The bastard drunk toppled a stool and cracked-skull on the edge of the faux wood bar. He was bleeding before his knees caught the floor and his free hand slapped the bootfilth and godknows on the checkered tiles before he used it to wipe the wound. He didn’t cry out, just made an *oof* of inconvenience and after a few seconds of consideration, staggered to his feet. He didn’t spill a drop of his beer. He studied his dripping hand for a moment with a comical grimace that said *well this will never do* and he lifted his shirt to soak the blood from his face and hands. The Mexican by the jukebox whistled loudly and yelled some sharp note of Spanish congratulations. I turned back to the TV and sipped my whiskey. The news man was sweating and kept straightening his tie, trying to look dignified and unaffected. Poor bastard didn’t even have a drink. Just a pen he kept shifting between his fingers, rubbing and squeezing it like a stress ball or some fortune-teller’s talisman. Words flashed across the bottom of the screen but I wasn’t reading them. It didn’t matter. *…it is unclear at this time whether the President has arrived or if there will be a press conference or an official address. We do know that the President was en route to an undisclosed military location as of 9:43PM Eastern time…* The bastard drunk slammed his red-stained palm on the bar with a BANG and I think each and every person in that place jumped halfway out of their chairs, myself no exception. The Mexican started to yell something, but all ears fell on the drunk as he raised his glass to the sky and looked around the bar with glassy-eyed self-importance. “This!” His voice half-cracked, half-burped. “*This* is the last *god damn* place on Earth!” Someone yelled for him to shut the fuck up, Danny, you shit. “*This,* man. Here we are and then we aren’t. The last goddamn place.” He tipped his glass a bit as though to cheers us then gulped it down, nodding slightly with satisfaction, acceptance, I don’t know what. Someone muttered *sonofabitch* and we all went back to our business. I looked at the missed calls on my phone, scanning the area codes on unknown numbers, all 972 and 214. Dallas. I didn’t know anyone in Dallas. But there were a whole helluva lot of people in Dallas who knew me. Creditors, banks, hired phone goons. Companies and groups and affiliations, LLCs and organizations. But the phone hadn’t rang in a while. I wasn’t thinking about the money. Every area code on that list was from Dallas. For the last two weeks. She wasn’t going to call. Why would she call? I should have just turned the damn thing off. I killed my whiskey and thought about dying. Not so bad. It would be fast. Probably wouldn’t even notice. He we are and then we aren’t. I wondered if she was safe. Somewhere in one of those underground boxes with the canned beans and water bottles. She probably went to the army camp. Probably went with Jake. Goddamn *Jake.* But he’d keep her safe. That’s the main thing. As long as she’s safe. I thumbed my wedding ring and stopped thinking about dying. The Mexican shoved another dollar in the juke and whistled. I poured another drink. It took the end of the goddamn world to get my hands on a bottle of Special Reserve. Tasted like everything else I’d ever had. The bastard drunk stumbled up next to me, humming. I grabbed a dirty shot glass off the bar, sloshed some in and threw it to Danny the Bastard Drunk Shit. He looked at it the way my neglected, scorned, desperate, cheating wife used to look at close-up card magic. Wonder and skeptical awe. He slammed it and caught my eyes like a concerned doctor about to tell a cancer case he’s gotta stop smoking. He stared for a second, sizing me up. Or maybe just fighting off the nightspins as the Reserve hit the pot and stirred. The blood running down his face was drying brown. “Hey.” Hey, I said. “What...” burp “Just what the fuck are you doin’ here?” It wasn’t a threat. He sounded concerned. The Mexican screamed a battle cry and shot the juke out with his pistol. There was a commotion and I think some older cowboy fellow stabbed him. I don’t really know. The Tejano jangle beat snap crackle popped and was gone. “I mean. Really, man. What the *fuck* are you doing here?” *…we have been told by the government that we are to cease broadcasting immediately. For the sake of integrity we have decided to lock down the station and continue to transmit until… we are no longer able to do so. I will continue to report and stand by the people of this great nation the only way I know how. We will keep you informed and updated as best we can. God bless America. And God keep our love ones safe. Keep us all…* I was thinking about dying, I said. Danny burst out in fits of laughter. “You, man.” He pointed at me, still holding the empty shot glass. “*You!* You’re funny, man.” And he stumbled away. I wondered if she’d make it through this. Really I was wondering if she’d still think about me. How long from now? A year? Ten? Scavenging some blighted shitland that looked more like hell than Cleburne. Would she look for me? Jake wouldn’t let her. Hell, I wouldn’t want her to. Someone was dragging the Mexican out of the bar. I’d never seen someone die before. It felt like nothing. I poured more Reserve in my glass and looked up at the TV. Below the sweating, straining news anchor was an animated countdown clock. It said ten minutes and change. Last call. Part of me wanted to run and head for the army camp. Try to wait this out. Maybe I’d get to see her. Jake would stand between us, but she’d be cordial. Under the circumstances she might even give me a somber hug. Some kind of mutual pity and recognition of the Big Shit that made our problems seem years past and half-forgiven. Let bygones be bygones and let the bombs fall where they may. I looked over my shoulder at the last goddamn place on Earth. Twenty some-odd heathens swilling and swaying, counting down the minutes til they meet their maker, the Universe, the Big Shit. Waiting for their chance to say *Sorry.* I’m sorry for everything. I’m so damn sorry, Janie. The last drop of Special Reserve poured into my glass. The drunk was passed out on the pool table, still holding the empty shot. The old cowboy fellow was praying. Some were crying, some were repenting, some were toasting, laughing, shrugging, dialing, dancing, hugging, screaming and all of us were waiting. The news man straightened his tie and put down the fortune-teller’s talis-pen. There were no more words flashing across the bottom of the screen. There wasn’t going to be any Presidential address. Janie was safe with Jake. I finished my whiskey and savored the burn. The Mexican watched the stars outside, unseeing. The old woman in the corner rose to her feet. The last goddamn place on Earth broke into a harmonious, miserable, broken, joyful, perfect countdown. Ten nine eight seven six She’ll think of me. Bad or good, in passing, in pity, in regret, in love, but Five four three two She’ll think of me. Here we are And then we weren’t. EDIT: Formatting.


You're working at a corner store during the summer to save money for when you have to go back to college in August. It's not a hard job. Ring items up. Put them in a bag. When it's time to go home you turn off the lights and lock up the store. It's not much but it's a job. You're not quite an adult, not quite a boy. Sure, you're legally an adult, but you don't pay bills. You're really only working at this place so you can afford to have fun when you go back to school. You have about an hour left on your shift, and you're spending it watching soap operas you can't understand and eating candy bars you haven't paid for. That's when he walks in the door. This is the guy that made your childhood a living hell. He's not quite an adult, not quite an child, but he's more of an adult than you. He's the same age as you. Same grade. You haven't seen him in years, but you've heard some things. You know he got married out of high school, and was divorced soon after. You know he has a kid that he struggles to support. And just looking at him you know you're far better off than him. Finally. You see this guy in front of you. The reason why you chose to walk three miles to school instead of take the bus. The reason why you faked sick so many days back in middle school, and the reason you ditched so many classes in high school. You see this guy in front of you, and you can't help but be a little happy. You can see the gap of time from when you last saw each other hasn't been kind to him. He's fat now. He looks dirty. His clothes are the same ones that he wore in high school only worn down with time. He still has hair only now it just sits in a tangled heap on top of his head. He has a beard that looks like it's there because he can't afford to shave. And even his voice sounds like it's degraded. If you hadn't known him before now you might have mistaken him for a bum wandering in the store for some alcohol. Which isn't too far off. This man that made you kneel in dog shit in elementary school. This guy who used to take your lunch money. This guy who would make fun of you until you cried is walking up in down the aisles of the store. He makes his way to the alcohol section and starts combing over the different selection of beers. He's taking a while so you let your mind wander for a bit. You think of those women in those soap operas you can't understand. How you wouldn't mind having women like *that* at your school. You think about what it would be like to act on one of those shows. You think about how you used to love acting in school plays when you were younger until this homeless looking guy looking for beer in your store harassed you about it. How he'd call you a faggot or queer. How he caused you to have such bad anxiety when you tried to act that you simply couldn't do it anymore. You think of nervous you felt when he was around that he caused you to stutter. Which of course only led to more insults. This guy who used to beat the shit out of you anytime he could. This guy who told all your friends that they were losers for hanging out with you finally chooses his beer and brings it to your cash register. And of course it's one of those bad beers. Six beers for six dollars. And of course it's beer. Cheap beer. High school beer. And as your ringing him up you think of how much fun you used to have at parties until he started showing up. Until he held you under his arm and poured beer over your head in front of the whole party. You think of how many parties you must have missed because of that incident. And this guy who made you the self-conscious, self-loathing wreck you are today asks for a pack of cigarettes too. Of course he wants cigarettes. And as you ring him up you can smell the quality of his life. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, and body odor. His smell is his life. And as he goes to reach in his wallet you can't help, but notice a couple of his fingers are missing. Partially. The last joint on his index and middle finger. The second joint on his ring. Gone. And of course he can't help but notice you noticing. Construction accident. These words he mutters under his breath before he collects his things and turns to leave. And for a moment you feel bad for him. You pity him. He makes you hate him more, because you can't really hate him. And as he turns to leave he asks you a questions that takes away all the pity you just had for him. *Do you have any jobs available?* This man who made cry most nights out of fear during elementary school. This guy who is the reason your parents wanted to sign you up for therapy. This guy who made you contemplate ending your life in high school is asking you for a fucking job. Your fucking job. And you take a moment to take it in. A thousand different responses flood your brain, but it's difficult to select the right one. So you decide to answer his question with a question. *Do you know who I am?* You ask wanting a response, but not expecting an answer. And the man pauses for a moment before answering. He looks at your face. Into your eyes. He looks at you with a blank expression on his face before answering no.


