"It's been an hour since I dropped her back at her house and she hasn't sent me a text." He said, "She must be pretty mad." "You said you dumped her?" He swigged his beer. I drank my coffee. We were on the porch and it was early daytime. "Yeah, man. I dumped her." I said, "I figure she must be upset." "Shit." He said, and nodded. I looked out across the lawn, across the street, and to the other side. An old man stood on his porch in dark blue coveralls and he wore a red hat. From afar, I could only see his eggy skin and blue eyes that I figured must be almost dead up close. He cracked a beer and drank from the can. He kept an eye towards us. Johnny started kinda giggling next to me. He wasn't looking out, but in, and he said, "Yeah, she was pretty mad. You wanna hear something?" "Sure." "Ok, so we were in bed and I was tired, you know. I'm layin there and I'm trying to fall asleep, because I'd only woken up when she got up to take a shit or something. And I'm still all comfortable in bed when she comes back in, you know, after crappin' her brains out, well, THEN she starts being frisky. Don't get me wrong, I love to do her. But I wasn't so tired I hadn't pictured her crappin' out all those lentils she eats. I mean I know what that shit does to me." I stopped listening. I stopped nodding my head. I lit another cigarette and looked into my empty mug. His words slipped past me. The old man was in his garage then. He seemed to move about carrying the weight of hopeless burdens. He scuffed his boots on the pavement. He put on his work gloves. "After everything, we're all cuddled up and I'm definitely trying to sleep now. Thing is, it's her hair, you know it's so goddam curly and after getting pulled on a bit, it's just a fucking mane. It gets everywhere and I'm laying there and it gets in my mouth and I'm like, 'Fuck!' You know?" I was a beat late on this cue. "Shit, man, you there? Oh, you out of coffee, you fuckin' pussy faggot?" He said, "If you're going in there, grab me another one." I went in and was back out when I saw the old timer across the way. He had two black trash-cans out in the driveway, and he was tying heavy black bags into each. I handed Johnny the beer. "Man, I shoulda said, 'Grab me two,' but I guess this is alright." "Just shut up and drink it." I said, "And you're welcome." We drank our liquids and watched the old man perform. He looked methodical, solemn and only semi-lucid as he enacted this boring brand of magic. Slowly he made his way behind his house and disappeared. "Still nothin'." "Nothing?" "Yeah, she still hasn't sent me anything." I said, "You're joking." "I'm tellin ya, she must be on her period or something." "Women," I said. Johnny drank his beer and looked at his phone. We heard a large engine start up. Pretty soon, the old man was pulling around the corner of his house in a John Deere. It was bright green and it was rigged for mulching with nylon pouches, but he only had a small lawn. From afar, I figured the soft old bastard must like riding a fancy mower better than dying behind an old, heavy push. "Honestly dude," he said, "I'm kinda getting worried." "What could have happened?" " I don't know. I'm sure she's just crying or sleeping or something, it's just that the other times I dumped her, it wasn't but fifteen or twenty minutes before she'd send me something." "Maybe she..." "Oh my God, and those were always the best messages to get from her, too! She'd get like wild. I'd be lying if I said I don't miss those texts." "Well." "This one time, I fucked her at her parent's house. I guess that was the first time we fucked. She made me wear a condom, which sucked, but it was still pretty awesome fucking her. Anyway, she said she had heard of some new vaginal condom or diaphragm or something that she was gonna get. She said it was gonna be just for me, cause she knew I hate condoms and I told her I wanted to cum in her." The old man was making quick work with his mower. The blade cut clean through his Bermuda without tearing it. He nudged up against the flower bed too, and he got it good enough that he wouldn't need a weed-eater. He smirked, and I know I saw that. "So about three days before my twenty-first, I'm thinking about who I'm gonna fuck, and I got a couple of options. You know, none are really superstars or anything. Nothing I couldn't live without, but, anyway I'm sensin' that this 'Her-and-I' thing is just gonna fuck me up on what should be the funnest day of my life. So I just ditched her cause I wanted to sleep with Shannon because Shannon's got such big tits. Well, it gets time to meet up with my girl and I'm drunk so I call her. I told her that her pussy is too loose and that I don't want her busted ass anymore. Oh man, she went nuts." "Makes sense," I said. "Yeah, well that night Shannon's friends are like cock-blocking the shit out of me, and then all those bitches run home early because they got a test or some shit the next morning. So I call her back, and she's not happy, but I get her to talk to me and I get her to let me come over. "It was funny, man, it was fucking funny when I showed up because she opens the door and she's still got on her dress and her make-up is all washed out. And she was so damn mad! I couldn't believe it, but I got her back into bed. I don't know how, man, I was fucking drunk as shit, but I did, and I fucked her until I puked." "What?" "Yeah." He smiled. "You twisted son of a..." "Haha, exactly! I puked all over the side of her bed, dude!" "Jesus," I said. "Then what?" "I dumped her for real." He said, "I busted my nut, barfed and went home. She texted me later, but not because she was mad, but because she wanted me back. "She was sending me shit like, 'Oh Johnny, please take me back!' you know, but then she'd say stuff like, 'I want you to cum in my pussy cause I just found my diaphragm I'd been telling you about. I'll let you fuck me all night Johnny, I swear. Just come pick me up, Baby. Please. Please Johnny, come back and let me have it!' "I mean I was blown away by that shit. All the time though, it was stuff like that." "Just like that?" He said, "Well, you know. Just crazy shit." "Well maybe she'll text you." "Yeah." He said, "Maybe I'll text her, you know? I mean, just to make sure she's ok." I looked at the old man who was shutting off his mower. Slowly, with aged joints, he moved off the mower's saddle and moved to dump the clippings in the cans. He dragged the just full cans to the curb. He put out the sprinkler. Johnny started stirring and it was hot outside so I started moving to head back inside. "I don't know dude," I said. "I think you gotta make it a rule, and the rule's gotta say you gotta fuck another girl before you can go back to one you already fucked. Otherwise dude, she owns you. You know what I'm saying? You gotta prove to yourself that she isn't the only bitch you can get. I say you find that Shannon girl and smack those tits around just because you can. Then, maybe, think about goin' back to the 'same-old, same-old' bitch who apparently fucking loves you for some stupid fucking reason." "Damn dude, that's truth right there. That's truth." "Let the big dog eat," I said. Johnny laughed hard and said real loud and deep, "LET THE BIG DOG EAT! ARF! ARF!" We laughed and high-fived before Johnny went in checking his phone for numbers. I heard him inside saying, "Yo Shannon, how you doin', girl?" I flicked a dead cigarette butt into my yard, and then saw the old man staring at me. Even from over here on my porch, I could see he looked disappointed. He turned away and started into his house. The door was open as he slowly crossed the threshold and I heard what must've been his wife playing piano. A happy grandma-laugh burst as her song was abruptly halted. I heard her laugh again, then play and sing some bars of "For He's a Jolly-Good Fellow." The old man in his work-suit danced the rest of the way past the door. She kept playing, then the door closed, and then their laughter went hidden.


Part 1 I woke up and glanced at the clock to the side of me. 5:30. I never woke up that early. Even for school. I felt, different, though, somehow. Like I was being watched. Like I was in a movie or a book or something. But it was more than that. I was motivated? I guess? That fits well enough. I was motivated. I wanted to do something. I slowly got up and started to get ready for school. I dreaded school. I hated most people there, and they hated me back. I honestly don't know why I went. If it was up to me, I wouldn't. It was a big waste of time. I really hated it. I was never bad in school, but nothing exceptional either. It wasn't the work though, it was the people. If you were any different than the hive mind you were made an outcast. I wasn't one though. I had a good amount of friends, and knew the right people to not be made fun of, but I just never liked most of the people there. They were cruel and unforgiving. I didn't like them. So you're probably wondering why I still went? Well like many people, it was because of Her. I never knew her name, only what she looked like. She was amazing, but she hated me. I only still went to school because I thought I would have a chance of her not hating me. If I just had a chance to talk to her, or something, maybe she wouldn't hate me, like many people do. I honestly don't know why I'm telling anyone this. Nobody cares. But I don't mind. I don't care. I've been told countless times that I could never get her. Or anyone, for that matter. But I didn't care. I kept trying. Again, I know nobody cares, but this is my story. And I'm going to tell it for once. I went to school, again dreading it. The day wasn't anything special. I went to my classes, nothing more, nothing less. The worst part about school I think was how uneventful it always was. Anyway one thing did happen today, I talked to her. It turns out, she doesn't hate me, just never bothered to talk to me. Part 2 He talked to me today! I couldn't believe it! Then, after I got over the shock, I felt so idiotic for not saying more. For not saying "I think I love you" or at least "Can we be friends?" All I could manage was "H-h-hi." Imbecile. Now he'll never know that I can't stop thinking about him and probably never will. Now he'll never know that I think he's amazing. And he'll certainly never, ever know that someone, even if it's just me, needs him. School was......school. I mean, I was pretty intelligent, I suppose. Made pretty good grades. But where does that get you in life? Further than most people think, but that's the point. The people who decide your social standing are highly unqualified to do so. But do I care? Not in the slightest. I'm not disliked. I'm friendly with pretty much everyone, but mainly, I'm not noticed at all, really. I'm not bothered by that. Trust me, most people at my school, you wouldn't want to notice you, either. The one thing that drove me crazy was that he didn't notice me. At least, I thought he didn't for awhile. Once, I heard from a friend who heard from a friend who heard him talking about suicide. I doubted he'd talk about it, but I didn't doubt he'd do it. This scared me. I realized I didn't exactly have a lot of time to tell him anything really. I had to force myself into his life. Honestly, I could care less if the whole world hated me. But not him. Please, not him. The reason I liked him was because you could tell by looking at him that he understood you. Not necessarily everyone, but I knew he'd understand me. I knew that maybe I could be someone he liked. I hoped I could be someone he loved. I just didn't know how to tell him.


