I gave the surface a tentative sniff - metallic. My mind reeled. This must have been the same surface I lost my footing on, leading me here. A trap? What was this large metal object? Why was it hidden in this cave? Or could I even call this a cave, given its apparent semi constructed nature? My heart raced as panic roared in my ears. pullyourselftogether pull yourself together PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!!! I took a deep breath. Be rational. My mind had jumped ahead to alien conspiracy theories, and I struggled to rein them in. Perhaps this had once been the site of some sort of industrial plant? But why then hide it? Toxic sludge monsters battled the far more rational "to keep people safe" option in my mind. As I explored further, the panic in my mind became harder and harder to control... encountering areas of dampness with that heavy perfumed scent. What felt like gigantic plastic pipes jutted aggressively out of the metallic surface. A knot in my stomach grew progressively tighter, with the realization that I had left my food topside, having planned to initially just have a little nose around the edge. The surfaces of the cave proved unclimbable, and though I had a little more luck with the plastic piping, it only raised me slightly from the surface - there was no way I could clamber back to the top. I sunk to the floor, dejected, hungry. The smell of the cave becoming more and more nauseating as time wore on and my spirit wore down. I'm uncertain how long had passed when I felt the breeze, the scent of fresh air. I sought out the source and discovered that the cave I was in was not rectangular as I suspected initially, a small opening between the rock and the metal revealed itself on the north east side. Exploring this could mean a way out. But it would also mean being pressed between the indifferent rock and the cold, unknown metallic object. The potential of escape won out, I slowly moved forward into the tight space, squeezing my body forward. There was no room to turn, should I meet anything on this path a hasty retreat backwards my only hope. The resonance of my movement against the metal surface told me the object was some sort of hollow entity. I tried not to dwell on the multiple grim scenarios that plagued my mind and keep focus on my escape. After what seemed like a lifetime, a sliver of light shimmered in the distance, my heart soaring with joy. But with each step forward, an unseen force began to clip the wings of my soaring heart. The sliver of light was just that. A sliver. The cave narrowed impossibly, not even enough space to slide a hand through. To my dismay through the crack I could see the wooded area I had so happily traipsed through hours before. The sight was torture, and I slunk back into the dark, damp perfumed air. Hunger gripped at my belly and though noises we abundant, no dark evil seemed to make is presence known. I tried to make myself comfortable, as best I could. Here and there were the crisp, hollow remains of long since dead bugs, nothing lived in this box. Would I?, I thought grimly... To keep warm, periodically I would move my bones, and on one such jaunt stumbled across a soft surface, too hard to be a blanket... a rug perhaps? I decided to sit and consider my limited options. I screamed myself raw, hoping perhaps in this remote wilderness someone would pass. I sat and sobbed, thinking of my Sherpa's warnings. Would she return this way? I expended what little energy I held attempting to hoist myself back towards the ledge, through which by now the light was beginning to dwindled. Night fell, and with it, my hopes. I lay dejected, nauseous, miserable. The smell and metal shape infecting my mind, cruel smooth surfaces, perfume stench. I was doomed, this was my lot. My mind drifted to the Sherpa, she often practiced some form of meditation whilst I had been awakening in the mornings. I tried to emulate her calm, but my mind fixated on my slow and eventual doom. I wept. Small mewling sobs escaped my lips, when I began to hear the noises. A distant boom - from outside or within the depths of the metal object? I shuddered. Rustling.. trees? Or creatures ascending whatever depths the object held? And then... in the distance a voice? Not alien but a human voice? The source was hard to decipher but I pressed forward into the narrow crevasse I had earlier explored in the hopes of freedom. The forest remained dark and silent, until I heard it again. My name. MY NAME. Faint, distant, but unmistakable My heart rate rapid I attempted to push my way as far into the crevasse as I could. A light, and her. The Sherpa had returned and had begun to search for me, relief flooding my every fiber. I parted my dehydrated lips to shout in response but nothing came out. She moved away as I tried again and again to get my hoarse voice to respond. She had moved completely out of sight when finally a choked noise escaped my mouth - HERE. HERE. HERE. OVER HERE. I heard her sure and speedy footfall and finally a familiar face loomed in front of me. She smiled and said something - her native tongue incomprehensible to me, though I could see a flash of fear in her eyes. I cried back at her pleading for her speedy help, but she turned and ran back towards the slate flats. I openly cried. After what seemed like hours, she returned, this time with some of her strange items I had seen her use before. She began to methodically work on the smooth surface opening the space but it was not enough. I continued to weep freely now, the metal object still blocking my path and I saw no hope of this small, weak woman shifting it. Unlike my fear of the object, she seemed unperturbed by it, confirming that perhaps it was not some monstrous spacecraft but in fact something of her native people's design. I cowered in the back of the cave as she worked at the crevasse. Then unbelievably, with what I can only imagine was my Sherpa having called on the strength of her gods, she started to push and pull on the metal object. There was a ferocity I had not yet seen in this gentle soul and with an almighty heave, to my disbelief the object began to move.... small minute distances at first. The roar from the hollow drum deafening my ears. With an almighty heave this unassuming woman moved the metal structure, in the light now visible to me as some sort of box. As fresh air flowed in I became aware that this box was the source to of the perfumed stench I had choked on throughout the day. My instincts took over and I dashed to freedom, past the Sherpa who was now struggling with the metal object, a strange and I thought pointless dance now that I was out. I found the pack of food I had left behind scarfing down chunks of meat and moist grains barely stopping to chew, and within moments, vomited everything I had consumed back up. Shock, I assumed. But I was free. The Sherpa had by now replaced the metal box, and in a high voice, I assume gave me a scolding, but I did not understand. We walked back in silence to the area we most often camped on, with it's soft plush surfaces. Exhausted, she lay down, and I moved to her side, trying to express my thanks - thinking late is better than never. She looked at me and rubbed my head, which I took as an open invitation. Purring, I moved on to her stomach and curled up for a nap, gave a little meow and began kneading her legs with my claws.


