It was a day like any other. I arrived at Five Points MARTA station to begin my daily commute to work. Light rain welcomed me as I walked to the entrance with a closed umbrella in hand, the pitter patter just not heavy enough for me to care to open it. I made my my way down to the northbound side of the tracks, staring at my phone in a dissociative daze. I briefly took my gaze away from my device to locate a bench where I would sit and wait for the next red-line train. After sitting down, I decided to put my phone away and attempt to take in my surroundings. Open air stations such as these tend to be a common retreat for wildlife, primarily rats and pigeons. The pigeons at this location had a distinct persona, like that of a Vietnam veteran that has fallen on hard times. Many of them appear dirty and debilitated, but live their lives just the same. As I watch the pigeons fly and land, searching for something unknown to me, a middle aged, African American man arrives and stands near the bench to my left. We both observe the unfortunate pigeons as one begins to waddle toward us. As it gets closer, I am able to see in greater detail the physical attributes of this bird and something immediately stands out. At the end of its legs, where there would normally be talons or claws, I am surprised to see that this pigeon has none. I watch it waddle on nubs and in partial disbelief I turn to the man beside me, curious if he noticed the same. The man turns toward me with a shocked, confused look on his face. We lock eyes and after a very short moment he breaks the silence. "That nigga ain't got no feet!" The end.


Jason walked quickly down a hallway through the airport to get to his gate. The escalator was ascending just in front of him. To his right, a shopping area and food court bustled with other passengers all waiting for their respective planes. He had always hated escalators. He had fallen down one as a kid and he disliked them ever since, but he was been in a hurry and the stairs were tiring, considering how far he still had to go. Plus this would give him some time to think and get some space from Karen, before they met to get on their plane. Annie was trying to take her time. She really needed some space to herself. She had been arguing with her boyfriend for the last twenty minutes at the gate and had just walked away to get a break. The exit to the food court and overpriced stores had just joined up with a hallway and at the far end of the junction was an escalator. Jason was deep in thought. He couldn't believe he had been coaxed into this trip. His girlfriend had bugged him relentlessly until he had agreed. God he disliked her parents. They had such a different view of the world then him. Also why did they have to live in Minnesota, it was quite a long flight from Sky Harbor Airport. In the middle of winter too. He hated this. Annie hated the cold but her boyfriend Chad had to go to the Rockies. He “needed” to snowboard. Why couldn't they ever do anything she wanted. Annie was about to step onto the escalator when she bumped into someone. “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said as she turned. A tall well built man who looked to be in his late twenties was standing there just as stunned as she was. “Oh, no problem,” he said back looking at the floor. Jason looked down. He had been so lost in thought. This cute girl just bumped into him, and now he was all flustered. He had been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed her and now they were standing face to face. He could tell he was blushing but looked up and took a step back. He gestured with his hand and smiled. “After you.” “Wow,” Annie thought. He's so chivalrous. He seemed very sincere in the gesture so, she stepped onto the escalator before him. The man nodded and smiled but hesitated before stepping on after her. Jason had been with Karen for almost a year. He didn't really know why he still was, but he figured it was the best he could get, so why lose it. He noticed he'd stopped laughing as much and tended to do nothing but fight with her. Plus their tastes were so vastly different. He loved warm places with a beach. Hawaii. California. He needed the water. Karen on the other hand was all about the mountains and land locked states. She would never travel to the ocean. She was too afraid of it. Though she had never been but Jason had always guessed it was just a fear of the unknown. He loved spicy food. Karen hated it. He loved to read. She hated books. To be honest, Jason felt more and more like polar opposites with her, but he didn't have the courage to tell her that and break her heart. Plus she was his first real girl friend. He had been with a couple of girls before but they were short relationships so he never really counted it. Which made everything that much more complicated. Annie had been with Chad for years. They had been high school sweethearts. Now that she was twenty-four though, she had realized how they weren’t the same. Not even remotely. She was into art and books and anything that had to do with warm sunny beaches. She loved the ocean and felt like it helped her write and read and just be more herself. Chad on the other hand, had really turned into a bum. He barely worked anymore and had been relying on Annie more and more for his income. He would sit around most days either watching T.V. or playing video games. He had planned this trip by dipping into their savings, for it was for his own “well being.” Annie was getting more and more disgusted with him but was too sweet and polite to tell him they weren't working. Annie turned slightly on the escalator and looked at the man behind her. He had a death grip on the rail but she could tell he kept peeking at her. She smiled to herself. He really was cute. He had such startlingly bright eyes. What she couldn't figure out was why he was holding the rail so hard. Maybe he knew something she didn't. Wait, what if the escalator was going to jerk or hitch or something? They sometimes did that when they got older, right? Come to think of it, this one did look kind of old. Okay, really old. She might fall and get hurt. She tightened her grip on the rail too, just in case. Jason saw the corner of the lady's mouth twitch when he looked at her. He thought for a second she was smiling but figured it was his imagination. Then he saw her grip tighten on the railing. Oh god. Something was going to happen. He knew it. She was freaking out because she knew the escalator was going to jerk and he would fall down it and get hurt again. Annie had been always looking for that “Knight in shining armor.” The one from fairy tales. The one to sweep her off her feet. She definitely didn't feel like that with Chad but she couldn't leave him. They had a huge history together. Heck they had been out of high school for five years now. Annie looked down at her feet, thinking again. She needed a change. Something new and exciting. Maybe going somewhere like Hawaii or California. She had always wanted to go and hoped that someday Chad would take her there. Jason was the kind of guy who wanted to sweep a girl off her feet. Do everything old-school. Be the knight in shining armor. He would take her everywhere and anywhere she wanted to go. Be the man that she needed and make her his princess. He has always and will always love with all of his heart all the time. That is part of the reason he couldn't leave Karen. He couldn't bare hurting her like that. Also, could he even get another girlfriend? He doubted it. Jason looked forward as he neared the top of the escalator. He would treat that girl with the utmost respect and be there for her whenever she needed it. Annie shuffled her feet a little. She was almost at the top. She needed someone who could take care of her. Someone to hold her and tell her everything will be alright. Someone that would respect her for who she is, not drag her off to the cold, mountainous... She took a deep breath, wanting leave the argument alone. Annie stepped off the escalator at the top and took a few steps. She turned and looked at the man behind her. She smiled sweetly and said, “Have a nice day.” “You too.” Jason said back. “Hope it's a great one.” Jason turned as he got off and started walking toward the A gates 1-23. Hands pushed in his pockets dreading seeing Karen again. Wishing he could find the right person. Wishing he could find his princess. Annie turned and headed toward the A gates 23-45. She pushed her hands in her pockets wishing that some how when she got to her gate Chad wouldn't be there. God she needed her knight to save her now. Jason found Karen sitting at their gate. She had her feet over her things so no one would take them. She looked up and smiled but it seemed fake to him. He smiled back and plopped himself next to her believing this is the best he would get. Annie saw Chad sitting at the gate where she had left him. He looked up and smiled but it didn't touch his eyes. “I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to yell.” He stood up and kissed her on the cheek. She leaned into him and smiled believing this is the best she would get.


Waking from sleep is usually an intensely relieving experience for me. Having just barely escaped the crushing paralysis and vague, waif like figures surrounding my bed, coming into consciousness feels like eluding a slow, painful death at the hands of these beings. They always move into the room slowly, the fear mounting in my chest as they get closer. Are they aliens or ghosts? I have never known their purpose but they come for me nightly. By the time they are above me I can’t move my body, unable to escape due to the paralysis that has totally set in. The way out is always the same. Focus on my big toe- the mere movement of a toe could be enough to shatter their possession over me and bring me out of this spell. In an instant, I’m awake, sucking in air and reveling in the notion that once again I have just escaped annihilation. I get up to grab a drink of water, relieved to have made it out of the darkness. But, something is off. I can’t focus on the room. I am unable to move at a normal speed. I feel like I am in slow-motion. The thirst increases as my ability to move vanishes. Again I feel the sickening notion that I am not alone. My heart starts pounding and I cannot feel my limbs. I know what is happening to me but I am incapable of stopping it. Something is different this time. I am completely lucid, aware that I am experiencing sleep paralysis again. It is a dream within a dream. I have been here before. Regardless, the bodies are returning and the nightmare feels just as real as ever. I must put a stop to them. I naturally know that I must fight back. Accepting their presence in my life and merely escaping will not stop their persistence. I begin to create energy in my body, working against the fear by feeling anger instead. I can feel heat radiating through my body and out of my chest. Although I am physically powerless, I feel like I could burst into a million pieces and slice through the haunting figures around me. Perhaps this is truly the only way out. As the energy and heat increase throughout my body my mouth involuntarily opens and a beam of light shoots out. The light simultaneously flows through me and out my fingers and toes. My body is burning. It lifts off of the bed and hovers, golden light surrounding it. The beings cower in the corners of the room and I know the moment has come to transcend my body and enter back into reality. With one last push of energy from within, my skin and insides explode out, shooting like daggers into every last vestige of space within the room. The blackened forms lining the space melt into puddles and seep through the floorboards as my infinite golden light illuminates the darkness. At last, I am free.