Hello! Had to do some vignette exercises for class, feedback is much appreciated. This city is beautiful in the rain. I’m standing under an awning, inhaling hot smoke from the dangling cigarette between my lips and watching the rain fall in icy sheets over the most beautiful city in the world. It sparkles under all that cold rain, and I’m in love. My cigarette smoke collects under the awning in a cloud as I exhale, and the chilly winter air suddenly filling my lungs stings in contrast. Behind me, I can hear the faint clink of glasses and soft murmurs between friends or lovers (or, both, maybe, if they’re lucky) escaping from the open door of the café out of which I’ve just stepped. The warm, golden light spills onto the sidewalk next to me and calls me back inside, but nothing is more inviting than the city in the rain. Icy water is beginning to seep through the soles of my heels (I wore them for you, you know) and the warm tears that have collected in the corners of my eyes, and which are now sliding down my cheeks, suddenly feel scalding. Soon I’ll drop my cigarette onto the wet sidewalk and extinguish the ash with the toe of my now-ruined shoes, thumb the hot tears away, square my shoulders and turn back to the café to finish telling you goodbye. Goodbye to you, because I can’t say goodbye to this city. Because you are too silly to stay, and the city in the rain is too beautiful to leave. But for the moment I’m standing under the awning, enjoying the burning sensation in my lungs, and the city is shimmering just for me.


I awake. The red LEDs of my alarm clock next to me glow dimly in the dark. 2:30. I had gotten not but an hour of sleep, but still I know I will not be able to return to it. Ah, sleep, the mindless slumber that has eluded me for years. Ever since *you* left. I turn the dial on the knob next to my bed. The lamp glows, illuminating the room. I get out of my bed and walk to my front room. I consider putting on music, but decide that the rain outside is enough. Rain is my favorite weather. It rained when we lived in Seattle, do you remember that? On my table lies a folded note I once had written long ago to you. The paper, now soft from age and wear, seems out-of-place in this kind of world. I open it and read it for what seems like the thousandth time in the last few days. I walk outside. The rain softly lands on my clothes. I'm reminded of the old poem I wrote back in high school, sitting in my English class. Swish, sway, flux and flow Why this happened I don't know The man is dead this much is true His body hangs, his life is through A cotton rope would form a noose Not too tight, not too loose His life had flashed before his eyes Ending in a suicide Pitter-patter, says the rain Everybody feels the blame For a while, the grief is shared But in the end nobody cared I remembered about how I used to be angry all the time. Angry at my family for some dumb reason. Angry at the world for being the harsh reality that it is. Angry at myself for not quite fitting into the world, the way everyone else does, even the odd little boys and girls who spend their nights alone. As I walk down my street, a stoplight flickers on. I think I see your before realizing that it was just a fence post. I thought I saw you, but perhaps it was just wishful thinking. What would I do if we met again? If I could see you once more? *I* certainly don't know. I wouldn't like you to see the way I live my life nowadays, half-drunk and wearing last year's clothes, thinking last year's thoughts. I think about what I used to live for. I realize that my biggest reason to live was for people who needed me, people who were like you. I guess I let you down then. That's why you left. It turns out that no matter how much I wish I could, I couldn't take responsibility for your happiness. I think if I could do it over, I would have gone with you. Or maybe a few days later. There's no point now. No point to anything. We had grown around each other, and when you had left, I collapsed.


We all know how this ends; there's no need to continue. But if you feel the need to indulge yourself, I can't stop you. I will tell you one thing, though, it won't be a fun ride. This isn't the type of thing you discuss amongst your family around the dining room table. Even though you can feel in the air how much they want to ask you about it - as taboo as the subject is - there's no way they'll cross that line. But there's always that one friend who doesn't understand boundaries and why you shouldn't cross them. That ignorant bastard. "So, did you kill anybody?" I can feel my heart sink into my stomach, and with those five words all the memories I've tried so desperately to repress come flowing through my mind. Images forever burned into my conscience. How we got into this situation was the same for most of us: we wanted to heroes. Granted, there is that one guy - down on his luck - whose up to his knees in debt. They told him all his worries would disappear if he just signed on the dotted line. He needed a way out and couldn't think of any other options. But even then, in the back of his mind, the idea of ending another man's life without consequence, maybe even praise, had to impact his decision in some way. He could have chose a safer job... Anything but Combat Arms. But why fix the damage when you can inflict the damage? You're a joke if you get a medal for making sure everyone gets paid on time. In the long run all we really want is recognition. One-hundred and thirty-eight days in country and not a single thing to write home about. You could feel the hostility in the air. Each and every one of us were growing tired of the monotony. All we wanted was a real reason to clean our weapons. And this is the insanity that the US Military inflicts among its indentured servants. Train a man to kill, give him guns and grenades, throw him into a desert and suddenly he wants to get shot at. We were all normal once-upon-a-time. Eventually everything fades to gray and you can't remember what exactly normal is anymore. At this point every man in Charlie Co. Fire Squad Alpha doesn't realize they've crossed the point of no return. I couldn't see what I was shooting at, but it didn't matter. The gurgled screams let me know I was hitting something, though, and it felt good. The lesson I learned that day is that Positive Identification isn't always necessary. Before I get ahead of myself, let me explain. Those bastards thought they could run into a Mosque and they would be safe. Well, your Holy Place isn't mine. Your God can't judge me. Out here, life is a gift, and you have to be willing to take that gift away without a second thought about it. Out here, standing by a road with a shovel can get you killed. With my adrenaline pumping I guess I didn't notice what time it was... it just slipped my mind. All that matters is the target was eliminated; mission complete. The weight had immediately been lifted off my shoulders. I finally got what I was looking for and I felt vindicated. After the C4 blast there wasn't much left of the Mosque, and the screams finally subsided. Sifting through the rubble, the pride I felt started to subside, and a sense of nausea overcame me. I stumbled upon what appeared to be a hand - a tiny little hand. I had never seen gore like this. A hand, a foot, an arm, a leg. Things unrecognizable as human. What have I done? These people weren't the enemy. These were human beings like you and I. Men, women, and children reduced to humps of body parts. I can never look at a hamburger the same way again. "Soldier, you're about to learn a very important lesson today." This was all too much to take in. "Why do you think when we find a weapon cache every vehicle gets an RPG stowed in the back?" Stunned, I didn't want to know. Sergeant collected 3 RPGs and scattered them in the ruins of what once was a Mosque. stepping back and observing the scene, without a hint of emotion in his face, he took in a deep breath. "When we get back to the FOB, CID will be there to conduct their investigation, so we'd better get our story straight. I'll tell you this, though, Soldier. Tomorrow you'll be on the cover of Stars & Strips. You're going to be a War Hero.


It had taken everything else from him. His feelings began to fade in August of the previous year. Tiredness bled into torpor, torpor bled into apathy, apathy made him seek help that wasn’t helping. He was leaking. It had taken his wife from him. She left in March of this year. She couldn’t deal with the lack of emotion and energy that her husband used to be full of. He was running on fumes. It had taken his friends from him. He couldn’t deal with them anymore. Being around people so full of life began to take its toll on him. He gave them up shortly before his wife left him. He was empty. It had taken his career from him. He didn’t have the energy to show up anymore. He didn’t have anything left. Depression had taken a vibrant life and drained it of everything that had made it worthwhile. He was good as dead. At this point, it was only a formality that it should be the death of him. And since it couldn’t kill him in the literal sense of the word, he would have to do that himself. He’d been contemplating it for the past few months now. The question now was not a matter of do or do not, but the execution of it, ironically enough. He didn’t trust himself enough with knots to hang himself. He hadn’t the drive to go purchase a gun. Poison was too cliché. He couldn’t cut himself, he hated blood. He would jump, but he couldn’t stand heights. A train would do it, though. The thundering of steel at high noon, the shrill shriek of the steam horn, the raw power of ungodly machine, it all seemed morbidly attractive. He would have described it as a type of romantic if he had the feelings to find the words. He had found his end. And so it was settled: he would sacrifice the last of himself to the condition that had taken the rest of him. He put on his Sunday best for his final hurrah. When they found his body he wanted it to look good. At least, that’s what the real him would have wanted. If he could have watched himself, would the real him have been happy, though? Two years ago, the real him never would have imagined that he would go down like this, a prisoner of his own life, a victim of his own mind. If he was really going to do this, he had to stop thinking like that. Conviction was what he needed of himself right now. He was going to pull the trigger. The rails were surprisingly cold for early September. The trees on either side of the tracks had just begun to shed their leafy vestiges in a snow of orange and red. Perhaps it was appropriate that the forest around him was accompanying him in his demise. As they slowly died, so would he. In the spring, they would come back. What had really brought him so low? In the days before his demise, he would have said that he began to feel numb in August of last year. In the hours before his demise, he wasn’t so sure. Had he always been this cold on the inside? His life wasn’t flashing before his eyes like in the overly dramatized stories he liked to read. It melted before his eyes. His first memory of youth was inseparable from his memory of last night’s dinner. The first sign of the incoming train was the buzz he felt on his head. A light vibration that might have been pleasant if he remembered what pleasant was. The light vibration slowly and methodically became an incessant rattle. His heart fluttered with the frequency of pulsating rails. If he remembered what to call it, he would have recognized this feeling as anxiety. His stomach churned like the bouncing gravel under the tracks. His thoughts were brought to a rolling boil as his blood pressure shot through the roof. He was nervous. What came after the train hit him? He didn’t let himself believe in a god. Would it be blackness? Would it be peaceful? Painful? Immediate? Eternal? He lacked the answers to the questions he had; this wasn’t the best location to ponder life’s mysteries. Or was it? He hadn’t felt this alive in his whole life. His whole body was quaking with an unnatural tension that frightened him. How could he let himself die when he felt so far from death? He had doubts. Was this actually what he wanted to do? The rattle from moments before became a thunder in less time than he would have liked. The train was fast approaching and he was frozen in place, his head stuck to the frigid rails, cold sweat pouring from his burning being as his death charged down upon him. Something from within him screamed. He was afraid. He was scared to die. A last thought before impact, a deathbed confession to eternity: He didn’t want to die.


