Henry looked up at the old woman and immediately felt rigid, as if he was frozen in ice. "Ok Harry, go hide.” She said endearingly. “I'll come look for you in 5 minutes. No sooner, no later." Not needing another queue, the ice exploded and the boy ran. Clothes like tattered kites and feet bare as the wind, he sprint low. Snaking down the hall and weaving through the old furniture like he was at soccer practice, Henry ran down to the far end of the mansion where the old lady couldn't hear. From the sounds of the house and the speed of the child Henry guessed she located their room before the game even began. And from the last few who tried he knew better than to choose a close room. His feet slapped hard against the carpet as he ran. The rooms at the far end of the mansion were no good... Checking them door by door, most of them smelled foul so he avoided those knowing they hadn't worked, some rooms were too empty, decaying floor boards and flicking lights whispered their hollowness. He needed a room full of stuff, one nobody had tried yet. Five minutes was not a lot of time, however. Mentally keeping track, Henry's pace rapidly became more and more reckless. Fingers of fear slithering their way into his mind, he stopped shutting doors at 2 minutes, stopped turning on or off lights at 3 minutes and stopped checking windows for a way out at 1. There was only time to race from room to room now. Desperately he tried to find a good spot. He found none. A whimper pushed its way out his throat as he spun round in the decrepit hall, his mind racing with nightmares. *Where!?* He mentally screamed. He looked to the barred windows and feared he would never get out. He fingered the badge on his shirt and feared he would never see his friends again. He stared down at the band-aid on his palm and longed for his family, his mother. He just wanted to help her find Tucker! He didn't mean to let him outside! Behind him a screech ripped down the hall. “No..” he feebly whispered. But the game had begun, the hag is coming. Heart thundering, Henry gazed upon the last and final door of the hall. Small and closet-like, he opened it hopeless, tears already welling up in his eyes, he was never going to get out of here, he was never going to see his family again he sobbed. But the game was not over yet! The room was stocked. An incline bed sat at the center of a weird, tiled, space surrounded by work benches and cabinets. Quickly and quietly the small boy dug into one of the benches not bothering to look at all the macabre instruments hanging round the room. A huge flood of relief pouring over him as he tightened into a ball and began praying for time to pass. A white cloth draped over the workbench helped to conceal his form as as he struggled to control his breathing, his shaking stilling down to a shiver. Down the hall his worst fears came to fruition, however, and like the charge of a bull he heard the destructive footfall of the crazy woman careening through the building. Henry's heart lurched into his throat. *PLEASE!...* he wanted to cry but stifled his breath. She had run right to him! The door burst open and slammed against the inside wall with a vicious crack. ******* "Harold…Henry…Harry” She sang, “Whatever your name is, come out, come out, where ever you are..." *This isn't fair!* Henry internally pleaded. It made no sense that she'd simply guessed where he was. It made no sense she didn't even check the other rooms. How was anyone supposed to win?! The hag was already moving bench to bench while he thought, assessing each tool with an unnatural glee, her voice became more and more twisted as she spoke. "Did you know bone saws make terrible cleavers?" She stated picking up another tool. "Or that scalpels are perfect for throwing? Have you ever wanted to know how someone else would look with your face or shake your own detached hand? Harold?!" No… If she knows where I am then the game is a lie. She wont let us go if we win because we can't win. She'd planned to kill every one of us from the start. Slowly Henry's fingers curled into a fist as the fullness of his naivety bared down on him. The boy shook his head and fought back tears. Abruptly, across the room the old woman flipped a table over, crashing an array of instruments to the ground. A cackle following suit. "Harold I like you. You're smarter than the rest. As soon as I saw you I knew I'd get a good game out of you… So I saved you for last." Violently she kicked another bench to the ground, a small chainsaw peeling as it scratched marks across the floor, the sound making Henry wince. "But the real game has yet to begin, soon we will be playing a different game. A better game. A game of screaming and laughter..." To Henrys dismay, the old woman changed direction and began walking as slow as she could toward him and like the flip of a switch, Henry's mind jarred as she turned, the dark reality coming down on him all at once. She reached his table with a casual clanging, each tool she passed receiving an endearing nudge of her personal hatchet. The sound like the perversion of a xylophone. "Very soon!" She rasp, leaning down and ripping back the cloth! There was no time to think, only to do. Henry had had enough of everything! Before he could realize it Henry had reached up atop the table, grabbed something, and lunged at the deranged hag with it. He couldn't even see if he'd struck her! In the last moments he'd closed his eyes shaking with fear, a cry pouring over his lips - time seeming to slow. When he opened his eyes the hag was still there, though. A small smile curling on her wrinkled lips. *Not fair!* Henry's entire body tightened like an ice sculpture, the idiot boy frozen by his own fear. ...But she hadn't moved. For what felt like an eternity Henry stared into the old woman's bulging yellow eyes and dry leathery skin. Until with a snort, a confused look crossed her face and she stumbled back. A metal handle revealing itself under her chin. Henry gasp. Blood poured then and like a fountain the boy cried while red began to gush. He needed to get out!Stumbling feebly, he made for the door, his small feet feeling like water beneath his knees. The old woman grabbed his shins as he past but her strength was gone. He slipped past her like seaweed. Basically collapsing he trudged as away from her before falling to a shivering heap... ******* He couldn't remember much of what he did next. Feverishly, hours later, he found a way out by one of the second floor windows, one already damaged by one of the other children trying to escape, and was able to make it to a road where he was picked up by a passerby. Henry lays in a hospital bed now, hardly believing he's escaped and still flinching at every footstep made toward his room from down the hall. Vacantly, on the TV, the young boy watches as a news lady begins a breaking story outside a 'dilapidated dormitory' but he turns it off when he recognizes some of the old furniture – a small tremble finding his fingertips. Down the hall he tentatively listens to the approach of a frantic woman and an ice begins to spread through his chest until she opens the door. When he sees his mother, the ice leaves crying in its wake. ******* All criticism/ feedback very appreciated. Will gladly read and give one of your works criticism/feedback if you wish in return. Thanks for reading.


