She was always my friend, and I always hers. I sat out on the pale yellow sand, watching her dance. She delivered to me everything: leather boots, seaweed, shells, unmoving fish. These acts of kindness were unbeknownst to me outside of her shore, and I returned them to her in full with other exotic gifts. Her water was beautiful, teeming with grey and blue and white, and she sang a song of lulling waves. The sun glistened off her rolling surface and when the sun left, moonlight flooded in. She would try to climb up the beach towards me, then retreat backwards, too afraid to venture far from her abode. Every day she would invite me to swim in her infinite depths, to travel out far where the waves were mountains and the froth was snow, and every day I would swim farther and farther out before she worried about my despairing limbs and pushed me back to shore, and then we laughed about it for hours upon hours. Home was not where I belonged, the academy was not where I belonged. In fact, the whole town was infested with a looming sense of despair. Its buildings were uneven and their bricks were stained black. The windows formed hollow eyes, observing passers-by. Following the dark smoke of the chimneys upwards, the eye would reach the foreboding Manor that towered over the crooked rooftops. It sat atop a hill that forms a cliff face over the ocean as if part of the hill had been chopped off and sunk beneath the waves. The academy was an unhappy place crammed into the town’s centre. The ceilings loomed far above and teemed with cobwebs and the stained glass windows refused to let all but the most awful of light in. As I walked the dark passages of the old and horrible school, I questioned how one could ever be happy there. I observed everybody’s smiling faces, but nobody ever saw mine. I nodded to every person I walked past, and they turned their heads from me, not seeing me, I was too short, too skinny, too ghost-like in comparison to the brutes whose bodies attracted the most beautiful forms. My hand was thrown upwards all the time in classes, but I may as well have been throwing up spider silk, never seen by the professors. My home was empty, my mother had died giving birth to me and my father had been sent far away for cracking open the skull of my sister, leaving me all alone at the top of a hill in a birch forest just beyond the town, in a crooked, squalid and mouldy hut. When my loneliness overwhelmed me, I would run to my Ocean and weep. Once, I asked her to speak of her own creation. She told me the Sky was her mother and Death her father. It came as no surprise to me that such a wondrous being was made from the addition of two magnificent others. I stopped with the school nonsense and spent my time with my Ocean, where I was doing something worthwhile, bringing happiness to something so grand and beautiful. On a cold afternoon with wind biting at flesh and wave, she surprised me by visiting in her mortal form. I saw her standing on the pier, and immediately recognised her as my Ocean. Blue eyes, hair as golden as the sand, that familiar scent of salt that she radiated. Every word she spoke reverberated around my head, every step she took glided with the grace of a dolphin yet felt like a whale on my chest, every smile would summon light into the room, banishing all forces of misery and anguish. Each night, she would head to the beach and walk along the shore, staring at the sparkling water under the moonlight, and each night I would sit in the sand dunes and watch her from afar, observing her elegance. Of course, happiness never lasts. She, just as everyone else, had seemed to forget me. She became infatuated with others at school and as the days grew on she became more and more empty. Leaving her sandy home, she had become shallow. I lost her, and she was losing herself. One night, I left the safety of the sand dunes and I approached her, armed with a rope and a syringe filled with seawater, so that I could reintroduce the sea back into her body. She was staring at the sea as she walked, her lips curled into a wistful smile and her white dress billowing in the wind. As my feet crunched the sand beneath, her head snapped from the ocean to me. My eyes locked onto hers and the world seemed stationary for a brief eternity. “I have to take you back,” I told her. “Do I know you?” She stammered. “Once, I suppose.” I could see her jaw twitching. She turned and began quickly walking the other way. I followed, feet crunching the shells beneath me. She broke into a run. Her human form was weak and her legs moved frantically, slowly, ridiculously. I had caught her in an instant, knocking her to the ground. She began kicking, so I picked up a handful of sand and cast it down her throat and into her eyes. Her scream cracked out as a dry cough, sending up dust into the air. She writhed under me, but I had pinned her down. I brought the vial of seawater to her neck and penetrated her with the needle. Her body contorted, twisting and turning like an eddying whirlpool. She stopped moving. I dragged her body to the water and let the waves take her out. I followed, feet kicking at the rocky and dark surface. Now was the time that I should join my beautiful ocean. I had no means of living with her while still in my own fleshy husk. Maybe, instead, her creators could turn me into an immortal being so that I could spend an eternity with her. The Sky was far too high up to hear me and Death was too abstract to convene with. But maybe he wasn’t… No, in fact, he was right here in front of me. I cast myself into the ocean, knowing she would no longer push me back, not while she was recovering. The water filled my throat, nostrils, eyes, seeping through my body as I sunk further and further. Never had I been this deep. I felt my lungs tighten, like tentacles had wrapped around me and contracted. No light penetrated this place. Gone I would be soon. And gone I was; blood stopped visiting my brain, my eyes closed their doors and my heart quit its job. The dark night was filled with the putrid stench of rotting fish. I hated it. Death had ignored my plea to join him and I had washed up on the shore, my heart resuming its morbid task. I went back to my hut, my rotten abode that sat upon that godforsaken hill. The morning came and I was greeted with gloved fists pounding on my door that shook the windows in their sills, yells calling for me to quit my place and admit my guilt. “Even death ignores me” I thought to myself as I moaned on my bed. How rude of Death, to bar entry to those who wish to meet him yet take in those who do not. … My bones were frail, my form shrunk, my skin stretched thin, I wept in my gloomy cage over the roaring ocean. A perpetual storm lashed at my beautiful ocean, which fought back with white nails of froth. Tears rolled down my grey cheeks as they joined their salty brethren below. Through the teary haze, I spotted a white dress on the ocean surface, encasing a whiter-still body. It was disgusting. A tremendous wave crushed the thing and it was gone. The Ocean was silent. It was just me. Only me.


Regular guy. At least that's what everyone else says. Football team, basketball team, hell even played baseball a year or two. Perfect grades. Even my teachers think in the next couple of years I'm ready for the Ivy league. I have the perfect girlfriend. The perfect parents. And to top it all off I'm apart of the, how do you say "popular crowd." I don't think I could ask for a better life.All i'm saying is when you have it all, you always want more. I think it all started maybe a few weeks after school had started. There was this kid, younger than most of the people in my calculus class. Couldn't of been older than 15. And "lucky me" I sat right next to him. He would talk to me and I'd make small talk, just to pass the time. But the kid bothered me. I knew he didn't have any friends. He was that kid that sat by himself at lunch. Just weird. But I had an idea. I got together with my friends. To go and mess with this kid. Good ole' fashioned fun. My friends and I knew the kid walked home from school. So we got the idea to "pretend" kidnap him. We a got plan together. And put it into action one Friday night. We were all dressed in black. And to top it all off ski masks. Then just to add more of a scare factor my friend Murphy, got his dads gun, not loaded of course, for added effect. He had stayed after school late that day, and we waited for him to start his walk home. We followed him for about 10 minutes , then we pulled up next to him and grabbed him. It was so funny watching him scream. The terror on his face was just unbelievable. He started to cry and one of my friends started to hit him. He wouldn't shut up. Then Murphy, pulled the gun out and pointed right at him. The little loser didn't say a word. Murphy put the gun to his head. We all couldn't stop laughing. I hadn't had this much fun in my entire life. It seemed as much as the tears kept coming from him, the harder we laughed. Then Murphy pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. Now I'm not so much of a regular guy. No more football team. No more basketball team. All my friends or at least the people who I thought were my friends have all but gone. My parents don't even look at me the same. I have lost it all. I lost everything. And then the after effects. Kidnapping. Mastermind to murder. Manslaughter. And now I am awaiting the trial of the rest of my life. If I wouldn't of been so damn cocky. I thought I had it all and didn't realize I could lose it all in an instant. But that's the thing when you have it all. You always want more. But I was too dumb to realize I simply had enough.