P456 wakes up laying on the floor in his room. What he expected to see was what he always had- a steel window on the blank cream colored wall, an oak dresser, of course with all its drawers stuck shut, a bookshelf on the far wall, empty as always, and the door. Door? No. A door is used to go one place to another and as far as p456 knew, that was no door. It was a white extension to the wall that happened to have a stiff handle on itt. as p456 woke he felt the odd phenomenon of somthing being very very wrong. He looked for a minute at the flat cream colored cieling. He sat up. he was breathing heavy and sweating, and he was scared. He had never been scared in his life he always just stood from the floor and stared at the blank walls then when he felt tired he would fall to the ground and close his eyes. When they opened, he was back to staring. But now, as he looked down at his grey one peice, which now was soaked in sweat, he began to feel frightened. He stood and scanned the room. The bookself was to no surprise still empty. The dresser still there, drawers stuck. The walls still sat cream colored and blank. What was so terrifing to p456???? He turned twords the door and his eyes became huge, opening his mouth to scream but instead he collapsed to the ground. His breathing became fast and quick. He pussehed back to the cream wall and stuck his head in between his knees. He wimpered and teared squezzing his body tight to him. The shaking started after a few minutes taking over his whole body. He was twitching and spasming in between tears. four hours passed of the shivering and sweating and crying and wimpering. When p456 was all our of tears and body full of strain of being huddled he sat in the same spot and stared at what was terrifing every single nerve in his body. He stared and stared and stared he was still shaking but now he was laying crunched up on the flat stone ground. He became insane. He stood and started laughing. He laughed and stared and laughed. His right arm spasmed and he laughed. p456 decided to ram his head into the stone. He knelt laughing histarically. He leaned low then pulled back and slammed his head onto the grey stone. Again and again and again and again and again. His vision was the first to go. It was just after his jaw shattered to about 23 pieces. After his vision went it was about 2 more blows until he lost control of his body. He tumbled over onto his back. The skin on his head torn open and bleeding profusel. He chuckled and laughed. He coughed, spilling blood all over the grey meterial. He let out one last chuckle and muttered four simple words before he kelled over and died.


i wrote this for class and my teacher said i should post it online...REDDIT TO THE RESCUEEE Exhaust by Reines The autumn leaves. They spiral down like ballerinas from their wooden grip and land in the gentle mud. The soft earth embraces the trees fallen sons and daughters and shares with them their blessing. The blessing of not knowing how to feel. They don't know what it's like to wallow endlessly through the caverns of their own minds, the only glow being their mortification. Or have the memories that were once tucked away deep in the pockets of their skull rip out like vultures escaping the hellfire. It's her birthday today. I stare up at the desert of leaves above me. They stare back. The cool breeze breathes through the forest and carries my exhaled breath with it. I sit up. “It's gonna rain,” I say looking over at Samuel, the bottle of whiskey in my hand held tight, the revolver resting on my lap. “Yep. Gonna rain. I can always tell.” I laugh. “Let's go.” Samuel stands up and walks towards me. He rests his head on my shoulder before giving me a huge lick on my cheek, his tail wagging ferociously behind him. Standing up, I take the last swig of the bottle before hurling it into the wooden crowd. I tug on my plaid shirt, grab the gun, and pet Samuel on the head. He tries to lick my hand. “Good boy,” I say. He really is. We got him together, Sandra and I. It was the first thing we did together. Well, the first thing we did after we got married. The second thing we did was break each others' hearts. One year. That's all it took to unveil the carnival of our doubts, troubles and demons. Our illustrations of a white picket fence were crumpled up like our noses along with the dreams of conceiving anything innocent. The dreams of ever becoming a family. What was once a fortune of photo album smiles and rays of laughter were quickly dissolved into silent dinner conversations and lonely love making. She left me. The brisk wind causes my hair to cackle and wave like fire, causing some of the leaves I gathered to flutter off the ground. Samuel smells something familiar. Something so recognizable that he starts to whine and slowly sniffs his way to the leaf pile. He digs, claws and eventually...finds her foot. I point the revolver at the dog. “For what it's worth Samuel, you should probably let her be.” A deep laugh takes the taste of whiskey off of my breath. Samuel stares at me, tail wagging, but he knows I'm serious. He's seen this gun before. His eyes drift to the foot, and then back at me. Deep, he stares, almost unrecognizable. Lost and confused, like when you realize your slimy, arrogant brother's sleeping with your wife. But then his tongue flops out and he smiles. “I could never kill you,” I say. Instead, I run my fingers down the cooling barrel, staring at it like I'm looking at an assortment of stolen memories...echoing out my name. The end of the barrel kisses the bottom my chin. My grip tightens. “Life. As cold as the rivers that cascade through my heart.” I smile as Samuel walks towards me. “Ah, it's gonna rain boy. I can always tell.” Samuel lies down at my feet.


A Human ~~misunder~~Stand~~ing~~ Trapped under a code of unspoken law existed a helpless body, the silhouette of a foreign and defected lie. It was on the bridge of denial where this deformed and self-threatening creature attempted to gain validation through the manipulation of belief, determination and euphoria. This creature denied accusation but exaggerated praise. At birth, each of these full of thought, yet thoughtless creatures would be unknowingly blessed with the burden of life. A task, which looked at through rosy glasses could resemble a noble quest, or an extended search for unjustified appreciation. In truth, the task was the opposite, instead of associating, joining or uniting, this species openly chose to disassociate, disjoin and disunite, inherently leading to its fatal yet oppressed demise. Although genuinely curious and often intelligent, the creature chose to rise to its defeat, thus loving itself for what it wasn’t, and hating itself for what it had become. Passive and expecting change, scouring social and political conduct only to grow an acceptance to non-conform, on an ever changing wave that did right to others, but left to self. This creature often attempted to distinguish itself by claiming individuality so it could stand freezing whilst lying on a sweltering background. It was only an imaginary feature that allowed a pulse of self-sanity to remain omniscient. Memories that multiplied the sense of no escape crafted a promise that was already gone, a regret that recommended the colour of black and white. Fraudulence and deceit left a heavy head and feet made of stone, a quest lost, a quest stopped and a quest that questioned a deeper conscience. A painful smile and frown of anticipation, this creature was a twisted yet simple manifestation of everything that it wasn’t and nothing that it was.


His name was Steve, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He pictured himself growing old with her, while she grew old with him too. But he couldn’t grow old. Being immortal had its downsides. Now was his seven hundred years birthday and he was staring at her picture. He begged her to come back. He thought he heard her voice when he shed a single tear and a slight breeze called him from the sea. **Two** He thought he heard her voice when he shed a single tear and a slight breeze called him from the sea. The windows of the room were open, and it would be a beautiful sight if he weren’t dying. But he was dying. He was alone in the room, with wires spread all along his arms, and needles through his skin. He had that heart surgery, but apparently that new heart wasn’t working either and no doctor was able to tell the reason. The heart was beating irregularly, like a disabled man trying to walk. The heart was broken, so they tossed it out. The man watched the sun go down as he breathed his last breath. **Three** The man watched the sun go down as he breathed his last breath. He woke up and the room was full of light. There was something unrecognizably fluffy under his feet, like he was walking on cotton. A woman dressed in white was staring at him. “Is she here?” he asked. “No, she’s not”. “Where is she?” “She’s never been around.” “I’m coming back.” “You can’t go back.” “I can’t stay here either. I have to go back to her. I have to go home.” She smiled. “Don’t be silly” she said. “Home is where your heart is.” **Four** “Don’t be silly” she said. “Home is where your heart is.” He smiled to her, remembering an old song from U2 that had a verse somewhat like that one. He was holding his sweatshirt – which he didn’t even recall having. It had been with her for months. -You sure you can’t stay with this? – He asked, shaking the sweatshirt stupidly – I won’t ever be able to use it again. -I haven’t stretched it that much. – She said, pretending to be offended and repressing a smile, which he noticed. -It’s not about that. There’s your perfume all over it. She blushed and her eyes filled with tears. -Nah, you’re gonna work it out. – Now she pretended to smile, repressing a tear. Which he noticed. -Yeah, you’re right. See you later. – He said unleashing a smirk. Once she turned her back, he started crying. **Five** Once she turned her back, he started crying. He couldn’t let her leave like that. He wouldn’t let her leave like that. -Please, please. – He yelled, running after her and grabbing her suitcases. – Stay. Please. -Not anymore, Henry. I can’t do this anymore. -I’ll change. -You can’t – She turned to him, picking up her baggage. – Neither can I. I’m sorry. – Her voice was hurt, and that was what truly hurt him. It cut his heart and soul and left him stranded by the door while she got in the cab and left. He would never see her again. **Six** He would never see her again, and that was why he was holding her so tight. -Do you swear you’ll come back? – She wouldn’t. -I do, honey. It’s only for six months. – It wasn’t. -Do you promise to remember me every day? – She wouldn’t. -Of course I do. There’s nothing or anyone who can get you outta my head. – There was. -No French guy? – No. -No, you silly, no French guy, or American guy or any other kind of guy. – Yes. -I’ll miss you. – True. -I’ll miss you too. – True. She had a nice life in Paris. **Seven** She had a nice life in Paris. She had a boyfriend and a dog; she was living with her parents and hanging around with good friends. Nothing could go wrong and she would never get hurt because she couldn’t feel anything. Till a night a guy came along, and he had a broken heart. She realized she also had a heart, and her heart didn’t fit in Paris. Then her heart didn’t fit in the world. But her heart fit on his. But he was broken, then so got she. Then he left her back in Paris, and she hoped Paris would be enough again someday. He left back to the world, wandering brokenly ever after.