There are some things that a husband should never do: cheat on his wife, cook without cleaning up, go shopping with her, and LOOK IN HER PURSE. These are all no-win situations. "Have you seen my keys", I said. "I was holding them for you last night. They're in my purse", she says. "Can you get them for me", I inquire. She says, "My purse is hanging on the bedroom doorknob. You can get it yourself". I've been through this before. IT's like opening Pandora's Box, like being Alice in Wonderland, like falling into a Black hole. There are things there that you don't want to know. There is order in disorder; and there seems to be no end. No husband should have to look in his wife's purse. It's a no-win situation. If I find my keys, she will want to know why I, "had to tear her purse apart to find them". And if I can't find them (even though I hear them jiggling), I will have to endure her barrage of, "you can never find anything", or, "you don't know how to look for things" (as if there's more than one way). The purse was one of six that she currently owned. I would have guessed a number closer to the number of states in the union. She said she only uses two. The dark navy blue one is for the fall and winter. The other one is white for spring and summer, and she starts using it on Easter Day. She also has several small clutch purses (with many compartments) for when we go out, a fanny pack for swap meets, and a huge gunny sack for when we go to baseball games. I've carried the same wallet since...Nixon was President! I reached in and found them. On the first try I had found keys--her keys on a huge safety pin. I put them to the side. I shook the purse. I could hear my keys laughing at me. There were two sides to the purse and four zippers. I would find my keys, but not before emptying her purse on the bed. For those of you too timid to venture into the unknown, let me list what I found: |⇝| **Zipper 1** || Lipstick *Comb* Fingernail file *Chapstick* Tweezers *Kleenex* Handy Wipes *Sunglasses* Reading glasses *Gum* Dental Floss *Cellular Phone* Coupons *Ink Pens* |⇝| **Zipper 2**|| *Hard Candy* Business Cards *Emergency Numbers* Lady's Personal Items |⇝| **Zipper 3**|| Nose Spray *Imodium* Primetime Mists |⇝| **Zipper 4**|| Checkbook ***MY KEYS*** |⇝|  "Did you find your keys," she yelled from the kitchen. "Right where you said they'd be", I replied as I hurriedly stuffed things back in. I had filled the purse, but there were items still on the bed. How could that be? Maybe if I ate a few pieces of gum, used some of the Kleenex, and hid some coupons, I could close the purse. There, everything restored! I held up the keys like a trophy and said that they were right where she had said. "Great", she said. "I have my purse organized so that when I'm driving, I can just reach over, and without looking, find things". "I need some aspirin!" I say.


It was a usual afternoon at the Argyll St branch of the Bank of Scotland with customers queuing as they waited patiently to be served. A teller, sitting at her desk with a hollow look on her face, shouted “can I help someone over here’ to the que to call over her next customer. As the man approached she noted he was very well trimmed and wore smart casual clothes, the kind that don’t draw attention to oneself but still look very much look “I mean business”. Over the top he wore woollen coat and a white shirt underneath with the collar undone. His hair was short on the sides with longer dirty blonde wavy thick hair on top. As he approached she noticed his sharp blue eyes and stern look. She cracked a faint smile at the corner of her mouth. The teller was about to raise her voice when the man began to raise his hand. As it happens, she had caught her tongue just in time as the man was now pointing an M1911 pistol at her. Her vague presence at work had now passed and she felt every second as her heart started racing. The man whispered the words “call the police” in a confident tone, cracking a smile in the corner of his mouth. Moments passed with the teller doing nothing but trembling in her chair. The man impatient with not having his request made turned to the que and yelled “everybody down!”. Within seconds everyone had fallen to the ground with not one person standing the man moved towards the only door in the building. “I simply ask that you call the police” the man said in a non-threating and relaxed tone. When no one moved the frustration began to show on his face. He sighed and pull the trigger. Two rounds were fired at the wall adjacent to the entrance, no one was hit. “I’ll ask again, can someone please phone the police?” The door greeter stood up and walked slowly toward the reception desk, the man tracked him with the muzzle of the gun. Within in minutes the police responded. Police cars piled up around the building surrounding every means of escape. Sgt Millar was an older man who, through stress of the job, had not aged very well. For being only 45 his face was wrinkled and his hair was all but gone. “I’d do it all again” he thought every so often, “to protect my family and the families of this nation.” He stepped out of his vehicle and walked towards the door, his Glock 17 in hand and by his waist, two officers in bullet proof vests followed close behind. The automatic doors whirled open as they approached. They scanned the room quickly and saw, immediately, a gun on the floor and a tall man standing behind it with his hands raised. Millar walked the man off the premises and towards his vehicle in handcuffs. *What on earth did he want?* He pilled him into the car and then let himself into the drivers seat. “You had your fun? You’ll probably spend the rest of your young life in prison now you know?” he said with a subtle mocking tone. The man stared forward in silence. Millar, unsatisfied with the reaction, turn in his seat “what is wrong with you? High as a kite?” The man remained staunch, not even flinching he remained silent. At this point Millar started the vehicle and pulled off. About halfway through the journey the man finally spoke. “Which station are we going to?” Millar paused for a moment, trying to place the accent but couldn’t crack it, it seemed to be undoubtable Scots but had a blend of something else. “Giffnock” both of the men said in perfect unison. Millar scowled at the man in the rear view mirror. *What’s he playing at?