It was a gunshot. Probably. It probably was a gunshot. Look, I want to be up-front about this, but the truth is that I am a liar; I lie about stuff like this all the time. But seriously though, this time I am telling the truth. I mean, like, fuck Epimenides—he was probably a great guy, but I mean damn… It was a gunshot. Probably. A weighted hammer cocked back with priming pin content on making it to first base with the back-end of a hollow point; a hollow point extending its business card into… Fuck. It was a gunshot. What did you expect? Fluffy bunnies and pancakes? Raindrops on roses and such? It ain’t exactly the sound of music now is it? And I am not lying either. Who’d lie about something like this? A gunshot? Probably was. I mean, it might as well have been. Blood never had an attractive state: doesn’t look good, doesn’t smell great, doesn’t feel particularly grand either—especially if it’s yours. I mean, your own. I mean, curb the second-person bullshit for a moment and go first person in someone else’s shoes. Tastes even worse. I ain’t a liar. Nope. Well, I mean I am. But not this time. It was a gunshot. A knife wound. A hack-saw to the calcium cupcake. Fuck. “The things we do to ourselves.” “The things we do to each-other.” “The things we do to each-other, without even knowing.” “The things we do to each-other, without ever knowing.” I’m not a liar. Typically. I mean, I guess I technically am. But… I’m not lying. It was a gunshot. I mean, it hurt. A lot.


You hear this one a lot: “The definition of insanity is to repeat the same thing over and over again and expect different results.” That isn’t true. No, that’s not insanity. I had a friend once. We’ll call him Jason. Sure, Jason. One thing you need to know about Jason is that he was a chronic nail-biter. He was the type of kid who you rarely saw without his hand up to his mouth, chewing. Just gnawing on the tough protein covering his fingers. I remember when we were very young his mother would paint his nails with clear Thum nailbiting polish that would leave a peppery and bitter taste in his mouth. But Jason didn’t care. He’d grit and bite the polish right off. He just did not care. His poor mother put that polish on his nails every single day, but he outlasted her. She eventually stopped once she realized Jason was starting to actually like the taste. They were perpetually moist, his fingers. Jason near constantly bit his nails. He bit them right down to the epidermis and until his teeth couldn’t get a grip on the nail itself, or until it bled. It wasn’t a nervous thing, it was just a Jason thing. When you first got to know Jason you’d politely ignore it but eventually you’d get annoyed and disgusted. Then you learned to ignore it. Jason wasn’t your average nail-biter, though. This kid never, not even once, spit out a chewed up keratin remnant on the ground. He told me the habit was disgusting enough, and he didn’t need to ramp it up by spitting nail all over the carpet. So he pocketed them. Each one. He’d chew and gnaw and bite and peel and once he had shaved off just enough of the nail to tear it off, he’d put it in his pocket. Aside from this admittedly common habit, Jason was by and large average. We played sports together, soccer league. My mom would babysit him after school sometimes. He liked his sandwiches cut diagonally. One time I went over Jason’s house to spend the night. Your nails grow at an average of 3 millimeters a month. They’re a form of hair, not many people know that. That’s why when you file your nails, that unmistakable smell pierces your nose, crinkling the minuscule hairs deep inside your nasal cavity. The speed in which they grow all depends on the length of the terminal phalange, so your index finger grows the quickest. In the summer, your nails grow faster. It’s true. Every young kid has been in a situation where their friend falls asleep first at a sleepover and they don’t know what to do with themselves. On foreign territory, you’re on your own to either entertain yourself quietly or force yourself to fall asleep. On this night at Jason’s house, that kid was me. Jason was sound asleep on his bed and I was on the floor next to him in a sleeping bag, wide awake. Bored out of my mind and doing anything to keep myself occupied before I got sleepy, I start feeling around the darkness of underneath his bed. It was very dark and I could only make out darker blobs of some number of objects tucked away under the safety of his mattress. To get a better reach, I turn myself on my stomach and turn my head flush against the carpet, unable to see what I was grabbing at now. Jason wasn’t your average nail-biter. I reached my arm further under the bed and wrapped my fingers around what was surely some sort of glass jar. Still on my stomach with my head turned to the side, I slowly moved my hand up the jar’s opening. A mass of something cold and wet my fingers feel. Like tiny, wet wood chips. Like chewed up sunflower seeds. Like chewed up nails. I jerk my hand back, moving my head back in position to see under his bed. Still, the darkness shrouds the jar I was feeling at. I get on my chest again and use my middle finger to delicately roll the jar out from under the bed and into plain sight. As I rolled it closer, the contents of the jar were clear. An entire jelly jar’s worth of chewed up and spit out, *and pocketed*, nail fragments lined the inside of the glass. Half moon crescents of nail stuck to the inside walls of the jar, stained purple from scraped out Smucker’s grape jelly. Without a lid, a mass of chewed nail clippings was near dribbling out the exit of the jar, moist with saliva. Pocket lint was scattered throughout the mess. The smell is a thing difficult to describe but for fans of black licorice I’ll spare you the thought. I look under the bed once more, seeing three, four, maybe even five more dark cylinders. More jars. More jars full of nails. I reach under again and touch glass. This jar wasn’t as full as the last. A new collection. Gagging on the smell and desperate to hide my intrusion I roll both jars back to their original resting place. A wet glob of nails knocked loose by my jostling of the jars just lay on the carpet, moistening the plastic fibers. The lump of finger protein almost seemed to be taking the form of the original contents of the glass jar. I dig the side of my palm into the carpet and grit my teeth, scraping part of Jason’s nail collection back under the bed. The side of my palm now wet from the spit that covered the nail shavings, I wipe it on a dry section of carpet. Making every effort going to sleep, I feel like I’m laying on a bed of nails. No pun intended. You do any one thing enough times, over and over again, it begins to become ritual. More than ritual, even. It starts to become who you are. Doesn’t matter what it is. Washing your hands obsessively. Making sure every straight edge is aligned perfectly. Cracking your knuckles repeatedly. Biting your nails. Storing them in jars. Over and over. Over and over. Never expecting a different result—but enjoying the power of knowing it. That’s insane.


“Order up! Twenty-three! Do we have a number twenty-three?” A woman walked up to the counter in front of me. Her stomach pushed tighter against her gray sweatshirt than her breasts, and her hair was matted against her forehead sticky with sweat. I was looking into eyes that bore the intensity of a hunger not fed for days. She reached out her bloated hands. The double-double with extra crispy fries sat there steaming. *Fuck, I hate this part.* She was about to grab hold of the tray, and I flipped the switch located under the counter. The contents burst into flame. Burger, fries, and vanilla milkshake were incinerated. Little heaps of ashen coal now smoldered in front of her. “*No*!” She turned away dejected, and began her trek back to the end of the line. I turned to my fellow cashier. “Paul. I’m gonna take a lunch break. You want to come?” “Yeah, okay. Let me call for some replacements.” Paul walked over to the landline affixed to the wall next to the register. “Yeah, could we get two down here? Just for twenty minutes or so. Yeah? Thanks.” I walked over to the elevator next to the fridge where the meat is stored. *Ding.* “Hey, you’re the two?” I was looking at the pair of men dressed in civilian attire now coming out of the sliding metal doors. Neither looked much older than me. “Yeah, we’re it. Are you Paul?” The one with the beard and gray flannel shirt had spoken. “No. His co-worker. Michael. So, have you guys done this before?” “Yeah. More than either of us would like to.” His friend stood without talking, staring vacantly into the packed waiting area. *Good. Teaching some newly departed how to cook and scorch food is not how I want to spend my lunch break.* “Well then, I guess you know where the uniforms are. Paul and I’ll be back in a little while.” “Sounds good, man. Take your time, we’ll make sure not to burn the place down.” He said this with a little laugh. I walked away and told Paul our replacements were here. “Good. So, what’ll it be today?” he said. “This lovely *In-N-Out*, serving only the freshest in the underworld’s fast-food cuisine? Or maybe *Burger King*, where you can ‘have it your way,’ so long as your way is charcoaled.” “I don’t care. Let’s just grab something from here and sit outside.” We forked two sizzling patties off the stainless steel grill and slapped them on the buns that lay open on our plates. I followed Paul out of the shop to one of the stark white tables. We sat underneath its red and yellow umbrella, even there was no need under the gray, sunless sky. The foot-worn pavement surrounding the establishment had no discernable boundaries. Countless starving faces that filled the lot stared at us as we took our seats. *What they would give for just one bite.* I clamped my teeth down around the bun and a collective groan issued from the mass. The first time I’d heard it I nearly jumped out of my seat. Now it’s just part of the job. I swallowed my first bite. “Hey, Paul. Do you ever feel like an asshole?” “What?” “Just sitting out here, eating. Some of these people haven’t eaten in weeks. Others, months or even years.” Paul was washing down a handful of salt covered fries with a *Dr. Pepper*. “I don’t know, man. Of all the shit they go through? Us out here eating is just one, very, very small contributor, you know?” “I guess. It’s just the whole situation seems kinda fucked up. Like, when you died, is this what you expected?” “Hell fuckin’—*shit*. I mean, *hell fuckin’ no*.” Paul had caught himself speaking too loudly. Not that whispering makes a difference—we know that He hears everything. I kept my voice down too. “I read *The Divine Comedy* in college, and I thought ‘bull-fuckin’ shit.’ No way any of that ecclesiastical crap could be real.” “True…but this isn’t really anything like what Dante described.” “I didn’t mean in terms of exact content, man. Just the idea in general. The whole ‘circles of hell’ thing? I mean, come on.” I took another mouthful of my burger. “Yeah, well, times change. Maybe it *was* like that for him. Maybe we—we as in, like, humans—are making improvement. Now? Yes, it’s shitty. No, it’s not as bad as it could be.” “As bad as it could be? No, definitely not. I agree. But, God’s sort of a Dick, you know?” I took a look around the third circle. Restaurant, after restaurant, after restaurant. *Burger King, McDonalds, Jack In the Box, Applebees, Denny’s, P.F. Chang’s*—the list goes on. And what surrounds these restaurants? Fat people. Fat people as far as the eye could see, standing in line to get into the establishment of their choosing. Fat people of both genders. Fat people of all races. The only unifying factor among the customers is their obesity. I took a gulp of my vanilla milkshake. “When I read it—and other stuff about Hell—I thought, ‘something must be wrong.’ God is all-powerful and all-knowing and all-loving, and yet He holds this petty of a fucking grudge? He has an entire circle of Hell devoted to gluttony? Seems like a waste of energy if you ask me.” Paul had finished with his fries and was moving on to the burger. Through a full mouth he said, “Maybe he just needed somewhere for us to go. Fill in our hours. How many more do you have left anyway?” “2,733.” We all know our number. “Well see, that’s something. Over halfway done. And at least you can eat, right?” “I guess. But I mean, *this* for not going to church on Sundays? Stuck in fucking Purgatory? Working here?” “Hey, man, I don’t think anyone likes it anymore than you do. But what’re you gonna do about it?” “What can you do? I see these people shuffle in line for hours upon hours. They finally get their turn to taste what got them here in the first place. The meal of their dreams sits there on a platter, the scent dancing around their noses. They reach down and *poof*. Up in smoke. Back to the end of line. If they’re stuck here, then I guess we are too.” I was almost finished with my burger. “And for what? Because they had one, two, maybe two hundred too many fucking Happy Meals, they have to wait in line until their bodies have eaten away the excess fat so that they meet Heaven’s standards? It just seems kind of…sadistic.” Paul was licking the salt and grease from his fingers. “I hear you. But like I said, what’s there to do?” “Nothing, I guess. Nothing.” I had finished eating.