On the other side of our Human World, there was a Monster World. There was a young monster named Davi. Davi was a lonely boy. He had seven brothers, but he always stayed home alone. Davi cried everyday. He wanted to make friends. Davi went to talk to his grandfather, who was the guard of the gate which connects Human World and Monster World. Davi asked his grandfather, "I want to go to Human World. I don't have any friends here. Maybe I can make friends over there." Grandfather said "No, it's too dangerous. No one in Human World likes Monsters. You won't make any friends there." But Davi went "Nobody in Monster World likes me anyway. I want to at least try making friends in Human World!" Grandfather decided to allow Davi three days in Human World, and gave him three gold coins, and told him "These coins may help you when you are in trouble." Davi thanked his grandfather, and went through the gate. Davi walked through the dark... Davi landed on the street. He was amazed at the sun, the sky, the tall trees, and the houses! Davi saw a college dormitory in which college girls were petting a cat. Davi sneaked into the dormitory and talked to the cat. "Mr!" said Davi. "How can I make friends with humans?" " Meow! " answered Mr. Cat. "I am not going to tell you because you are a Monster. We don't like monsters. But I see you have three gold coins in your pocket. If you give me one coin, I'll answer your question." Davi gave him one gold coin. Then Mr. Cat went "Ok! All I do is mew and purr at people's feet." Davi said "Thank you, Mr. Cat!" Davi approached the college girls, who were busy chattering with each other, and purred and mewed at their feet. The college girls turned around, and... "AAARRRGGGHHH!!! Monster!!!" The college girls screamed in horror, and ran out of the building! Davi was left alone in the dormitory. He walked out on the street, and he cried and cried and cried all night long. On the second day, Davi saw two young boys playing with a dog in a house. Davi sneaked into the house, and talked to the Dog. "Mr!" said Davi. "How can I make friends with Humans?" " Arf!" answers Mr. Dog. "I am not going to tell you because you are a monster. We don't like monsters. But I see you have two gold coins in your pocket. If you give me one coin, I'll be happy to answer your question." So Davi gave him one coin. Then Mr. Dog went "Okay! All I do is bow-wow, and lick people's faces." "Thank you, Mr. Dog!" said Davi. Davi approached the two young boys, and suddenly licked their faces and BOW-WOWED!! "AAARRRGGGHHH!!! MONSTER!!" cried the two young boys. They screamed in horror and ran out of the building! Davi was left alone in the house. He walked out on the street, and he cried and cried and cried all night long. On the third day, Davi saw a huge house in which an old blind lady was feeding a small bird in a cage. Davi sneaked into the house, and talked to the bird. "Mrs!" said Davi. "How can I make friends with humans?" "Chirp!" answered Mrs. Bird. "I am not going to tell you because you are a Monster. We don't like Monsters. But I see you have one gold coin in your pocket. If you give me the coin, I'll be happy to answer your question." So Davi gave her his last gold coin. Then Mrs. Bird says "Okay! All I do is chirp and sing a song!" Davi started singing a song. Then... "Where does this come from?" the old blind lady approached Davi. Davi was so happy. "This is the most beautiful song I have ever heard,"said Old Blind Lady. Then she touched Davi's face. "Who are you? What is this? Could this be a... AAARRRGGGHHH!!! Monster!!!!" The Old Blind Lady screamed in horror, and fainted dead! Davi was left alone once again. He walked out on the street, and he cried and cried and cried all night long. Davi went back to the gate. He was very sad. The trees, the sun, the sky didn't amaze Davi anymore. Davi met his grandfather at the gate. Grandfather went "Why are you crying?" Then Davi answered "I tried really hard to make friends with humans, and asked Mr. Cat, Mr. Dog and Mrs. Bird for advise, and I followed their good advice, but nobody liked me. Nobody cared about me anywhere. I'll be alone for the rest of my life. Nobody likes me!" Then grandfather answered "It takes so much courage just to go to Human World. And you were on your own Davi. You are the most courageous Monster I have ever seen. Everytime you cried, you learned to be stronger. You don't need anyone else." Davi listened to his grandfather. "Now go home, Davi," said grandfather. Davi walked back to his house, and opened the door, then... Davi's seven brothers rushed to him, cheering "We've heard you were in Human World by yourself?!" "I wish I can be like you!" "You are so brave!" Davi finally smiled. From that day on, Davi played with his brothers everyday, and lived happily ever after. ("Little Monster Davi" I have copyrighted this story in America a few years ago.


Blackness greeted me when I woke. It took me a few more seconds to realize that the darkness was probably attributed to the fact that my eyes were closed. There was no improvement upon opening them, however, and I grew more and more concerned. I seemed to be in a box of some kind. I knew not where I was, or how I had gotten there. After a moment of panic I noticed a gentle soothing sound, almost similar to the sound of water rushing along rocks. I listened to it for a few more seconds, attempting to gain control of my mounting panic. The control failed and my imagination took over. The sound began to seem more and more like the sound of dirt falling slowly onto a coffin. Was I being buried alive? My body stiffened at the thought. My hands ran over the inside of my box, searching for a way out. I would dig out if I had to. The air seemed to becoming thinner. How long would it be before I suffocated completely? I strained against the walls. I kicked the roof. I scratched the floor. Everything was smooth and metallic in texture except the soft memory-foam like material that I was resting on. Then, my fingers caught on a depression in the metal, just above my chest. I brought both of my hands up to try and figure out what it was. A click and a soft hissing noise filled my small enclosure as I pushed the button. Light spilled in from the sides, as the lid of what I had thought was my casket began to open automatically. I sat up slowly, blinking away the spots that had showed up in response to the light. The sight that greeted me was hardly the dark gloomy setting of a cemetery. I seemed to be in a long white hallway. What looked like windows on the walls were made from one-way glass, blocking my view of what was outside of my mysterious hallway. All around me were more of the coffin-shaped boxes, although I could see now that they were very modern in their design. They were made of the same white plastic material that made up the rest of the hallway and each had a gently glowing blue light on the end. Upon closer examination I realized that my light had turned to a harsh red. I began to try and stand up when a screen suddenly came to life on the wall across from mine and a thin, almost fake-looking woman’s face appeared in the center. Her voice rang through the halls with a short message: “Hello, and welcome to the future! It is very possible that you are experiencing momentary memory loss. We apologize for the inconvenience, but we assure you that it is only temporary. To help your memory recover, please watch the following film summarizing your own history and that of the others around you. Enjoy!” The screen flickered and images began to run across the screen of what I assumed were important events in the past. I saw ruined cities, flooded plains, dried-out farms, and homes on fire. A new, gentler voice began to narrate the images. “In the past, it became clear to us that history was repeating itself over and over again. The same problems were reccurring every few hundred years, sometimes with disastrous consequences. After going through the same types of issues many times, it became obvious that the outcomes of those events were based mainly on the leading people of the nations involved. Environmental problems were best addressed when someone with the correct motivation and personality was able to come out and lead others away from destructive tendencies. Social problems were an enigma to those who did not have an intuitive sense of how to deal with them. Wars were lost without leaders who truly understood the principles or war. That is why we developed a way to keep those types of people in reserve for a rainy day. You are aboard the product of that research right now. You are on the Starship Ares.” Once the video stopped, all that remained was the strange watery sound that I had heard before. I figured now that it was the sound of some sort of machinery aboard the ship, but it still made me somewhat nervous. I had never been aboard a spaceship that I could remember, no matter what the lady in the television was telling me. Then again, I couldn’t remember much of anything. I began to try and stand up, but just as I started to move, a door opened at the end of the corridor and an extremely pale man walked through. I tried to rise faster, but found that my legs were almost completely useless. I could barely move them. “Just a moment, master. I’ll be right there,” said the pale man as he came towards me. “Your leg muscles have atrophied a bit, I imagine. It has been a long time since you were last woken.” I didn’t respond, but stared warily at the stranger. He seemed to know me, and yet his face was not familiar. He came up to the side of my box and knelt beside it. He was very tall, and even on his knees he towered over me. He wore a flowing robe of white, with four separate pockets sewed in to the sides. Out of one he pulled what looked like a gun. I strained my legs in trying to rise and defend myself, but he pushed me gently back down onto the foam beneath me. “Relax, master. It will help you to move your legs and the rest of your body. It is a drug that will stimulate growth in your muscles. You have been in one position for a very long time, and though the ship has done its best to care for you, there are some side-effects. This will counter them.” Realizing that I didn’t have much of a choice, I relaxed my body back down and allowed him to inject me with whatever it was. He applied it to each separate major muscle in my legs, and I could feel a cool soothing feeling travelling up my legs. I found I could move my toes and eventually I was able to shift my legs. He continued with the same process around the rest of my body. I had been very sore initially, and this brought great relief. “Who are you?” I asked. “What am I doing here?” He looked at me with an almost bemused look. His face was long and his eyes were an almost luminous blue. He had no hair or eyebrows, and when he opened his mouth, I could see that it was almost black. Even with this somewhat alarming combination of facial features, he had a kind face. “I am hurt, master. You do not remember me? I have served by your side for many years, and in many battles. I am Frederick, but you usually call me Fred unless you are angry at me,” he said, smiling. “As for what you are doing here, the video explained that. You are here to save the world,” he continued, before saying finally, “again.