*“So you’re from around here, are you?” Millar questioned the man. Once again though, he remained silent. About 10 minutes later the man blurted out once again, “your daughter, Beth, she’s wants to go to Heriot Watt to do engineering is that correct?” A mixture of emotions came over Millar as he asked himself how could he know that. “Patricia does deserve a promotion, you are right Scott, she works the hardest and should ask for a promotion.” Now Millar was fuming, his wife had had this exact conversation with him the previous night before in bed falling asleep, *how could he know that? Is he threating my family?* Millar decided to take things into his own hands, he took a right and headed down an unused farm road. When Millar eventually stopped he stepped out of the vehicle and stared at the abandoned barn. The weather had taken its toll on the structure. The steel was all rusty with many panels bent in the wind, some were simply missing. Millar walked the man inside the barn and stopped him in the centre. “What is your goal from all this?” Millar questioned. The man stood still. Millar paused to think. “Did you intend to be arrest…” the man interrupted, “how would you feel if your family knew about how you abuse your power? The drug gang pay offs? The paedophile rings you take part in? Your secrete affair?” Millar began to vent with rage. He was an upstanding member of the community. He would never do anything of the like. “How dare you, I would never do anything of the such!” Millar barked very offended. “I know about it all and I intend to let the information out.” The man said it with a straight and truthful face. This push Millar over the edge. Like a cosmic silver back, Millar slammed his fist off the man cheek. Blood spattered over the concrete floor of the barn as the man feel to his knees. Millar dragged him back to the car and pilled him into the back once again. The man spoke one final time just as they left. In a calm and collect manor he said, “you’re going to regret doing that.” Millar went home that night still thinking about the things that were said. *How could he know these personal details? And where did the rest come from? Has he mistaken me for someone else?*The words bothered him right until he went to bed, after which he forgot the whole situation completely. A week or so passed when Millar was sitting at his desk when his superior approach him. His superior was Captain Blair. She presented her phone open on the Daily Record with the main headline for today. It read “Police Sargent and Team Disgraced at Hearing.” A video showed the highlights of the hearing. It was a colourful event with witnesses and evidence that damned everyone within Millar’s team. From drug gang members to a women who claimed to have been Millar’s mistress. The cherry on the cake was a small boy who cried in the stand about the alleged times Sgt Millar abused him. Finally the man who Millar had arrested took to the stand, with a very bruised, cut and stitched face he struggled to speak of the time Millar threated him with is police authority and beat him for his money in a back alley obviously recognising him. Millar was shocked to see that the man was a Scots American self-made millionaire called Alexander Fraser. He had been in the news occasionally as being the richest Scot to ever lived, making his money in construction. Blair asked Millar what he made of this. Millar was stunned. Soon afterward Millar was told to go home as he was on suspension until further notice. Along with his team he was almost certain he’d never be able to show his face again. Over the days to come Fraser watched as the papers and news painted him as a hero and damned the police services. The fake witnesses, the makeup all told the story he had intended. This was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to strike fear among the ranks. What history could he pull up on anyone else? Most police officers wouldn’t mess with him now. Fraser decided to test this theory. Months on from the firing of Sgt Millar, at the Argyll St branch of the Bank of Scotland, the tellers were serving the afternoon customers when a familiar face walked in the door. This time Fraser wielded the gun from the beginning. “Hello again” he said with a cruel smile on his face. Everyone hit the ground. “This time I would like to see the safe”. A teller jumped to their feet and walked Fraser to the safe on the lower level of the bank, unlocked the door and ran back up the stairs. Fraser Helped himself to as much as pockets would fill. He didn’t really need the money, it was more for show. Police began to surround the building much like the time before bracing for a shootout. As they poised themselves they saw who was coming. The Sargent with the squad ordered them to lower their weapons. Fraser walked over and placed the gun on the bonnet of the vehicle and began to pull the cash from his pockets. He filled the pockets of the Sargent and the other officers as well. The officers were not very awkward about this and tried not to pay it any attention. The Sargent hesitated but went through with saying what everyone was thinking. “Sargent Millar was a good man” she said trembling. “It’s a shame the people he works for are not.” Fraser said with a hint of passion. He then wondered to the side of the building next to the underground station and didn’t move for a moment or two. Then a large roar occurred. Fraser drove round the corner in a white Lamborghini Gallardo. The sound of the V10 boomed off the walls of the surrounding buildings as he rocketed down Argyll St and then under the Central Tunnel. The Sargent, disappointed with the results of today, lifted the gun off the bonnet and climbed into her car. She noted the gun was offlay light and pressed the magazine release button. Nothing happened. It dawned on her the arrogance of Alexander Fraser. He robbed a bank, left the evidence with the police who reposed and all the while with an empty gun.