Thirty thousand feet up in the air, why decide that this row was the right one to move him to. Certainly, there’s more legroom, but there’s also the sensation. Looking to the left, ideas begin to form. The little voice says, “Do it. Do it and let yourself go.” But he can’t. Thinking about the plunge. The sensation of falling. Stomach dropping, G-forces rippling his face, tearing at his eyes, his clothes. Attempting to rip him apart before he inevitably strikes the ground at hundreds of miles per hour. And after the impact, darkness. The end. Yet that can’t happen. As the stewardess hands him his peanuts, he returns his attention to page twenty-three of the financial report he owes his boss when he lands. He pours himself a drink. A four and a half hour flight with two-hour delay, three hours to his office because of traffic, twenty minutes of listening to his boss yell at him because he’s such a failure and another hour home. Drinking his scotch, his mind returns to the row. The sensation that almost overwhelmed him. That almost forced him to leap from thirty thousand feet. That almost ended him. Here it was again. Dragging himself to the balcony he looks over the edge. The people seem so small and insignificant from his vantage point, as if they were ants, following their daily routines. He gazes up at the iconic statue, stationed in the harbor, which once welcomed his great-grandparents to the home of the brave. He climbs up onto the railing; still undecided. A flag whips about in the gust of wind. And a woman screams.


Whistling at the dark He stood in the blackness, his lips pursed together in a defiant sneer against the night. A soft sound escaped his lips, a pliant, fleeting tone that slipped through the night like the soft cries of a cornered prey. But it was with that sole musicless tone that he fought the night. It was like a dirge to him, a requim to be repeated over and over lest a chaotic fate take his life, some form of protection. The night carried dangers, of course. The night always carried danger, slow predators, fast prey, the ever present spiral of life and death. The forest in the distance was a trap. A slow death for those found within, pressed by others who would take their life for sustenance, and by the slow grind of the human machine which presses in on the trees like a vice, both metaphorical and not. The roads nearby hummed with motorcycle engines and the low drum of tractor trailers. The night was barely audible. The trees' rustle was sorrowful, as though they were aware of the sparse environment in which they grew. Perhaps they knew that their seeds, their children, would find pavement and poison. Perhaps plants were aware of the damage we did them. Perhaps not. These were not the questions that He pondered as his tones and scales passed into the night. The question he pondered was a simple one. Does the night threaten, or protect? If a man finds his way into the forest at night, can he use the night as another tool, like a hammer to be weilded against the nails of the world? Humans were so good with tools. They used their world and changed their world and were positively okay with changing with their own alterations. Each new hell we press upon the world is one which we will pay for. We are punished by our sins, not for them. The tone changed. The man's face twitched, like he had caught the odor of something wistfully foul in the enveloping black. The whistling was a bit faster now, more of a plaintive groan than a playful twist of wind. The man had made a realization. His mind had pierced the slow gloam of humanity to find a small point of universality. 'We are all trees' he breathed softly through his pursed lips. Then the meteor struck. The large rock flying through the universe had picked his small backwater planet and found his small backwater field where he stood whistling in the night. It was so massive, he had no chance of escape. By the time the news had reported the scientist's findings, the blast radius covered his entire nation. No vehicle could bear him from the damage now. He and his family would be lost, his home burned beyond even molecular recognition, with a force like an atomic bomb striking so close. He would be lost. But life would not be. The meteor was a predator, a cosmic wolf with gnashing teeth and cracked claws. But prey could be clever. Humans were so good with tools. Inside a small black box buried feet under the ground lay a seed. A small seed, a tiny oak rock filled with all of the DNA and potential and history of life on Earth. The box was cracked, and water from the new storm clouds forming over the planet found its way to the cushioning around the seed. It took time. The little life had to crack its way out of its own shell; then the shell of the man, the little black box designed to handle even the force of an atomic bomb. It found its way out. Through the ashey dirt it fled, past the atoms of He and his family and their home and the ashphalt and chaos of humanity. Past humanity it fled, reaching towards light, unsure if the earth above it would bury it. But humans were so good with tools. A sharp metal stab rang out near the plants' new growth. It could feel the earth above it rended, torn from its roots and sent flying into the air. But its roots were strong, buried in humanity. The rending stopped. Above the plant, a small something opened up. It could not tell what it was; had never seen sunlight before. But there was a mass there, a white shining mass of hydrocarbons and polycarbonates. It was a human, come to sample the soil from the strike. 'Hello' said the plant in its own indiscernible language. 'and thank you.' Later, a mighty oak grew in that spot. The small metal box rose to the surface over the years, and was discovered years after the tree was fully grown. On it, it said; “Humanity does not refer to human beings' selfish nature for self preservation. It refers to the quality within us which protects all life, both ours and others.


I wrote this story for a school competition, and I ended up being one of the winners, just wanted to share it with you guys! It's about a German soldier from WWI. Enjoy. Prologue: Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. Chapter 1: 2 days earlier… "The front line?" "Yep." "But we've only been here for a couple days!" "Well, you won't miss it then." I couldn't believe it. The front line. The big one. No more wallowing in the reserves, doing boring training. We were going to the big show. "So, Alan, how long for?" "2 weeks, then they rotate us out" "Only 2 weeks?" "Yep. Pack your things." Alan was on his bed, packing his backpack with all he needed. I was still processing this new knowledge. After a few seconds, I put my pack on my bed and began to pack. Chapter 2: The front line… Our ride to the front was uneventful, except for the constant pounding of artillery, but that eventually faded into background noise. When we got there, we were directed to our trenches under an iron sky of guns, grenades and bullets. Apparently, the enemy were making a push towards us. At one point, they came about 10 metres away from our trench and we could see the whites of their fear-stricken eyes. I killed my first man that day. Got him in the stomach, then finished him off when he sank to his knees. The charge broke a few moments afterwards, with men running as fast as they could back to their trenches. About a quarter of them actually made it back. The rest lay dead or dying in various amounts of pain, strewn around the battlefield like discarded toys. The one I shot had apparently been one of the enemies braver officers, and people were calling me things like "Hero" and "Saviour". Someone told me that the person I shot had been leading the charges for months on end and that we lost lots of men whenever he was at the head of a charge. "Now he's gone", he stated, "We'll have that trench within the week, you mark my words!" Chapter 3: The next day… Alan thought that what I'd done was pretty heroic, too. He patted me on the back like everybody else. I felt like shit. I couldn't see what I had done as a good thing. I'd killed a man. Sure, he had been killing our men too, but he was a hero to the enemy. I'd killed one of their greatest inspirations. If any of those men, in that trench not too far from ours, survived, they would be reduced to emotional wrecks. Not just from losing a great hero, but from the war itself. I'd seen it already, on our side. Veterans walking around, almost trance-like, probably trying to remember a happier time, like before the war. Or their 10th birthday. They had lost touch with reality. That's what any sane soldier fears. Not the cold, dark embrace of death, or the pain, but the sight. The feel. The loss of what you think the world is, stripped away until there is- "Sam?" I snapped out of it. I realised I was drooling from lack of concentration. Oh feth, I thought. Is it already happening? Surely not this fast? "Sam?" Alan repeated. I was aware now. "Yeah, Alan?" "We're moving up-trench" "Really? Why?" "Logistics apparently thought that losses would be much higher, so the trench is overcrowded. We need to move up in case of bombardment, or it gets too hard to fight." That made a lot of sense. "How much did Logistics misestimate by?" I asked. "Well, word from the rabble is that they thought we'd lose the same amount as all the other times, 'cos of that officer you killed. They thought the casualties would be up in the hundreds" I stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. Had that one man been that inspiring? Could one man really make other men fight with such fervour and fury that his death is the tipping point in a battle?" These thoughts were at the forefront of my mind as we packed our meagre belongings up and moved up the trench, to the heavier fighting. Final Chapter: The next day, I had had an epiphany. I was that man, now. I was the hero that all the other men were inspired by. I could make them fight with the fury and strength of a million men, when we were only a few thousand. Word had already spread to the other trenches. I was Slayer der Götter, who was already a figure of legend. It showed how low morale had been, for me to be elevated to such a high status without being an officer or commander. These men would follow me to hell and back. Suddenly, the was a clamour rising from the trench. Men were shouting orders to get ready. We were going to assault the enemy trenches. I looked around. About a dozen men were looking my way, as if I was going to lead them. As soon as the sirens went, I knew I had no choice. I clambered up the trench line with Alan by my side. We were best friends, nothing could stop us. The few trees in our way provided a little cover from the withering, inaccurate fire coming from the other trench. We had 20 meters to go. 18. 15. 11. Then, out of nowhere, Alan dropped. Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. My fury was taken to new heights. I grabbed his bayonet from the end of his rifle. I had two in my hands. One to murder and one to avenge. I sprinted the final 10 meters with a war cry on my lips. The men around me did the same. Then, I was among them. Swinging wildly. It was all a blur of stabbing, ripping, killing, swinging, screaming, blood, death, stamping. I stopped. The men I had killed were strewn about me, in various states of mutilation. I sprinted around the trench corner. And I saw him. Death was 20 years old or so, clad in the combat gear of the enemy, bearing a rifle. I stared Death down the barrel of his gun, and didn't flinch when he claimed me.