She said “you got a lot of things to learn.” We were heading to pick up her mom from the methadone clinic in Lawrence. She was home for the weekend from Phillips. The trip from Andover was only a half an hour by car, but a world away from where she was today. Jamie grew up fast. Her mother was happy for the ride. It was a cold October that year and the couple of miles it took to walk to the clinic were wearing on her. When we got back to her mother’s apartment we immediately clambered into her sister’s tiny bedroom. Her sister got into Phillips as well but it felt too strange for her being there so she left to finish her high school career at Lawrence High. Her boyfriend had stolen a shoe box full of mushroom caps from an ex-roommate at Plymouth University and left them at the house. It was Jamie’s idea to eat them that morning. With her mother locked away for the rest of the day in her room, it felt like a safe opportunity to experiment. Up until this time in my life I had only smoked weed and gotten high on amphetamines, but I was up for whatever Jamie wanted to do. I idolized her. We took a handful of caps each. I didn’t feel anything within 20 minutes so I ate some more, regardless of her sister’s warning. She was going to watch us. Within 45 minutes I was peaking. The world shattered around me and I was floating in space. I felt a commonality with everything in the universe for a while, but the beauty faded when I couldn’t make it back to reality. I knew I had to throw up, but I could hardly make it to the bathroom, I was seeing stars. Hours passed. I begged god to make it stop. It was a horrible trip. My consciousness felt permanently altered. Later in the afternoon I began to feel sane again. Jamie and I went for a walk around her block. I had one shoe on, one barefoot. I needed to feel the cold ground beneath that foot. She was humming to “Sweet Adeline” which had been playing throughout the trip, courtesy of our babysitter dj. Upon arriving back, her sister was alone in her room crying. She said “Elliott Smith has killed himself.


I saw the black cat walking, but I never crossed its path. I was born into fortune and gifted with a knack for creating problems for myself. Maybe it’s because I knew there’s nothing worse than living a life without struggle. If you have nothing to work toward, nothing to fix, then you have nothing to live for. Twenty-five years of my life had gone by before I met her. Twenty-five years of searching for a purpose, a reason to live, a reason to die. She was the provisional answer. “My name is ,” were the first, unprompted, words she said to me. Why would she think that I care? Sure she was pretty, but did she know what I was going through? Her confidence radiated throughout the room, “do you want to split a drink?” This request would define our relationship forever. Her beauty was indefinable. Her soft pale skin complimented her gaunt physique. If it weren’t for her alluring eyes and invigorating glare, it’d be hard to tell she had a pulse. She had me in her grips from the start, and her claws would only sink deeper. I was no stranger to substance abuse. I drank nearly everyday, but smoked like a recovering addict. That was enough for me, enough to get me through the day without questioning the mundane. It wasn’t until I met her that I would graduate to a different vice. The first time I used, we split the hit. The needle was still warm when it entered my body. Serenity. Only two months had passed and I struggled with defining my addiction. The idea of destroying myself with her by my side gave me purpose. The sedating warmth that filled my core gave me peace. Her attitude toward life was pure hypocrisy. Race to the end, and enjoy every second of it. Our use wasn’t categorized into self-loathing or hatred for existence. It was the opposite. We lived everyday like it was our last, and as far as we knew, it was. The silver serpent would slip in and out injecting its innocuous venom into our arms. All the while we embraced its effect. Incorporating intoxication into our work and family lives was a struggle at first. Once we quit our jobs and severed most ties, pure bliss. Everyday was a new experience. We satisfied our spiritual appetite to the fullest extent, only to balance our physical pleasure with various drugs. Every moment with her was pure ecstasy, even when we weren’t on it. We weren’t naïve enough to think this could last forever, but it did, forever is a relative term. It never mattered to us if we were alive or dead, as long as we had each other. Her head on my chest, my breathing gets softer. Serenity. Purpose.


My mother used to drive me down to Cherry Park. Every Sunday, without fail she'd take me there. Those outings where the highlight of my tiresome weeks. I'd run frantically down the meadow and up the hill; to marvel the cherry blossom tree. The pink leaves were carried through the wind, nestling beside my wellies. It was the prettiest sight. I'd never seen such magic. But as a kid, I was impressed by everything. Mom would often laugh at how fascinated I was with the tree. She'd pinch my cheeks and lure me with ice cream to tear me away from the tree. Well, I'd say it worked pretty darn well. I have the fondest memories of that park, that tree. As I got older, the trips were less frequent. I went by myself but it didn't feel right. I'd stare at the tree, only to feel like there was something missing from the experience. I wasn't enjoying it. Then I stopped altogether. Mom was frail. She was once so full of life. She was left with fragments of memories of days gone by; where there was feelings of freedom. Then she passed away. My mind often wonders back to the blissful days when she'd whisk me to the park. To eat ice cream and have a good laugh. I know she'd want me to go with my son, who now will grow up without her. It's bittersweet to me. What will he remember me by? So for next Sunday, I've planned a trip to Cherry Park.


I’m always the first thing you look at, when you wake up. You roll over, looking at me nervously, afraid you have knocked me off your too-small bed again, like you did the very first time I stayed over. It's cute. I'm always there, next to you. I am not as easy to knock over as you may think. We have a good relationship, I think. I am a bit awkward, I never know what to say, and you often get frustrated with how vague I am. I’m sorry. I am sorry that sometimes I get us lost when we are driving. I swear, it's not my fault. I just get mixed up. “I just get mixed up.” Sometime in the last year or so, you've gotten tired of hearing that. The quirks you thought were cute, now you find obnoxious. The fact that I'm tired all the time isn't a plus, either. You want to go out. You want to do things with me, and I just can't find the energy to do them. I still love you. I love everything about you. The way you hold me at night, the way you share all your secrets with me, how dorky you look when you and I try to take a picture together… but you're always smiling in those pictures. I love that we are such a cute couple. The way you are always willing to get wet, just to keep me dry when it rains… it's sweet. Chivalrous, even. You're a proper gentleman. I… see the way you look, sometimes. We've been together years. I know what that look means. You think about others when you lay with me, and those quirks you loathe now draw tempered sighs of disgust. I remember the first time you called me useless, and threw me into the bed. I remember the way you stormed out, mad that I had forgotten to remind you about your pizza. I remember the look of loathing you gave me. A million tiny things all somehow led to that, and from then on you were different. You hit me. Slapped me. Shook me. You called me things I don't want to repeat, and made me feel like just another broken thing. Last night, you hit me so hard I blacked out for a while. When I came too, you had elected to sleep instead of care for me. It didn't surprise me. I know I am trash in your eyes. You've never seen me the way I see you. When you left this morning, you left me behind. You didn't say goodbye like you used to. You didn't bring me along. When you come back, you will have forgotten me entirely.


I walk down a dark empty hallway. A familiar hallway that echoes my footsteps as if my shoes were for tap-dancing. My trigger finger dragging against the bumped rough painted walls feeling for the corner of the hallway. Once I get to the corner on my left I turn to my right and fumble around for the doorway. That same doorway I've entered a hundred times before. The door is hard wood, just as smooth as the wall. I knock my knuckles against the hard wood. It never sounds loud enough on such thick wood. You're never sure if whoever on the other side really heard you. So I knocked harder, hard enough to make the bone under my skin throb. I can feel my heartbeat between the knuckles. A light suddenly appears on the door. A pair of eyes peek through the four by two inch box. "Password." Demands the eyes, glaring. "We are all God's children." I say. The eyes chuckle back. "Beat it kid." I reach under my coat and unbutton the sheath on my pistol. It's nothing special, wouldn't kill anyone unless it hit them in the head. I had seen on television that a 22. pistol has enough powder to gain the momentum to tear through the skull, but not back out. The bullet will slide and ricochet through the inside of the skull ripping the brain to pieces. Depending on how they fall, you can even see the goopy substance pour out the torn hole. Some sort of brain stew. Also hard to track. Apparently they're not dangerous enough to really commit any crimes with. Maybe our legislature should do a little research. "Did you hear me? I said beat it!" "Come on, you should know me by now." The eyes widened. Then squinted down in fear. He closed the hole. Quickly. I pulled my gun out to my side. There's no sense in trying to beat them within an inch of their life. They'll come back, and with more force. This particular group is like those punching bags that when you hit them, they bounce back up again. Impossible to keep down, unless you deflate it. Deflation is easy, just a puncture of some sort. A blade would due, however I need something more irreparable. I wait and listen to the scuffling behind the door. Pulling my cigarettes from the inside coat pocket. I pat my self down with my spare hand for my lighter and find it in the pocket next to my pocket knife. The door clicks to unlock as soon as I inhale my first cigarette, ever. They say it's a stress reliever. I could sure use some about now. The door swings open and there he stands. One of the scales on the head of a serpent. "Fredricke? I thought you weren't supposed to come here aymore? You're not a part of this family anymore." Jason, the gruff, tough, merciless fool spoke down to me. Almost preachy. As if to tell me that if I didn't get out of here I wasn't going to go to heaven. I already decided I wasn't, not after what I've done. This isn't for Heaven or Hell. This is not for God. This is for me. I breathe in the tobacco. Coughing it out again. The smoke pours out my nose, burning more than it did my throat. I cough back to him. "We are all God's children." He smiles at me. Swings the door wide open to put me in the light. I lift my hand pointing my pistol at him. I have the power here. His smile quickly fades. "Wait just a se-" His voice cut off, overpowered by the first scream of the pistol in my hand. He dropped. Just as I saw in the video games. There is no more power to the brain to control the muscles and so you have to rely simply on the real world physics to direct a corpse. Two people who until the most recent event were just sitting in the corner bolted up and took off towards a back room. I fired one more of my bullets. One of the two fell to the floor. Sat there for just a moment before realizing there was now a hole in his leg. He screamed. Suddenly there was two shots heard from the back room. Then I could hear another ragdoll dropping sound. Followed by more screaming. That's just too much screaming. I raised my gun and shot my leg injured combatant in the head. "Hello?" I asked. "Who else is here?" Two shots more come flying through the wall. I laugh. Not because anything is funny. Everyone is afraid of a crazy guy. Act crazy long enough and your enemies will lose their cool. I laugh more outloud. Cackling like one of the wicked witches of Oz. More bullets come flying through the wall. I feel a quick tear on my arm. Just a scratch. I hide my painin my laugh. Then I stop. Keep everything quiet. I spit my cigarette around the corner into the next room then I hear several bullets hit the ground. I lift the first body from by the door using the method an old friend had showed me he had learned in the Marines. He was a limp lifeless husk. I pull it up over my soulders and to the corner. Just before the next room. I grunt lifting him over my head, and toss him as far as I can around the corner. Explosions shouted as bullets filled the air and the dull thump of them impacting the corpse quickly followed. Until the shots stopped. My ears rang with echoes of the sounds. I was sure the shooting was stopped because my heart has stopped beating in succession with each shot heard. That fight or flight instinct that told me I was still alive also told me when the bullets were flying. I get my gun ready. The womans words in my head. 'You aren't that kind of person. You can be free of this bullshit.' I take aim. I fire. "It's a shame really. Either way I'm on the wrong end of a gun. I just can't find the right side." I cock the pistol. I hold it next to my skull. I pull the trigger. It's like slow motion. You feel the bullet ripping through your scalp. You feel the cracking of your skull. Then you have a headache. The bullet travels at such a velocity through my brain tissue, I suddenly feel myself losing everything. I remember my mothers birthday, I gave her a drawing. I was six. Or was I nine? What was the drawing of? Or was it a neckace I made? Why was I giving her something again? I remember... What? I feel... nothing. The pain stopped. Everything stopped. What am I? I feel like I'm Nothing.