Author's notes: This is only the second story I have written of my own volition, so I would like to encourage you to give me some constructive criticism. It is a realistic fiction monologue, and is *intended* to be performed. This is why all the dialogue is one sided (I was mainly inspired by speech and debate literature, more specifically dramatic interpretation). Trigger warning for loss of a parent Wishing on Aquarius By: William R. Neff (pseudonym) DAVE: I think that concludes our tour of the Youth and Science Museum. Before we leave, do any of you have further questions? Yes, Aquarius is a huge constellation. In fact, it's the tenth largest one. Hm? Yes, Uranus is a gas giant. Oh, I see what you did there. Funny. Any more questions? No? Ok. Thank you everyone, have a nice day. *Crowd disperses, except for one young female in her rough teens.* You do realize that the tour is over, right? The museum is about to close in about ten minutes. Oh, your ride doesn’t come until another half an hour? Well what are you going to do? You can’t just… wait outside. Here, stay inside the museum, it will be much safer here. You won’t get in trouble because I’m an employee. Trust me. Anyway, what’s your name? Ah, Rachel. Well my name is Dave Astra but I’m sure you already knew that from the tour. Actually, you look a lot like Stella- my daughter. She was born on Valentine’s day making her zodiac Aquarius. Her name means “star” in latin. Clever, huh? My wife thought of that. She always was so supportive of my interests. I never thought twice about the fact that she made more money than me. Where’s my ring? Oh, I don’t wear it anymore. Um, no it’s fine. I don’t mind you asking. It’s just that she isn’t around anymore. I'm sorry, I just don’t know how to ever bring it up. Do you know how hard it is to explain to a 7 year old girl what a drunk driver is? So Stella and I hit some pretty rough times financially when her mother... passed. Without my partner I struggled to pay the mortgage every month. Working as a tour guide only gives enough to get by. I couldn’t afford to buy Stella the supplies and clothes she needed for 2nd grade. Kids started calling her names because of rips in her old clothes. Her teacher even questioned my parenting skills and at the parent teacher conference. Although when times felt toughest, Stella was always there for me. Every night when I tucked her into bed she always wanted to sing a song with me because that’s what we did with her mother. Her favorite was “When You Wish Upon a Star” from Pinocchio. It was always really adorable to see her face light up when we sang. For a moment every night we would forget the money, the supplies, the bullies, and the teachers. It was just us, and I think during those times mom was with us too. After a few months I got a raise, and Stella and I were on the high road. Valentine’s day was closer meaning that her birthday was coming as well. I was going to give Stella the best birthday gift I could. I had been saving up money for months to get us a trip to Disney World. I also begged my boss to let me have the planetarium after hours. See, I was going to make a custom show for her. It was going to be a montague of our trip to Disneyland with her mom when Stella was only 5. It was going to be all streamed into the planetarium. At the end I was going to show her our printed tickets and we’d go home to pack. When Valentine’s day came, I could barely hold my excitement. That was until I picked her up from school and she came into my car crying. Stella said that all the other kid’s moms made their Valentine’s day cards for them. She was upset because she had no Valentines for the rest of the class. Apparently because she didn’t give any cards, she didn’t receive any cards either. She didn't feel like anyone's Valentine. To make matters worse, everyone forgot her birthday with the Valentine’s day noise. I told her the only thing I could, “Hey, I know what will cheer you up! Why don’t we go to the Museum later tonight, I have a birthday surprise for you there.” It was 7:00 when we arrived at the museum. I used my key card to get in. I told Stella to wait for a few minutes at the bench so I could set up the computer in planetarium room. I went inside and plugged the flashdrive in. There was some issue with the video file I was trying to use and the compatibility with the player on the computer. So I went back to Stella to let her know about the issue. I checked my watch. 7:03. Stella wasn’t where I left her. On the bench. I thought she must be playing on the side of the building that has the playground. So I opened the door and called her name. “Stella! Daddy needs a couple more minutes.” After going back inside and tinkering with the computer for a minute I finally get the video ready to show. I went outside once more and called for her. “Ok Stella, daddy is ready to show you the birthday surprise!” Nothing. I walk around to the side of the building, and the playground is empty. I checked my watch. 7:05. Stella couldn’t have gone far, right? Maybe she somehow opened the door and is inside the planetarium right now. I unlock the door with my key card and open the doors to the planetarium. Nothing. Nobody. Black hole. Stella is somewhere Stella has to be somewhere because, because, because, it’s Valentine’s day today and it’s Stella’s birthday so she has to be somewhere. Maybe Stella is just playing a very long and very scary game of hide and seek? Maybe she’s hiding in the girl’s bathroom. I check. She isn’t there. Hiding in the boy’s bathroom. I check. Not there. Hiding outside. I check. Hiding around the building. I check. The 2nd floor. The magnets exhibit. The basement. The gravity exhibit. The 3rd floor. The evolution exhibit. In the car. The rocks exhibit. Under the car. “Stella! Stella! This isn’t funny anymore daddy needs you. Now!” I checked my watch. 10:38. I took my ring off and threw it outside. After that, the only thing I could do was sit in my car. I knew what had happened. I had become the worst father imaginable. I never even got to tell Stella I loved her. Happy Valentine's day. Don’t you see why I can’t let you go out there alone? I can’t be responsible for that to happen again. It’s not safe. When I look up at the night sky, I see Aquarius. The tenth largest constellation. I see a star. My Stella. *When you wish upon a star* *Makes no difference who you are* *Anything your heart desires will come to you* Later the authorities showed me the footage. From 7:01 to 7:02 the van pulled up to the museum and it was gone by 7:03. It was that quick. I haven’t seen my daughter in three days but it feels like an eternity. It's all my fault she's gone. Why didn't I let her inside? I am so stupid. Is that your mom’s car? Wait. Before you go, I have something for you. Here. Two tickets to Disney World. Rachel, I don’t know if you can use them but after having this talk I don’t think I have any purpose for them either. Goodbye. Thank you for listening.