Aaron took the stairs two at a time up to his apartment. The leftover rain on his coat slowly dripped onto the carpeted hallways as he walked on, casually and relaxed. He breathed in deeply and smiled. Nothing like the smell of rain. It had to be one of his all-time favorite smells, along with mint leaves and sticky raspberry yogurt. Was sticky a smell? Aaron entertained that thought long enough to admit that it was, well, a stupid thought. He was beginning to think that he was recently having one too many of those. Taking out his keys, he quietly unlocked the door, grasping the smooth metal handle carefully as he did. Trying to sneak in on Bruce was always impossible, but he always tried anyways. He opened his door to find his roommate waiting for him. Aaron smiled, white teeth contrasting with his dark complexion. “You know, one of these times I’m gonna do it.” Bruce, wearing his typical bored expression, simply shook his head and sat back down on the couch to resume his game. Aaron also shook his head, still grinning, as he walked into his room. Dropping his backpack with college books with a muffled thump, he plopped down on his soft bed. He could already feel the energy draining from his body. It had something to do with the bed, he figured. In another minute he would be too tired to get up for anything. “Amanda came over,” Bruce called from the other room. “She was looking for you.” Aaron shot straight up, suddenly full of energy again. Amanda with the great legs. Amanda the woman from 3B. Amanda, the reason he had almost taken up dancing. Amanda with the great legs. The legs were worth mentioning twice. “What did she say?” he asked, trying to sound uninterested. He failed miserably. “If you are so excited, why don’t you ask her yourself?” the blond haired Caucasian answered, his attention never leaving the game. “What makes you think I’m excited?” Bruce looked up at him for a moment. “Maybe the fact that you practically teleported from your bed to the couch when I mentioned her name.” Damn. Aaron leaned back onto the couch and let out a sigh. “Is it that obvious?” “Only to people with eyes.” Aaron rolled his eyes. “So what did she want?” He asked once more, his curiosity beating out his pride. “Something about wanting ‘to see the world’.” “... And?” Bruce looked at his friend once more. “You don’t actually think I was paying attention to her words, do you Aaron?” "You're an ass." "I know." “Did you at least get your eyes off of her body long enough to know where she is right now?” Bruce thought for a moment. “I believe she was heading back to her room. That would be the first place I would check for her.” Aaron was almost out the door by the time his friend finished talking. Taking the hallway down to the elevator, he pushed the arrow a few too many times. It was only after he was inside did he realize how he was acting. “Man, get a hold of yourself,” he mumbled, his palm on his forehead, as he tried to regain some composure. “She just wants to talk, maybe she saw your game last week. Or needs help with the writing assignment.” He paused for a moment. “Yeah, she doesn’t need your help.” When the elevator doors opened, Aaron was once again calm and controlled, with the exception of his extremely wide eyes. The sunglasses could fix that. He knocked on the door, then rested back on his heels, trying to look as comfortable as possible. Two seconds later, it opened. She was wearing volleyball shorts. At this moment, Aaron was very thankful he was wearing the sunglasses. Her long, blond hair ran just to the middle of her back, and was complimented by her beautiful blue eyes. Her whole figure was, well, amazing; not a toothpick, but athletic, curvy. Even her nose was attractive, and her lips looked great, smiling and forming words... Shit, she was saying something. “... said that you were out.” she finished, still smiling at him in that cute way, her eyes twinkling. She had one hand resting on her hip as she leaned against the door frame, looking like a model. Aaron stopped himself before going into another embarrassing lapse of attention. “Yeah, I just got back from class. So what’s up?” he asked. He was getting better at this. “Actually, I was just wondering what Mr. Hassle gave in our class yesterday. I missed it ‘cause of a dentist appointment.” Aaron looked at her for a moment, then leaned onto his heels once more. “Yeah, I’ll bring it over after dinner if you want.” Stay calm, stay calm. “Thanks,” Amanda said, her smile returning even brighter. “I appreciate it.” “Yeah, no problem. Oh, and what was that you mentioned about seeing the world, or something?” Amanda stared at him for a moment, confusion written on her face. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she answered slowly, still smiling. He was gonna kill Bruce. “You know what, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you after supper,” Aaron called as he turned toward the elevator once more. Finally, a study date with Amanda, sort of. This day just got about a million times better. Now all he had to do was find a way to hid Bruce’s body, and the day would be perfect. Roommates.


Anna flipped the laundry basket over, dumping the newly-cleaned clothes onto her bed, before hurrying back outside to retrieve the rest off the clothesline. She had noticed that certain pieces of clothing had gone missing over the past few weeks, and wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again today. Hurridly, she grabbed the remaining garments and stuffed them into the basket, until the line hung empty. Her friends, when told about the missing clothes, had all critisized her on her use of a clothesline in lieu of a modern drying machine. Anna had replied that she didn’t have the money to buy a dryer, and honestly didn’t want one, as the clothesline did the job just fine for free. However, the missing clothes were beginning to make her think about changing her mind. Tossing the laundry on the bed, she busied herself with sorting and folding the various shirts, pants, and undergarments. Sure enough, something new was missing. A pair of jeans that she had just recently bought, and was quite fond of. Exasperation set in as she shoved the clothes into their drawers. Of all the things I have around here to steal, why my clothes? Back outside, Anna carefully approached where the clothesline was. Perhaps, she figured, there might be a few footprings, or other incriminating clues, as to the culprit responsible. Unfortunately, grass grew under and all around the wash area. Her entire property, for that matter, was green. Anna turned to walk back inside, nearly tripping over a sleeping dog. She glared. “Tony, you really could bark every once in a while, you know, if you see anything. Those were my favorite jeans.” The dog lifted his head, blinking slowly, then smiled with his tongue hanging out. Anna rolled her eyes, then made her way back inside the house. Tony could hear her opening and closing drawers and cubboards, on the off-chance she had misplaced her missing garments. He put his head back in his paws, and licked his chops. "Yeah, they were my favorite so far, too.


I know I had come across true love once, and I know it because the feeling still burns in my bones. I met him at the age of 4, his name was Elijah. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would see him fade into colorless dust, brushing away to coat the earth and never be found, leaving his family like a shipwreck in a never-ending tide. Elijah, oh how much I could have done for you, how much I could have done to save you. But in my seven year old shoes, I stood paralyzed as menacing arms gripped mine, with a scolding voice that replayed over and over in my head. One day, we were going to stare deep into each-others eyes, telling ourselves it was where we wanted to be for the rest of our lives. We were going to run in our adult shoes, playing tag, until our legs didn't work anymore. That was our true fate, not this. Nothing would have burnt us to the ground. But now I live with a demon always sitting on my shoulder. He likes to laugh at me for what I've done, reminding me of the horrors over again, just as soon as I try to move on. He binds me with chains of silence, he binds me with a closed mind. He draws the man who burnt my clothes, the man who burnt your life. Elijah, I could have saved you. Elijah... One day, I hope you will forgive me. But do you remember our last day together, Elijah? The one where we walked home from school through fields of gold, spinning the earth beneath our feet? Do you remember the sun and how it melted the clouds beneath it, revealing the freckles on our faces? Our hands intertwined unconsciously, as our tiny hearts beat like racing drums. We ran until our laughter knocked us down, and stayed until the sky was coated with marmalade. If only we could have frozen the moment and never moved on. If only we could have both stayed in our seven year old bodies. If only I had never been given the opportunity to grow up alone. I wish our hands stayed intertwined the whole way through. I wish we closed our eyes, and imagined the sun was melting us into the fields of gold. I wish my little legs didn't learn to escape. I wish it was me instead of you, so that you could have run home to your family, letting them know everything was okay. And in this moment, I wish the fires that covered you could dry my tears.