The two men walked briskly side by side through the busy grocery store, while one gave instructions to the other. “So, you see Declan, here at O’Malley’s, we value customer satisfaction over anything else. That’s why our motto is, ‘Have a perfect day!’ We may not have the lowest prices in town or the widest selection of name-brands; we may have what food critics call a subpar bakery, and our deli department may have received a D from the health department, because we may have a slight roach infestation, but what we lack in those areas, we make up for with dynamic customer relations.” Declan listened intently to the manager, Brent’s, detailed analysis of the store's history and core values. “Always remember to C.H.E.E.S.E,” Brent explained. “C.H.E.E.S.E stands for Calmness, Honor, Empathy, Encouragement, and Smile Entirely.” Declan was noticeably confused. “Listen,” Brent continued. “We may not have the most creative marketing team, and we may center our business around nonsensical acronyms; we may be hemorrhaging money internally and we may be moments away from bankruptcy, but what we lack in all those areas, we make up for with dynamic customer relations.” Declan nodded his head in agreement. “What’s our motto?” Brent asked quizzically. “Have a perfect day!” Declan proudly answered. “That’s correct,” Brent said. “And that’s not only our motto, but it’s also store policy.” The two stopped near the cash registers. “Here’s your post,” Brent said. Declan was eager to get started. He was in desperate need of a job and was grateful for any opportunity thrown his way. “Watch how it’s done,” Brent said with the confidence of Evil Knievel jumping a single semi-truck. A middle-aged lady approached the register with a cart full of groceries. Brent greeted her with an enthusiastic, “How’s it going?” “Pretty good,” the lady answered. Declan watched in awe as Brett scanned all 37 times with the charisma of a Broadway actor and the pizzazz of a flair bartender. He was fast but considerate. Efficient yet attentive. “Someone’s ready to party!” He said while holding up a bottle of wine. The lady laughed. “Oh, you know it!” “How do you like them apples?” He joked while pointing to a package of Granny Smiths. The lady laughed flirtatiously. “You sure are good at this,” She said with a smile. Brent picked up a block of Brie, “Oh, this. It’s a bries!” He said. She laughed again, even louder this time. “Nuttin to it,” he said while holding up a can of Planters peanuts this time. “I’ll have you out of here in a Jiff, he added while scanning peanut butter. ‘Man, he’s killing it,’ Declan thought to himself hoping he could be just as witty when it was his turn. Brent finished up ringing out the lady, handed her the receipt, and said, “Have a perfect day!” “Oh, I am!” The lady responded while giving him bedroom eyes. A voice boomed over the intercom, Brent, we need you in the bakery. There’s another raccoon in the pan washer! Brent turned to Declan, “I’ve gotta go take care of something,” he said. “Do you think you can handle the register?” Declan wasn’t sure that the 90 seconds of training he had just received was an adequate amount of experience, but he didn’t want his apprehensiveness to be viewed as weakness. “Sure thing,” he said with equal parts false confidence and trepidation. “It’s easy,” Brent reassured him before walking to the back of the store.“Just make sure anyone who comes through this line is having a perfect day.” Declan manned the register and was approached within seconds by a man with a few things in a grocery basket. “Hi, how are you!” Declan asked. “Eh,” the man somberly answered. “I’ve been better.” “Oh, it looks like someone’s ready to party!” Declan declared while drawing attention to a handle of Jack Daniels. “Party?” The man asked with a puzzled look on his face. “Not quite. I just got laid off from my job.” Declan was not prepared for that answer and had no idea how to proceed, but he decided that emulating Brent was the only solution. After all, things worked out fine for Brent. “How do you like them apples?” Declan asked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The man sternly replied. “How do I like losing my job? Is that really what you’re asking me?” Declan appeared confused. Even more noticeably than before. He picked up a block of cheese. “Well, that’s not Gouda.” “Are you really making cheese puns right now?” Declan began to sweat. This isn’t working out at all, he thought to himself. In a panic, he picked up the next item, held it up high, turned it towards him, and read the label, “Its all about the— Preparation—H.” “Could you put that down,” the man said, embarrassed. “What is wrong with you?” Declan wasn’t the most self-aware, but even he could tell that this customer wasn’t having a perfect day. All he knew was that it was up to him to fix it. He wasn’t about to lose another job. After getting fired from Chic-Fil-A for forgetting to say, ‘My pleasure!’ Declan learned that policies were a big deal. He looked the customer directly in the eye and said as sincerely as possible, “Have a perfect day!” The customer was aghast. “A perfect day! A perfect day! Are you kidding me right now!” He yelled. “I’m very sorry, sir. But, it’s store policy.” “What is store policy?” “For you to have a perfect day. It’s our policy.” “You can’t be serious.” “I’m as Sirius as satellite radio,” Declan replied, proud of himself for making a pun. “I need you to have a perfect day. It’s our policy.” “Are you Fucking kidding me!” The customer screamed. A group of teenagers nearby whipped out their phones and began recording. “World Star!” One of them obnoxiously shouted. “What seems to be the problem here, Declan?” Brent asked after reappearing from the bakery with what appeared to be animal scratches all over his neck and face. “This man won’t have a perfect day,” Declan nervously answered, sure that he’d likely be fired over this confrontation. “This is so unprofessional,” the customer told Brent. “What kind of shit show are you running..” Brent interrupted, “I’m sorry, sir, but is this true? Are you not having a perfect day?” “What do you even care!” “It’s our policy.” The customer balled his fists up and began punching the air. Brent whispered into his walkie-talkie, “We need security at register 5.” “Sir,” Brent implored. “This is your last chance. You need to have a perfect day!” The customer erupted into laughter. Not cute or funny or infectious laughter, but sinister laughter. The type of laugh Jafar had after he turned Apu into an elephant just to fuck with Aladdin. “Let me tell you something, bud,” The customer started out. “Yesterday, my girlfriend dumped me, today I lost my job, and to top it all off I have a hemorrhoid on my ass the size of a golf ball. So, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m not gonna have a perfect day. In fact, I’m having one of the worst days of my...“ “What’s the matter, Karen? You’re too good to have a perfect day?” An onlooker taunted. All the bystanders laughed. The customer took a step back and realized there was now a crowd of about fifty people witnessing his meltdown. “Do any of you see what’s happening here?” He pleaded. “I just want to buy my groceries and get the hell out of here. Can’t a man just have a bad day?” “Hey man, your bad day is your bad day. Don’t take it out on anyone else,” one onlooker shouted. “Not cool, man, another one added. “How about you quit being such a dick and have a perfect day already,” one of the meaner ones suggested. The customer broke down in tears. Brent gave Declan a concerned look. “What should we do now?” He asked. “How should I know,” Declan answered. “I’ve only worked here for twelve minutes.” Security arrived and ordered the customer to have a perfect day. “No!” The customer shouted. “No, absolutely, no!” Voices in the viewing pit became louder and more annoyed. Declan froze in fear. Brent did the same. As confident as he seemed 15 minutes ago, he sure seemed unsure of himself now. “I’ve had enough of this shit!” The customer proclaimed while smashing the bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter and flipping over the candy bar and gum display rack. “Fuck this shit!” He continued while slinging packs of mints at people's throats like they were ninja stars. Finally, in a blaze of glory, he ripped the cash register off the counter and slammed it into the ground. Cash flew everywhere. The crowd went into a frenzy and police ransacked the place at that very moment. The customer was arrested and placed in police custody. You probably already read about that. You’ve probably watched the video too. It only happened a few hours ago, but since then, the video has been viewed a million times. People are saying he should serve life in prison. Some are even calling for the death penalty. Others say that’s too harsh of a sentence. One thing everyone agrees on is, that man was NOT having a perfect day.