There was a marsh that bounded part of the woods behind my house, on the edge of which, at high tide, Dad and I used to stand and fish for perch and minnows. Birds chirped in the trees and they’d clam up when the eagles came around. In some places, it was hard to walk. The forest floor was so slick and the swamp so full of trees that there was no way to tell where one stopped and the other ended. In consequence, when burly hunters stomped through the woods they sometimes found themselves knee-deep in slippery mud, as black as oil. That wasn’t us, we knew our way around. By trial and adaptation to the rhythm of the tides, it was like instinct for Dad and I. I knew every tree and every boulder; where the eagle’s nest was and the cave that sunk into the ground and filled up with water at high tide. “You got the bait, boy?” Dad asked. I nodded my head and held out a tin can swimming with worms. You might like to know something of his character. He was well-built, of middle stature, and quite ingenious. He could draw well, was a skilled musician, and he had a mechanical intuition too. But, his greatest attributes laid in his perfect understanding and solid judgment. He ran for town sheriff a number of times, winning twice. I remember frequent visits to our house by the mayor and other leaders who consulted him for his opinion in the affairs of the town, long after his service with the police department had ended. We walked over the path of wood beams he’d made by hand to get across the marsh as the tide rose. The tide turned the ground around us into mush. Dad noticed some eddies and splashes a little ways out and said Son, I think there’s a big one out ‘ere today! And he smiled at me. When we got to the pier he took to arranging the fishing line and we sat with our feet dangling over the water. There was an enormous splash some distance out. Wow! Dad said, and I looked up to him in awe, as if he hadn’t seen what I’d just seen. A frog ribbited in the swamp somewhere, and then we heard a *plunk* and it went quiet. Little ripples washed towards us, chopped up by the waterlilies and the cattails. I lurched forward and I realized something bit down on my line. “You got one!” he said, and he helped me reel it in with real difficulty. We spun and spun the rod as hard as we could. The hook churned up the water around itself. The fish flapped about and swayed among the reeds. We thought it might be a catfish. I imagined myself posing with it for a picture, telling Ma, look at what I did! I caught a water droplet with my eye. We pulled and pulled and pulled and soon it got real easy to reel in the line. I thought it was my dad’s strength. But soon we got it up above the surface, and the fish was gone. Nothing but a sliver of lip remained on the silver hook, and a cloud of blood muddied the water.


Once, there lived three brothers, identical in face and body. At infancy the three brothers, due to unfortunate circumstances surrounding the death of their birth parents, were separated from each other. The first brother wound up the adopted child of a barren lord, and was showered with gifts and joy, so much so that he would never live through a hard time in his life. All his days were filled with play and education from the finest teachers in the land, and all the finery that a young prince could expect. The second brother on the other hand, wound up in a very different life. He was taken in by a poor band of nomads. They traveled the far reaches of the world, rife with bandits, plague, and war. The second brother was forced to grow up quickly if he ever hoped to survive this dangerous new life laid before him. The third brother, neither lucky or unlucky, was adopted by a kindly farming couple from a small village. They were poor of course, being peasants, but they had always wanted to care for a child. He faced his share of hardships growing up in life, but he had friends and family to support him. Now, I suppose, is where we see what became of these boys. The first brother, being pampered and praised all his life, was never exposed to true hardship. He had spent his whole life behind impenetrable castle walls and had grown up on tales of honor and kindness and as such had never truly seen the wickedness of men's hearts. Despite his sheltered upbringing, the young lad still had a burning wanderlust and as such set out to see the world when he had come of age. Upon arriving in his first big city, he discovered that life was not exactly just like the castle. People were mean, they had no respect, and they most certainly did not wash themselves regularly. He did not let this deter him however, and he continued to explore this grand new city he had never seen. One day, a stranger offered to show him around the city for the meager price of a gold coin. Eager to see everything this city had to offer him, the young prince accepted. He followed the stranger throughout the city, seeing a few landmarks and big statues, until they came to a rather secluded and darkened street. The stranger, having seen first hand the naivety of the young prince led him into the alley where he and his gang of ruffians, rapscallions, and raiders promptly stabbed the boy in his side, beat him senseless, took all of his gold, jewelry, and clothing. The Prince, aged 19, dies naked and bloody in the gutter of some slum nobody remembers. The second brother, having faced a lifetime of hardships from a very young age, grew up quite differently. As a child, his tribe was ravaged by bandits, killing many and taking him and others as slaves. As a slave, he was abused, beaten, and worked to the bone day in and day out. Even when performing his tasks to perfection and beyond, he was still beaten. As such, the young boy allowed hate to grow and fester in his heart. One night, however, he unleashed this hatred upon his vile captors and took a knife to the throats of every bandit he could find. Seeing his bloody work completed, the boy, now a young man, fled with his fellow nomads from their chains, seeking a new start. Sadly, many of them would not get that start. Due to years of malnourishment and mistreatment at the hands of the bandits, many of the nomads did not have the physical strength or health to fend off sickness or