A light laughter floats upwards. A brunette holds a handful of cut straws. A group of girls shy away before reaching out to claim their own. They all pull one of the neon plastic tubes out of the cluster, and I reluctantly follow suit. My reluctance doesn’t result of fear, but a faintly disinterest in the proceedings. The Walk, like most of Patty’s designs, is the result of a night of light drinking and the need to always have some new idea that everyone else will just think wildly entertaining. “Annalise, you drew the short straw.” “I,” the sentence is started before I glance down to compare the length of my own straw to that of everyone else’s’. “I suppose I did.” A light shrug falls off my shoulders. The whole game seems silly to me, and I’m not worried to have lost the draw. Patty walks to the sofa where her purse sits to pull out a long strip of cloth. “Blindfold time, Annalise.” Rebecca takes the length of blue cotton off her hands and closes the distance between us with a few awkward steps. I turn my back to her and tie my hair in a ponytail. The other girls watch with interest. This is the first time I have actively participated in any of the games that didn’t involve drinking. Everything goes dark as the knot cinches at the back of my head. “Can you see anything?” Patricia asks the question, presumably from her previous position at the other side of the room, and I simply shake my head in response. “Then let’s go. Unless you’re afraid of the dark.” A biting retort reaches my lips and I hold it down, reminding myself that these aren’t the girls from my previous school. As far as I know, it a friendly taunt, and not a subtle way to intimidate me. In an attempt to just be friendly a smile spreads across my lips and I shake my head. “Not afraid of the dark, but maybe this will be different.” Someone, most likely Tracy, judging by the small size of the hand grasping my elbow, guides me towards the door. “Just count to twenty, and then walk.” Tracy’s voice sounds by my ear and I inwardly congratulate myself on my excellent guess. The 6 girls take off in different directions, footsteps giving away their positions at first, but quickly fading away until I’m left with just the numbers sounding in my head. I count slowly, determined to play this silly game with as much seriousness as I can muster. If I am being completely honest, The Walk seems mostly like an initiation into this new group. The fact that we drew straws is my only consolation that this wasn’t some form of twisted setup. Once again I remind myself that these girls are followers of Patty’s whims, and not the gossiping malicious one I left behind when I transferred. A deep breath fills my lungs with the cool fall air, and I can almost feel the full moon shining down. Of course, that’s all in my imagination, but without my vision it’s running wild. I take the first step off the porch and slowly walk forward. A rustle of leaves to my right catches my attention and I quickly turn my head in that direction, tripping a bit as I do so. Obviously my brain has forgotten that I’m blindfolded. The uncertainty of the situation nags at my anxiety, but I take another deep breath to calm myself. “It’s just a game.” An inner mantra begins repeating itself, but is quickly abandoned as I struggle to figure out what’s going on around me without eyes. A scream dashes through the air, ending as quickly as it began .It was convincing, but I know better. “That’s really funny, girls. Scream all you want, I’m not scared.” There’s no response to my announcement, and I smile widely. So that’s how they want to play this. I should have known that a simple walk through the woods wasn’t all Patty had planned for whoever drew the short straw. Another scream, much like the first, cuts through the air. It’s followed by the sound of a person crashing through the forest. The smile remains spread across my face as I keep walking, these girl’s are going above and beyond to scare me. “Patty, oh my god, Patty!” Rebecca’s distressed voice reaches my ears, and for the first time I a m a little bit worried. More screams and the sound of running fill the air until I can’t even hear the leaves under my own feet. “Annalise, take off your blindfold, there’s someone-“ the sentence is torn short by another scream. I know the rules though. The blindfold must stay in place until someone comes to you and pulls it off, signaling that I have successfully completed the walk. I don’t even reach upwards, determined not to fall for their tricks. The screaming eventually quiets down, one girl at a time and I struggle to keep my footing and my breath. At some point I started running. My legs and arms burn with scrapes and cuts from the branches I had encountered. I hadn’t realized how scared I actually was until I stopped running and realized that the only sound was that of a light fall breeze, creeping through the trees. “Patty?” No response. “Patty, this isn’t funny anymore. Can I take off the blindfold?” Still no response. I know that I’ll never hear the end of it for chickening out, but that doesn’t matter anymore. A deep fear gripped me, as irrational as it was, and I need to see what was happening around me, I need to be reminded that this was just a game. My finger pulls at the knot holding the blindfold on and it eventually falls to the ground at my feet. I blink several times, getting used to seeing again as someone approaches me from the left. I turn to see Emily, the quietest of Patty’s followers, covered in blood with a knife in one hand, and Rebecca’s head in the other. A twisted smile. A knife covered in blood. A terrified girl running away through the woods.


Chat Transcript 09/17/2012 G: Hey there! R: Hi, What's up? G: Marry me? R: nope G: :-( R: Are you gonna do that every time we talk? G: of course! R: ha R: you're funny G: ...and cute G: ...and a good cook R: yes G: and quite romantic G: and a good dad G: and sexy... did I forget sexy? G: and I have a nice voice R: Don't forget how modest you are G: Oh! I forgot that one! I'm the most modest man on earth! R: that's right! G: I'm so humble that they tried to crown me king of humility G: ...only... G: I was too humble to accept R: haha! G: See! I make you laugh! R: Quite a lot right now, actually :-) G: Think about it... a life with me would be full of laughter and romance and good food! R: Are you trying to romance me with this? G: Hmm, I don't know... is it working? R: ... R: I'm starting to think you have a quota to fill.. that you must propose to me at least once every single day R: you seem to be doing that G: Well, if you ever say yes, imagine how romantic it would be to tell our children: G: "He proposed to me every day for 2 years, until I finally said yes, on Sept 17th, 2012!" R: lol, you wish! G: *obviously!* G: The kids will say, "why did you keep asking, Daddy?" G: And I'll say, "Because, once you meet an angel, you'd be a fool to not do everything on your power to win her heart' G: Then they'll say, "why did you say yes, mommy?" R: and just what will I say, in this hypothetical future? G: You'll say, "I said yes because he told us about this day, with my perfect children and my handsome, romantic husband. And I knew that was the future I wanted, and now it's come true, more perfect than I could ever imagine." G: And then I'll kiss you deeply G: And our children will say "ewww" G: And it will still be romantic as always G: Then we'll tuck them in together, and go out to our porch with a glass of wine and watch the stars, wrapped in eachother's arms R: aww R: ok, that was seriously cute G: :-) R: We also have to put Nanny back in the dog house R: and make sure the windows are closed. R: Then it'll be a good night G: Lol... of course G: ... G: Tell the truth, you liked that one even better than my sunset-horseback-picnic-proposal scenario from last week.


An Hour The bird on the wall squawked once. It had flung itself into the stagnant air for a moment, pausing only long enough to cry its chord, then vanished into its nest once more. It fell silent. Everything was silent. The hallways were silent, no longer begging for the soft steps for which they had once longed. The door frame was cut and marked to varying degrees, with names and numbers scrawled in caring script. The kitchen was calm, the measured dripping of the faucet's tears had long since dried into apathy. The living room lacked its own eponymous nature, its couches and chairs tired and layered in heavy, gray lethargy. Out front, the pumps were dry and thirsty, pleading for a drink, a drink inevitably denied by the cracked dirt of the stone well. An old wooden bucket, moldy with maturity, lay still and silent, in mimicry of the world it knew. The house was empty. The silence broke all at once, and rain fell swiftly, sure and confident the land it softened would give no resistance. The land had long since been claimed by the rain and had resigned itself to its domain. As the rain descended, the sun melted away, unable to compete with the storm. A once great entity reduced to flaming rubble on the horizon, still emitting light, faintly, however unnecessary light happened to be. It would have been hard to breathe, the trees had long since been uprooted or toppled. They no longer had the will to breathe life into the world, and the world too was too weary to sustain it. And thus the trees fell, and with them, the world held its breath. The cracked dirt drank quickly, and cried, parched for more. The thirst was unquenchable, the more there was, the less it seemed. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the Earth tried to cry, but the tears refused to flow. It feared the rain had forever ended, as it had once breathed in excess, now it craved the winds cool embrace. The sun shone again. This time brighter than before. Had someone cared to look, a wooden clock shaped like a house could be seen on the wall, preparing to sing the hour. The dry ground had since decayed and warm methane breezes would often flow, dragging along streams of blood red dust, a parade for the emptiness. A window gave out, and the dust found the inside of the house becoming desert. And then the wind gave out and the dust settled permanently in it's new home. The last wind had come, and gone, and with it, had blown the last flame in the sky. The bird cried twice in darkness.


Small waves lapped against the next contestant as she bobbed in the water. The game was called “Don’t shit a brick.” The goal was to see who could doggy paddle the longest while holding a brick. Juvenile, sure. Was it fun? You’re damn right it was. Jennifer had cried out with glee when she first entered the water, then her face squished in like a sponge when she was handed the brick. She momentarily grimaced as the red, clay brick scraped against her inner thigh. But she managed to hold onto it surrounded by the vibrantly colored speedboats of her classmates. Her red and blue bikini top was fastened tight around her neck, but the grasping texture of the brick threatened to expose her sun shaded breasts to the boys leaning off the sides of their boats, cheering wildly like she was crossing the finish line with each minor stroke. The coldness of Lake Holshire had sucked my breath away earlier in the afternoon, when the first round of tubing had begun. The coldness could be seen on Jennifer’s face, in the way she gasped for air and kept her eyes focused on one spot in the sky. Maybe if we had brought more than one brick, the contestant would have felt better about dropping it to the mossy bottom below. As it were, Jennifer struggled with the weight and the beers she had drank earlier. She managed to keep herself afloat as someone yelled, “She looks like she’s shitting a brick!” The three speedboats all had their engines killed and their anchor points tethered, leaving a triangular opening in the water. As Jennifer struggled with her clay weight, the boats sloshed and shimmied so that Jennifer was no longer in the center of the triangle, but closer to Davis’ boat, a shining red and black beast that could hit sixty miles an hour without blinking. I yelled to Davis, “Get her out, man. She’s finished.” He didn’t even look at me, but kept staring down at the top of her breasts that glistened just above the surface of the water. In the afternoon sun, the water was a navy blue, like the oppressive folds of storm clouds about to spit rain. Davis was now laying on the edge of his Mastiff, as he called the red and black racer, urging Jennifer to just give up and take her top off. She didn’t need to be weighed down by it. Her faux laugh filled her mouth with Lake water, which she spit out with squinting eyes. “Shut up, Dave,” was all she managed to mouth before slipping under water. Davis turned to Trev, “Did you hear what she said?” He didn’t see her submerge into the triangle of darkness, like a pole searching for the bottom of Lake Holshire. The water rippled outwards where the crown of her head had gone under, breaking symmetry on the side of the Mastiff. One, two, three seconds pass. No sign of her. She’s not coming up. I search the black water to see if I can find her, but cannot. I glance at the others. There’s more than a dozen people and not one of them seems concerned that Jennifer has just taken the plunge to death. She’s a caught bobber and no one wants to reel her in. Alcohol does dumb shit to people. I dive in, momentarily wondering if I should have jumped in feet first rather than swan dive into the water. But I don’t hit her. I open my eyes and am amazed at how bright it is underwater. The boats cast long shadows down a corridor of the lake, but there’s wide expanses receiving bright sunlight now. I can see Jennifer with her eyes closed about ten feet below. She is drifting there like a person caught between a dream and waking. She’s let go of the brick but her hands still hold it near her chest. Something in the water brushes against my eyelids causing them to close momentarily. I fear she’ll be dead when I get her in my arms. Will she drift away when I’m back? I reach her, grab her underneath her arms and start kicking for the surface. I can see the long angular shadows from the boats spread wider and wider, until I’m panting above the dark expanse of the black triangle.