I am half-awake with my back to you on your bed while you sit at your instrument and tuck into your black and white keys deft and handsome; your hands curl and splay and the sound is switched off so all I hear is that fine collapse of plastic, chord roll and fingers tumbling across octaves. You end with an unknown cadence then stop. “Are you actually asleep?” You want me to be facing you, to watch you be deft and handsome for my benefit. I mutter and pull your white sheets up to my ears. You want to impress me. I am already there, but you don’t know this, couldn’t know this; I can say nothing to you. The second time we met you held up my chin and whispered *you’re really quiet, aren’t you?* You are not the first to say this and you will not be the last. I am new to you but not for long. I wish you didn’t long to be poignant because really I know this is all false. Really I imagined a boy fondling my hair, always pictured him maybe like you, pictured him thumbing my cheek bone smiling slyly; you tell me my eyes are huge and I think yes, I know. I think, where were you when I was unaware of these things. You seem confounded every time you stroke my leg and it is smooth. I am a mystery to you somehow, in my wordlessness and alien lack of stubble. I feel like I am tricking you but I think maybe you want to be tricked. I lay in your bed like an invalid and I can feel on my back your amusement, feel your brow crumple up, feel your hands graze the keys thoughtfully. Feel your mind maybe somewhere else. Briefly, sometimes, I feel your attention like something charging at me and it is all I can do to disappear before impact. Mostly, though, you say you don’t know any poetry but you write it maybe without considering it like this; when you sing it is poetic. You are a poetic liar. Your truths are less truthful. Your truths are stale before they leave your mouth when you are staring at me with frightening concentration and you say things like *wow, there are probably 9 different colours in your hair right now* because the sun is illuminating the white-blond wisps at my temples and here right now at the beach I feel beautiful in spite of you. I don’t know why you say these things, maybe because you think this way, because you feel them keenly. Maybe they are for my benefit because how could you know I am not this girl with huge eyes, with nine different colours in my hair. How could you know these things when I can say nothing to you. When I can say nothing to you and you feel me deeply enough to not think to ask. Once at a concert a man brushed past me quickly, grazed my shoulder with the back of his wrist. I could not see his face when he whispered *you are beautiful*. He did not stop and I did not turn around. Once at a party a boy wrote in blue pen on a napkin *you look like sun-drenched orchards, like cherry blossoms* and handed it to me, tall and sheepish. You are the fourth one I’ve kissed, I want to tell you. You know you were my first but I have not told you you were my fourth. Are my fourth. That you are my hundredth, maybe my thousandth. That you are not alone in thinking my face profound. So I know without you. When you sit perched like a bird at your computer and play halting seconds from your disarray of sound files and I kiss the back of your neck you do not turn around because you need these moments, need this falseness. I want to give it to you like an unwrapped gift. I want you to revel in your own unassuming insincerity because of the reasons I like you that you do not know about because I have not told you. *You’re really quiet, aren’t you?* It is one thing to be pretty and something else entirely to feel like it belongs to you.


I know it defiantly needs work. I'm really not even crazy about it. Its my first attempt at some first person perspective work and I gotta say, props to people who write first person, its difficult. I deal well with constructive criticism, just don't be an asshole. Oh ans also its my first reddit post ever. :P Well here it is: “It was the coldest night of the year. At least it felt like it. Well actually, every night feels like the coldest night of the year when your family can’t afford two blankets in the Yukon Wasteland. In the Yukon its kill or be killed… viciously. The average life expectancy of that shit hole of a habitat is twenty-three. Twenty-fucking-three. Lottery winners say our good ole pals here in the Hearth live up to a hundred years old! But anyways it was a damn cold night, I believe in November of 2308, correct me if I’m wrong Meg!” Meg replied, “I believe in October, Scotty” “Anyways in October of 2308, the senators came rolling through looking for their weekly tribute except this time, turns out they wanted people, and not just any people, children. The damn Hearth was too lazy to work their own fucking wheat fields. Yup me and Meg were two of the lucky bastards to be taken from our homes in the middle of the night without any prior knowledge or warning. My own parents didn’t even know I was taken. You have no idea what it’s like knowing that you will never see your family ever again. But I think both me and Meg can agree that our lucky little “extended work trip” saved our lives.


Katie asked Artie to meet her at the Mexican restaurant, the bright yellow, stucco building just down the street from her house. It was a place they often went to eat. Artie sat on the plastic bench across the table from Katie. Katie’s blue eyes looked larger, even more beautiful than usual. But though her eyes were wide, they had less depth. It was as if the deep pools of her eyes had dried up, leaving pure calcite rings of white and shallow puddles of blue that had once been seas. Artie stared down at the table top. The surface was brown formica with a fake pattern of wood grain. He looked up at Katie, she brushed a lock of her auburn hair away from her face. “Are things going to be OK between us?” Artie said, his voice was flat. “I don’t think so” Katie said. “What did I do wrong?” “Nothing” Katie said. Her voice was flat too, but it had an edge like anger. It wasn’t anger, “It’s over between us. You left some of your stuff at my house. I put it in a box on the porch, you can come get it whenever”. Artie’s right hand was gripping a little plastic arch with the number “12” on it. Just then a voice came over the intercom, “Number 12”, the voice said. Artie moved to slide off the bench and stood up, he looked down at Katie. “Are you going to stay and eat?” “No” she pulled her purse over her shoulder and slid off the bench and stood up. For a moment she and Artie stood close to each other. It didn’t help that she looked unusually beautiful. Artie didn’t reach for her. Even the habit of a parting embrace had dried up, his insides felt dried up. He stood feeling awkward for a moment. She looked very straight and dignified. Suddenly perfect. Then she turned and crossed the restaurant toward the door. Artie’s eyes followed her as she pushed open the glass door and walked out into the parking lot. There was a big, arched window on either side of the door and he saw her as she crossed the parking lot. The warm March sun fell reddish on her hair. It didn’t help that she looked very beautiful, even at a distance, walking across a parking lot. “Number 12”, the scratchy intercom voice said again. Artie went up to the counter and exchanged the plastic arch for a tray with their meals. The tray held two lunch specials; tacos, enchiladas and piles of beans, orange rice and shredded, colorless lettuce. Artie set the tray down on the table and picked at the food. Then he got up and walked to the restroom. He cried a little bit in the bathroom stall then came back out. When he came back from the bathroom, he saw one of the restaurant employees dumping the tray with the two lunch specials into a garbage can. She looked up at him. She must have thought he was done eating. Artie smiled at her vacantly and walked toward the exit. He crossed the parking lot. That’s one thing that’s hard about being alone in the world, Artie thought as he got into his car; people throw your food away.


Dylan was a starving artist, often making more money raking yards than selling his photos. Even though he vows to quit his passion, he always makes his way to the State Capitol to catch candid images of people around the statues and lawn. As another rather uninspiring day draws down to its end with no pictures worth taking, Dylan begins to pack his equipment and head for his small apartment. He's grown too used to this feeling. Suddenly, ten young women in canary yellow dresses walk onto the lawn and form a circle, barefoot in the neatly cut grass. While people start to crowd around what must be the beginnings of some sort of performance, Dylan struggles to ready his camera and get in front of the onlookers. The women fall to the ground in unison as he lifts the camera up to his eye; Dylan snaps several quick pictures as the crowd grows silent. The ten bodies lie there for about two minutes before people grow concerned. "Somebody dial 911!" came the scream that broke the silence. The woman kneels there with her hand on the pulse--or lack thereof--of the redhead of the group. After the hysteria died down, the police marked the scene, and the media has asked their questions, a journalist rolls through Dylan's rolls photos of what's being called a mass suicide. The fourth one on the roll was an almost surreal capture; yellow dresses appear to float in the air as they fall and the faces look dead before they hit the ground, like the souls can be seen leaving the body. The journalist looks into Dylan's eyes, "I don't know what your portfolio looks like, but it seems as if you finally have your million-dollar photo.


I firmly believe in the existence of Santa Claus. Mock me if you will, most non-believers do. But I know, in my heart of hearts, that He is real and that He visits all the good children of the world and gives them toys on Christmas Eve while they sleep. And try as I might to be a good person, I know that He does not consider me to be one. I know this because He hasn't given me a single present since I was eight years old. My parents supplemented the absence of Santa's gifts with ones that they bought themselves, and they did their best to try and convince me that there really is no Santa Claus and that there never was. They did this to spare my feelings but I know the truth. That He lives on the North Pole with his helper elves and magical flying reindeer. That He sees us when we're sleeping and knows when we're awake. That He knows when we've been bad or good. And that He finds me lacking despite my best efforts. I'm naughty in his eyes. I don't know what I did between the ages of seven and eight that was so heinous as to deserve such a fate. I search my soul everyday for answers yet it is always for naught. But I have faith that one day He will let me know what my transgressions were so that I may make amends. Until then I will just keep praying that maybe this year my tree won't be empty on Christmas morning.


Hello everyone, there's a new face here (:. Well I've started a story, not sure if its going to be long or so, that is going to be written around a dream I had a while back. What the dream was, I will not say but I need someones opinion on what I have so far. I spent 3 or 4 hours last night working on it, but I'm not sure weather to keep going or to trash it, so give me your thoughts on it. If you notice any huge mistakes please point them out, I haven't done much proof reading so I'm sure there's a ton. If people enjoy it so far i will edit this part and the continue writing. If your interested its on Google drive. Please post all comments here! Thank you for your time.


My mother died when I was nine. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this now, today. Not that I’ve never thought about this before. It’s just that nothing happened today. I woke up. I sat on the couch for an hour. I checked my mailbox around noon: nothing. I watched the clouds roll by to the droning of the television. I’m not even sure what it was that was on. Some game show or other shit program that advertises false happiness for free. I’m so fed up with wealth being the only source of happiness that’s feasible anymore. But everyone thinks that, don’t they? I can’t even be original with my angst. Not that I was original in anything I’ve done thus far with my life. See, my mother died when I was nine. I’ve already said that, but the point is I never quite came to terms with it. I woke up in September, and she was dead. Car accident. Not that the cause is really important. The end result is always the same. And like I said, I never really dealt with this. I was nine. What nine year old can comprehend death? What third grader can grasp the idea that their mother stopped living? She’s gone, they told me. She’s in heaven. I remember looking up the directions to heaven that night. Why did she go, and not bring me? When is she coming home? Mommy is never coming home, they said. Well, never is a long time. Never hasn’t come and gone yet, not for me. And see, I struggled with this concept for a long time. And as a nine year old trying to come to grips with his and everyone else’s mortality, I wasn’t very fun to be around. I grew up with no real friends, just people I talked to on occasion. That kid in the back of the class that everyone whispered about and avoided in the halls? That was me. My father tried to help, at least. He tried to get me interested in sports. He’d take me outside to throw a football. I pretended to be interested. I tried really hard to be enthusiastic about something, anything. But really, what was the point? We all live; we all die. It’s a useless cycle of oxygen exchanged with carbon dioxide. Eventually we all become food for trees. Apathy had a stranglehold, and it wasn’t letting go. I tried therapy. They told me I was depressed, so I tried antidepressants. They just made me anxious. I tried writing, but I was never any good. Everything came out stiff. I tried learning an instrument but my fingers never moved the way I wanted them to. Eventually even my father gave up on me. So forgive me if I don’t believe you when you say you care. When your father gives up you, you’re at the bottom. That’s really just it. And what’s sad, what is so fucking pathetic, is that none of this is unique. Do you know how many assholes have lived this same life? This apathy isn’t original, it’s cliché. I’m just a sad speck in the spectrum of grey nothingness that is the universe. And today, nothing happened. I woke up; I lived; I sighed; I gave up. My dog hasn’t even looked at me today. Aren’t dogs supposed to sense emotions and respond appropriately? Maybe it’s because I’m not sad. I’m not angry. I’m not anything. I just am. I exist. Who cares? Not my dog, not my father; not my mother, that’s for damn sure. So the sun set today, like it has every day in history, and I sat down at my desk. This time I’m not writing for catharsis. I’m not writing to get better. I’m writing so you understand why. And tomorrow the sun is going to rise. Just like today, the day that nothing happened. Just like that day in September when I was nine and my mother was dead. And tomorrow, something might happen, just not for me.