It was a rainy day in the middle of November. I had nothing to do, nowhere to be, so I went down to the local bar with a few friends. We all sat down and started drinking, when I spotted a girl across the bar. Her back was turned to me, but she had a certain draw, though I couldn’t figure out what it was. My friends noticed my interest and encouraged me to talk to her, so I walked over. I sat down next to her and asked if I could buy her next drink, and as she turned to me, I realized what the draw was. The girl, even from across the bar, reminded me of my first girlfriend, the one I could never forget about, the one I still missed. And as she turned to me, I was stunned. To understand the truly shocking nature of this occurrence, you should have a little background. I dated this girl for a year in high school. During our junior year, she found out she would be moving across the country, and I promised her that no matter where she went, I would always find ways to see her. When we broke up later that year, I knew I would break that promise. I tried to win her back, but to no avail, and when she moved across the country, we drifted apart. I went to college in a small town a few hours away from where we grew up, and she went to college across the country. I assumed she was lost to me forever. Yet, her she sat, in some bar near my college, and I had just offered to buy her a drink. I’m not sure how long I sat there, silent, before she spoke my name. “Hi,” I managed to whisper. I didn’t know how to act, or what to say. I wanted to believe that something had brought us back together, but I didn’t believe in fate. I didn’t know whether this was my opportunity for a second chance, or just an awkward situation that I needed to get away from. Before I had a chance to figure it out, she chose for me. “I’d love that drink. It’s been a long time.” She smiled, and I felt mildly relieved. She didn’t want me to leave, so I had one less thing to worry about. However, I still wasn’t sure whether to talk to her as an old friend or as something more. I decided to let the night decide for me, and sat down. Hours went by, and as we spoke, my feelings grew stronger. She was just as I incredible as I had remembered her. We discussed the direction our lives had gone in since high school, and I discovered that she had just accepted a job nearby. As the night went on, the bar continued to empty, and after we assured them that we were fine, both her friends and my friends left. As the bar finally shut down, I offered to walk her home. As we reached her porch, I asked if I could take her to dinner sometime. “I’d love that,” she said, and she added her number to my phone. As I walked away from her house, I wondered if fate existed.


forgive me father, for i have sinned. yes, and what is it that brings you here, my son? father, i’m sorry. what i’m about to tell you–i don’t know what came over me. i… easy, now. i wasn’t thinking. maybe it was the jet-lag. i don’t know what– whatever it is, there is no way it won’t go unforgiven if you confess it and ask for forgiveness. i am here to listen. go on and confess, young man. it’s alright. yes, well, you see i was out of town last week. i went to london for work. it was a long flight and i had to go straight to a meeting from the airport. the meeting was a couple hours, and i guess after being crammed into a plane and then a meeting right after i felt like walking and getting some air. so i started towards the hotel and then i saw this woman on the street corner. ah. it’s not what you think, father. although now i wish it was. she was poor and homeless. she was old, too, and dirty. i noticed her. i accidentally let my eyes look at her, i don’t know why. i guess that’s the first thing i needed to confess. so you looked? yes but i never look at them otherwise, i swear it. or i didn’t. i don’t know what it was that got me that day, but i looked even though i know it was wrong. still, i saw her and i looked at her face. and she looked just like… yes? just like what? my mother. her face was much darker, either from the sun or the dirt or both i don’t know, but she did. she looked just like mom. when we saw each other i really thought she was her. i even felt that she recognized me. of course it wasn’t your mother, was it? no, she wasn’t her at all. my mother was here, clean and at home. and she would have been so disgusted by this woman had she seen her. yes, as we all are. yes, i know that’s how i should have felt. like i said, i never normally even look. the few times i have looked i’ve felt the disgust and have confessed for even breaking the commandment. that’s a good boy. but, honestly father i haven’t even told you the worst of it. dear. well go on and tell me. well, when i saw her there i sort of stopped. like i said we looked at each other with a feeling of recognition. i looked at her and i must have smiled because she smiled at me too. i don’t know what it was that happened, father, but all of a sudden we were both just there. by that i mean it was like we were bonded. without saying anything at all. we just saw each other and it was like we had the same love–maybe even a deeper love–that i have with my mother. of course i know this sounds crazy. but it felt that way. but how could that be? even if it did feel that way? i know it couldn’t. i know i’m better than her. i know she doesn’t even deserve a glance from me, let alone what i gave her which was my acceptance. i can’t deny it. even if i tried. i know in my heart i accepted her. i wish i knew what i was thinking. yes, well, did anything else happen after you two shared this…this ‘moment’? i gave her my watch. you did what? i gave her my watch, father. oh my. this is very bad. i know, i