There's a little neglected drag of cobble half a mile up from the banks of Possible's stream, where the eddies gurgle rapturous and wide making glee faces at men that dangle their little heads over the edge of possible's bridge. The little cobble streets that bob and teeter like a broad with a gut full of beer have become otiose, wringing not person, other than the cheese maker of hungry french memories. Horny lads, feet clicking, cluck, cluck, as they sauntered sheepishly in the evening, searching for a lass to loosen their wallets for. The new age saunterers in their barely worn pea-coats, pry grimaces from the cheese maker. The sound of flats and flimsy conversation bouncing off the old street and into the cheese maker's ears. He hated them. The cheese maker had lived alone since his wife had died 8 years ago. I would see him now and then as he stopped in the diner I worked at and had a cup of coffee. Nobody really knew his name. Nobody really cared enough to inquire. His presence seemed to go unnoticed as he strolled through town. Maybe he likes it that way. I called him the cheese maker because that had been his profession. He owned a small farm outside of town that he had purchased after returning home from WWII. His sons ran the farm now and they routinely delivered the cheese and milk we used in the diner. They had booted their father out into a nursing home. I learned all of this because they would engage in small talk with my manager who was an old childhood friend of theirs. I can't tell you exactly why I had become so infatuated with his life story. I would get off work and walk past his nursing home. Sometimes I would see him out and about, smoking a cigar outside a grocery store, or rummaging through a thrift store. I never had the audacity to approach him. It's been a few weeks since I last seen him, sipping on his coffee. I wondered where he had been. What he had been doing since he left the diner. I finished my shift without one sight of him. As I was walking home, I heard a yelling sound coming from the yard of the nursing home. I moved in closer to get a look. It was the cheese maker and another elderly man yelling back and forth at each over the white picket fence built around the nursing home. "You filthy fucking rat!" stammered the cheese maker. "Don't call me a rat, you goddamn wrinkled shit." I hid behind a tree and listened as best I could. "She loved me, Chester. She was married to me. She had my children." said the cheese maker. "You only stole her from me! She was going to marry me, if I hadn't thrown my ring into that goddamn stream!" yelled chester in fury. "I go to her grave every morning. And you, the guy she married won't even bother to visit her!" "FUCK YOU, CHESTER, FUCK YOU, you sniveling little fuck." The cheese maker picked up a rock from the ground and hurled it at chester. The rock missed chester and landed in the street behind him. By this time, the care taker's had come out and were ushering the cheese maker, who was mumbling curses, back to the house. Chester inched his way down the sidewalk past me. He had a cane in his left hand and leaned half his body on it as he walked. He didn't see me and I passed him and went home. I was so fascinated. The two men, in this perpetual state of conflict all over a woman that had passed away years ago. A few weeks had passed since their last quarrel. I couldn't pacify my intrigue. The sullen moments at work and the blandness of the regular social interactions between people left me craving their passion, their hatred. I began cutting by the nursing home more and more often. Checking to see if they would be there yet again, like a rerun of an old show. Then one day he appeared. The cheese maker himself. He waddled into the diner and sat in his regular spot and ordered a black coffee with two sugars. I brought it out to him. He didn't look at me. He stared straight out the window, almost as though he was expecting someone to walk in. He finished his coffee and left. Chester had died that day. I read it in the obituary later that night. He had a bad heart they said. I thought this was ironic. I went to the burial. I stood in the back away from everyone else. I took a cigarette out and puffed on it. I looked over to my left and noticed the cheese maker walk up beside me. "You got another one of those?" he asked motioning towards my pocket. "Yeah, sure." I handed him a cigarette and we both stood there silently.


I had this dream. It must’ve been the 1950’s, or some time earlier. I wasn't sure how I got there, but I knew that I wasn’t in my body, and that I wasn’t driving my car. We had the top down and were speeding down an old country two-lane road. The prettiest girl in the world was sitting in my passenger seat. She was sitting cross-legged, facing me, with the wind blowing her gorgeous golden-brown hair all over the place. She was laughing. I could never forget that perfect smile. The orange light from the setting sun caused a glisten in her eyes. I loved the way that I couldn’t keep my focus whenever I was around her. What was peculiar about this was that I felt as if it happened all in one instant, but at the same time it felt like hours. I guess this is how love is supposed to feel. She screamed with delight. She loved feeling free. I didn’t know where I was driving, but she didn’t care. It doesn’t matter where you are when you’re with the most beautiful girl on Earth. I managed to break the allure of her hazel-green eyes to check the road. Nothing. Just the open road, a warm sunset, and the girl of my dreams sitting next to me. Or so I thought. I don’t know what happened but the car suddenly flipped over. Everything was silent. I can’t clearly recall what happened but I remembered that her once-gorgeous golden-brown hair was soiled with blood and that her hazel-green eyes were filled with tears at one point. But, she never cried. The worst part was that I couldn’t save her. I reached for her but could never touch her. I called for her but she never answered. The last thing I saw was that glisten fade from her eyes. I don’t know if I ended up surviving, but it didn’t matter. All I knew was that I had robbed the world of the prettiest girl that it had ever seen. I could never forgive myself.


I met an old man dying on a train. When you hear something like that, you prepare yourself for the inevitable moral conclusion that will come at the end of the story. You settle in to your comfortable chair, and you begin to wait patiently for the praiseworthy denouement. Well, let’s hear some truth. I met an old man dying on a train. He didn’t say much of anything when I sat down across from him. Maybe he made an odd noise that old people are prone to make, I honestly wasn’t paying much attention. The room was hot and stuffy - and normally I’m alright with a little bit of heat and humidity - but for once - I noticed. I noticed the way his breathing was labored, shallow on the inhale and weezy on the exhale. I noticed the way sweat collected around the sides of his neck, tracing beady lines down his deathly pale, wrinkly, blotched skin. I noticed when he closed his eyes, he dreamed of being young again. How when he closed his eyes, our roles were reversed and he was staring at me in my debilitated condition, silently judging my existence as a matter of my condition. The train came to a screeching halt. I would say I smelled burning rubber - but that’s impossible because trains don’t work like that. I smelled my own mortality, right then, I think. When I walked away, I didn't look behind me, not for *one* second.


I saw her again last night. Her visits have gotten more and more infrequent as time passes. Before this past night it had been 6 days, 13 hours, and 42 minutes since our last encounter. I was drunk. I spend most of my time in an alcohol-induced stupor these days. A fist smashed my door several times, yanking me from my whiskey nirvana. After a brief but brutal fight with gravity and the floor, I managed to navigate my way to the knocking sound. But I was cautious. It could have been another one of my "friends" claiming they were there to help me. I'm too smart for them. All they want to do is strip away my life-preserving elixir, the one thing getting me through every morning and every night. My mud brown orbs peep through the eye-hole and meet a pair of Caribbean blue eyes. Her eyes. It's hard for me to recollect what happened next but I remember flinging open the door with such force it's a mystery the hinges didn't come undone. Then she's in my arms, bringing me warmth greater than Hell but everything in this moment is so perfect that I know we must be in a place even higher than Heaven. Strawberries. That's what her hair smells like. I had almost forgotten. Immediately I curse my memory and fight back tears of frustration. But before I have the chance to cry, she leans in and whispers, "I miss you, darling" and I melt into a sweet, steaming pile of yearning. Our eyes meld into a navy black mess. I hate my own eyes for dirtying the beauty of this union. That old, tangled knot in my chest returns. It slowly expands and I know it's going to explode soon so I go for the only cure I know. My lips seek the warmth of her lips. Instead they meet a finger, stiff and icy. She shakes her head, wearing the same kind of smile a mother does when her three year old son asks for the meaning behind "you'll be a big brother soon". The rest of the night was a blur of love. Hours dripped into hours. At some point the alcohol and strawberries took their toll. She didn't visit my dreams that night and when I awoke to the light of the morning she was gone. The knot in my chest unwound and sunk back into its bottomless void. I poured myself a glass of whiskey and stared out at the blindingly bright sun. Though it stung, it helped bring back a bit of glowing comfort. I finished my drink and grabbed my car keys. For once I actually had a destination in mind. The drive was uneventful. The sun hid behind a shield of clouds and did not return for the rest of the day. On the way there I stopped at a farmer's market and picked up a bouquet of forget-me-nots. They had been her favorite flowers. I placed the forget-me-nots on the cold stone and stared at nothing for three hours in somber silence. Then I drove home, opened a new bottle of Jack Daniels, and drank myself into another coma. As I drifted into death I promised to spend tomorrow the same way. And the day after that. And the day after that. And that was how my life would be spent from now. I don't need anything or anyone other than my alcohol and the occasional visit from her. Maybe if I take one more shot than I did the night before I can see her again. And maybe next time she won't leave once the sun rises. And maybe we'll be together forever, like those two stupidly innocent children promised each other underneath the thousand year old oak tree in that field of gold forever ago. Maybe.