We are both 16. We are sitting in Math. I'm the awkward, nerdy, skinny, shy boy. You are the pretty, popular girl. The school bell rings. You walk out with your friends. You carelessly leave your book under your desk. I catch up with you and give you your book. You tell your friends to go ahead. You thank me. I blush. Silence. This is my chance. Ask her out! WannagotothemoviesonFriday? You get a confused look on your face. I feel a sharp pain in my chest. Why would you go to the movies with a nerd like me? I try to save some dignity and turn to walk away. Wait, you say. You didn't understand me. The nervousness has subsided. I speak more slowly now. Would you like to go to the movies on Friday? You smile. Of course you would. We turn to walk to our next class. Here comes some bullies. I will protect you. They all come at me. I fight them off and keep you safe. You thank me. You kiss me. You fall in love with me. We are getting married. We are having babies. We are living happily ever after. The teacher is calling my name. I snap awake. I look over at you. You are looking at me. The class is looking at me. X squared over Y minus seven. The teacher says correct. The school bell rings. You walk out with your friends. I look under your desk. You took all of your books.


I woke up at the sound of the crashing of the door as it opens. Wakefulness floods in as I examine the surroundings that I am so familiar with. The same box that I have been in for all of this time is what greets me. They say that life is change but this box has never looked any different in these twenty years. They worry about my security at night so they close it up and make sure that no one can come in. It really is truly thoughtful of them. I rise up and head out down the stairs to start at the breakfast. It’s the usual meal. I like it because they say it’s good for me and it is always similar in consistency as well as mild in flavor. My friends are all there already and we give each other grunts of acknowledgment. They put us all in the same clothing. The same material and color all for twenty years they tell me. My memory is starting to go. The doctors tell me that I have some form of Dementia and that many years ago I hurt someone and ended their life and now my fate is to live this way until the day that my life as well is extinguished. I told them that I am truly sorry for what they say that I did and I’m sure it was not nice of me but I’d be grateful if they allowed me to leave today. Every day they say, ‘No’.


Should I get revenge? Should I calm my angry body with such a thing? Do I need it? What would an intelligent person do right now? I am struggling, badly. My head aches and so does my neck. What comes next? Do I stab back after being stabbed? Or do I let her win and relinquish my knife. She has no idea what she's put me through does she? Watching them together, time after time, why would she do that to me? How could she do that to me? I don't know, but I wish to know. Maybe I should stab her back just so she knows what it feels like. Maybe then she would feel my pain, rather than playing the victim like every woman does. Maybe it's the misogynist in me, but how often do women try and get empathy off men? Every day, every sentence, every second? Maybe I'm cold hearted or maybe I'm detaching with care. I'm just saying it how I see it, and exaggerating a little. I'm so tempted to stab her back, just so she can feel my pain. So she can know what it's been like to be me. How close I've been to suicide. How close I've been to slitting my own throat. But I won't stab her back. I'm not sure why, at all really, but I won't. I'll stay strong for a few more days.


Perhaps there may be a better sub for this request, but I enjoy the styles of a lot of the authors here, so I wanted to try this sub first: I was wondering if anyone would like to make a story specifically to be read aloud? I have recorded narrations of by and by . (Thanks again for your permission guys.) If you like the sound of my voice and my narration style, I would love to work with an author who has written a story specifically with a recording in mind. Other than stories, I have some recordings of poems as well, which you can find . I am excited to make this thing happen.


Soup A butterfly flew right into Nancy’s pot of roast beef soup. Its wings instantly dissolved into slime of membranes. The pigments of the wings could be seen flowing into the murky soup. Unaware of the tragedy, Nancy picked up a ladle and gave the soup one last stir before turning down the heat. She put the ladle right on top of the butterfly carcass. The metal crushed down on the butterfly remaining body and partially ruptured it, releasing yellow guts and other liquefied organs. After finished stirring, she tasted the soup with a clean spoon. She scooped up the surface of the soup bringing up carrots, peas, and a piece of celery. Nancy put the hot spoon close to her mouth and gently blew on it to cool down. The soup tasted as she had hoped. That night, the family was taking dinner together. Nancy hd an uneasy feeling. But the delight of the soup kept her destructed. She took a bite of another piece of celery and unlike during the preparation, it was still quite crispy and aromatic. Now she wondered why the piece she had tasted earlier was soft, juicy and bitter.


Slowly drifting, eyes are closing, the state of lucidity has come upon me once more. This nightly occurrence of which I have no control, yet more control than most will ever know. This world I create of my own accord, living vividly in the creations of those before. The pieces I choose to take, are that which is taken for granted every day, It saddens me to know this must end, for when the clock hits 8 I must rise for the day. The sun shines through my window, it’s harsh rays landing directly upon my face. Is it morning already? It can’t be! There wasn’t enough time! I curse the sun for being such a reliable alarm clock. If only I had a few more minutes... Most people experience this type of feeling when waking from a good dream. To me, it’s all the more powerful. I control my dreams. I choose the scenery, the people, and anything you could imagine. If I want to fly, so be it. Hell, If I want to live inside a Van Gogh painting, I will. I love the feeling, the control, and the beauty, but most of all the peace. Once I close my eyes there are no limits, deaths, accidents, or mishaps. In fact, quite the contrary. My Mother, Father, and Brother all perished in a car accident that left me in a coma for two years. Before the coma, life was anything but peaceful. My father, the typical abusive drunk, and my mother, what a weak woman she was, were in a constant battle. My brother and I were often left to fend for ourselves. It may sound sinister, but that crash may have been the best thing to ever happen to me. While in my deepest, comatose slumber, I recreated my family. I imagined my mother to be strong and loving, and my father a powerful and kind man. I lived like this for two years, the most peaceful years of my life. It was when I awoke that the true nightmare began. The wonderful family I had grown accustomed to disappeared and were replaced. I traveled to many homes, each with problems of their own. I battled through a vicious cycle of foster homes, some more dysfunctional than my original. Who could live up to the expectations of a dream? Group homes became my guide to adulthood. Here I am 22, and haven’t amounted to anything. I am alone in this institution. My every waking hour is spent waiting to go back to sleep. They say I have lost touch with reality. They are blind, they lack the ability to see what I see. I tried for years to get back to the alternate universe. Eventually returning only to find I was on limited time. Every day the same blasted sun wakes me, reminding me that this nightmare is my reality. This world I never asked to be part of. A world filled with hate and greed. Living in my own creations is far more appealing. I long for the beautiful world without pain or suffering. I crave the ability to walk alongside those forgotten. This is my world, and I won’t be leaving here again. The medicine I have secretly stockpiled for weeks will now deliver me to the land in which I am free! I’m slowly drifting, eyes are closing, the state of lucidity has come upon me once more. This nightly occurrence which I have no control, yet more control than most will ever know. This world I create of my own accord, living vividly in the creations of those before. The pieces I choose to take, are that which is taken for granted every day, To once again see my mother’s face, to be held and told it will all be okay.


The man’s right hand crept over the divider and slowly brushed the woman’s fingers. He never averted his gaze from his book of course: this was all part of the experience. He touched her hand softly, only using the back of his index finger to start. She was reading as well, and while she normally needed silence and concentration to read, she didn’t mind getting distracted by him. Jacob was different. “Would you care for something, my good sir?” said Erin playfully, keeping her eyes focused on the little black symbols scribbled on the white pages before her. Jacob puffed his chest proudly and turned to look at the side of her head. “I must urinate and I demand you unbuckle…your seatbelt, so I can get past you and go to the pisser.” He made sure to emphasise the P. “Oh, is that right…unbuckle my seatbelt, eh?” “Yes, that is. Not sure what else I could, let alone want to, unbuckle right now.” Erin closed her book and turned to grin at Jacob, not minding that she lost her page. “For now, let’s ignore how incredibly sexy I am and how badly you must want me right now,” she said as she delicately scratched his arm. “Now regarding your bladder situation, it’s just that I can’t help but remember you stealing my Window seat even though I clearly have 32C…even someone as dense as you can see the predicament you quite literally put yourself in, right?” “Erin. I will climb over you and you will like it.” “Fuck. I give in. I’m too young and pretty to die of suffocation today.” She clicked the button on her seatbelt and slid out into the aisle. As Jacob slid over as well, she blocked the exit. “What’s the password?” She almost sounded genuine as she smiled cheekily. “Prawn is life 123,” he replied coolly, looking directly at her deep green eyes without batting an eyelash himself. “Wrong.” “I’m not kissing you.” “Wrong.” “I will piss on you.” “Unlikely and admittedly a fetish.” “I love you.” “You may pass.” As Jacob slid past, Erin gave him a playful spank before she sat back down. She closed her eyes and smiled. Only Jacob could make plane rides enjoyable. He could make anything enjoyable. He returned and thirty minutes later, the plane began its decent. Erin reached over to hold Jacob’s hand. “Remember when we first met? I still think about it sometimes you know. It was ages ago yet it’s so clear in my mind.” Jacob popped up the divider to rest his head more comfortably on hers. He grinned as he sassily replied, “How could I forget my first visit to the Strip Club? Spent a hefty $3 on you!” “I know and it was the most I’ve ever gotten!” Erin stated with glee. “Once you proved you were rich, boy…you had me hooked like crack. Now I’m never leaving you! Love me!” She turned to kiss him on the cheek, then the collar-bone, then proceeded to nuzzle her head into his neck. He smelled good. He always smelled good to her. They stayed in that position in silence until the plane’s wheels touched down on the tarmac. Jacob kissed the top of her head. Erin stuck her pinky out and Jacob did the same. They looked out the window and to their delight, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.