Genevieve had not stopped bleeding for two months. It was just a small cut--she had been trying to shave the tiny peach-colored hairs on her upper lip that she felt looked manly and the razor had slipped and slashed off a chunk of her pale skin. It started out slow, and then the cut widened, and the blood accelerated, and then it was endless, night and day, an unstoppable flow, from her lip all the way down to her toes, clinging to her body and enveloping her in warm, sticky liquid. It wasn’t even regular blood--it *smelled*, like rust and battery acid, so strong her eyes were almost permanently tearing up. She had always hated blood and been a very easily embarrassed person, and this was beyond a doubt, her worst nightmare. It seeped and bubbled through the bandaids and bandages and duct tape and rubber cement she put over the wound, and it seemed to only flow more and more angrily the more she tried to stop it, and the more she begged it to be done the worse it got. Every day the blood dried and created new layers that would crack and stick and make her want to throw up with every move. She tried to hide from her family, but it began to pool in her room and soak her nice shag carpet and saturate every one of her clothes and fill up her closet. The smell permeated her entire home. Her parents found out after a week of her trying to hide it and forced her to go to the hospital. You cannot imagine the look of defeat on the nation’s greatest doctors and nurses who were brought in to solve the problem of the bleeding. One by one, they threw in the towel and went home, unable to solve the two fundamental questions of the case, which were how to stop the bleeding, and how did this five foot two twenty year-old girl have this much thick, strong-smelling blood inside of her. Her boyfriend came to the hospital for a little bit, but he was squeamish and couldn’t look at her blood-caked face for long without needing to hurl. Before he left she tried to pull him in and kiss him in front of her parents. He pushed her away, his palm striking her sternum hard, and walked out, apologizing over his shoulder. Her parents’ overly sympathetic grimaces made her sick. Finally after two months of constant mopping and draining and circles of doctors poking and prodding her like a lab rat, they sent her home, all of them hanging their heads in defeat. Genevieve was embarrassed they hadn’t fixed her. She had done nothing but waste all of their time and disgust them and fill their blood disposal tanks for two months and somehow she felt like the failure was hers and not theirs. She walked home from the hospital along the side of the four-lane highway, not allowed to bleed in her parents’ new Jeep. People stared at her as she walked past and honked at the bleeding girl and laughed. She watched their smiles and grimaces through their tinted windows and hung her head low. When she got home she sat in her room for the next week, watching TV on her laptop which she sealed in a gallon Ziploc bag. The room filled steadily with blood, until it leaked out the windows and Genevieve could no longer lie down on her bed without it filling her nose and mouth. It leaked through the ceiling and dripped down onto her parents’ expensive memory foam bed below, in thick scarlet strands that shimmered in the Alabama sunsets. The next week they surprised her at the dinner table, which they had covered in layers of black plastic garbage bags, and they told her it was time for her to move out-- make her own way in the world. They had apologetic smiles plastered on their faces, but they could barely make eye contact as they told her. Genevieve knew what was up. Her personality and her love of life and her drive had bled out of her too. She did nothing but stare blankly at her laptop screen and listen to her parent’s conversations downstairs about the cheapest place to move her. Two weeks later Genevieve’s parents waved goodbye as they drove away in their new Jeep. She looked around the dingy, ugly apartment she now inhabited in the three-level apartment complex on the outskirts of town. The green door of the place read 3F. No one else was around. All of her stuff had been ruined months ago, save her laptop in the ziploc, five packages of heavy black garbage bags, and three rolls of black electrical tape that her parents had given her. They hadn’t told the landlord about her whole bleeding issue, so they told her she needed to keep the place clean or else. Genevieve got down on her hands and knees, completely alone, filling the floor under her with viscous red. She already felt her smell annihilating the musty smell of the apartment that had provided a brief and welcome break from the battery acid smell that had soaked deep into her skin. She began coating every inch of her apartment in reflective black garbage bags and electrical tape. The floors, the ratty cloth couch that someone had left behind, the bed that looked more habitable by bedbugs than humans--in a few hours all of it had been covered, and Genevieve lived in a place that she thought was pretty much identical to her idea of hell. The apartment was nothing but black walls and frightening reflective dark shapes and covered windows and her own pungent blood, already inch-deep and clinging to the soles of her feet. She looked around the room again and decided that she was going to block off every single fucking crack or hole where the blood could escape. She stuffed wads of tape down the shower drain and sink drain and taped up every window completely. It was so hot and suffocating in 3F, the one tiny vent in the corner doing an absolutely pathetic job of ventilating the place. At this point Genevieve felt it added to the whole illusion of Hell she was creating, where she apparently deserved to be. Her plan was to lay in bed and watch TV until the blood rose all the way to the ceiling and she drowned. She figured she had no other option. What should have been like any other shaving cut turned into a life-ruining source of humiliation and disgust for basically no reason, and she couldn’t do anything but think about it every single second, and no one wanted to be around her anyway, so why not just be dead. She laid down on her garbage-bag bed in her hell room, opened her laptop, and began the drawn-out process of waiting to die in one way or another. At this point she just wished the flow of blood was faster. Three days later, the blood was up to Genevieve’s chest. It had covered the wall outlets and her laptop charger had shorted out, so she was just staring at her reflection in the wrinkled garbage bag wall, composing songs in her head and singing them to herself over and over, all of them involving the blood. She knew they were terrible. She had nothing good inside to sing about. Then came a loud knock, and then another. Genevieve said nothing. Then there was another, angrier knock, and then the door handle turned and someone kicked it. Her plywood door swung open with great force, and the tape and garbage bags that had been keeping all the blood in fell to the floor. A massive torrent of blood rushed past someone’s strong, tan legs. The owner of those legs stared at Genevieve, lying lamely on her back on her garbage bag bed. She looked very, very upset. “What the fuck are you doing??” Genevieve was taken aback. A tall, young latina woman with black hair, wearing a white tank top and now-bloodstained jeans, stood with her arms folded, glaring at her. Genevieve had no idea how to explain that she was waiting to drown in her own blood. “Hi, I’m Maria, your downstairs neighbor? My ceiling? Is *bulging.* There’s drywall flaking all over my place and my kid is afraid that it’s going to cave in on him.” “I’m--I’m sorry--” “You can’t have all this *blood* in here. It’s creepy, and a bunch of it just went on my *car,* like--just now*.* You’re going to have to clean that, you know. And jesus christ, put a bandaid on, okay?.” Genevieve was near tears, trying to explain herself. “I’m sorry--bandaids don’t work, nothing works--I can’t stop it.” “Well you need to stop it! You’re ruining my place! People *live* here!” “Please just leave me alone. Don’t look at me. Please.” “What? Why? I’m telling you something. I need to look at you.” “Just don’t look at me. Close the door and go away and I’ll be gone soon and I won’t bother you anymore, okay?” Suddenly Maria’s anger faded, and she got a very odd look on her face, and she stared at Genevieve for a long, long time without looking away. “Please stop. Stop looking at me.” Maria didn’t say anything, and she didn’t stop. Her and Genevieve stared at each other, Genevieve near tears, still bleeding, smelling herself and looking at herself through Maria’s eyes and imagining how disgusting and horrible and monstrous she looked, a lonely beast in a garbage bag cave with a carpet of blood. She started to cry, and the salt and the warmth of her tears mixed with her blood and she was covered, encased in her own fluids. Her cheeks flushed with the purest and most potent embarrassment she had ever felt. She felt like a prisoner in Maria’s gaze. Then Maria stepped over the threshold, and walked into Genevieve’s hellish black room and over to her, and lightly ran her hand through her hair. “Don’t touch me. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone.” “Shush. Sometimes people just need to be looked at and touched for a minute.” “I smell so bad. Please don’t.” “You do. But it’s okay. You’re here and I’m here.” Maria placed her other hand on Genevieve’s leg. She didn’t stop her. Maria leaned down and put her chin on top of Genevieve’s head, and she reached out and put her hands on Maria, and the two of them breathed together in sync for a little while. Genevieve’s breathing slowed, and so did her thoughts. The blood began to taper off until it was barely a trickle. Then softly, slowly, Maria lifted her hand from Genevieve’s leg and covered the cut on her lip with her finger. The blood, as if suddenly realizing its vulnerability, reared up like a liquid snake and turned to a firehose. It threw Maria’s arm back and drenched the walls, ripping the ugly beige paint and the garbage bags to shreds. Maria and Genevieve were helpless against the torrent. The door slammed shut and the room filled with blood up to the ceiling--then the floor caved in. Her apartment and Maria’s apartment below her were joined into one container that was filled completely with blood in seconds, and before long the dividing walls and floors and ceilings of the entire apartment complex were gone and filled with red. Genevieve and Maria floated in the center of the scarlet aquarium, barely contained by the brick exterior of the complex, surrounded by blood, smelling of rust and fire and acid and musk. For the first time in months, Genevieve thought not of herself but of someone else, and she looked to her left to see the woman floating unconscious in the deep red haze. She swam toward her, put her arm around her slim waist, and pulled her towards the sunlight, streaming in through a door and turning the muddy scarlet a brilliant orange. The bricks and mortar of the apartment complex burst all at once like a dam breaking, and the massive tsunami of blood carried Genevieve and Maria atop it over all the people who had evacuated the apartment complex, then crashed with a giant roar onto the local four-lane highway, stopping traffic. Genevieve slid and spun to a stop in front of dozens of cars and prying eyes, a massive trail of destruction and viscera behind her. In her arms was Maria, curled up in a ball with her eyes closed. Without a second thought, she rolled her onto her back in front of the hundreds of eyes glaring at her, and softly pressed her lips to Maria’s and began giving her CPR. As she alternated between furiously pumping on Maria’s sternum and breathing for her, she had the fleeting thought that she was no longer embarrassed. She was just scared. Then Maria’s eyes fluttered open, and she coughed a little bit, and Genevieve’s heart jumped into her throat in a way she had forgotten it could. She picked Maria up and threw her over her shoulders without a second thought, then gave a little wave to the furious drivers honking and screaming and laughing at her. Genevieve ran across the highway back towards the apartment complex, feeling Maria’s body upon her, not even realizing that she had finally stopped bleeding.