Damn. Now I really didn't see this happening. Of all the things to happen at this bland school and this is the shit that happens. Wow. I guess I'm getting a bit carried, let me start from the beginning. My school, Jefferson Middle School, is rather boring, nothing really exciting happens here except the occasional girl drama that usally goes like, "Brian likes me! Not you, skany hoe!" And ends in a matter of three days. I'm usually quiet, if you were to call me "popular girl," you would be wrong but calling me a "nerd" wouldn't be right either. I was just sort of there. I had my friends and that's all I needed. That's where this story starts. With my friend, Daniel. Daniel was a pretty intresting boy. All acceralted classes, loved video games and comics, and wasn't bad looking at all. Over the first year of middle school, Daniel and I became pretty close. Hanging out after school and learning about eachother. It was pretty nice. Daniel loved life and he wasn't afraid to show it. If he had something to say, oh would he say it, but he was never disrespectful about it. He was always being a gentlemen. People always said shit about him. "Oh! Did you hear about Daniel? I heard he was sucking cock in the bathroom!" "Daniel the fag!" "Daniel should go burn in fucking hell with all the other fags that enjoy buttsex!" Get the trend here? They kept on saying he was gay, over and over. Through messages on Facebook, notes, or even writing on bathroom walls, which is very cliche. There have been times where I have asked if he was gay and I would get the same answer every time. "Do you think I am?" Over and over, he never changed it. Daniel was really proud and he felt as if he shouldn't state if he were gay or not and I really admire that about him. 8th grade started and I assumed that the gay jokes would have gotten old by now, but they didn't. They actual got worse. More people started calling him a "fag, dick-sucker," and spreading rumors that I don't even wanna remember. I noticed a change in Daniel, he wasn't as outgoing, didn't speak his mind, became less quite, less proud. I tried helping him, I really did but it never worked. He seemed to just become more depressed. Those kids never noticed either, they just attacked him more and more, getting more ruthless with each insult. This drama was lasting way more than three days and I wasn't sure what would happen. Shit even got worsed. That's when I heard the intercom come on one day during class. "Students, I am sad to announce that our student, Daniel Rigsbee, has died yesterday." They didn't tell us how he died, but we all knew. He killed himself. The voice of the principal announcing his death was so fucking emotionless, it made it seem as if Daniel was some character in a movie that died. Everyone was silent. I was filled with anger. Those ruthless bastards did this. They didn't know when to stop. The minute the bell rang, I sprinted to his house asking if it was true was they said today. His father simply nodded and beckoned me in. He said that there was a note left in his room directed to me and "bitches." I walked to his room, feeling as if I was going to puke. I found the note, all directed in rainbows, colors, and smiley faces. It made me sick. I opened the note with nervoness and read. "Dear Juno and the son of bitches at school. Let me make this clear. I am not fucking gay. I am as straight as the pole your mom dances on. I should not have to tell people this, it's my life and you shouldn't be butting in. Pun intended. You caused this and I hope you feel great. You did it! You've killed me! I'm not gonna say that this wasn't your guys' fault because fuck that. It totally was. I hope you live with that burden that you killed me for your whole life. Juno, I hope you live a great life and don't cry over me, you didn't cause this. You are amazing and don't let people do what they did to me to you. I would punch their neck. (: Bye, Daniel-Not fucking gay-Rigsbee What the fuck? That wasn't sad at all. This was the Daniel that I knew. He killed himself because he was done of the shit. I don't think he felt sorry or anything. I don't even know. As I turned to leave, I found something else. It was another note reading, "I hope this was exciting enough for you, Juno. I am a coward. I wasn't gonna deal with this anymore. They didn't win, remerber that. I won. They get to deal with my death. -Daniel" Fucking. Daniel.


I don't usually drink alone in bars, but the idea seemed great. Ever since she left, the urge was steadily building. Nothing else I did felt like a proper ending. She lingered. So one night I went out, alone, to a bar, aiming at becoming the idea. I sat and ordered my drink. The experience was nothing like the idea. Quietly wasting away, the first twenty minutes or so were horrendous. Then he sat down- at least I think he did. I don't remember, maybe he was already there. I do remember the first thing he said: "How's your beer?" My beer was excellent- I had become an expert on my beer. Sit alone for twenty minutes (or more?) sipping your beer, and you will be quite primed to describe said beer. So I did. And he listened. It was not a very interesting description. That's how we got to talking. We talked about where we were, the bar itself, and we talked about our beers. We joked about the news, and the weather, then exchanged tiny best-of's we'd gathered from our lives. Best jokes heard, best one-liners, best pranks. Best tricks, best stories. We shared and drank some more, and we never asked the other his name. We didn't talk about what we did, or who we were. We talked about what we thought. There is a difference. The night was long, and in a way it was tiring. It was also a release. Hours later, as the sun started to rise, I thought it prudent to finally get my friend's name. Which is when he suddenly plopped down his final glass, and as if reading my mind, said "No need for names." We'd gotten into sync with one another. Hours of intense conversation will do that. Then he stretched, got up, and put on his hat. He said something to me then, and I don't think I'll forget it. He said, "You know something? I'm not what a lot of people would consider successful, but I love Time. Time and death. I love time, because it means even someone like me is a traveler." He paused to throw on his scarf. Then he continued, "You know, I had a physics teacher once, and he explained how space and time are cut from the same cloth- fact, they are the same cloth. You and me, we sat here, and we drank, and we talked, and the whole time we traveled. Time keeps you moving, even when it seems like you aren't." He put on his jacket. I asked him, "And death?" He stopped, his hands in his sleeves, and said "Death is always the end of the line. So it 's the journey that matters. Without death, we'd think the destination was the point." That was the last thing he said to me. I said "goodbye" to him, and as was my habit, "good luck." too. Then I went home and slept, and maybe dreamed, perhaps about how far I'd come from who I'd been.


It was the third summer since the war ended and the Cloud had broken, ending the tyranny of a winter that had lasted decades. The warmth on Lauriel’s face lifted her spirits. Her garden was finally returning to an approximation of its former glory; rose bushes breathing color into a space that for so long had been a gray wasteland. Her favorite vine was growing, too, not yet more than a few buds at the base of the lattice she’d put up earlier that week. She would teach it to weave as it grew. A baby’s cry broke through her serenity, and Lauriel smiled; *I must teach you to grow too, little one. You will have a whole new world to weave through.* The pristine click of the garden gate filled the air with something Lauriel ascribed to coziness. She couldn’t say the same for the old street lamp out front. The road it had once faintly illuminated was gone, reclaimed by the earth. A testament to the strength of our makers, she thought as she turned and started to climb the porch stairs. Lauriel didn’t notice the rain as it fell at the base of the lamp post; or the puddle the rain formed as it pooled and ran off an unseen edge. Even as she turned back briefly, on the thought of having heard something peculiar, she did not see it. The rain had by then flickered and vanished; much the same as the light from the bulb above.


A Girl I Met Once “It’s like wishing for rain as I stand in the desert, but I’m holding you closer than most.” – Ron Pope, *Drop in the Ocean*      You waltzed right in, without knocking or announcing your entry, without waiting for permission, without a care at all. I was eating a quick dinner and had changed just before you arrived, just in case you ended up being someone I wanted to impress. I had heard so much about you that I was fairly confident we would hit it off, and even though I assumed you were straight, I wanted to be friends with you before I even met you.      Rewind. I had been working at Chili’s that night. Abby told me earlier that she’d finally convinced you to come down with her for the party, so I was looking forward to going and meeting you. When I got off work, I drove straight home, changed into a striped v-neck t-shirt that I bought a few weeks earlier in the little boys’ section at Marshall’s because I look good in it, and threw some breaded chicken into the microwave. I texted Abby to let her know she could come pick me up, since she’d offered and this way I could drink and wouldn’t have to worry about driving. I was a little bit nervous about this, because I knew about the crush Abby had on me and I didn’t want to lead her on – I wasn’t interested in the least – but I felt pretty sure that she knew where I stood. Turns out, I was wrong, but that’ll come into play later on.      So, she arrives. She pulls into my driveway, gives a little knock at the door, and I let her in. She’s typical Abby – a little nervous, a little awkward, but nice and sweet and all the rest of those generic things that everyone says about everyone else. Anyway, as I was collecting my alcohol to bring to the party (green apple Smirnoff) and trying to devour my dinner, Abby let slip that you were waiting in the car. “Tell her to come in!” was obviously my reaction to that. So, she did.      And that’s where this story began. You danced in with your twinkling eyes, you’re indescribable smile, and the giggliest hello. I melted. Right there, that was when you had me. You just came right in, like you owned the place, like we had been friends so long we were practically family… And then we were introduced. Abby scolded you for just coming in without knocking or anything and I can’t remember if I said anything more than that it was totally okay, but I really liked that you did that. I liked the way you commanded the room. I liked how light your command was, too – how it felt more like a plea, or a wish from a fairy or a princess in one of those Disney movies we watched as kids – lovely and pure, as you are. And I especially like that you seemed so comfortable – it made me feel comfortable (which isn’t something I’m used to in the presence of such a pretty girl).      Immediately I knew you were going to cause problems for me, because somehow you were already in my head. I literally took a second to say to myself (silently, of course), “she’s straight, she’s Abby’s cousin, she’s not interested – don’t even try.” “No, bad ~~dog~~ girl.” I was doing well, too! I even caught myself a couple of times and pulled back. I wanted to flirt so badly, but I kept it in.      Soon, I finished eating, grabbed my stuff, and we piled into Abby’s car to go back to her house where the party was already going on. We didn’t say a whole lot to each other in the car, but you were happy and smiley and so pretty and way too cool for me, so naturally I was totally captivated.      When we arrived at the party, we went in and I was introduced to a few of Abby’s friends and some people who I guess were her roommates. One girl who became my beer pong partner (secretly, as we were setting up for pong, I was hoping you’d ask to play so I could ask you to be my partner) introduced herself to me as Diamond Princess. I started calling her DP for short and, as it turns out, those are her real actual initials. That’s not important to the story; I just thought it was funny.      Pong went on forever and we just wanted it to end, so the other team tricked DP into thinking we won just so we could stop playing. The whole time you were playing with the music and talking to Abby and, most importantly, dancing. When I watched you dance, the rest of the party was on pause. Everything stopped – it was just you and the music. You smiled and laughed and your eyes sparkled. Abby was right when she said you were more yourself that night than she’d seen in a long time. Obviously I couldn’t have known that then, because I had never met you before, and I probably can’t even know that now, because that’s the only night I met you, but I believe it because of how alive you seemed. More full of life than anyone else at the party. Hard to believe you tried to off yourself the very next day. Forget social work; you should pursue a career in acting.      We finally finished pong and gave up the table for someone else to play, and I moved to stand closer to the stage so I could watch you dance more. Abby found her way over and joked with me about how, regardless of whether you’re singing the right words or not, you love to sing along to every song. I thought that was just the cutest thing. That song Some Nights by FUN came on the iPod while we were down there – you continued dancing and we all sang along (or, you know, tried to). I had forgotten about that until you brought it up via text a few days later, when you said “Every time Some Nights comes on I think about us hanging out in the basement.” Now it’s a memory I hold onto, and when I hear Some Nights on the radio or on someone’s iPod, it makes me think of you and I feel closer to you for just those four minutes and thirty-seven seconds even though we can’t talk anymore.      Anyway, after that song we kind of all made our way upstairs. I really only went up there because you did, and I wanted to be wherever you were. I hope I wasn’t too obvious. The next thing I remember is when a bunch of us decided to play cards. We didn’t know what to play, and we went back and forth for a while, but we ended up on Egyptian Rat Screw – you know, that game where you each put down a card on your turn and you slap the pile on doubles and sandwiches. I wanted you to play so badly. You were sitting on the couch not far from me, and I was sitting on the floor somewhat facing you, stealing glances as often as I could manage. I didn’t win the game, and I couldn’t convince you to play with us, but it was fun anyway. And I was content just knowing you were there. Until you weren’t.      About halfway through the game, you got up and went outside. I wasn’t sure what you were doing, but Abby got all concerned when you were walking out. She was practically mothering you the whole night. I guess, considering the circumstances, it was totally understandable, but I remember thinking she should probably ease up on you a little bit. I doubt that it would have changed anything, though. Anyway, you said you were going outside to call your roommate. Well, you said “to make a phone call” and Abby had to drag out of you who you were calling.      You didn’t tell me until a few days later, via text, that you were calling your roommate to convince you not to make moves with me, because both of you knew about the crush Abby had on me. After you were outside talking on the phone, you only came back in for about a minute before you went to bed. It was at that point that I was over the party and was ready to go home. If you weren’t there, I didn’t really care to hang out any longer. But I stuck it out for a few more minutes so it wouldn’t be too obvious, and because I didn’t want to hurt Abby’s feelings.      Side note: as I’m writing this outside the coffee shop Holy Grounds (Catholic University loves its bible puns) in the student center at school, I see your cousin walking in the doors. I immediately feel a rush of emotions: nervous, awkward, hesitant, and then also all of the things that you make me feel. What feelings do I have about you? Well, whatever they are, they’re strong. Stronger than they should be, I know. The mix of feelings that make me so drawn to you with the ones that make me so avoidant of Abby at the same time is confusing to say the least.      So you go into Abby’s room to supposedly go to bed (whether or not that’s really what you did, I will never know) and I start thinking of an exit strategy. It wasn’t hard to think of one. “I think I’m about ready for bed, whenever you’re ready to get me out of here.” That’s not an exact quote, but probably extremely close to whatever it is I did say. Abby was ready then, and we got up and I said my goodbyes to everyone I met at the party, save you. I told myself I was going to go knock on the door and give you a hug and say it was nice to finally meet you and then leave. I was sure I was going to do it. As I stood up, I even got butterflies because going in to say bye to you made me so nervous. Actually, it was just interacting with you that made me nervous. As you already know, I didn’t do that. I didn’t work up the courage to go in and say goodnight to you. And I’ve been kicking myself for not going in there ever since.      It’s probably for the best that we weren’t alone together at the end of the night, though. Even for the 30 seconds it would have taken to say goodnight. We were both so attracted to each other and you were my entire focus – I wouldn’t have even thought about it before saying something that crossed a line or even kissing you in my drunken stupor if I started to get a vibe from you. But you were good; I didn’t get a vibe at all. I had no idea you were interested in the least. You hiding away probably had a lot to do with that. That was the only chance I’ve had so far, and probably the only chance I am going to get, to kiss you. Or hug you. Or see your smile one last time.      I would say that I strongly regret not going into that room to see you before I left that night, but honestly it’s a stupid thing to regret. As much as I would have, and I hope you would have, enjoyed it, Abby would’ve found out what happened and you would’ve felt guilty. You told me that if we had kissed then, you probably would’ve tried to kill yourself that night instead of the night after. I don’t think I could have handled that. So I’m glad it didn’t happen. I’m still upset I missed out on a chance to kiss you, though.      That was the last time I saw you. That was the only time I saw you.