The Society for Everyone The suit I had on was just like everyone else’s. A black suit with the badge of the new Founders on the left side of my chest. The walls on the side of me were painted like most other buildings, completely white. The lights gave the hallways a supernatural feel which only those who have grown up in this environment could tolerate. As a child, I had always known there was something wrong with our buildings and people. An invisible plague which we attempted to cure ourselves off with more of it. The people who I walked alongside had the same characteristics and traits as I did. Same face, same eyes, same colour of skin. Looking in a mirror one couldn’t tell the difference between any of us even after I had learnt to think. I wonder why that happened to me and not them. As a child, I could see those who like me had conviction and strength be ignored and brought down by our society. The same people who tried fighting for something would be the ones who brought us lower. Finding cures for diseases which did not exist. Ignoring the real problems which I unlike everyone else could see with my own eyes. I took a left into a 5-meter square room, which was the same size of all our rooms regardless of our function. “Andrew Ryan. You were late to the works. Tardiness is the problem in which our society is trying to solve. Please do not make the mistake again.” It was exactly the response I expected from the person in front of me. I replied like we all do “Tom Anderson. I have taken your words into account and I will attempt to solve the solve the problem of Tardiness in our society. I will not make the mistake again.” With the situation resolved I left and continued behind the mass of people. I had in my youth attempted in vain to change the system from within. I had been bogged down and told to keep my head down. It was not out of cruelty or lust for power that others attempted to stop me from succeeding. It was out of the need to keep things in the same direction. The people who were my friends as children would take their daily supplements of joy and stare forward as they marched towards their daily task to complete a function for our society. These people could no longer be called friends. As I followed the line of people towards their tasks I was reminding myself not to think of the plan. I do not know whether discovering that my thoughts were not only known to me, was the greatest or worst thing that happened to me. Guess it doesn’t matter now anyways after all of this. It was always keywords that they searched for. Like when John thought too much of the guardians who were our protectors. But in our world, what could we be protected from? At last, I reach the checkpoint into the hall of founders. Several Guardians walked up to me and blocked my way forward. Perhaps the same ones who took away my friend? I could not tell. The metal and automated responses always were the same. “Your happiness levels are below the recommended. For your best benefit take these natural supplements to become like everyone else again.” This was the part I dreaded, I had promised myself to never eat those again. But this plan was not about me or my promises. The Guardians hand was reaching out and waiting for me to take the pills. I took them from it. “If you ever require any assistance with your health again, please do not hold back and come with any requests. We wish you a pleasant journey to the halls of our Liberating Founders” Walking away I chuckled at the term Liberators. It was always something new which they wanted to save us from. Race, gender, nationality, religion and we all went along with it, to cure ourselves of the sins we were born with. The sins of which every person was guilty of. Once within the giant room I broke away from the queue and made my way through the room trying to avoid the orderly ques. I knew where I had to go and I quickly reached the door with one of the few signs saying restricted. I knew what I was going to do. I was going to find those responsible for this world and I was going to remedy it. Entering the door, I found myself with a set of stairs. I knew it would only be a matter an off time before the Guardians came and I started bolting up the stairs as fast as I could. I had heard stories of who was guilty. Some told me it was aliens who had taken control of our society whilst everyone was too busy staring at screens of joy. Some said a selective group of rich aristocrats took control of the old word and made it into their playground. It didn’t matter to me who or what it was. The stairs were far higher than I thought possible but I kept on running and eventually reaching the top. I paused and listened, but couldn’t yet hear anything following me so I supposed I might have been in luck for the time being. This door was quite unlike everything in our society. It had something which I had never thought to see again. A form of light and image which was not the same tone as everything else in our world. I knew that behind this door there would be the answer. There would be the beings inside who had control of the society. The masked controllers who pulled all the strings. I moved towards the door expecting anything and opened it… Inside I found the truth. It was not an evil fortress of tyranny or a group of supernatural demons. It wasn’t angels or saviours who awaited me in the control room of our overlords. It was only a man. A man not unlike any other in our society. He stares at me before speaking “I know why you have come. You wish to end my society.” I do not respond. I don’t know how to respond. I stand still waiting for something to happen. “Why does man object to slavery with riches? Is it not the true way of life? All of us working together on one goal for our people. No person in our society is ever in pain or wounded in any form." He pauses and moves towards the window overlooking the room I had entered from "I made a utopia. No man or woman is ever judged against or unfairly treated. No superior or inferior races or wars over culture and identity. Is it a lack of liberty, if you have never been given it?” I listen to him speak. I do not wish to do anything. “I do not need your response. I always knew this would happen one day. It doesn’t take much you know? To end this system. I tried delaying it. I installed machines to police thoughts, pills to make people docile, a culture of silence and obedience. Yet all it takes is one man to stand up. If I kill you now I simply delay the end and wait for a hundred men to stand up.” I understood. I left the room without a word.


“As a boy, he would have been found exploring the woods around his village, climbing the oaks and pines. In the upper most branches, where the wind swayed the tree and solid footing was a distant memory, he would look to the great mountain in the distance. Taller than even the highest tree in his forest, he yearned to one day see the world looking down from it. Every chance to slip away from his parents was taken, his hunger for adventure insatiable. Headstrong and brimming with the energy of a child yet to understand the harsh realities of the world, he would explore until long after supper. Gladly he weathered his mother’s yelling, as well as whatever blunt object was near his father when he came back. Never one to learn his lesson, back in the forest he would be the next day, searching for nothing and everything. Of course, boys have to grow up. As he became older, more responsibilities were thrust on him. He had to chop wood, start the fire, tend to the livestock, and make sure his father’s inn was presentable. Though he couldn’t explore as much as he had as a child, his father’s occupation gave him plenty of opportunity to meet all kinds of travelers, and promptly berate them with questions. With every story his need to see the world grew, and again he would look to the mountain and wonder about its secrets. He saw it so often he felt he knew it as one knows an old friend… that is until one day, when he looked to the mountain to see that something had changed. He couldn’t quite place why, or what had changed, but for the first time in his life he looked to that mountain with something other than longing. Now, it was unease that he felt. Something was different, was wrong, and he didn’t know what. Time passed and soon he found himself on the cusp of manhood, working almost all day to help his father. With less and less time for himself, his adventures dwindled, happening only on the rare occasion when little needed to be done. One day, when the urge to go back into the woods became too strong to resist, he fled his responsibilities and went deep into his forest. Years had passed since he’d come this far, but it felt familiar, like he was visiting home after a long trip away. Again he found himself climbing, higher than any sane person dared, and looking. Taking in the world that he was able to see and dreaming of what he couldn’t. All day he stayed there, and felt truly happy. Unfortunately, it would be one of the last times he felt such childlike wonder. All through the night he stayed up there, looking to the stars. Until something caught his eye. A flicker of orange, from the direction of his village. A flicker that grew, and lit up the night. As it spread his horror grew, and he scrambled down the tree. By the time he made it back, it was too late. Something had come through his home, and destroyed everyone and everything he had ever known. Still numb from his loss, he gathered what supplies he could. He walked, stopping and working for food when he had to, and kept walking. Through great mountain ridges and across sprawling plains, traversing a continent more beautiful than he had ever imagined. Eventually he found himself in a city unlike any he had seen before, home to an emperor and grand architecture older than time. Here, he finally discovered what had happened. In taverns he dug up the rumors from sailors and merchants alike, some sort of monster had descended from its great stone dwelling, and was destroying everything in its path. Obsessed, he never stopped asking about the beast, trying to learn as much about it as he could. Eventually, he stumbled upon a scholar who claimed to have the knowledge necessary to defeat this monster through some ancient text, and found a renowned fighter willing to teach him. Day in and day out he trained, obsessed to the point of what most would consider insanity, until he became a great warrior and was prepared to kill this monstrosity that had destroyed his life, and his home. No longer a boy, the man left the city. Back to his village he went, the charred remains a skeleton of his youth. One final time, his forest called to him. Again he climbed the branches, and again he looked to the mountain. In his eyes one would see grim determination, a smoldering anger that had built for years. Finally, he would climb the mountain. And climb he did, higher than any before him. He was a force of sheer will, and he did not rest until he found that creatures’ home. Inside of a massive cavern he met the great beast, a source of unfathomable pain and anguish to those it had killed, and even more so to those it hadn’t. Here, man and monster fought. Here, our hero slays the source of his torment, exacting his revenge. The battle came at a cost, however. Mortally wounded and weary beyond belief, the hero crawled out of the cave and propped himself up against the mountain. The mountain that was now his. Before him lay a view he could never have imagined. He saw the valley of his youth, sprawling forests and sapphire rivers cutting through the trees. He wondered how many of those trees he had climbed, looking to this mountain. There, on the edge of eternity, he finally found the peace that had eluded him for so long. A smile spread across his face, and he closed his eyes.” “That’s it”, the son asked, “He dies?” “Yes.” The father replied. “But the hero always lives” Sighing, the father says, “That’s because the hero’s that die often have trouble telling others their tale” “Then how do you know this story?” The son replied. “I once heard-” “I mean, how could a story about someone who died alone possibly be real?” Glaring at his son, the father replies, “You ask too many damn questions. Now eat your dinner and be quiet.” Later that night, the father stood alone behind the bar of his inn. He polished the gleaming wood, engrossed completely in his thoughts. They swirled around in his head, dark and unyielding. His father before him had given him this inn and he ran it to the best of his ability, which turned out to be very good. The man grabbed a glass and stared into it, sighing. He’d found success, at least in the monetary sense, throughout his life and his kids wouldn’t have to worry about much when they came of age. These things should make him happy, as they would most men. Instead he feels like the empty glass in his hands. As a glass should be filled with drink, so too should he have been filled with adventures. Always the road had called to him, and always he had allowed responsibility to stop his feet. Sometimes, late at night when all the world was asleep and none could hear, he secretly wished a beast had come to his village. He wishes to feel the branches beneath him one more time, a final glance to the mountain, a dream of adventure in his heart. Note: This is pretty much the first short story I've ever written. Decided to post it on here because I'd love to hear some honest feedback from people who aren't friends and family. I have personal things I don't like about the story, but I would love to hear some constructive feedback from you guys. Feel free to be as brutal as you like.