“The United States entered World War I in 1917 as an associated power on the allied…” I groaned internally in my seat as Mr. Lawson rambled on for eons about… whatever it was he was talking about. Honestly, I was doing anything but listening, and judging from the varying looks of weariness, ennui and fatigue around the dead-silent classroom, my classmates were probably doing the same. I lazily lifted my arm up to glance at my wristwatch. 11:05 am. Which meant we were in store for 25 more minutes of Mr. Lawson’s *glorious* monotoning. Hooray. Struggling to maintain consciousness at my desk -a losing battle, I might add-, a familiar thought came to my mind. See, ever since I was a kid, I’ve always had this idea that if I just randomly screamed internally, maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to catch some random psychic off guard and startle them. Yes, you read that right. Mind readers. I thought I could startle a mind reader by screaming in my head. Before you laugh, just know I was a very… imaginative kid, ok? I also happened to be *tremendously* obsessed with superheroes and comics at the time. And no, I don’t believe in psychics or mind readers or super powers *anymore*, I was just a kid. But occasionally, just sometimes, I would still give a random shout in my head, just for the heck of it. Weird, I know. Call it my idiosyncrasy if you will. So, as I was sitting at my desk, physically dying of boredom, I thought with a hint of a smirk, why not? For old times sake. So I sat up a bit straighter in my chair, took a slow, deep breath, and let loose a long, shrill scream, inside my head of course. My features scrunched up as I yelled internally, and if anyone had looked at my face right at that moment, I’d probably look like I was trying to lay an egg. But I made sure to keep my eyes open, you know, to see if anyone actually reacted to my ridiculous mental howling. Now *obviously* I wasn’t actually expecting anything to happen. Like I said, I stopped believing in that kinda stuff a long time ago. No one's gonna like, suddenly yelp and fall out of their chair in surprise or something. Or at least, I thought no one would. The moment the shout flitted across my mind, my eyes caught a glimpse of movement ahead of me. Two desks up and to the right of me, a long haired brunette girl had just jolted in her seat. Veronica I think her name was? For a second I just stared, wide eyed. That *had* to have been a coincidence right? ...Right? *“Pssshhhhhhh,”* I thought to myself with a smirk, “*Lucky timing. Calm down.”* I contemplated for a moment. *“But just in case…”* Now staring directly at the girl who’s name may-or-may-not be Veronica, I silently counted down from 3 and let out another mental shout. This time, I saw her make a subtle, slightly more controlled jolt, like… like she’d been *expecting* to be startled and was *ready* for it. As soon as the realization hit me, I involuntarily gasped out loud. Loud enough for Mr. Lawson to stop his lecture and make everyone turn to look. “Is there anything you’d like to add to the topic, Mr. Wade?” Mr. Lawson said over his horn-rimmed glasses. “I-uh… No sir,” I said quickly, anxious to remove myself from the student’s expectant gazes. “Then I would appreciate it if you refrained from interrupting my class again.” I grimaced and nodded. Seeming satisfied, Mr. Lawson turned back to the board and resumed his lecture. The moment the coast was clear, my attention snapped back to Veronica, who was the only one seemingly undisturbed by my outburst. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t have moved my mouth to speak if I’d tried. Good thing I didn’t need to. “*Y-you…*” I thought, now knowing she was listening. “*You can read MINDS!?”* No reaction. Veronica made no gesture to show she heard me. She didn’t even budge. But I knew better, and I wasn’t just gonna let her ignore me. “*I know you hear me,*” I thought. I was boring my eyes straight into her, attempting to make eye contact, but no such luck. In fact, the harder I stared, the more she seemed to tilt her head slightly in the other direction. She was *intentionally* avoiding my gaze. At this point, any doubts I had before were now squashed. “*Oh my god, it’s true isn’t it?*” Then finally a reaction. As I confirm my suspicion, Veronica seems to almost slump into her chair, defeated. The body signals couldn’t have been more clear: “The jig is up.” I also sank into my seat, wallowing in my own epiphany. Questions bounced around in my head, directed more to myself this time. Not that it made a difference to Veronica. “*How is this possible?”* *“Does anyone else know?”* *“How long have you been able to do this?”* *“Who are you?”* *“WHAT are you?”* Veronica visibly flinched at the last question, and immediately I felt a pang of guilt. It was already kind of bad enough I inadvertently found out her biggest secret (Or advertently? The whole point of the “mind jump-scare” *was* to find mind readers after all.), and now I’m questioning whether or not she’s even *human*. It made me realize, maybe I’m in over my head here. Maybe if I can just act like nothing ever happen- *Briiiiiiiing!* My thoughts were interrupted by the school bell ringing, signifying the end of class. Students were already packing their stuff to leave, and I anxiously joined them. As I dumped my supplies into my bag and zipped it shut, I felt something grab my arm. I turned around to find myself face to face with Veronica. She took a deep breath, then spoke. “We need to talk.


A clock begun to tick. And I charged into the battlefield. Leaping feet, sword in hand and a silent battle cry filling my mind with blasting rage. I saw her coming from the other side. Shinning white armor, determined stride, face painted death. Overtaken by a terrible ecstasy, my eyes blazed with glorious hatred, my arms transformed into weapons of justice. The command had been given. The enemy was in sight. First blood was about to be drawn. But then, she stopped. Right in the middle of the battlefield, she stopped. Idly staring at me, staring at her own demise. All the better for me, I thought, and tightened the grip on my sword. Adrenaline pumping in my veins and I kept running, but the more I did, it felt more like her unmoving image floated towards me, like I didn't move at all. Or maybe I was stuck on the ground and something else was what pushed me forward. Someone else. I could feel the friction, the resistance, dragging me down more and more as I closed in. So, the moment I reached in front of her I stopped too. Like some godlike force outside of my realm of comprehension abandoned me to the inevitable pull of gravity, back in my earth-bound fate and the stillness of it all. I stood there staring at her, accompanied only by the constant ticking of clocks. Starting and stopping, dictating the war's pace. I was looking at a mirror. That's what it felt like. Her arms touching my things, her hand holding my weapon, her unmoving silhouette matching my own form in every single manner. All but one. Her color was all wrong. She seemed like a negative image of me. Compelled by the invisible wall in front of me, I couldn't take a step further. Frozen in place, I only raised my eyes, until they met hers. And when I peered inside of them, the reflection I saw was of my true self. So different, and yet all the same. It was our role which defined us, not the colors of our banners. We were alike because we shared the purpose our rank and place commanded. That of the foot soldier and the first line of attack. While looking into each others eyes, the realization I knew we both experienced, was the reason why no one would attack. For raising an arm against the other was to threaten oneself. We stayed like this for what felt so long, that the rage and hate all now seemed like a distant memory of a warlike game. Lost in introspection about the vanity of violence and the real purpose of existence. But the battle was not over, and the clocks were ticking still. The sound of horse hooves returned me to the battlefield. The rider galloped closer and stopped right next to me. I didn't turn my gaze from her, but I saw his horse hitting the ground and neighing in the reflection of her narrowing eyes. And we were one no more. Like my reflection in the mirror acting on its own, I was taken by surprise, as she raised her sword and cut down the horse's head. I heard the thud. I knew one of my own was down. Ignoring my presence, she moved out from my sight and stood beside me, above the rider's corpse. I knew she was, but all I could see now, now that the distraction of her was gone, was a vast battlefield stretching away in front of me. A new sense of purpose burned inside of me. Lying in the distance behind the enemy lines, trough a series of unoccupied spaces, a new path led to what was now the sole reason of my existence. There was no other way for me now. Reroute. Reroute to remain relevant. The battle raged on and on, and I kept being pushed forward towards a holy grail most of my kind will never live enough to realize. The crowning achievement. Where I would be exalted among my people. My chance to become something superior. The clocks kept ticking. The slaughter and the pain was fading all around me and I forgot about her, and her fabricated self reflecting illusion, which had enchanted me so. My goal was coming closer and closer by the stride, shedding its white light all around, until it became a radiant platform. The final space. I stepped inside. I was there. Its burning embrace engulfed me and weightless, I was lifted up. I reveled at the glorious moment, as my body stretched and transformed and a black crown was set upon my head. In my new imposing form, I stared down at the battlefield. It was not over yet, but the board had changed. A new queen had come. Far in the distance, I saw her again. She had seen it too. Her own holy grail. I couldn't let that happen. I dashed through the battlefield among towers and knights, bishops and pawns. She could not be granted the same blessing I received. She was the enemy once again and I was set to atone for my missed chance to show that to her. To prove to myself, that she was mislead and stranded from the righteous path. In an instant, I was behind her. She was almost there. Too bad. I sliced her throat. Sorry, we are not the same any more. Maybe, we never were. A hedonic chill crept up my spine as I felt the surge of raw power flooding my veins. The taste of blood. The superiority of my being, dominating and awe-inspiring. With maddened eyes and drooling rage I raised my head, looking for my next target. “Check.” A voice from beyond this world, commanded. So I turned, and I checked. Neither his regal white garments, nor his oversized crown could conceal the crippling fear reflected in his eyes. And I knew, I was the reason. “Your move, King.” I said. And a clock begun to tick.