predators, leading many to their demise. Over the following years, as the nomads struggles to find a new home in this wild frontier, more and more began to die off, until only the young man remained with hate in his heart and rage for all the injustices he had faced in his time. He would continue to travel from place to place taking work as a mercenary or hired blade. It didn’t really matter what he had to do, murder, protection, tax collection, as long as he got paid and he could afford to drink away the guilt of his actions. He would never truly belong anywhere, never able to find peace, never able to quell the rage that burned inside of him. Most tragically, he would not find love, for who could love such a man so wretched as he? One whose morals are dictated by the jingling of coins and a tankard of beer? Unfortunately, nobody could. The Wretch, aged 64, dies bitter and riddled with guilt, old and alone in a hovel in the farthest corners of the world. There’s really not much to be said about the final brother. The third brother, as you might recall, was neither fortunate or unfortunate. As he grew up in his small little village, he saw his fair share of unpleasantness, from hangings to the occasional small bandit raid. On the other hand however, he grew up under the guiding influence of his adoptive mother and father, learning about the virtues and rules of being an honorable man. In his life, he strived to apply all he had learned to his actions. No matter how bad the harvest, no matter how badly the village was raided, he learned to pick himself up by the bootstraps and get on with his life. With the passing of his adoptive parents later in life, he would take over their farm, keeping alive the legacy of his family in the village. He would also settle down with a nice woman from the neighboring village, fathering many children and then later on being grandfather to some grandchildren even. As he grew older, his children began to tend the farm as his joints grew weak, and he saw many seasons come and go in his final years. The Father, aged 83, dies in his small cottage, surrounded by his most beloved children and grandchildren in his final moments.


As the sun rose that morning, he stood there at the stern of the ship, both hands on either side of that fat, cumbersome wheel. The sailor had spent many days and many nights clutching its wooden rim. The wheel was stiff. It cooperated like an sick old man being forced to squeeze every last particle of existence out of his broken body. The sailor had not been in the company of another for a very long time. His sanity had parted ways with him long ago, and he’d accepted that. He never mourned his sanity. It slipped away quietly one day, undetected. The sailor couldn’t remember the last face he saw. One afternoon not long ago, the sailor found he hard time visualizing a face, any face, in his mind. He found this troubling. He squeezed his eyes tight, blanketed his forehead with his palm, trying very hard to recall a face, any face at all. He tried hard, but with no success. He was neurologically constipated. He gave up, and several troubling hours passed. He was then hit with a solution to his problem, one which should have been obvious, but it hadn’t been. The sailor was relieved to rediscover that included with his human body was a human face. His hand rediscovered his old face, and it seemed foreign. All of this sticky apparatus attached to the front of his skull. It seemed so crude, so obscene. He wondered how he ever got my in his old life ashore. How was he able to converse with another person while their head apparatus flaps around, crude and sticky just like his. He‘d regained his ability to visualize faces, but he really wish he hadn’t. Perhaps having souls operating these faces nullifies the horrific nature of them somehow. Normalizes then over time. The sailor had not been among other beings with sticky apparatus at the front of their heads for an eternity. The sailor’s unaccompanied mind travelled to many places which were and continue to be entirely inaccessible to the sane mind. The sailor had a benefit in being aware of his insanity, and thus he didn’t feel he had to question and judge himself for the many odd notions and probably irrational ideas he would have from time to time. He was insane, and insane people are licensed to do insane things, he figured. He wasn’t going to attempt to suppress his eccentricity. He decided that long ago. Some fortunate people can travel beyond the sane, and return unscathed. The sailor however, had been too far gone, for far too long. He was not going to be returning to the lost world of reason and rational, linear thinking. Sometimes the sailor would invent imaginary people. They never stuck around for more than a day. The sailor liked variety. These weren’t imaginary friends. The sailor enjoyed the company of imaginary strangers. The sun continued it’s ascent into the empty sky. Long ago the sight of the morning sky may have raised a corner of the man’s mouth. It’s quite possible that in the man’s ancient past, he enjoyed the crisp morning air, gazed at the heavens and sighed a contented sigh. It’s quite possible that this is one of countless fragments of this man’s truth which have been whisked away by a gentle wind. All who have lived have known the work of this wind, some more than others. The delicate way of this wind seems spiteful. A gentle breeze passed by the one who walked the earth with his heart gleefully exposed, unacquainted with the wind. The sky was spectacular and the grass felt like love and smelled of something sweet and eternal. Not one person has gone from A to B without cursing the ways of this unstoppable wind. They wave their fists, they shout vengeful violence at the great thief. Their verbal fists find themselves without satisfaction. This breeze can’t be battered, just as water cannot be strangled. Many have tried this as well, when gratitude for it’s service is replaced with resent. For some, the service of water seems to only prolong the heavy days and the bloody nights of disassembly, dissection and reconfiguration. For some, the water appears to be the wind’s accomplice. The wind, the great thief, the water, the great captor of man in disguise.