"Hello, my name is Caydee and I am sick." The words roll off of my tongue, echoing around the still room. "Hello Caydee." What a perfect welcoming at life after death. Yes it is an actual title. Can you believe it? But I like to refer to it as coping with deaths anonymous, because that is all we are doing. Finding a legal and appropriate way to emotionally handle the ending of our lives. Confusing huh? I'll start from the beginning. 10 years ago, there was a deadly virus that killed approximately 15,000 Americans and foreigners. A facility known as "The Pradesrix" began a study on what was thought to be a breakthrough in science. A new world order into health. The Scientists were working a serum that was supposed to cure every disease that ever surfaced. The experiments started off small, using test subjects such as rats, mice, small vernon and the works. After months of injecting viruses, The Pradesrix wanted to start the work on humans. Of course the government did not allow such things unless there was proof of success. The corporation decided that it would be best to use anonymous subjects. Also known as the homeless and the ones beyond saving. Results went well, the paperwork and documented results were sent to the government. Once approved, an advertisement was posted in the papers. The paper said, "New jobs! Ages 18+ . Must be healthy and in good shape. $15 a day per test. Seeking help now!" With an advertisement like that, paying as much as fifteen dollars a day, there was no questioning the amount of citizens that signed up for it. Everything was going well, so we thought. October 18, 2006. A day that marked history, forever. No one really knows what happened that day. Some say that a test subject got loose, others say that the scientists damaged the genome with the DNA of an animal. There was no recorded proof, according to the cops. Anyway, I remember that day like it was yesterday. A fire erupted from the first floor of the laboratory, spreading quickly, escalating to several floors of the building. It was all over the news. Anyone could hear the screams of the people inside the building. Some jumped to their deaths and others were burned alive. Blood curdling, agonizing sounds filled the air. It was absolutely terrifying. Not long after, the fire department and reporters showed up, bringing the events to live TV. After 6 long hours, the fire died down. But there was a strange hue in the air. There were no survivors reported. An hour passed. Firefighters and news crews stood idly, taking in the scene when suddenly, a shadow moved in the background. Quick paced footsteps echoed off the charred cement and shattered glass spread all over the floor. "Quick, get a close up,” the crewmember shouted. The news crews ran up to the scene. The crewmember shouts, "I don't see anything. Just wait! Jill come on let's go." Another shadow passed, louder crunching sounds. The cameras turned, focusing on something sitting in a corner. How can this be? There were no survivors. It sat there, hunched in the corner with its back faced to the camera. Shaking. There was black gunk and blood spilling beneath this thing. It had something in its hand. Low growls filled the silence. Was it...eating? The news reporter reached her hand out slowly, touching its back. It was cold, almost frozen. "What the hell?" the reporter said. Suddenly, the thing turned on her. Leaping and pushing her back against the wall. Pacing, it climbed on top of her, staring at her. It had a veiny pale face, eyes dark black, soulless. Arms stretched from its sockets and feet extended. "Sir, sir are you alright? I can get you help. Can you hear me? I'll just go and ca-" The reporter was cut off, as the creature atop her took a deep, bite from her neck. Pulling back, it began to chew on the flesh that was hers. Her face lay agape, unable to scream. Blood began to see from the gash that was her neck. Two more figures appeared from the darkness. Charging. "Oh God, what have we done!" the cameraman shouted in terror. Darkness filled the screen...


Four years we spend hunched over a desk with backlit screens in front of us. Brightening our futures but wasting our youth. For now, mountains will go unclimbed, rivers unconquered and canyons unexplored. When our four years are over our backs will be bent and stiff, our eyes crossed and blurred, our minds void of dreams. What we will gain, I’m still not sure. A better paying job, yes. But that provides us with little. The pay is never enough. Every year we want more than last. We will slit throats, including our own, for more. These jobs allot us two weeks a year to travel the world. A man who starts his career at 25 and ends it at 65 gets only 80 out of his 2080 weeks to travel. 80 weeks to experience seven continents, 195 countries and countless cultures. This is what we waste our youth for. Choose a path of money or passion, because rarely do we get both. At best, some might be able to convince themselves that they love what they do. Deep down, however, the young man with furious aspirations of exploration is vexed. We silence that bitter boy; his dreams are childish and impossible. A waste of blurry eyes and broken backs. Four years of hard work for these things, why drop them atop a mountain’s peak, risk losing them at the bottom of a deep red canyon? Why chance drowning these eyes and this back in a swift and narrow current? We do what we do to provide for the next generation. But provide them with what? The same four years that tortured our minds and livers. Those four years that afforded us with two weeks of travel. Those four years, as we are learning, will cost them much but teach them little. They will sit studying conclusions of generations past, memorizing words of dead men, no time to make their own. Their eyes will wander from blue screen to a framed blue sky, distracted by the idea of freedom just years away. They will think, as we did, that their grand adventure will begin when they leave this place. What they do not realize is that adventure can only last two weeks. You have to play to win but winning has never been in my bones. I’m a loser; a white flag waver for the things that bring me pain. I’m not interested in playing their game anymore. I can’t convince myself I am. I’m leaving, I’m done. Finished. I’m off to make my own game, one that I am the only one stupid enough to play. One where failure is not a possibility. Now the only thing I need to do is convince myself it’s not foolish. It is brave. -C.S.D.


An Ungrateful Disease Flowers sit atop the end table. The vase filled with water has a particularly reddish haze to it that attracts the eye. Yet the senses tingle more than what appears to the gander. Papers rustling, a loud elongated burp, the movement of hastened anxiety pulls the attention of the room. He crashes and turns, pushes, pulls, and tears. What does he seek? No that is not the reason to be heard, why does he seek it? It's the middle of the night and this man is running through the mental state of his mind as if there is marathon training to be had. He pulls paper out of the drawer, tearing more and more pieces with every movement. It doesn't matter though, they are all old, irrelevant to the reality of things. In his reality they symbolize structure, they speak for the ledge that he so dearly grabs for in the same way a falling acrobat looks for the saving hand of their companion before they crash in front of the eyes of their fans. And with the same excitement and anxiety of the acrobat he searches faster and faster. There is no rhyme or reason, only a search for the end. Finally he finds it, a receipt for the television he purchased. He can contact the manufacturer, the shop, the electrician, anyone to help with the warranty he so dearly clutches to. It was a two year warranty, certainly someone will take care of the problem. Day in and out, for weeks he has valued each moment of time in search of this proof so he can finally rectify the situation. No one will help him, not the son he so dearly raised, not the friend that he speaks to on the telephone, even the neighbor that passes by daily with a wave and a nod thought ill of his request. Finally he can take matters into his own hand. As he reaches for the phone, a slight chill caresses his cheek with the burst of wind from the open doorway. He struggles to get up from his bed, papers scattered about and boxes opened affray. With a close of the door he can let the warm air inside cuddle his diminishing figure, in cooperation with the robe and blanket combo that has become his daily wardrobe. He moves towards the door, and back on his seated makeshift office space of his bed the paper falls to the ground with the aftershock of wind. It trickles down, spinning as the leaves do in autumn renditions of nature. With a silent thud it rests where it may stay for months to come, the lettering fondly still legible after all this time. The date on the receipt reads February 16th of the year 1993, a mere 21 years past the warranty date, yet a second cousin to the time he remembers. The moment will be forgotten, the anxiety elongated for years to come, and the television unfortunately never repaired, at least not under warranty. Such is the life of the man, such is the life of many of the misunderstood. (This is my first post here, and i'm not even sure if this would be considered a short story, so be gentle haha. Criticism is greatly appreciated though, I have been writing since a young age and have recently found a new passion for it. The story above is loosely based on experience with my grandfather whom suffers from Alzheimer's. Criticism on punctuation and flow of the language would be great too! Regardless, thanks for the time you spent reading.