A story by Winston Roberts and Don Krieg He pushed his desk chair back from his laptop. He had spent the day Zooming with co-workers between battles in Doom. He stretched his arms wide. The constant focus on the laptop screen had left his body frozen in a shape that was conducive to seeing the screen while typing. It felt good to have a stretch. It felt necessary to revitalize joints that had been dormant for so long. He scanned his phone for the take-out restaurants he used routinely. He would cook himself, but it was just easier to order out. He happened on the Taste of Thai restaurant offering. Scanning the menu, he rested his eyes on a particular favorite, Gaeng Kua Kling. Logging onto the Taste of Thai website, he navigated the menu and clicked the toggle button beside the dish. He was especially fond of their pork version and so selected that as well. They wanted to know a hotness level for the dish. He chose three stars out of five. He liked it a bit spicy. He closed the laptop down and made for the kitchen. He could use a beer and so opening the refrigerator, he pulled his last bottle out. A simple twist of the bottle top and he was already gurgling the sudsy amber liquid into his gullet. The beer was cold from the ‘frig, but it had a warming effect in his belly. All was good. He plopped onto the living room sofa and clicked the remote. He liked to watch the news while he ate and today would be no different. The lady delivering the news on CNN was giving the latest death totals of the Coronavirus pandemic. Well over 78,000. He let out a gasp. That was a lot of folks dead. The virus had crippled the nation and the world for two months now. There was no cure for the infection, and it didn’t seem to respect whether you were rich or poor, you could die from it. There did seem to be an advantage of you were young and in good health. Fortunately, he was both, but there was no guarantee that those qualities would let you slide. The virus had even killed a small child. The doorbell rang and he ran to the door. There was his usual delivery guy on the other side. He thanked the young man and pulled his bag of goodies inside. He fished for his phone in his jeans and entered a tip for the delivery. He gingerly placed the take-out packages on the coffee table. He pulled a couple of antiseptic wipes from their dispenser and thoroughly wiped down the packages. He had placed a cylinder of antiseptic wipes on the table for just this use. He would not skimp. The virus could be anywhere. He didn’t know where the delivery guy had been. He pulled the chopsticks from their paper house and dove into the food. The lady at CNN was interviewing a doctor now. It seemed there would be many months more of this pandemic. It might even come back in the fall. He was already going batty with the isolation, but he knew he needed to keep a distance from other human, if not for his own health, for theirs. The news was over, so he gathered up all of the empty cartons on the coffee table and threw them in his trash bucket. He went to the bathroom to wash his face. He turned on the spigot and soaped his hands thoroughly. Washing was important to help stop the spread. It was then he noticed it. He was having congestion in his nasal passages. Also, for some reason, his eyes were red and watery. There was a distinct soreness in his throat and, if he inhaled deeply, it caused him to cough. ‘I’ve got it for sure!” He said the words out loud, to himself in the mirror. He donned his bedclothes and snuggled under the covers in his bed. He hoped he might have what some had described as lower grade reaction to the virus. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. He assumed once he was put on a ventilator, that would be his end. Most of those people died. He would sleep, but not well. The worries of the disease kept him from total relaxation. He trembled under the covers in a cold sweat. He dared not close his eyes for fear he would never awake. When he woke the next day, he felt better. A trip to the bathroom mirror confirmed that his eyes were back to normal and his nasal mucosa had lost their inflammation. He could breathe again without coughing. Massively relieved by these phenomena, he washed and clothed himself for the day. The day was wrought with the same boredom and ennui that had characterized all his quarantine. His hunger grew as the day progressed until he was moved to order his dinner. His phone happened on The American Bison Wild Wings menu. “Yes, please.” He began to produce saliva at the tasty offerings on his phone. He ordered the hot wings with extra sauce. Also, some jalapeno poppers, he loved those. Finishing his work for the day, he shut his laptop and made for the living room. It was time for the news. It wasn’t good. The death rate was accelerating. The economy was imploding. The news from the White House was inconsistent. More dead and no real hope that it would stop. The doorbell rang. The American Bison Wild Wings had come through again. He unpacked his dinner in front of the TV and continued watching the mayhem unfolding from the global pandemic. The newscast finished as it did every day and he cleared his dinner packages away into the trash. A visit to the bathroom, however, gave rise to the fears he had had the night before. Nasal congestion, red tearing eyes. He had added a new symptom. He was sneezing. He washed his face and prepared for another fitful night, worrying about his infection. The next day he woke to a new body free of symptoms. It was curious to him that the symptoms would come and go like that. The news had said that there were those who had the infection but display no symptoms. Maybe he was one of these, except he showed the symptoms at night, when he was most tired. He dressed and went to his laptop to work for the day. He tapped the keys of the computer, but his thoughts were far away. If he had the infection, these may indeed be his last days. Quitting time came again and again he ordered take-out. Today it would be Charlie’s Chuck Wagon. He loved their six-alarm chili with habanero corn bread. Better make that and extra order of the spicy corn bread. Back to the living room after he had received his delivery and he chomped away while the bad news blared on. The symptoms recurred. But there was a difference this time. Along with the normal congestion, lung problem and watery eyes, he now was experiencing a lack of feeling in his mouth and lips. He could not taste or smell anything. That was yet another indicator of the disease, as he had learned from the news. This was getting serious. When he again awoke, he vowed today would be the day that he sought to rid himself of this virus. He would try the time-tested methods his mother had sued when he had been sick as a child. A visit to the medicine cabinet produce two tablets of acetaminophen. He put the kettle on the stove and brewed a pot of tea. A check of the refrigerator yielded half a lemon that he sliced and steeped in the tea. He was so far symptom free as he had been all the days before, so he returned to his work. But dinner time was soon approaching. Instead of his normal take-out, though, today he was following Mom’s prescriptions for a return to health. He headed to the kitchen and rummaged through his cabinet where he stored his canned goods. He was after a particular product there. His Mom had sworn by it. Ah, there it was. He pulled the can of chicken noodle soup from the cabinet and put it in a pot on the stove to boil. The soup heated; he assumed his position in front of the TV for the news. The scientists were still stymie at getting a vaccine or even a good therapy for the disease. There were hopeful signs, but nothing definitive yet. He drank his soup. When the newscast ended, he performed his usual task of cleaning his dinner away. Then he went to the bathroom to wash his hands, as per usual. When he looked in the mirror, however, he was a bit surprised to find that his eyes looked normal and healthy as they had before the infection. He breathed through his nostrils. The air flowed freely. He took out his toothbrush and slathered some paste on it. Not only could he taste the minty teeth cleaning gel, he failed to cough when he breathed deeply. Could he really have done it? Could he really have cured his disease? He rushed to his laptop to share his findings. He logged onto Facebook, Twitter and TikTok. He told of his symptomology with the virus. He told of the tea with lemon. He championed the chicken noodle soup as the probable locus for the cure, but more double-blind scientific studies would have to be performed to isolate that as the primary curative. He closed his laptop, his duty of reporting his findings had been completed. Who knew a cure could come so easily and quickly? He smiled at his luck at having happened on the cure. He would have to credit his mother if he were asked to receive any kind of award. It was she who had always used the chicken noodle soup.


[this is my second post here I'm still trying to improve my writing. Feedback is appreciated. This is written in a sort of poetry style as it's the style I prefer. This story is sort of a continuation of my last post, though that story is not necessary to understand this one. I hope you enjoy.] The mold, darkness, and disease They were cleaved from this world By a "Hero" with a sword. Everyone rejoiced when we were "freed" Silly boy should've known There's no glory in being a saviour The ones he saved Didn't even know his name. It's been many days since then The world has changed Without the mold We had peace If you know humans You know peace is not real It's a simple facade which evil hides behind Soon men would attack men Becoming the antagonists we craved Far more vicious than the mold could even think of being. Torturing, brutalizing, beheading. Disgusting creatures we are. I decided I'd take matters into my own hands Any man who would threaten another I would bury a bullet in his brain "3" It's simple really. It's been many days since then. They've hailed me a saviour They've called me the next hero But they're wrong I don't do this out of the goodness of my heart Or the kindness of my soul Quite the opposite But I'll let them have their pitiful dreams Until the day I snatch them away "22" Today it's a little boy He told another boy if he didn't leave him alone he'd regret it Sounds like a threat to me. "43" You see I'm no hero. I'm justice. I'm inevitability. I'm death. In this world where no one must die I have to choose who should. It is the only thing that makes me feel as though I am alive. When I plant my bullets in the bodies of those I deem worthy. I free them from this cold undying world It's mercy really. He's been evading me for hours The chase is great Adrenaline pumps through my body I can feel the smile on my face Unnatural some may call it I'd kill them for saying it But they aren't wrong "What have I done to earn this!?" The boy screams at me. His terror incites a laugh from me. "Are you some kind of monster!? Someone please help me!" No one ever helps them. They tremble at the thought of me How could they possibly be courageous enough to stand against me. "I am Death, and I've chosen you." After hearing those words the boy falls to his knees Wimpers a cry like that of a sick dog so I put him down. "50" A woman looking on from her home screams in agony. You'll be next, you banshee. As she wails I flick my revolver up and quickly dispose of her. "51" "What makes you special? Why do you get to live when you've hurt so many?" These were my 63rd victims words. It's been many days since then Yet they won't leave my mind I've killed so many. Who would kill me Probably no one But is death free from his own curse? Is death's curse that he must live. The only way to escape the inevitable, is to become it? I've become the antagonist they need I no longer seek out victims. They challenge me Claiming to be heroes. But none of them have the strength to best me "68" Just boys with weapons Fighting a monster they've no chance against It's pitiful really As is my existence But I am inevitable A boy seemingly duller than the others approaches me in the night. I've heard tale of him. 'The hero of world's reborn' they call him. He seemed to have no interest in such titles But he approaches me none the less "Welcome young hero. I hope you're stronga' than the last" He does not respond but simply looks at me with contempt in his eyes. He then charges at me brandishing a sword from his side. I draw my revolvers fire a shot from each He deflects them with metal arm guards he's wearing He does not slow at all He does not fear me at all Instead I am the one trembling I see it in my right hand gripped on my gun Shaking like a child whose had a nightmare The boy goes for a quick stab, underestimating my own speed as I quickly step out of the way and put my right gun to his temple He knocks the gun from my hand and goes for another jab, which I barely dodge grazing my coat and slicing it. I attempt to retreat but he nearly keeps up with me so I unleash a barrage of shots from my revolver. He dodges all of them almost flawlessly Almost. One hit him square in his chest from which blood flows, but he seems not to care at all. Flying towards me as quick as ever he stabs my left shoulder as I am frozen and shaking. I'm weak. Sadly for him he thought he had finished me off. I drop my revolver to my other hand, Quickly point it to his chin and blow his head off. "69" "You done good, this wound might a'tually kill me. Bloods pourin' from it steady." I cough. Blood spills from my mouth. "Unfort'nately for you I am Justice, I am Death. Nothin' escapes me." I pointlessly say to his corpse, just before I Expell the final round from my revolver. As It cleaves it's way through my brain, I have one last thought.