"Mr. Billingmyer's Seventy-Fifth Halloween" by Ryan Sheffield The doorbell rang for the first time that evening around half past six, and the excitement that brought Thomas Jacob Billngmyer to his feet was that of a grade school child. This was to be his seventy-fifth Halloween, but with such gleeful enthusiasm in his arthritic bones, one might have easily mistook it for his first. An old man he was, yes, but a child at heart. And how he loved the children. “Trick or treat!” was the chorus they sang, and to Mr. Billingmyer it was more lovely a sound than any Yuletide carol could ever be. The costumes grew more unrecognizable to him as the years passed—the children of late preferring their popular television characters to the more classic Halloween staples to which he was accustomed—but he loved them just the same. For one night every year they could be anything. For that one wonderful night, they were no longer burdened by the strict rules of school marms or the limits of the adult world. Adults preferred the rules and rigid routine, growing up and out of their imaginations and leaving them behind like a snake’s old skin—much to their own detriment, in the opinion of Thomas Billingmyer. On this night, he could be anything and there were no rules. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he proclaimed, and dropped a piece of candy in the baskets, bags and buckets of the smiling children. They thanked him and ran off down the drive, back to their imagination-deprived parents who waited in their boring, everyday clothes to lead the little ghosts and ghouls to the next well-lit house on the street. He watched them go and shut the door, too excited to sit down again. He wished he had had the foresight to purchase a carving pumpkin during the day. But he supposed it was best this way. His searing joints did not share his festive mood. Such spoilsports they were! He missed his youth dearly, and though seventy-five Halloweens were more than most could hope for, he would trade it all to have stayed young. To have never known that awful world of responsibility and toil and boredom that all adults must occupy. To never shed the precious gift of childhood imagination. In the two hours that followed his first evening visitors, the doorbell rang but four times. Each time was a grand time—tiny witches and pint-sized devils joyous and shouting and thankful—but it was so much fewer than the year before. And so the pattern had gone for years. Perhaps the children these days grew up too quickly. The world was changing and adulthood intruded on their little lives too soon. The old man wondered if a year would come when there would be no Trick-or-Treaters at all. He wouldn’t likely live to see that terrible night, and for that he was grateful. He would not be alive to mourn the world’s imagination. He would see to that. It was nearing 9o’clock and Mr. Billingmyer had all but given up when the doorbell rang again. He made his way to the door as quickly as his grumpy, old skeleton would allow. But this time he was not greeted by the shouts of princesses and goblins. The young man that darkened his doorway had long since shed and forsaken childhood, his scary costume nothing more than his own skin and that putrid symbiont, desperation. The young man pulled a knife from his shoulder bag and pushed Thomas Jacob Billingmyer backward into the house. He locked the door behind him and peeked nervously through the blinds on the window. “Keep your mouth shut, old man. I swear to God, I will cut you.” He gestured with the knife and Mr. Billingmyer did as it commanded, backing away slowly toward the living room. “Sit down.” The knife directed him to the wooden chair he had set out for resting between doorbell rings. He did as he was told. The young man dug through his bag and pulled out a roll of duct tape which he used to bind Mr. Billingmyer, most uncomfortably, where he sat. The young man was desperate indeed. He dug through all the drawers—even the kitchen pantry!—looking for valuables he never would have sought had youthful imagination not been so cruelly discarded. Mr. Billingmyer did not truly blame him. Adulthood encroaches as it will. He watched patiently as the young man darted into the bedroom, rummaged around, and returned with handfuls of jewelry. Most were obviously “costume” fakes, but the young man did not strike him as someone with a very discerning eye. He felt bad for him, really. “What time is your wife supposed to be gettin’ home, old man?” he asked as he filled his shoulder bag with the worthless trinkets. “I never married,” replied Mr. Billingmyer. “What, are you some kind of fruit? Why you have all this shit? Nevermind. Cash. Where is it?” The young man held out the knife. It wasn’t very threatening. It seemed to be serving more as punctuation than anything else. “I’m afraid I don’t have any,” said the old man. “You don’t have any? Bullshit. Don’t lie to me, man. I’m not kidding around here!” The punctuation was sharp but weak. “I’m terribly sorry. I really can’t help you, son.” The young man threw his arms in the air and began pacing. “You’re lying,” he said, though it seemed to be directed more at himself. “Shit!” He took a few minutes to quickly—and most ineffectively—ransack the house in search of money that was not there. He gave up easily. Mr. Billingmyer assumed the young man had done so a great many times before. “Shit… shit…” He threw himself into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. It was a sad and pitiful sight. Mr. Billingmyer wished he didn’t have to see it. After a moment, the young man got up in a huff and grabbed a piece of candy from the Trick-or-Treat bowl. “That candy is for the children!” shouted the old man. He was incensed and his lip was trembling. “It’s for the children, not for you!” “Shut the hell up, old man,” he said weakly. He unwrapped the candy and ate the entire bar in one bite. “No money… liar…” he mumbled. And then he fell facedown on the living room floor. His body shook with spasms and blood began to pour from his mouth, nose, ears, and even his tear ducts. The poison worked so much faster than Mr. Billingmyer thought was possible. And such a mess… Though his bones put up quite a fuss, the old man was able to wriggle free of his restraints after only a few minutes of trying. Goodness, the place was a mess! It was getting late and he supposed he should probably be on his way. The night was waning, the little ghouls were returning home with their bounties, and the homeowners would likely be back soon. And to find such a mess! He felt rather apologetic, but there was little he could do but make himself scarce before they arrived. Thomas Jacob Billingmyer’s seventy-fifth Halloween was going to end as a disappointment. He hoped the next would be better, if fate saw fit to let him live to see it. Then the doorbell rang. Mr. Billingmyer rushed to the door and opened it just a crack. “Trick or treat!” sang the children. The old man smiled. Oh, to be young forever. Adulthood was the end of dreams. And no one deserved that. The children extended their baskets, buckets and bags and the old man gave them each a piece of candy. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he said. And looking into their smiling faces, all the disappointment and misfortune vanished from his mind as though it were never there. Yes, he thought. It was a wonderful night.


Basically two men talking about which is more cruel--a death sentence or life imprisonment. So, they made a bet. One of them, the younger, would be "imprisoned" in one of the older, richer man's properties / houses. The deal was for several years (or was it decades?). Through the years the improsoned man read books and bettered himself, while the rich man continued on with his life. When the time was near to release the imprisoned man, the rich man was getting nervous. His wealth wasn't as great as before and (I believe) he would have to pay the imprisoned man a great deal. However, just before his release, the imprisoned man "escaped" and left a note saying he didn't have to be paid. He has gained a lot of wisdom and this was a lot more than what money can bring. Does anyone know the title of this short story? I would like to read it again, if anyone can tell me what it is.