(WELCOME HOME) Passengers moved swiftly, tourists, businessmen, families, unknowns, pilots laughing and slyly grinning at women they pass. I sat at my departure gate waiting like the rest of the ancy anxious travelers wanting to board and relax for the long trip back to the states. Airports for some reason excited me, so many possibilities to change your future. Go left and you are off to the Caribbean, go right and you are headed for the mountains deep in the alaskan forrest. traveling was a freedom i enjoyed, and lived for. My simple lifestyle and easy yet reckless plan had payed off for these past months. I had been gone for over nine months traveling off the money i had earned the previous year working sixty six hours weekly, 6 days a week. I had very little luggage and a few bags of gifts for my waiting family who would pick me up at the airport. I pulled up their pictures on my phone that was scratched, beaten and had a cracked screen and a constant flashing "silent mode on, silent mode off, silent mode on" Too many drops, falls, and near fatalities had taken its toll on it. Yet through it all it preserved what i had held dear, the photos, the power to connect me, the voices, the recorded sound of each of them saying i love you. I smiled at each face, and kissed all their foreheads in my mind. As i sat back and waited for the boarding announcement i called the house, no answer, i called her cell, no answer. I was annoyed even though it was selfish of me since they had waited for me to live my life alone and abroad for nine months and calls from me that came only when i had reception which would be weeks at a time Usually static filled and muffled. I sent a text to her cell. "Love are you still planning to pick me up when my flight arrives?" No response.... *flight 32 is now boarding, flight 32 is boarding. Heathrow to New york City* I grabbed my bags and headed for the gate. I turned in my ticket. I rolled my battle travel scarred suitcase through the claustrophobic tunnel to the plane. I inched by inched my way through the people to my seat at the back of the plane. Flying home in luxury was not my style, i took my seat in the back of the plane and prepared for the long flight i hoped to sleep through. As i sat in my seat and laid my head back my phone buzzed, stopped, buzzed, and stopped. I pulled it out of my cargo pocket and read the message. *cant make it sweetie, i'm sorry, kids have a doctors appointment and i wont be able to pick you up and get them back there on time, you know how if we cancel it takes months to get rescheduled. Get a Uber home, we all cant wait to squeeze and kiss the life out of you. Mmwahhhh* I smiled, i could see her face in my mind blowing kisses at me from her bed as she laid in her pjs and her brown curly hair pulled back as her cold toes wiggled back and forth. I had been gone too long. The announcement to turn all electronics off was made and i shut my phone off. The flight passed rather quickly and i got a good 6 hours of sleep. Which was amazing given my seat location and the bathrooms. As the flight landed, and we waited to exit i awoke out of my zombie no sleep mode and got my shoes back on. The plane parked up to the tunnel and we all started to exit. I rolled through the tunnel, past the gate, into the main airport and past the food court. I could smell the breakfast and the coffee, i passed on the idea of stopping and continued on to the first level to get a ride home. I picked the first uber my tired strained eyes saw and headed outside into the freezing cold NYC temperature. We got into his honda and headed off. He was quiet and i didn't mind in the least, i gave him the directions and laid my head back again to rest. This jet travel lag was kicking me. But i wanted to be fully alert and awake to savor every second of my home coming. The noise killed most of it though, i couldn't sleep through the screams, sirens, horns blasting, and construction noise. "sorry its taking longer, an accident made us detour" I smiled with my eyes shut. "Home sweet home" I had not been used to this traffic for nine months. It would take some getting used to. As we pulled up to my building i paid my fare and stepped outside grabbed my bags and headed in. I rode the elevator to the 6th floor and stepped into my old familiar hallway. I walked to my door and unlocked every lock from the handle to the floor. Laughing as i went. My hands were shaking, i was nervous just to step inside my own home. Nobody was there, they were at the doctors and i would be alone in my home for the first time in months. As i pushed it open and walked inside a rush fell over me that i had not felt before. a sense of belonging, a total knowing that this was my home, this was our home. I had created every memory i held most dear in this apartment. This apartment was a part of my life i had been away from for far too long. As i walked into each room i looked around and memories jumped out in front of my eyes to great me. Moments with my children as they fell asleep to my voice as i read them a children's story. Private intimate moments with my wife. her hands on my chest, her legs tucked under mine. Her toes curled up. I walked into the kitchen as i looked at a homemade banner strung across the wall. *WELCOME HOME DADDY! IF YOU LEAVE AGAIN WE WILL KILL YOU!!!!!!!* On the table sat a total mess of a cake that was slathered in red frosting. I sat down and smiled as i pictured the kids making it and my wife just laughing at the disaster piece of their gift to me. I could still see a little red frosting finger print left behind on the counter. I sat there and waited for them to join me shortly and complete the missing part of my heart. I pulled out my phone and realized i had not turned it on since the arrival. I powered it up and waited for the signal sign. As i was about to text my wife i received two new push notifications. I opened the first my wife sent hours ago before my flight landed. I opened the message and downloaded the video. The video played and i watched as my wife first appeared on the screen and blew a kiss at me. She was driving and filming at the same time. "We hello my love, so we decided that waiting through a doctors visit was not worth the the price of missing you for another two hours, the kids and i decided to screw the doctor because We Want to see our daddy and hubby!" At the last moment she held the camera so i could see her and my two daughters in the backseat as the three of them joined in and shouted "WE LOVE Y...." The video ended without the final word. I played it again. And again. And again. I opened the second message from my father in law. Two words. "They're gone" I sat back... Silent. Numb. I could still hear the words... "An accident made us detour" Everything faded to black as my life's camera slowly pulled away from me as i sat dead still staring at the cake and what was my shattered home coming.


The auburn light of the morning star flooded Malhaks room releasing an opalescent serene that slowly stirred the Norseman from his slumbering stillness. The distinct smell of hay and the overpowering stench of animal naturally filled his nostrils and guaranteed his awakening on this early spring morning. Despite his wounds that spoke of a recent battle, he sat up with youthful agility and a body screaming a spry smile for more. Like his grandfather, he knew that time slowed for no man alive, and he was surely not dead. Yet. His mind jumped to the smoky blue eyes staring up at him from the unexpected grave he dug with a violent slash to the now defenseless man's throat. He carefully considered how those fading soul colors could have so easily been his and wondered if Valhalla would have taken him with open arms. His father would have said no, but the insistent clucking and feather flapping of his fowl next door neighbors seemed to declare otherwise, and he found himself falling back into a more practical state complete with an enduring checklist for the indignant day ahead. He clutched his Axe and slung it over his shoulder into it's home in the leather straps that held it in place on his back for five years. Those years ago when his father entrusted him with the Axe of Heralds that had been passed from his forefathers before him was said to echo of a legend that it fell from the gods' seven realms. He did not take this trust lightly, for it did take strength to wield effectively in the heat of battle. It was worth its weight and he waited no longer as he marched from his thatched roof shelter into the welcoming rays of the blue skied celestial personality. Looking up, he exhaled a nonchalant sigh that seemed to greet his world as he began his routine walk from his humble abode to the Forest of Netherham where his next meal, lumber, and possible trading partner would be found. He knew Gwynne would be visiting from the south in the afternoon and she would feed the chickens and pigs while he was on his daily expedition which allowed him to focus on his hunt. He reached the daunting tree line in timely fashion and thought nothing different of today's foray into the secrets that the shadows these trees hid. The lingering scent of the mighty oaks and the fresh dew wandered into his awareness pulling him deeper into the dark of the wood. The farther his steps carried him into the haunting green, the incessant chirping of the birds gradually grew silent and he was left with the calling of his lonesome thoughts and the cracking of a forsaken branch under his stubborn strength. The vulnerable salutation of the sun eventually gave way to the chilling embrace of the unnamed feeling exuding from the breathing shade the poisonous leaves whispered to Malhak's impending frantic blood lust. Voices, moans, and screams were what his ears heard the rooted evils release as his brown eyes began to shift nervously every which way all the while maintaining a steady gait onward knowing that his mind was mingling with the old childhood stories his older kin had shared around the fires of his innocence and naivety. So he walked on and made a habitual grasp for his vengeful fate bringer comforting his back, and found no such weapon. The Norse warrior turned around to be confronted by cold fear that wrenched his sanity from him with an icy scream protruding from the knots in the wood that shifted to faces of hateful venom. Dust, dirt and murky images of his death trailed behind him as he sprinted for a tiny ray of light beneath the shrouded asphyxiation the wooded evil created. Maniacal laughs shot from the surrounding madness that was this nightmare masquerading for a normality he held seemingly minutes earlier. Beads of sweat crawled down his face burning through the pasted dirt covering the petrified paranoia enveloping his cutting features and the panic chiseled through his leather studded breastplate leaving his equally chiseled jaw hanging from his ominous speechlessness. A giant shadow dropped from the evergreen ceiling amidst a shrill shriek that this winged monstrosity buried into the sternum of Malhak's proud defense leaving a hole that spilled crimson life and sinful blood that trickled profusely from the merciless beak of this flighted harbinger onto the floor of this fateful tree trap. He fell to his left knee and soaked his hand in the vermilion sorrow staining the dirt, his inescapable past, and the beady, murderous eyes of this ravenous villain. It seemed to resemble a raven found in the upper valleys of Heed to the north he encountered when he was still an eager sapling, as his father would have said. These thoughts swam through the red, washing his hallowed chest; his chin fell to meet his defeated collarbone as he sank back into the arms of the snickering plants with their teasing arms outstretched to falsely catch his insane surrender to this cruel ambush. The black eyed criminal shot one last vengeful stare before taking flight and escaping into the hands of ruined chaos and blood soaked regret with a resounding caw that shook the dead spirit from Malhak's torn remains to the light of Valhalla. And he rose. Valhalla rising.