64 AD. The Great Fire of Rome occurred in 64 AD. Dave knew this. It was an easy one--for him, at least. So why hadn’t he been able to answer the question? That smug prick Rex Green--whose real name is Morton, Dave happened to know, Morton for chrissakes!--had flashed him that big plastic smile of his, a circle of perfect white in that fake-tanned, plastic face of his, and Dave had frozen up, had drawn a blank, had reached down into the well and come up with a big bucket of nothing. In that moment he was able to picture how he looked to the studio audience, and how he would look to the television audience when the show aired--like a confused, sweaty simpleton. He had stammered, his eyes roving around the studio, taking in the audience, the cameramen, and his two opponents, before coming back to settle on Rex Green, longtime host of America’s third favorite primetime game show, *Take It or Leave It?* Then the buzzer had sounded, like the judgment of a cruel and unforgiving god, letting Dave know that he had run out of time. And with that, his brief stint as a game show contestant had come to an end. Now here he is, at some bar with an Irish name, drinking watered-down bourbon and lazily tracing some scratches in the countertop with one finger. There’s a ballgame on the TV hanging in the corner--no HD, not in a place like this, just a beat-up old set that had almost certainly had a pair of rabbit ears hooked up to it not long ago. Dave glances up at the game. The Yanks are beating the Orioles 6-zip in the bottom of the eighth. He doesn’t care one way or the other--he has no dog in that fight. Then a sloppy prick in a business suit speaks up. “Hey, Marty, why don’tcha turn it to that game show?” Dave grimaces, and it isn’t the bourbon that makes him do it. He hopes the guy doesn’t mean that show, *the* show. He checks his watch. It’s 8:31. Yep, just about the right time. “What game show?” the bartender asks. “You know, that show,” the drunk says. “The one where the guy is always asking people if they wanna take or leave it.” Dave can’t decide if that reply makes him want to laugh or cry; in the end, he does neither. The bartender (evidently Marty) walks to the TV in the corner and starts flipping through the channels. “Which channel is it on?” Marty asks. “I think it’s on channel eight,” the drunk tells him. Yes, it is on channel eight; Dave knows that, just as surely as he knows when the Great Fire of Rome occurred. Marty the barman flips to channel eight, and right there on the screen, staring out at the television audience with that fake smile of his, is Rex Green. Dave takes another sip from his glass as his red-rimmed eyes swivel away from the TV. From the television: “Now that we know how the game is played, it’s time to…” And at this point, the audience, the contestants, and the drunk at the bar all join in, like one big happy, demented chorus: “Take it…or leave it?!” The audience claps; so does the drunk. Dave just groans. He can’t remember now what made him want to go on that ludicrous show in the first place. He chances a glance back up at the set as Rex Green asks the first contestant--a pretty young woman wearing a University of Michigan sweater--who the twenty-eighth President of the United States was. He tells her that this man had been an avid hunter, an explorer, and a soldier. “Easy,” Dave mutters. “Theodore Roosevelt.” “Wuzzat?” the drunk asks. “Teddy Roosevelt. The answer to the question.” On the TV the young lady from the University of Michigan answers: “That would be Theodore Roosevelt, Rex.” “Well, Sarah…that is coooo-rect! You just won five thousand dollars!” Sarah from Michigan smiles, and the audience applauds. “Hey,” the drunk says, turning to Dave. “Good one, man.” Now Rex has something he needs to ask Sarah: “Now Sarah, you can either take the five thousand dollars, and pass to the next contestant...or you can leave it, and answer another question, this one worth ten thousand. Sarah, do you want to take it…” *Oh God*, Dave thinks. Once again, everyone joins in: “Or leave it?” *Like Goddamn sheep.* “Leave it,” the drunk says. “Five grand ain’t nothin’ these days. Leave it.” “Well, Rex, I think I’m gonna leave it.” Cheers from the studio audience, and in the bar the drunk wears a smile of self-satisfaction on his big moon face, as if Sarah had taken his advice personally. “Okay Sarah, now for the ten thousand dollar question. This symbol is a nonstandard punctuation mark used in various written languages and intended to combine the functions of the question mark and the exclamation point. What is it?” “Interrobang,” Dave says. “A whatabang?” the drunk asks. “Just…watch,” Dave says, waving a hand in the general direction of the TV. “That would be an interrobang, Rex.” “That is coooo-rect!” More applause. “You’re good,” the drunk says. “You should go on that show. You could really clean ’em out.” “I did go on.” “Go on where?” Dave sighs. “I went on that show. I went on there this afternoon, as a matter of fact.” The drunk looks at the TV screen, then back at Dave. “Then how come you’re not on the tee-vee?” “They film that show weeks in advance. My episode won’t be on for a while.” The drunk looks back to the TV, his brow furrowed as if he is still trying to work it all out in his head. He turns back to Dave, and now Dave tenses up, not wanting to hear the question he is certain the man is going to ask. “Well, how’dja make out?” And there it is. How did he make out? He didn’t make out well--not at all. “I, uh…” There’s a commercial for shampoo on the TV, promising an end to dandruff. Marty the bartender is looking up at Dave as he cleans a glass with a dirty rag, having picked up on the conversation. From the back of the bar came the sounds of pool balls clacking together as someone breaks. Dave’s stomach feels like a tight knot wrapped around a lump of hot coal. And the drunk is staring at him, wanting to know how he made out. “I cleaned ’em out. Just like you said.” “Well, all right! Tell ya what, have another drink on me. Whaddya say?” “No, I have to get going,” Dave says. “Thanks, though. And be sure to keep tuning in. I’ll be up there on that screen before you know it.” Dave pays his tab, considers a trip to the restroom for a piss before beginning the walk back to the hotel (paid for by the good people at *Take It or Leave It?*), but decides against it. He can hold it until he gets back to his room. Then he hopes to sleep a dreamless sleep. He walks to the door before stopping and turning back toward the bar, toward the drunk and Marty the bartender, toward the TV screen, on which another commercial is ending and the show is coming back on. He wants to say something, but he is at a loss for words. And then a line from a song half-remembered floats to the surface of his mind. “These bars are filled with things that kill.” “Huh?” the drunk asks. But Dave doesn’t try to explain himself. He walks out the door, slipping out into the shadows of the night. On the TV Rex Green is flashing his million-dollar smile, and everyone is clapping, each one certain that if they ever get their chance, they’ll clean ‘em out.