As usual, he kept his distance all night, until the moment he didn’t. Tonight I am standing next to his bed - freshly showered and groomed in tight denim shorts, because I am pathetic - when he leans over to kiss my thigh just above the knee. I’m talking about DJ Shadow or Cut Chemist or myself but he seems fascinated by my thigh. He pets it like a mid-sized dog he is unsure of, and I keep talking because that’s all I know how to do. Fast-forward to 11:30 - or maybe 1:30, or 2, who fucking cares - and he has slipped inside of me to great effect. The mild-mannered chemical engineer is gone, replaced by a 28-year-old newly baptized Southern Baptist who would like me to pull his hair. I wore my new push-up bra tonight, on purpose, so I am pleased when he pulls me atop him and un-buttons my shirt. My tits - hiked up and heaving - mirror the sudden roundness of his eyes. As my decolletage bursts forth he moans, reaching for them, and for a moment I am proud. Not of my c-cup tits - though they deserve their own accolades, at least for another year or two - but of my follow-through. Two hours I spent in that pink fucking dressing room, subjecting my chest to round after round of torture perpetuated by a $300 stack of 83 percent nylon. I worked 3.2 hours for a billion dollar corporation to pay for this moment, for the guy who’s mouth is on my mouth to look down and say, yeah. Those things. It’s probably best not to think about these things in this manner.


Salaam/Hello! Before you read this please note that this story is EXTREMELY GRAPHIC! If you are light-hearted or sensitive to such material then please do not read this. If however you do read it then please read it till the end. This story is meant to portray a fraction of the possible cruelties which the people of Syria might be facing. DAMSEL IN DISTRESS The bullets whizzed past. People were getting gunned. Debris was clouding everything. The storm of blood, sand and stone resonated in the eyes of everyone leaving pulses of fear in their hearts. They were scarred for life. The militants of the regime kept the civilians pegged down in their base. It was a bottleneck situation. Only one-way out, and it was through the street full of barriers and resistant front lines of merciless soldiers of Bashar's regime. They had snipers placed in strategic wide-angle access points, making sure no one could even lay a foot on the street. The people were pushed back either into their houses or whatever cover they could find from the constant blasts and bullets. Bodies lay in piles down the street and the smell of blood and gun powder staunched the air. One was forced to only two sounds, either screams or bomb blasts. Silence was a forgotten term. Hisham was one of the gunmen. Thirty four killed today, he thought. It wasn't enough. Abbas, one of the other militants, was on forty seven. He just had to beat him. HE HAD TOO !!! He remained behind cover while reloading his rifle. The anxiety was building up in him. Once cocked and loaded he got up and sprayed all the bullets. He just wanted to see them run, to see them cry, to see them afraid. He smiled at his collage of mass murder. No one could touch him. Here he was god. He slumped his rifle over his shoulder and admired his work. They were too afraid to come. Suddenly, he noticed one of the bodies moving among the dead. It was a woman, half conscious she moved weakly. Trying to regain a sense of where she was, but she was defeated by several injuries, lack of energy and mental torture of the battlefield. 'Desert,' thought Hisham. The flame inside him ignited. He motioned to his colleagues on his side to cover him. Walking the past barrier, he went to her and grabbed her by the forelock and dragged her back towards the base. Ignoring the shouting, screaming, kicking and crying from the woman as her body scraped against the rubble and ground, he just had one thing in his mind. Tonight he was having a feast! THE DEVIL'S CELLAR The woman was chained in a dark cellar. It smelled of old dust and musty oil. The bars and walls were covered with cobwebs, and the whole place was cluttered with broken furniture and outdated newspapers. There was a small window behind her where the moonlight trickled in, shining against her bare body. Each hand was tied by rusty chains supported by a post on both sides. She was forced to either stand upright or slump and let the pressure of her body tense the chain around her wrists. She felt a mouse brush her leg and let a scream in fear while jolting. Immediately, the bruises on her body ached even more from the sudden movement. Her tears and sobs dried up. She could do nothing. She was nothing. She was completely helpless. Why didn't they just kill her? She was struck by horror. What they were going to do to her? Suddenly, she hears a scraping rattle against the bars with footsteps. The pace was brisk, haunting, like a panther in hiding waiting to pounce. She could hear the person walking up to her. The moonlight only revealed the boots and military trousers. The upper half was veiled by the lusting darkness. Even so, she could see some smoke. The trail led to cigarette, which was revealed as he lowered his hand and flicked it away. Hisham stared at her. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable. Sweat pouring from her forehead, her body trembling from fear and her breath racing. Here she was, naked, stripped of dignity and humiliated. He loved the power he had. He was in control, and she was her prey. 'This bitch is mine,' he thought. In a sudden move, he slapped her on the face, leaving a red mark, went behind her pulling her backwards by her hair. He put his hand over her mouth, unzipped his pants and thrust into her. Her scream muffled against the cold, hard fingers, her eyes widened and tears started streaming down her face as she felt him inside her. He handled her fiercely and with each pound, she screamed. “PLEASE STOP!” “NO” “PLEASE!!!" She knew there was no one who could save her. He pushed harder with every force against her with increasing pain. Her legs were trembling. Her body was shaking. With one long last thrust, he pushed away from himself. She slumped helplessly as she cried and moaning. She was defeated. Wiping the sweat of his forehead, he zipped his pants and made his way out. The echoes of the her cries decayed as he walked away. He met three of his men down the corridor. “The bitch is all yours," he said. By the time he reached the end of the long corridor, he could hear the screams all over again. The boys were doing a good job. THE BIRTH OF HOPE Nearly five months passed. The woman repeatedly abused, manhandled and tortured. She was reduced to nothing but an object, a sex object. Even slaves were privileged to have feelings, but hers were dead. The same prison, the same four walls, the same sins every day. Her life was lifeless. Her body lost its stature. There was one significant change. She was pregnant. So many of the militants had their way with her. She didn't know which one fathered the bastard child she was carrying. She could only feel the baby move in her. She didn't care whose it was, it was a life inside of her. It was her baby. Hisham was in the mood again. He strode towards her cell, the urge burning in inside him. There was nothing left in her that attracted him to her except the fear she had in her eyes. However, it eventually died out. She learnt to accept that this was her fate. There was no fun anymore. He wanted to change that this time. He walked up to her near-limp body. Her eyes were blank, expressionless. He grabbed her face, locked into her eyes with a menacing smile. She just looked at him, There was nothing she could feel anymore. He placed his hand on her swollen belly and for a second he saw the jump in her eyes. 'The bitch cared for this kid,' he thought. This was going to be fun. He drew a blade from his side pocket, which gleamed in the rays of sunlight. Her eyes widened. What was he going to do? And without thinking he pressed the knife on top of her belly, under her bosom. She immediately realized the horror she was about to face. Slowly, and yet delicately, he started slicing around the belly. Scream after scream, the pain worsened. The blood trickled down her legs. She tried swerving side to side but the more she moved it hurt and ripped her harder. There was nothing, but she could but watch herself being cut open. Tears were streaming down her eyes. “STOP … PLEASE STOP … NO!” Her screams couldn't help her. He kept cutting her open. He was halfway around and then stopped. Her belly was half skinned open, the bloodied internals could be seen from the side. He threw the blade away. She couldn't feel relieved but at least he stopped. The pain was unbearable until he grabbed the open side of her stomach and swung it to the other side to rip her entire skin off. She screamed so loudly, helplessly as she felt pain like never before. Everything was now revealed. Blood was splattered around her feet. She was shaking uncontrollably. She just wanted it to end. He threw the separated flabby stomach skin to side as if it were junk. 'Now comes the fun part,' he thought. He could see the foetus wedged inside her. Ferociously, he grabbed it by the neck and pulled it away from its clove. A few organs slipped and slid to the floor. She screamed. Her baby was in his hands. “Please don't harm it, please don't harm it. It didn't do anything to you. Take me but leave it alone," she cried. Her voice was nearly gone. She was losing too much blood. Her vision started to blur. He looked at the disgusting flesh in his hand. It was weak and pathetic, covered with blood. He grabbed the umbilical cord and ripped it open, separating the thing from the woman. She screamed as the cord hung loosely over her revealed stomach, dripping pus and blood on the floor. He then held the thing in front of her. He let her stare at the unborn baby for a split second before splitting its neck. The baby was dead. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," she screamed. He swung the flesh over his head and pulled out a pistol and shoved it into her mouth. In that one moment, he saw the ultimate fear in her eyes. Covered in tears and blood, she slumped in his mercy. He looked at her long enough to enjoy the product of his work before he pulled the trigger. The bullet went through head and blood splattered against the wall behind her. Her body was completely limp as the chains in her hand tensed under her dead weight. Her intestines scrambled to the floor. She was dead. REFLECTION POINT I would first like to apologise if the story disgusted/offended you. But I had to make sure that what I wrote really affected the reader. We have become such a cold-hearted society that we have become apathetic to mass murder. We are witnessing an act of national terrorism, yet it is amazing that we can sit back and watch it happen without doing anything. If you felt anything from this story, be it sadness, pain, hurt, disgust, anger, then please use that to help me raise money for the Syrian people. Don't just sit there and think others are doing something or it won't make any difference.