My brother was born when I was 13. We had a very large age gap. You're probably wondering, what has this got to do with the title, well I'll tell you in just a little while. He was born with a rare genetic condition known as Albinism, he was born with no melanin in his skin, eyes and hair. That left his skin and hair white as snow and his eyes were blue. He was extremely sensitive to sunlight and his vision was not the best. However he was on track with his advantaged peers, he was a clever baby. I do not wish to go into too much detail about his condition as it can get confusing. I was confused as well, Albinism was not as common in us South Asians. I knew nothing about it before my brother was diagnosed with Albinism. But I would like to stress the rarity of his condition. There are many different types of Albinism, even if two parents have the genes there are lots of different variations of the condition. Then even if the two parents do have the same Albinism gene, which is rare in itself , there is only a 1/4 chance that the child will be born with Albinism, and if not there is a 1/2 chance the child will carry the gene. The gene can travel through a family for centuries. Seeing my white haired brother triggered a memory in my mother. She told my father all about a reoccurring dream she had in her childhood. She had a dream there was a man, white as snow. He wore a hat, but my mother remembers white tufts of hair peeking from under his hat. He even resembled my brother. In my mothers dream the man was her mothers(so my grandmothers) cousin. I don't know what the exact details of the dream were, but I just know these main points. She would dream this same man lots of times during her childhood and the pleasant arrival of my brother made her remember. But my Dad was star struck he said he used to have the exact same reoccurring dream. Even the detail about the man being his mothers cousin. It was really weird and a strange coincidence. I'm still confused about these dreams. My parents accept them as a message from God, about their child. Foreshadowing.


"THAT'S IT! THERE'S NO WAY YOU CAN STOP US NOW!" - said Beans, laughing - our Goddess will now come to your world and once again the cats will reign! I looked around in absolute terror. The last star. A bacon of hope. Now taken down by my little Beanie. The cat I found at the market. Now the bringer of doom and darkness upon mankind. God, charity does suck after all. Had I left him there to die, I'd be home right now, choking on a delicious turkey. But no, I'm in this goddamn mall, once again. After a whole week spent shopping for Christmas gifts, the End of the World will start, and I'm once again in this twice goddamned mall. "Beanie, stop it! I thought you loved me! I love you! But instead of retributing my love, you chose this crazy cult! You betrayed m..." "SHUT UP, YOU!" - impaciently meowed the cultists, in unison. As they said these words, the earth started to shake. Much like when you want to drink juice from a box and you start shaking it furiosly trying to blend everything into a nice mixture. Turns out I was the orange in the box. While the cats laughed in supreme joy. "Finally! The Great Ball Returns!" And from the sky it came... . . . . . It looked like my grandma had restarted doing croche. There was thread everywhere, mixed up like guts, with a huge red ball on the otherside of the hall. Except, you know, unlike guts, the strings were moving on it's own, controlled by the ball of thread, like puppets obeying to a master. The cats gathered around the ball, and started chanting praises: "Ygharhtu, Ygharhtu, Ygharhtu", echoes filling the hall. And the ball responded, in its own terrible language. Meanwhile I, terrified, tried to keep hidden as long as possible. The adrenaline rush I felt back then was so strong I could barely feel fear, only the need to solve this. Looking around, I tried finding anything that could help me. Guitar store, some expensive designer clothing store, cotton candy machine, a Starbucks, and lots of Christmas decoration. That's what I had against the huge wooly thing. I went to the guitar store and broke the glass searching for anything I could use to cut some loose strings. However, as soon as I entered the store, Ygharhtu moved his wooly tentacles in my direction, finding my legs, taking me down and dragging me towards him. Terrified, I grabbed whatever I could to stop his deadly pull. That whatever was the cotton candy machine. Kicking the tentacles against each other, I was able to get my legs free. And, after some effort, I could get up. Ygharhtu, however, wasn't happy to see me free. It started to attack me with its tentacles. Having no other choice, I focused on dodging them. Until an idea hit me. Pressing a button, I turned on the machine. And, when the next thread of that thing approached, I grabbed it and smashed against the spinning candy, and Ygharhtu released an otherworldy roar of pain. The cultists passed out, their magical link taking the pain felt by Ygharhtu to terrifying levels and redirecting it to their minds. Now, knowing the thing could get hurt, I took another of its tentacles and tied it to a cotton candy stick I found on the surface of the machine and put it inside the machine. Ygharhtu once again raged, and I took the opportunity to do this to another of his tentacles. Now he began to slowly pulled. And the machine started to crank, 3450 rotations per minute doing their best to sweeten the moment. Meanwhile, I kept dodging and tying tentacles to each other and sticks and putting them inside the rotating bowl. Now little sparks came out of the machine, that would probably not be able to hold much longer against such power. I needed something to distract Ygharhtu. And then it hit me... What I needed was music. I ran inside the guitar store once again, looking for a guitar, an amplifier and some pedals as fast as I could. Turning on everything the store had, plugging my guitar in and doing the setup took some time, and it was enough for Ygharhtu to find a iron grid to hold onto. But it would be worth it when my plan unfolded. It was time for some vibration. For pulling some strings. Quite literally. While I played, Ygharhtu commanded its remaining strings to hit me. But they failed, as they were thrown to the ground by my music. And Ygharhtu met its demise when, using the wool that held it to the grid, he went kamikaze trying to take me with him to the bowl. However, I was able to get out of their range, and Ygharhtu howled as he got closer and closer to the machine. Whose potency couldn't handle such colossal weight anymore, and so it caught on fire. Fire that burns wool. Epilogue: -No, officer. I don’t want to take them with me. - I sighed, his insistence quickly putting an end to whatever patience I still had in my mind after this night. -Look, kid. If you don’t adopt these cats, they’re heading straight to the animal control truck. And, explain it to me once again, where is this burnt sugar smell coming from? -Just come with me to the Northern Mall, and you’ll see. And keep these cats away from us. As I entered the police car, I noticed Beanie held something on his paw. He waved to me as the car got away from him, and I could see his fur was slowly becoming red. Ygharhtu red. Author's notes: * First post here yay * Please please please give me constructive criticism. There's only one way to improve, and that's getting other people to criticize whatever you're doing * My main language isn't English. If you find any grammar errors that could be easily corrected by an edit, please let me know so I can fix it ASAP * Thanks for the read.


It all started six years ago. Hercules III was just suppose to take high definition pictures and spectral analysis of Baker-Mendez 3A, a near earth asteroid. What was caught by chance on its camera was far more interesting than any asteroid. It was a bluish-green tinted planet in the distance. The science community erupted in euphoric chatter and jokingly named the planet Vulcan and unfortunately, the name stuck. In an emergency meeting, NASA cancelled the asteroid fly-by and used the precious left fuel to guide Hercules III as close as possible to Vulcan. The only reason Vulcan laid undiscovered until present day was its unusual placement in the solar system. It shared the same orbital radius and velocity as the earth, but always hidden from our telescopes by being on the other side of the sun; 180º out of sync with earth. Just as the apollo astronauts would experience a radio blackout going around the moon, so would Hercules III as it went around the backside of the sun to fly-by Vulcan. All radio communications would be impossible for eight months and no data or imagery would be received until the satellite emerged into radio view of the earth. The satellite confirmed uplink of the new fly-by program and all we could do it wait. It was on its own. Eight months passed and the Hercules emerged into radio view of the earth. It sent its mandatory “Hello, I’m back” signal to earth to coordinate the downlink of imagery and data. Understandably, speculation ran rampant and the anticipation was intense. The data streamed in, but it was very pixelated. The control room turned silent watching the giant screen. The room then filled with gasps as the image finally clarified — it looked exactly like earth. Oceans, green continents, ice caps, and more. Data confirmed it was 80% the size of earth, covered with 60% water, and contained an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. The name Vulcan fell out of favor and “New Earth” despite lack of creativity fell into common use among the population. The earth erupted into a mixture of excitement and fear over New Earth. Religions were in turmoil with many outright claiming the imagery must be a hoax. Despite some resistance, congress approved massive funding to continue researching New Earth and a rover being originally built for Mars was immediately reassigned to go to New Earth. The plan was complex: NASA would send a module containing a rover which would be deployed to New Earth, but a continuing satellite would relay data around the back of the sun back to earth. After rushing completion and launching what would was deemed “Odyssey” the waiting game ensued. Months passed and NASA knew any failure in the series of complex maneuvers and sequences could doom the mission. Unofficially. mission success was thought to be around 25%. Present day: A lonely station at NASA received code 82A from Odyssey — touchdown successful. The control burst into motion, receiving mundane, but important data confirming successful landing and deployment. Now granted, this all happened eight months ago, but that didn’t matter, it felt like it was happening now. The stress was high and the mission director was noticeably shaking.


It was late afternoon, a young boy in shabby clothes, of around 12 to 13 years of age, was about to finish his last errands. He was a local delivery boy who worked for an old baker; whose shop resided right across a maternity hospital. The old baker's shop was unusual and famous for its insipid architecture; as old as it looked, it was astoundingly creepy, just like its owner. He was at least 6 feet tall; he had a pale complexion; and as the neighboring shopkeepers would complain, smelled like a corpse. Hassan, the old baker, had a taste for traditional settings; for example, his shoes were very un-modern; his attire very Kashmiri like; and to say the least, his beliefs, very anti-modern. The young would call him a "piece of antique" that no longer needed to be in the modern space but kept in a museum, locked in a coffin, as if he'd come alive from the dead. Museum, like an aesthetic jail for people like him; the crowd creeping inside the museum with little tip-tap steps, and awing at the plight of these people. They were called "The olds" because of their horrifying appearance, and not to mention their wild and angry disposition for the modern tastes, and of course, the fanatic abhorrence for the young. Hassan's delivery boy, Yousuf, was a unique case, however. He was a charming little child, unsuited for work, for his age. Nobody works at that young age. Yousuf was a slum child, and he knew three things: hunger, family, and work. Outside this sphere, the world did not exist, and this old master, would not let him free. He was, in fact, a slave boy, a modern-day slave boy. Yousuf was his leverage, his support; people would laud this kid for his compassion, for his master, but at the same time, were jealous of his existence. They perceived him a threat, for two reasons: the baker was doing fine, financially; his business was blooming. And the kid received many praises from him. It was late afternoon, Yousuf was returning to his master's shop, and in the midst of the snowy road, he had an epiphany that his master had died. He could not bear it, things around him went black all of sudden, eyes rose up over the horizon like the sun; his master's eyes. Stars gave up their radiance and morphed into little chunks of bread. In trepidation, he ran for the bridge, that hanging bridge that connected the heavens, near the hospital and said, "All is over, master" and jumped into the black river. The hospital windows were open and all the pregnant wives sang in harmony: "My child, death is only sweet when the blackness comes. My child, death is only sweet when the old man comes". The olds came and paid their homage to the child and wept; their tears froze in the snowy winter. Yousuf, my only child, was dead.