My life was about to change. It just missed me, but not my new freshly painted, 10-year-old 1950 Studebaker coupe. It was around 7 A.M and was my first day of junior college. I was nervous because I had no idea as to what to expect. I had just parked and got out of the car when a baseball bat came whirling over the car parked next to mine just barely missing me. Why would someone throw a baseball bat at me? Did I take a reserved parking spot? Was I in the teachers' parking lot? What did I do? Is this how new students were greeted? I picked it up looking for an attached note such as when a brick is thrown through a window as a warning for someone to get "out of town." No note. I didn't see anyone. Why me? I needed to get to class, but then the answer came out of nowhere! I first heard the voice, "Sorry!", it said. My life was about to change--for the better. A blond head peered around the corner of the next car. "Sorry" , it said with a quiver. Next came the rest of a tall skinny body. He was maybe six feet tall but I was only 5'7". The average height at that time was 5'10". His eyes, forehead, pursed lips, and overall demeanor showed that he was concerned and under some stress. "Is anyone hurt? Did the bat do any damage?," he asked. I told him that no one was hit, but my car let out a yip. He was a real car buff. He introduced himself to me, and the two of us proceeded to check out the side of my new $29.95 custom Earl Scheib paint job. He offered to pay any damages. We could only find a very small paint chip and less of a dent. The Studebaker was fine. He picked up the errant bat and said that he had to get to class. I remembered that I did too. We exchanged names and phone numbers. As he left, he turned and said, "I'll always be around, see you later." Always around, he was. For nearly 60 years, he was my best friend, my best buddy! Yes, my life was about to change--for the better. Al had been talking to a couple of friends in the parking lot. He was swinging a wooden bat which had no tape on the handle, and it accidentally slipped out of his hand and up and over two cars and into mine. How was it possible that it had done no damage? I ducked but heard it hit. In fact, it was just the opposite! A baseball bat had been our introduction. It was, as if by fate, meant to happen, that it was scripted, that GOD had a hand in it. Never-the-less, he was to become my BEST friend for life. Some people believe that the relationships you have in this life, you have also had some time in your previous lives. It was as if the universe had to find a way for us to meet again. And, a baseball bat seemed like a novel way to do it. At a school with thousands of students, it was .. his bat that sliced through the morning sky to say, "Hi, I want you to meet an old friend." Later that day, we found ourselves in the same physical education class, a tennis class. I had never played before but was very good at most sports. Al had come to the warm Californian climate from Chicago because of all the allergies that he had. He could not have dairy products or eat things with eggs in the mixture. I was fast, he was slow. Neither of us had had any tennis lessons and both developed unorthodox tennis strokes. We played for 50 years, and I seldom beat him, if ever. We were told we were going to partner up in the tennis class. The teacher randomly selected the partners. There were around 40 novice tennis players in the class. She would point to any two players and say "you are partners." Al and I were unaware we were both in this class, but, that's right, she pointed to me and then to Al. It was as if everything had, once again, been preordained just like the bat hitting my car. I wondered if he felt the same way. Neither of us ever mentioned it. As slow as Al was, he seemed to sense where the ball would be before it crossed the net. I relied on quickness whereas he relied on extra-sensory perception. He was lethal when he was at the net. We played in numerous tournaments and did reasonably well each time. I ended up coaching high school tennis, and he became one of the best tennis players at a very nice country club. In our 20's and 30's, we played in some full court and half court basketball leagues. I had played high school varsity basketball for two years. We had won many tournaments, had a 21-5 record one year, and had beaten many very good teams. Al had played no high school basketball mostly because he was sickly in his youth. But could he shoot! He had the "touch". He had no jump shot but an unbelievable set-shot. He could make a basket from almost anywhere. He had a running hook shot ala Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, only better..*.yes, better*! He could hit it15 feet out from the basket(imagine a 15-foot arc) while on the dead run, right or left handed!! His hook could never match the beauty of Kareem's sky hook since Al's was more of a line-drive. Kareem would carefully set up his move, but not Al. He would shoot on the dead run at any time from anywhere. Players on opposing teams would, at first, just let the skinny awkward looking guy shoot "at will" until they found out that he seldom missed this running 15-foot hook. They began to put their best defensive player on him only to find that Al needed to be "double-teamed". They would talk "dirt" to him. They needed to rough him up or triple-team him, but this would leave the rest of us wide open. Soon they stopped the rough stuff as they respected him throughout the various leagues. A new strategy was neededdon't let anyone throw the ball to him! I already knew that because when the ball was thrown to him, it would never come back. I don't think he knew what the word *pass* meant. He always shot the ball. We had a lot of fun playing in night basketball leagues in an old gym at a nearby college. I believe the baseball bat was never meant to hit me, rather it was an introduction to a life-long best friend. I have many stories about Al that I intend to write in the future, so don't be surprised to see the recurrence of his name. Al passed away quietly three years ago this December watching a football game at an inn at a local mountain resort while on vacation with his wife. I still miss him. He would call my wife Trish instead of Pat. He would add "*ish*" to many other words like "let's meet at eightish". *Gallivant* was his word for doing something. He was as nice of a person one could be lucky enough to know. He always had my back. Luckily, it hit my car...NOPE, not luckily, **it was MEANT to be**.