He still remembered how the strong timber of the Louisville Slugger felt in his palm. He remembered the special grip he had practiced for it. He remembered the first time he learned what he could do with just his thick arm muscles and a flick of the wrist, and he remembered how it made him fell. The memories swirled through his mind has he approached the plate with the soft, lifeless plastic toy bat in his hands. He thought back to the countless excited feminine shouts from his college days, the swelling of excitement whenever he approached home plate. Part of him knew those days were long passed, and part of him refused to believe it. As he got himself ready for his chance at bat he went through the same little rituals he had when he was 20. The same steps, the same routines. He grabbed the base, feeling how much different it felt then he remembered. He had been told the wiffleball bat would be smaller then he was used to from when he was young, but he didn't want to believe it. When he felt he was ready, or felt he must have been ready, he looked to his wife. A look of excitement crossed her face like a wild carnality as she let lose a wanton shout. The man she had loved was the confident man with a control in the field. She had often commented on how it felt to see him swing, making the ball go where ever he wanted, however he wanted. When she saw him wielding the thick, heavy wooden bat, when she felt the joy and pleasure it gave her to see him in control, that is what made her fall in love with him. He knew these things to be true. He waited for the pitcher to do his part. The ball came to him fast, he swung, and missed. He felt a flash of anger raising through his middle-aged frame, then embarrassment. He hid his shame and anger behind a joke, a teasing shrug, as he eyed the crowd again for his wife. She smiled at him, caring but he could read how deflated she was. He clearly saw the grin on her lips; as plastic as it was supportive. He looked up, and through his smile his eyes pleaded: "I don't know what happened. But it won't happen again. Trust me." He told himself it wasn't his fault. That it was the bat, the empty, souless chuck of plastic that was to blame. He glared at it, his distain expressing itself through his jokes. His smile as hollow as the bat he was carrying. He did what he could to shake it off. It was perfectly natural and happened to everybody at some point, but still a haunting, cold knot was growing in his stomach. A worry was growing, festering under the surface of his mind. He swallowed hard to ignore it, tried again, swung and missed. He didn't joke. He wasn't angry. And he didn't look around at first. He couldn't blame the ball, the bat or the pitch. He could only blame himself. He knew in his heart that he was the problem, that he wasn't the man he was anymore, and if he wasn't bat-swinger, the star hitter, the man who could knock it out of the park every night, then what was he? Was he even a man at all? He didn't know, and he didn't want to find out. He wanted to hide. He felt shame. He felt ashamed and enraged at himself for making himself ashamed and he wished desperately his shame wasn't a public shame. Again he looked to his wife. He tried to read the look on her face, but he couldn't see her. The more he looked for her, the more he saw a petite brunette staring at her feet. Her hair dangled in front of her, and his heart sank when he could see a hint of a blush. She was ashamed of him, he knew she was, and he couldn't blame her. Her friends would ask how she was doing, and she would tell him. They would discuss his failure with the sly, cool detachment that they discussed everything else. She would laugh with her friends in an amused, ironic way then, but for now she seemed crestfallen. He knew she remembered how he used to be, and he wished more then anything she didn't have to see him like this. He stood frozen in his own thoughts, when a voice broke his trance. First one then several people shouted to continue the game; that he was taking to long. He had to continue now or admit the truth, to himself and everyone. To admit that he was a failure. To admit that he wasn't what he pretended to be. He didn't want to continue, he didn't want to try again. He wanted to curl up for a long time by himself. Suddenly he thought of his father. He knew his Father would be ashamed of him too. He knew his father would already have made it all around the bases by now. His father would have made everybody cheer. His father would have made his wife happy. The crowd was turning sour. They had been whipped into a frenzy and demanded satisfaction. The pleas to continue had become stern shouts to finish his turn at bat, or to get off the field. He sighed to himself, and took his position again. He didn't believe it would work, but he knew what was expected of him. He went through the same motions he always did. He did his part; the thing that defined him. The little dances that made him what he was, even though he was still doubting his own abilities. He lifted the soft bat in his hands, his fingers wrapped around it, hoping that maybe a new stance or trick would suddenly turn him back into the man he was before. He swung, he missed. He expected boos from the crowd. He expected not to be allowed back into the safety of the dugout. As he left home plate, he dragged the bat behind it, wanting nothing more than to drop it and never have to look at it again. But he still dragged it behind him, like it was somehow attached to him. When he looked up, he looked for his wife, only to see her giggling as she spoke to her friend's nephew. She smiled at the 19 year old college football player, her lips pulled back as she softly squeezed his arm. The younger man, for his part, all buffed chest and bravado seemed excited by the attention. She didn't look back at him the entire trip to the little chain-link trench where his teammates were. He sat down in a slump, but felt better in the dark of the bench. His teammates, the ones he felt would be the hardest on him, were all very polite, and friendly. The fear he had of their disapproval disappeared. They told him they understood. It had been a long time, after all, and that it happens to everyone, sometimes. They didn't reject him, they accepted him. They had something they could commiserate over.


He sat alone in his cell. Same thing he did every day. He would sit, sleep, think, and masturbate the days away. He did nothing. And that's what they punished him to. Nothing. That's what death row is. First you do nothing, then you die. But his day was coming. The day that shoved some toxic chemicals in him and kill him. But that's not what he was waiting for. He was waiting for his last meal. The last chance to have one last piece of the outside world. He'd been waiting years. He dreamed of this last meal. An 18" Italian sub from Fontane's Deli. Fontane's was a small deli in his hometown. He's wanted it for so long and finally it was coming to him. An 18" Italian, lettuce, tomatoes, oil, vinegar, oregano, and no onions. He hated onions. He paced around his cell counting down the days, the hours the minutes. Finally a knock came to his door. A man in a guard uniform announced almost as if the cowering man in the cell had no idea the day it was, "Time's up. Come get your last meal and get ready." He flinched at the thought of death, but smiled at the thought of that delicious sandwich waiting for him. He sat down, two guards to either side of him. He smiled as the sandwich was presented to him. His drink was a bottle of root beer. Glass bottle. The other stuff just didn't compare. He sipped at his root beer and smiled at the sweet taste he hasn't enjoyed in years. He picked up his sandwich. He bit down. He chewed. He smiled. And slowly his smile turned to disgust and his face twisted into a fearful look of despair. He whispered to himself, "...fucking onions...


I hated that ancient pair of shoes. Supporting a wife and child meant I had to make them last. The backs had fallen apart and the metal cut into my heels with every goddamn step I took. They had been digging the same holes into my feet all week but, as I walked to my car after a long day of work, it was especially intolerable. Maybe that was why I was so short with that girl when she approached me. My eyes were on the ground as I walked through the outdoor parking lot. I couldn't wait to be home. I took solace in the fact that my wife and daughter would be asleep. I could sneak in and clean the cut on my forehead and stop the bleeding from my knuckles before they saw me. Behind me, I heard someone call out, "Hey, Mister." Knowing my city, the odds were high that anybody approaching me in a parking lot at night was about to stab me and take my wallet. I snapped to attention, swiveling my head around and balling my hands into fists. I flinched in pain as I remembered my hurt knuckles. To my relief, there was only a hooker behind me. She held her hands together and shook as if she was cold. But I knew why she was actually shaking. "No thanks," I said as I turned and started to walk back to my car. "Actually, I, uh, I was wondering if you were, you know, carrying," she said, teetering up behind me on her high heels. "No." "Oh. Well, you know, I'm really in need of a fix, Mister." "Sorry to hear that," I lied. "Well... can I at least suck your dick, Mister? I need some money." "Don't say that," I said without turning around. "Who are you, my dad?" "No, just don't say what service you're offering. If I were a cop I'd be able to arrest you. Just tell guys that you want to party." "Oh. Sorry, Sir." Her accent was gone but manners like those didn't come from the city. She still had her Southern charm. "Well, actually, mister, maybe you could give me a ride." "No." "Oh, please. It's only a few blocks. I really need a fix. Really bad." "I have to get home," I said as I spotted my car. Justa few more steps in those goddamn awful shoes. "It's a dangerous walk, Mister. Please, Mister. Please." "It's even more dangerous to get in a car with a stranger, you dumb bitch!" I snapped as I turned to face her. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me but you're still trying to climb into a car with me!" "You have a kind face, Mister," she said meekly. I turned to walk to my car, laughing. "Really? You think so? Well you're a shitty judge of character." I was infuriated when I could still hear her steps behind me. As I reached my car, I faced her again. She was sobbing. Underneath the running makeup I saw her face for the first time. Her lifestyle made her age twice as fast, but I could see her youthful eyes glistening with tears. She couldn't have been out of her early-twenties. Her eyes reminded me of my daughter's. That unsettled me. "Can you please take me home, Sir?" she sobbed. "The bus station isn't far from here. I just wanna go home to my daddy. I never wanna see this city again." "You have a father and a home?" I asked in disbelief. "Then why the hell did you leave them for this shithole of a city?" "Please, Mister. Don't make me walk over there at this time of night. The bus station is just a few blocks away." The bus station was on the other side of town and I had no interest in staying out any later than I had to. "Can't you see that I have blood pouring out of my head and my knuckles! I'm a violent person! I make a living through violence, for God's sake! And you're trying to jump into a car with me because you think I have a kind face? I hope my daughter grows up to be a better judge of character than you." I froze when I realized the implications of what I had just said. I was a violent man. The kind that I wouldn't want my daughter anywhere near. I was hypnotized by my realization when I felt the girl put her hand on my shoulder. I did not know how to respond to affection. So I responded with violence. I backhanded her across the face. I swore as I remembered my injured knuckle and held my hand to fight the pain. The hooker backpedaled, holding her face. She looked back to me one last time and yelled, "That's why! That's why I left my father for this shithole of a city!" Then she stormed off into the darkness. At last, I sat in my car. I didn't start the engine, though. I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror. I studied myself, trying to see why anybody would think I had a kind face. To this day, I still can't see what that hooker saw in my face. Maybe it was because I saw what became of that girl from the South. Maybe it was because of the violence in my job. Maybe it was because I wanted to get a new pair of fucking shoes. Whatever the reason, I didn't go home that night. I never saw my daughter again.