Her eyes were green. I would say they're like emeralds. Green, shining, beautiful. But an emerald is only worth something if it matters to someone. An emerald sitting quite still, all alone on an island, well, it's not worth a damn thing. It only took me one look into her eyes, one beautiful moment. She understood me, right then. And from then on, we were best friends and lovers. Being with her, I felt like air. Like I was unrestrained, unbound, free. I could move to whatever heights I wanted. She raised me up from dark depths. I felt so strong with her, and for the first time I mattered to someone, truly mattered. Sometimes it stings, something shallow, like I could just almost forget the pain if I tried hard enough. Sometimes it tears me apart, like I'm being burned from the inside out, and I can feel my skin melting and dripping down on my feet, and I have no strength left to scream or even to breathe. Sometimes it's more dull, not like being torn apart, but like being weighed down by an immense and unshakable regret. But it always hurts. Now I know what it's like to be an emerald, alone, on an island.


She wanted to run up to the man on the park bench. She wanted to let him know that Jesus loved him. The day was picturesque October and Brachman Park was brimming with peoples afforded such an occasion, but this man in particular stood out in Shannon’s eyes. This elderly stranger sitting alone and unassuming was the one person in the whole world God has set aside for her to make a difference, she was sure of it. She felt a pang of guilt for cringing at his clothing, he wore layers of rags, each colored a different shade of mud. Would there be enough room for him and his bag on the church bus, she wondered. Sure, they couldn’t possibly take him all the way home to Nebraska, but here in Montana, there had to be something she could do for him. His hair and skin seemed so brittle, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Still, he had a face that seemed alert, intelligent even. Shannon scrunched her own and decided that the man on the park bench could carry an entire conversation if he wanted. Being as old as he was, it was a certainty that he knew a thousand facts. Maybe he could tell her all about war and the depression and the industrial revolution. Then she could certainly be informed enough to see things from his point of view, to really bless his journey. She just hopped that he wasn’t drunk. She looked on as he lifted a brown paper bag up to his lips for more than a moment. She shuddered and stretched out the muscles in her neck. Despite her fear that hesitation would be taken for disbelief in the eyes of the Lord, she could not immediately find the nerve to approach this stranger. He wasn’t even a stranger really when you thought about it. We are all children of God, that makes us a spiritual family, stronger than blood. It says in the bible. All she had to do was walk up to the man, sit down and explain how the love of Jesus Christ could change his life if only he would let it. “Well, Shannon, what are you waiting for? Is this the man you were talking about on the bus ride up here?” Diana gave one sixteenth of a smirk sideways to her clique mates, “You did say that God actually spoke to you?” “Diana, where did you come from?” Shannon had spun to see three other girls from Sand Valley Christian Church Youth Mission Division. “Pastor Jayden told me to tell all the girls that everyone is meeting back at the bus at 6:35 to get Chinese.” “Oh, Okay, thank you.” Shannon smiled. She had absolutely no choice but to be entirely pleasant to these girls, an authoritiv voice in her head demanded it. Since entering 9th grade and subsequently moving up to youth group for high school students, she spent a portion of each Sunday morning and each Wednesday night examining what she could have done that might cause Diana and her friends to be so rude. It was not until recently that she began to think maybe there was nothing she could have done this whole time to be their friends. “So, what does God sound like?” one of the girls asked. Before Shannon could formulate a response, the three girls doubled over each other in laugher. “Come on,” Diana said, “We still have a half hour, let’s go back to the soccer field we saw those boys stretching!” then they were off. Shannon watched as they laughed and disappeared, although they were never really gone. She had thought maybe the same chemicals in your brain that make you like boys also make you less able to be nice. It was then she realized that the man that God had placed in her life for her to convert to Christianity was no longer to be seen. Pulling her cardigan tight to combat the sudden cold, she walked quickly across the park’s brick hub. She looked back and forth between the large twin water fountains, recently retired, and scanned the faces in the thinning afternoon crowd. Using her hand to block the sun, she spotted the concrete path that wrapped around the man-made lake. There she spied the old man hobbling through a gaggle of geese on the far side. His pace didn’t add up to how he had gotten so far in such a short time. She started off around to the far side, meaning to meet him head on from the other direction and land somewhere by the ice cream truck she had spied when the church bus had first driven round the park. She could not move as fast as she would like ever since running started hurting her breasts, still, she hustled on. She ducked three different fisbees before finally reaching the other end of the pedestrian path only to find a tall chain-link gate barring the way. There hung a sign reading |Closed for season Oct. 1st - Mar. 31st| Nervously, she took off and reapplied her broad, white headband, pulling her thick wavy hair away from her face. Off to the right she spied a foot trail leading into the woods, which was a detour to the other side, she was certain. Glancing at her watch, it suddenly felt heavy, like it was pulling her into the ground. She had no choice but to step into the shadows of the overgrown trail, or drown in the mud where she stood. The winding dirt path was as wild as it was narrow and every ten feet or so, Shannon used the tip of her white sneakers to draw a circle in the bed of pine needles. The path turned left, the direction she was hoped it lead, before suddenly banking hard right and opening up at the far ending of a near vacant parking lot. Six minutes left. “Excuse me, sir.” She practiced out loud and skirt the lot, north. “Sir, I was wondering if you would like to talk about Jesus? How would you like to live forever?” She had reached the road just a busload of her Christian friends ground to a halt in a cloud of gravel dust on the side of the road. Shannon’s lungs ached. Pastor Jayden sprang out the double doors. “C’mon kiddo, we gotta go. Dinner is getting cold.” He slapped the side of the bus, twice. No, no, no, no, no! She still time to find the man in rags. Didn’t God create time? “Pastor Jayden I have to talk to you, it’s really important!” she plead. The weight of Diana’s gaze from the window above struck Shannon a blow that literally knocked her backwards. She grabbed her pastor by the hand and drew him a number of feet away from the bus. She quickly and passionately made her case as to why he should postpone dinner, for Christ sakes, and help her find the man in rags, the same man God had showed her in a vision along I-80 three nights ago. “Okayokayokay.” He pulled the girl in for a hug when he saw tears falling onto the front of her baggy, Little Mermaid sweatshirt. “C’mon, let’s go find him. And you can practice your street ministering skills.” He darted back to the bus and spoke inaudibly to the driver, chaperone Gil. Then Shannon Heard the pastor make a muffled declaration to the rest of the bus, followed by an uproar of hungry teenagers. It took firm resolve on her part to resist eye contact with Diana at that moment. Pastor Jayden was back at her side then, ushering her down the road, the way the bus had come. During the walk back to the park entrance, Shannon’s mind slowly sank from the heights of jubilant faith, down toward the muck of dejection. Doubts and hesitation flip flopped around her thoughts like hundreds of fish out of water. Her legs became heavier with every step as a stranger inside herself began hope that they never found the man in rags. She suddenly realized her pastor was talking. He spoke about the importance of evangelism and the sacred duty of Christians to share the gospel. She nodded her head along to his words. “Faith without works is dead.” He said as a fact. Her shadow was stretched out in front of her, egging her on. Its direction was pulling her toward conclusion while its length highlighted the inconvenience she was causing her church mates. “You know, I’m actually very hungry. Maybe we sh-“ The pastor cut her off, “Whoa, kiddo. This is the type of thing that if you don’t see though until the end, it can haunt you for a long time.” He formed his face into a fleshy grin and placed a heavy hand on Shannon’s shoulder. She knew he was right. Finally, the man and the girl reached the entrance to the park, just as she rounded the wall off shrubbery giving way to the hub, her heart sank to her toes. She left step with her pastor and ran toward a group of park goes gathered around an upturned ice cream cart. The people where murmuring among themselves while two police officers were taking the report of an irate, middle aged, South American man. “I saw him from 30 feet away,” he was telling the officers, “I told that old man ‘HEY, old man! Take your drunkenness away from here. You are scarring away my cus’imers!’ Then before I knew it, the old man runs head first into my cart! Just like a football player! Look at all this loss! Who is going to pay for all this loss?” he demanded of the officers. Shannon sat with quivering wet eyes as she watched from a distance as the two officers hauled the man in rags up to his feet and into the cruiser that had been driven right into the park. The large red bump on his forehead had seemingly sucked all the life and light from his eyes, because in the moment, the man wore a different face than the man God had shown her three nights ago. That night, while reading her bible by flashlight in the last row of the bus, the others slept right through her angelic visitation. There before her mind’s eye was the man in rags with the face of white stone. This was not that man anymore. The last of the suns warmth disappeared over the tree line and the Midwest park became the coldest place in the world. It was full dark by the time Shannon and pastor Jayden made it back to the bus. she was thankful no one bothered to ask her any questions as she made her way back to her customary row. One of Diana’s ex boyfriends was sprawling across an entire bench, rapping under his breath, leaving only sitting room beside a not-unfriendly looking boy, to whom she had never spoken and who’s name she didn’t know. “Did you resolve your spiritual emergency?” the boy with the red hair and red hat asked after about 10 minutes. Instead of answering him she simply hunched her back, pulled the collar of her sweatshirt up to her forehead, and gazed at her belly button. He didn’t say anything but she could still feel his strange eyes.