“Guaranteed salvation of the mortal condition is a heavily sought after gift, a gift that does not come at a material price. If something so deeply and profoundly primal were to be erased from the body, what ethereal chain would fill that immediate void?” \- Ruth Ironroot, Pontiff of The first pain eater (Literal Translation) Sat in a horribly dark cell lined with stone and wooden trim, there lies a sad and just as horribly bent creature in the form of a withered old man. Littering the floor around him are chance objects of devotion and offering. A deep scream can be felt in the room and although it is not audible, it is just as loud and dreadful. These objects show light to the manner of his service and such services can only be that of a Pain Eater. For many years, this Pain Eater has been held captive under the highly polished foot of the Holy Church. He is believed to be able to absolve sins and the torment they bring. Even the highest ranking member of the church is unable to offer the same level of euphoric pardoning. Forgiveness of that which is of the mortal coil and not some spiritual or ephemeral means. Those who have undergone the communion of this monster would tell that there are specific rules to follow when patronage is requested. One must bring an item of deep sentimental meaning, may it be a locket, ashes of a loved one or some other intangible personal value. The amount of pain eaten is equal to that of the meaning of said objects. The rumor of the Pain Eater has passed the ears of a man and his frail daughter. Both are victims of an old war that is not theirs to pay for. Countless atrocities of human design have graced both their eyes, leaving the imprint of dead children and their loved ones. An ash flavored fire licks at the bottom of their hearts, reminding them that there is no greater remorse in this world than not being able to do enough to save the family that used to share songs and embraces. Leaving their home land behind and escaping in the cover of night, the father and daughter have traveled long and arduous distances to reach the last salvation available. At the large door of an old building, there is a brass knocker in the form of a screaming lion. At such a door, the father and child stand shivering in a heavy downpour. The water drips from their worn faces, following the long dried wells of sunken eyes. Eyes that have seen subjects of the deepest human torment. Young eyes that should be looking at flowers to pick and chickens to feed are now looking down at the puddles forming among their bare footprints. The father reaches forward with a large and hay fed hand to rattle the knocker. Just before his flesh feels the cold metal effigy, the door opens with no obvious reason. With a hushed gasp, they both walk forward to whatever fate awaits them beyond their known world, for anything is better than what is already outside these doors. Just as breezy as the door had opened, it breathed shut with a solid thud. This thud, for only a moment, matched the thud within their chests. A unified pounding that was acknowledged between them in silence. From the corner of the other side of the room, there stood a large candle sconce. A source of light and warmth that had not been felt in many days. This welcoming sight is almost too much to handle as they are both drawn to it’s soft glow. As they stood clasped to each other and cowering against the sound of distant thunder, nothing felt better than to have a moment of solitude to themselves. As the weight of their buzzing skulls rested in the silence, they both shuddered and cried into each other. The father, trying to hold his composer for his sweet and gentle daughter, could not help but give in to this moment and gurgle out his sadness with her. Their tears burned and tore into their cold and pale cheeks giving way to deeper feelings that had not yet been given time to bloom, for there was no time for the luxury of crying alone while fleeing. A soft and chilled voice calls out from the shadows asking the two what they are seeking. The two look behind them to see an old nun holding a dimly lit hand lantern. For that moment, they could see the comfort and worry in her folded face. Light blue and cloudy eyes peek out behind an ink black habit. She did not require the light, as she had already seen the brightest light to behold. She held out a hand to the crumbled duo. The father takes her hand and his daughters, letting the old woman lead them down a clouded spiral staircase. There is a thick smog seeping from the spaced in between the steps leaving the father and daughter to fully trust their guide. At the last step, the woman motioned to the two to keep walking. There was no hesitation in her fleeting grasp as she let go. She asks the father if he truly wanted to partake in communion with the Pain Eater. This was the first time he had heard that title that was not included in a fairy tale. The father confirmed and the woman nodded solemnly, extinguishing her lantern. In the dark, the father and daughter are left alone. He hugs her, heavily breathing as they await what may come. Just as soon as the thoughts fill their head of what the Pain Eater looks like, the father pulls out an old book. Within, the book held a lock of hair cut from his first born son who succumbed to sickness as an infant. His piece of lamentation, a penance that served to remind him of the fragility of life. In the girl’s hand, she held a painted rock given to her by her mother to scare away the imagined monsters at night. Both clutched onto these tokens of salvation, praying that they were enough to erase their deepest pains. The smog cleared and before them sat an old man, slouched over in a rotten chair. His long silver hair obscured his face and body. Ashen dyed skin was barely visible behind the numerous open wounds that covered his hide. Without notice, both of his hands slowly rose forward with his knuckles cracking as bony fingers unfolded. He uttered words that were not recognizable to human ears. An old tongue that had not been spoken since the dawn of man. Although the guttural sounds could not be understood, it did not stop every nerve in the two bodies from shaking in primordial awe. As if neither of them had heard before, finally opening their ear canals for the first time. Hearing the voice of such a monster. There was no fear, no love or hate. Only tremendous veneration for this living false Christ. Both the father and daughter fell to their knees, placing their items in his palms. The old man took the items and held them to his chest. He looked through the silver threads of hair and dropped the items as he stood. Just as slowly as the smog had cleared, the Pain Eater placed his hands on either side of the father's head. The father started weeping and confessing his pain to the Eater. He told of all the horrors he witnessed. His beloved wife being flayed alive, his eldest son consumed by soot and embers. His precious daughter who could no longer sleep and woke screaming for her mother. All of the words spun into an unintelligible chorus of sorrow and throbbing agony. The Pain Eater listened and embosomed the father deeper into an embrace. All of the darkness and hurt flooded out of the father and into the open wounds of the Pain Eater. The father clung to the Pain Eater as his tired body slowly became numb to every trespass against him. The father thanked the Pain Eater and went to reach for his daughter's hand as she partook in communion. He grasped at the air, as there was no longer a body next to him. He lashed out in the dark, searching for his last joy in the world only to be met with stale air. He scrambled around on the ground, foraging for any sign of his daughter. He cried out asking where she was, clawing at the ground and sweeping the forgotten trinkets of past patrons across the floor. “Such is the price of communion with a monster” The Pain Eater scolded. The father turned to the creature only to be met by the open air of a field. There was nothing where the church had stood. Leaving the father alone and absolved of all sin.


05/06/20 *Finally caved and bought Elsie a fish. Haven’t had a chance to write here for a while (getting sorted for the governors meeting, then all the stuff with Mum) so there’s no mention of fish but seriously, she’s been on about it for months— ever since we went to the chippy of all things! Pestering non-stop, “Can we get a fish? Can we, can we, mummy? Daddy says it’s okay”. I’ve a good mind to give Daddy a good talking to, kick his lazy arse into gear for once. She’s six for goodness sake, and he thinks she’ll be a responsible pet owner? Well I'm not sure, I think that muggins is gonna get stuck looking after it. Fingers crossed, Jane. Anyway, she was still enthusiastic after her amazing parents’ evening this year (even Miserable Mr. Muston was all smiles), so I decided to take her to pick one out as a reward.* *The tank wasn’t cheap, despite it being a low-range one. Just a round, plastic thing about* *~~40 cm~~* *50 cm tall, and maybe half of that across. It’s got a good two-in-one filter and light thingy on top that was a pain to fix on. Took ages and I missed Elsie pulling out her first tooth! I'm sure it wasn’t a pleasant sight, Daryl made her twist it round and round and round till it came right out apparently. Still sad I missed my little girl’s first tooth. That reminds me, must get a cute little box to keep them all in for when she grows up, just like Mum did for us.* *I also bought gravel (bright pink obviously) and some planty things for the fish to hide in when Els bangs her sticky fingers on the perspex. It’s called a ‘neon tetra’ according to the woman at the shop, though she said it’s not quite like one she’s ever seen before. Marketing ploy no doubt. Although, I say that, they’re named for their neony glow, but the one I pointed out to Els doesn’t just stick to one colour. It kinda shimmers, brilliant blues and pinks* *~~and~~* *like big bubbles of washing up liquid do. It’s gorgeous.*  12/06/20 *As predicted, Elsie wasn’t the most devoted fish owner. One week. One bloody week and she’s forgotten that it’s not just a house plant— though even house plants need watering every now and then. We fed it together before bed for three nights before the novelty wore off and she returned to the classic bed time routine: avoiding the bath by trying to climb out the window. Do parents really wish their littluns wouldn’t grow up? Mine’s a little gremlin.* *I tried to persuade Daryl to show her how to clean it out yesterday to get her interested again, but no. That was too much effort for Mr. Plays X-Box All Day. “It wasn’t my decision to buy the fish, I ain’t looking after it.” Isn’t he the best? Well I had no idea how to do it, but a quick YouTube tutorial and nip to the shops for buckets, sponges, a tiny net etc., and I was all set. I’m a resourceful woman, thank you very much. Just not a very compelling teacher, apparently. Els ran off to practise her lines after two minutes of me showing her how I was siphoning the old water. I admit it’s not the most thrilling job and I know how excited she is to play an ugly step-sister, but I thought it might be a fun activity to do together. Mother-daughter bonding, or something. I know Daryl’s never going to do it. But I suppose I can’t complain, I saw it coming and really should’ve stuck to my guns on the* *~~fish issue~~* *fishue.