I walked a mile to burn you, over parking lots and highways, across crowded children's playgrounds and the greenest of parks, through cricket games and grass half as tall as me, to a place under a tree where a man led me to ask for a lighter for his already-lit joint and to say I'd like a London kisser, a place littered with empty cans and torn up newspapers. It took three tries to light you, my thumb sore from endless fags and holding on to moving trains. Your smoke pooled around me despite how hard I tried to blow it all away, settling in my hair and skin. I immolated you while an aeroplane roared over the music in my head (praying for the death of a man i'll never meet) and cricketers shouted soundlessly, a field away. I watched you burn, cross-eyed, right down to your end, to the very first scrawled letter. It was your idea, really, writing names on cigarettes.


The Tree Cat by Gabriel Beury-Moore Commonly being mistaken as other trees when it is spoken of, the tree cat is exactly what its name describes. Some say the tree cat was once a house cat. He lived with a young man who worked hard during the day and would come home to his best friend waiting for him, and everyday the cat would greet him with excitement and joy. He waited for his owner to come home. He waited for days: pacing around outside, running inside at the slightest noise indoors, and running around the whole house just to make sure his owner was not hiding. Eventually, the cat just stopped. He sat patiently outside in the rain, in the snow, at night, and all day. Before his transformation, he did not know of the magic that lived inside him, for he thought he was just a cat. But as a tree grows its root into the ground, the cat’s fur grew into the soil, absorbing his nutrients through the water he drank. His skin became hard with rigor, to become the bark of a tree. His body grew straight up to the sky; he reached for the sweet rays of the sun to drink in the warmth and energy it gave him. Like the leaves of a tree, his fur changed with the seasons. It was bright and full of luster in the summer, colorful and vibrant in fall, cold and dark in the harsh snows of winter, and in the spring his fur would slowly fade its color until it became bright again in the summer as the air became warmer. Unlike the leaves of a tree, his fur never fell. Slowly, over many years, his fur became broader and wider to soak in the sun. Finally, the once small house cat became tall and filled with beautiful leaves, his face hidden perfectly by them. He listened to the messages the wind brought him, and the stories the tall grass told him, but he would only open his eyes once a day to wish the sun a good morning and bid the moon a good night. The rain, when it came, brought news of what was happening around the world. Sometimes the rain told sad tales of war and famine; sometimes the rain told tales of peace. However, when the rain asked what the tree cat would like to know, he asked the same question, “Have you seen my owner?” And every time he asked, the rain was deeply saddened. The rain told him, “I have not seen your owner, but I know he is safe.” With that news, the tree cat shut his eyes and smiled. While it was sad that no one had seen his old friend, he took solace in knowing that his best friend was okay. Why am I telling you this story? I am an old friend of the tree cat. I knew him when he was just a small kitten. I knew him as the cheerful boy who faithfully followed his owner wherever he went. I was there when he could not find him. He asked me, “Have you seen my owner?” And I responded, “I’m sorry, but I have not.” I told him that if he waited, he could drink from me as much as he wanted, that he could bask in the suns that warm the Earth, that he could eat the food that grows by my banks, that he could play in the sand that builds with my ebb and flow. For years, I took care and watched over the once young cat while he sat patiently. I watched him grow into the majestic tree that he is today. He continues to thrive and to smile at me when I say hello. And every day he asks all he sees if they have seen his owner, and every day we lie to him. We keep him company and we keep him happy by telling stories of time and stories of the world. We do not tell him of the day his owner passed. We keep from him that his owner visited him every day, but he could not see him. We fail to mention that he built a home to stay with him forever. We forget that his son would sit in the shade of the tree cat. We remember that every day his owner would tell him that he loves him. We keep from him that his owner’s children buried him just behind the tree cat and he could know that he was always with him if he could just look down. Most importantly, we have not told him that his owner buried him in the exact spot he grows. The owner was special; he spoke to all of us knowing that we were listening. He knew that he would outlive his small friend and he prepared for his passing every day. Every day he told us stories to then tell his friend. On the day of the tree cat’s passing, he asked us one thing. He asked the grass, the suns, the moon, the wind, the rain, and myself just one thing. He asked us not to tell his friend that he has passed. He prepared us and coached us to tell the tree cat the stories he told us for years. Before he placed his small friend into the ground we asked him, “But what do we tell him when we run out of stories?” He told us that by the time we run out of stories, he would be back to relieve us of our responsibility. With that, he ever so carefully placed his small friend into the ground and placed the earth over him. He said a quick goodbye and went on with his life, making sure to see the tree cat everyday. He made sure to thank each of us for our help. He did this every day until the day he died. Soon, the house that he started a family in became covered in vines. With no one to care for it, the house became disheveled and fell apart. As years turned to decades and decades to centuries, the stories we had began to dwindle to smaller and smaller numbers. On the last day, I told my final story to the tree cat. As I ended the story, the tree cat opened his eyes; he smiled and told me what a wonderful story it was. As he told me this, he got a peculiar look on his face. A new wind had arrived, one he had not felt before. It greeted him with a voice as old as he could remember. The tree cat asked, “Where have you been all these years? Why did you leave me?” “I never left you, old friend. I have been with you your whole life and past-life. I was in the stories your friends would tell you and in the air you breathe, the sun that wakes you, and the water you drink.” With that said, the tree cat and his owner looked at each other with the same look they gave each other when they lived, each carrying a slight smile. What I saw then I had never seen since before I flowed into this land. As the two friends stared at each other, not saying a word, a single leaf fell from the tree cat’s face. As the leaf fell, his smile disappeared slowly with each leaf making it smaller and smaller until his face had disappeared. As the leaves fell, the wind began to take form. The shape of a young man appeared next to a small kitten playing in a pile of leaves. As the last leaf fell, the tree cat jumped into the welcome arms of his owner and when the leaf finally fluttered to the ground, the cat and his owner faded away to spend the rest of time together.


Riot The street was full, packed from side to side. Hundreds, thousands of people, streamed down the avenue. A low roar came from the crowd. Windows shattered as they passed store fronts. Car alarms sounded, and then faltered and fell into submission. Street signs were bent, and then disappeared into the bulk of people. They kept marching forward, an unstoppable mass of humanity. Maybe it was caused by ever increasing taxes, it could have been a court judgment that they didn’t agree with, possibly their sports team won a championship. They could have been rebelling against unfair laws, or wars they didn’t agree with. The angry mob of people may have been supporting any cause that could be imagined, yet it didn’t stop the fact that they were marching through their own city, destroying their own stores and their own cars, ruining the streets that their tax dollars paid for. Their reasons for rebellion didn’t stop the fact that when a man fell down the crowd didn’t pause, it still pushed forward. Feet marched right over their fallen brothers and sisters. Ahead of them was a monument. A depiction of freedom maybe, or possibly a building that housed their government’s leaders, ahead of them could have simply been an open area where the group could disperse. But blocking their way was a single line of armed troops. Dressed in black riot gear, helmets with plastic visors hanging down over their faces, men stood holding tall shields, armed with large automatic weapons. In front of them were sandbags and red and white striped saw horses. Behind them were big black vehicles, armored to the teeth, like children’s toys. From the top of one vehicle stood a speaker and from that speaker an emotionless voice demanded that the people halt and disband. The speaker warned of the use of deadly force if they continued. But the crowd had no choice; even if the people in front stopped they would be trampled by the people surging forward behind them. That wasn’t what they thought though. The force behind them made them feel unstoppable. As a single unit of people they felt invincible. The gap between the two forces closed. Weapons were drawn, cocked and aimed. A final warning was given to the crowd, the speaker sounded like it didn’t expect any sort of change to actually occur. A man, dressed in black, held a gun and aimed it into the crowd. His mouth moved, the word ‘Ready’ was heard. His eyes focused on where his bullet would be sent. He opened his mouth again, ‘Aim’ came out of it. Which was redundant, everyone had already planned on where their projectiles would be placed. ‘Fire’, was the final word that was heard before people started to fall down before them. Guns fired rapidly, automatic weapons built for slaughtering people sawed through the oncoming mass of humanity. They fell in lines. Like waves they crashed to the cold asphalt. The gunmen showed no emotion as they laid people down to rest, they were coldly following orders. There was no moral objection; morals played no part in their job. The onrushing people marched over their fallen brethren, stepped over the slippery bodies and pushed closer to the men who were firing upon them before they fell in heaps themselves. Guns began smoking. Empty shells popped out and piled up on the ground at the feet of the men dressed in black. The crowd seemed to be never ending, only slightly slowed by the mounds of the fallen bodies that they had to overcome on their way to their goal behind the men who protected it with deadly force. The men worked like machines reloading their weapons, bodies lubricated by sweat, silently repeating trained motions. Guns began to overheat, and were automatically discarded, traded for side arms. The mob of people seemed to pick up their pace, getting closer as hot assault rifle after hot assault rifle was replaced by cool, single shot, side arm. The crowd over took the saw horses first, still falling to bullets, still piling up and being walked over. The wood splintered crushed under the trampling force of the publics will. Next they overcame the sandbags, which were soon hidden underneath the smashed and bleeding faces, arms, legs and torsos of those who fell while crossing them. Bullets screamed, cutting through air and flesh, destroying. Finally, as they approached the men dressed in black, whose job it was to protect what was behind them, whose task it was to keep order, while they were still falling to bullets being fired and they over too even them. Black uniform after black uniform, the men were engulfed by the oncoming crowd. One gun after another went silent. In the end, after hundreds of bodies had been tallied, after the crowd had stormed whatever had been their destination. Men and women were laid into the ground. Those men in black who shot down the oncoming crowd were laid in graves besides those who they shot. Their tombstones shared the same last names as those people from the oncoming crowd that they were laid next to. In the end, we seek a moral. Yet we may find only chaos.