“I was here once”. By M.G.D He goes with regret , he goes with purpose, he the man who had nothing goes with humble thoughts, all three are going to the beyond For their time has come to answer the unwanted call. The first man answered during his prime, his life cut short by a tragic accident his newly formed family left behind. This man prospered and accrued great wealth in his shortened stay here. Yet he still wasn’t satisfied with what he had. He spent his free-time trying to better his equals,instead of spending time with the people that really mattered. His family barely had him around even when he was alive so his death brings sorrow but only for awhile. He leaves this world with regret and anger for he never heard his newborn daughter say her first words or watch her take her first steps. As well as the knowledge that his son will only know his father as a working man who had no time for him.He will watch from above as another man takes his place. The second answered In the eve of a unforeseen sickness but towards the end of a great and full life. This man was responsible for great things in his own city and was able to build several shelters and programs to help the homeless and other people struggling with depression and suicide. In his last few months Great pain followed the man much as his Iv drip did, but he never complained and always said that he’s proud that he carries this burden instead of another member of his family. In his final moments His loved ones clung to his arm while machines rattled and buzzed behind him. His children and grandchildren watched as their hero slowly faded. he leaves this world purpose driven to end his suffering and to once again come face to face with a special man that saved his life. The last man answered on a cold, frozen night. It wasn’t his time yet. He still had life left before him. This man was poor and homeless. He didn’t even have much of a coat on just a raggedy old thing that once resembled a jacket. Still he never took what wasn’t earned or given, never cursed the lords name, never even had an impure thought of another human being. This man wasn’t always this way,once he even walked along a road in Vietnam with some other kids from back home, he even went on to Korea where he led another group of able young men to great victories. 2 wars and the death of his young wife and child in labor caused this man to end up on the streets, but that’s not what led him to the beyond. The final man in this story isn’t a man at all just a young teen who lost his will to live. Bully’s and family violence cause this teen to lose his self esteem and fall into depression. This teen lost his father at a young age, but he didn’t have much of a father to begin with seeing as how he was a workaholic. Now he has to watch his younger sister being raised by an abusive step father.This kid didn’t have any friends or support when it mattered so he turned to drugs. As the drugs began to fill in the places in his heart that are now void, his thoughts turned to those of self harm and hate. So much hate. The kid went on a walk to a bridge near his home. As he stood on the ledge he heard a voice “I was here once,were you are now”. “I was a little older and more bitter but the same thoughts ran through my head”. The mysterious voice said “It was right after I got back from Korea” the teen now turned to face the stranger, whose tattered and ragged old jacket bears the words us army on it. The teen looks the homeless man in the eyes and can see the truth in his words The teen yells back, “go away old man what would you know about me” The homeless man responds, “I don’t know about you but I know about love and loss and second chances” The teen now crying yells back,” I have to do this I have to end it, it’s all just to much” The homeless man now pleads with him,”look here boy nothing is going to come out of you jumping off this bridge” trust me your not the first person to step up on that ledge and sadly you won’t be the last” his words echo in the deep dark void under the bridge. The teen cries out, “I have to do this I have to” the teen inches closer to the edge “Why do you even care” The old man replies, “I care because I love you” I love all of God’s children” “Even though we are strangers doesn’t mean we can’t love one another” “I’ve seen death and destruction of men by my own hands” he pauses briefly “and these same hands went on to hold my fiancées hands as she became my wife and then as she laid dying in a hospital bed holding our stillborn son” “I’ve seen both the good and the bad of this world” he says as he steps closer to the teen “I even had my own turn on that very same ledge your upon now” he softly says as he takes another few steps closer careful not to move to fast as not to force the teens hand “But right before I jumped I remembered my wife’s face and how she was now watching from above” I thought of my infant son who never had a chance on life because of uncontrollable fate” I thought of a moment like this where I could one day change someone’s mind and keep them from taking the leap” just as he said those last words he sprinted the last few feet towards the young teen, just as the teen lost his footing and slipped forward. The homeless man,realizing what has happened, makes a choice and leaps over the ledge just as the teen slips off. The homeless man manages to beat the teen over the edge and is able to push him back over to the road above. The teen is safe and the homeless man now falls into the deep canyon below. His final thoughts are of his family who he will be reunited with again. The teens sits there stunned that a perfect stranger just sacrificed his own life for him. He cry’s a deep sorrowful cry. His whole world was just changed by a man who had nothing but gave everything to see this teen gets to live another day. The teen won’t have to answer his unwanted call tonight nor any night that he spends on that bridge. He learned life’s hidden lessons. He will one day look up from his own death bed and see that homeless mans face once again. The teen is now grown and is laying in a hospital bed he as well as everyone else knows his time is near. The nurses remove his iv and his oxygen mask is taken off. His family weeps at his side as he lays there fading away. Just as his world begins to fade to black he hears a voice. “I’ve been here once,were you are now” says the homeless man but it sounded distance and was coming from above. He looks up to the heavens as his breath starts to slow and his heart stops to beat.he knows this voice, he knows those words he heard them before. He closes his eyes for the last time. He now stands on the edge of a glorious kingdom made of gold and clouds. He sees a familiar face in the distance walking towards him. He isn’t scared he isn’t in pain. He stands there content and patiently awaits the familiar stranger in the distance “I glad to see you made it here boy”,says the homeless man as he greets the now grown teen, “I’m glad you made it off that bridge”. He introduces the now grown teen to his wife and son. He takes the grown man under his arm and walks towards the gates. “I’m glad you made it off that bridge” the homeless man murmurs under his breath as he pats the grown man on his back.