*  16/06/20 *I know I'm writing about nothing but the fish (though I could quite easily vent again about the neighbour’s cats yowling all hours of the night), but it’s really taking over my bloody life. I’ve had to clean it out* *twice* *since I last updated this. Should be roughly once a week according to the web, so something’s definitely up. Maybe the filter’s broken. At least it wasn’t too expensive. Anyway, the stuff that I’ve had to scrape off the sides of the tank hasn’t been quite like anything Google images has shown me. It’s really pretty honestly, quite a shame to have to clean it. But it cakes the whole inside so quickly that we struggle to see Sushi. That’s its name apparently. Stupid. He deserves better. Anyway, I paid two of my own hard-earned pounds for him so I'm gonna get my money’s worth out of it as a nice feature piece in the living room. The (I don’t know what to call it) algae or whatever glows like the fish does and looks lovely when we turn the lights right down in the evenings and when they’re off completely at night. I may just leave it, I’ve read that overcleaning can be bad for the fish and I couldn’t hurt him.* *It was originally in Elsie’s room but she complained that the trickling was ‘driving her mad’ (such a drama queen), but I can see where she’s coming from. Even through the wall, I could hear it from our bed. Daryl says he couldn’t, but that’s cus he’s got wax in his ears to stop him hearing what I'm saying. We moved it downstairs into the living room, but even now, very late at night, I can hear the sound of the filter hoovering up water and spewing it out of the top. Trickling like an old man having a wee— but non-stop.*  21/06/20 *I told Els about the tooth fairy today. Just out of the blue. I don’t know what came over me. We were having spag bol (I'm writing just before bed, trying to ignore the snoring slab of Daryl) when Elsie, so excited bless her, showed me that her other wobbly had come out. She gave me this huge grin, showed me the gap where her two front teeth had been, and said, “the tooth fairy will come tonight!”. And then* *~~I was~~* *~~this feeling of~~* \*before I knew what I was doing, I just said “she’s not real, darling, but I’ll give you 50p”.\**~~if you care that much”.~~* *God, I'm the worst mother on Earth. Her face, how could I do something like that? She barricaded herself in her room and wouldn’t let me in. What can I do? Daryl was no use, he just laughed. Laughed for* *~~fuck~~* *God sake, after his daughter had run out crying. And then he just carried right on eating.* *I nearly took my frustration out on the filter, wanted to knock something loose and stop it working. I seem to hear the trickling everywhere in the house now. Even in the spare room, it’s constant, like hearing cars when you live on a motorway. Except the sound of traffic doesn’t make me need to wee every five minutes.*  24/06/20 *Anne came round. Terrible dye-job her hairdresser’s done. Told me about Lis hoping for an offer from Leeds, but I couldn’t concentrate. All morning as I prepared the house (hoovering and making sure we had cake) the bloody noise was in my ear like Elsie when she won’t shut up about something. Constant “mummy, mummy, mummy” except it’s ‘trickletrickletrickle’. I turned the filter off before Anne arrived, thinking it would manage for an hour or two without it but it’s the strangest and most infuriating thing. I could still hear the trickling. It’s like it’s been carved into my brain the way rivers carve lines in rocks. It’s eroding my peace of mind.* *But I'm use to that, Daryl’s been chipping away for years. He got home from work today and cracked open a beer before he’d even said hello to his daughter. Well I gave him a piece of* *my* *mind (very clever, Jane) and I'm proud I did. Always keeping it bottled, only writing in here whenever he does something that’s not right, but I don’t know what happened. I just stood in front of the telly and told the ignorant prick not to take this family for granted— he should appreciate both me and Elsie more, I say. And then miracle, he put the beer down and went to play shopkeepers for twenty whole minutes. Proof he can be changed, just needs a bit of grunt work.*  27/06/20 *Fish update (because that’s apparently what this is for now): the whole tank usually glows with a kind of whiteish blue light, but since I turned the filter off and back on a few days ago, the algae or whatever it is on the inside has turned* *~~reddish~~* *~~purpley~~* *~~kind of~~* *~~black~~* *no colour that I’ve ever seen before. I know that’s ridiculous, but I can’t describe it. And it’s scaring me a little. I don’t like to go near it when I have to feed the fish. But of course I do feed Him. Sadly, I haven’t actually seen him much lately, there’s so much algae in the tank and he blends in with the new colours. I can’t clean it fast enough so I’ve given up altogether. I might have to find him a new home.*  *Also today: I made a Co-op employee cry because she was getting lippy with me and I told her off. She was sarcastic and disrespectful so I told her to “wipe off all the shitty orange stuff that’s caked on your face and have some respect”. I don’t know how to feel, part of me was really guilty, I just sort of ran off embarrassed, but then part of me knows the cow deserved it. Oh I need a holiday I think, just some time away from everyone. And the fucking trickling.*  01/07/20 *Maddie came over after school to run lines with Els today. She’s the other ugly step-sister and* *~~more ‘appropriately’ cast I’d say~~* *just as excited. I left them to it, made a cuppa and heard them out in the garden. Should’ve twigged they’d get muddy feet, Elsie becomes such a filth monster when Maddie’s around, and guess what... they tracked a ton of dirt into my pristine kitchen. Well I told them I'm no Cinderella and that I wouldn’t be cleaning up the mess. Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at them quite as hard as I did, two little girls in tears wasn’t the best thing for Maddie’s mum to walk in on,* *~~but~~*. No, I shouldn’t have shouted. I said sorry at dinner but I think Elsie was still a little upset. But she’s six for fuck sake, when will she grow up.  03/07/20 *I started this diary to make myself laugh and vent about* *~~Daryl~~* *things. But the way I've been writing recently really quite upsets me as I read it back. It’s especially bad in the places I can see through where I’ve crossed words out, and I read them like I'm reading somebody else’s writing. I don’t remember writing that, but I do remember doing a lot of scribbling. I hate how irritable I am. But I also hate how everyone always pisses me off, Elsie especially at the minute. The latest fucking phase is gymnastics and she’s already broken one vase. Will put my foot down hard if she does one more cartwheel indoors.*  07/07/20 *It’s making me go mad.* *~~I’m~~* *~~It’s~~* *I say things out loud which I wouldn’t’ve dreamed of saying before. Like earlier in the week I really upset Mrs. Gardener about the cats,* *~~Christ the fucking cats, I wish I could~~* *I just snapped at her. We got home from picking Els up and she was leaning on the fence as I got out the car, just wanting to say hi I'm sure. She said something about the sky,* *~~stupid old crone,~~* *and I interrupted her by almost shouting “get your cats in at night, they drive me insane”. When I realised what I’d said, I mentioned something about Elsie not being able to sleep to make it sound better, but using my daughter as an excuse? And not even a truthful one?? God that’s awful. Although maybe it’s not a lie, I don’t know how she can sleep with the fucking* ***filter*** *going all night. She hasn’t mentioned it since we moved the tank out of her room, but I hear it. All the time I hear it. It’s started to play in my head even when I'm not in the fucking house, like a song that’s stuck. But no melody, just water. And not splashing or flowing or babbling or gurgling. Fucking Trickling. Trickling.*  11/07/20 *I forgot to cook dinner tonight.* *~~You’d think Daryl might think about doing it one night out of the fucking week, even just offer to, but no.~~* *I got distracted in the living room. The TV was on I think but I was just looking for the fish amongst the plants. The sound of the filter isn’t so bad once you’re up close, in fact it’s kind of relaxing, and I was sat in the small chair, my face so near the tank. And then I felt a hand touch my shoulder. It was Daryl. He asked if I was okay. His shake was so tentative, like he was afraid to touch me* *~~as he fucking should be, how he had the audacity~~* *and his voice was also soft. He asked if I’d made food. I looked at the clock and saw that three hours had passed, three hours and he hadn’t noticed where I'd been or what I'd been doing. And I couldn’t tell him. Well no, I was looking at the fish. He’s so beautiful.*  13/07/20 *~~I~~* *~~Wh~~* *~~I’m~~* *~~The th~~* *~~I~~* *I killed a cat. I killed one of Mrs. Gardeners cats with my car and* *~~I knew what I was doing, but I kind of didn’t think about it I just saw it and this rage flashed through me like nothing I've felt before, I reversed when I saw it in the wing mirror. I’m so sorry, oh god I'm so sorry, I picked the poor thing up, ran to the garage and dropped it in an old box under a tarpaulin. It’s there, I don’t know what to do I don’t know what to do~~* *it felt so fucking good.*  15/07/20 *Fuck Cinderella. Dropped Elsie at school at half five, said I'd be in the audience and left. I’m writing this in the living room; my nice empty house. Told Daryl to get to the play or else I’d neuter him with my teeth— would be the first time in a while my mouth’s ventured down there. need a real man,* *~~need to~~* *No, I just need to be here. Just me and Him. how I* ever *thought of rehoming Him I’ll never understand or stop being sorry for. I’m sorry. He is all I need. All I need to feel like a real person, like the powerful woman I’ve always been. I understand now how the trickling is beautiful. It’s blissful, sat here in its glow. Thank You. I’m glad we took the tank out of the little bitch’s room, she doesn’t deserve it all to herself. No one does, no one but me. Forever— it should be like this forever. When the little cunt gets home with her pig father I’ll make sure it stays like this, make sure my house stays nice and empty. Just me, and Him, and the trickling.*  \ Thank you for reading my first short story posted to Reddit, would love honest and constructive feedback.