know. please, just tell me what i can do. this is very bad, my boy. you know that giving out anything to the poor is a cardinal sin. i know, father. you know that anything given to the poor is akin to murdering their own will to work. yes. and murdering a person’s will, that’s… father, please! i’ve never done anything as awful as this. that’s leading a disciple away from the benevolence of the Economy. and that’s furthering the sin which led them to squalor: entitlement. yes. do you think this woman, your second mother, will ever find her salvation in the free market now? no. how much longer will she suffer the torments of poverty because you thought she needed a hand-out? i don’t know. i gave her the watch because i thought she could use the money to– to do what? buy a meal? if you tell me you bought her a meal too, Economy help me, i’ll– i didn’t. just the watch. my boy, do you at least now see the momentum of our sins? one minute you’re glancing at a vagrant, and the next you’re committing economic heresy of the highest order! i know father, but please! i am a faithful worker. i love the Economy. i hate the poor! i’ve confessed the awful deeds i am guilty of, now please let me be forgiven! i cannot forgive you of this; only the Invisible Hand of the Market can rectify this assault on our beloved Economy. but surely as an Economist you can do something! you have confessed, and i have heard your confession. let us pray now and ask for your forgiveness: oh holy Economy who are on Wall Street, hallowed be thy name. thy kingdom come, thy will is done with Money as it is in Free Markets. give us this day our way low taxes, and starve all the lazy, as we pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. and lead us into temptation, as we sell guns to the evil. for thine is the Money, and Triple A credit rating, with merciless debt forever, Amen.


Dear Julia, High school fucking blows. That might be a bit of an understatement. It doesn't really blow, per say, only tear apart everything you've ever thought to be true about life. There's no more skipping homework assignments, slacking off on upcoming tests, or missing class for being sick. There's no such thing as free time or relaxation anymore. There's no place in this eight-month period of time for video games, friends, or parties. If you're like me and have to support yourself because your family can't afford to, you also have to work a job, which means every waking moment of your life is dedicated to hard work, homework, and the elusive 4.0 GPA. There's no time for flirting, romance, or a girlfriend. All of those things merely amount to wasted time, and every fleeting minute is time you could spend brushing up on a recent topic, or even looking ahead to what you could be learning in the future! You could set me up on a date, pay for everything, even taxi me around so I could save my precious money for gas, and I'd still wonder how this helps me find the derivative of the function f(x). Mallory Fishmann was the answer I was looking for. She fucked up all of the above. Ever hate a girl so much you wanted to rape her? No? Good. No sane person ever goes out and rapes someone. Rape is bad. Everyone knows that. It's one of those things that frequents the nightly news, commonly enough to where we dismiss it because it's just "one of those bad things that happens". That sure didn't stop Mallory from getting my brother thrown in jail, though. Ryan was a great guy. Starting running-back on the football team, a solid 3.8 GPA off the field, and (as the ladies put it) 'devilishly handsome'. He made the ladies swoon and sigh, gawk and giggle, but he never really paid much attention to it. He had more important things to do in life, like volunteer at the local crisis ministries to help deliver groceries to the less fortunate. He was the perfect example of the perfect human being God graced this Earth with. To Portland, Oregon, he was a hero. To 1309 Knoxville Court, he was my twin brother. In the typical cliche fashion, I'm obviously the exact opposite of Ryan. I sit at my computer playing video games and making YouTube videos. I'm pasty, scrawny, and my choice of clothing was about as far "off-fleek" as humanly possible. Both of my past relationships have been total busts. One was suicidal, and the other was bipolar, bisexual... and suicidal. I'd practically given up on girls. I mean, who needs them? Who needs the warm, tender embrace of a woman, with her soft hands slowly gliding across the surface of my skin, her eyes drawing me closer and closer to her face, her lips so enticing and... I haven't given much thought to girls recently. Ryan and I were only similar in the fact that we really didn't pay attention to love for a while. It was only during my Junior year that I started to branch out and try hanging out with some of the girls from the anime club. For Ryan, he basically had his pick of the crop when it came to a girlfriend. He could point to any girl, say her name, and wet floor signs would appear out of nowhere. I've literally seen fights between girls arguing over who he winked at, but that's at the far end of the psycho-cheerleader spectrum. He could have chosen any girl in the school, but he chose the one girl that wouldn't even give him a second glance: Mallory. You should've seen the way he acted around her. Ryan went from a man of confidence to, well, ME in an instant. He didn't know how to talk, how to act, and this only made Mallory laugh at him. But, in his oh so persistent mind, this never stopped him. He spent weeks talking to her and working up the courage to ask her out, and she said no. Ryan was shattered, but not completely broken. They stayed friends long enough for the second attempt at dating, to which Ryan got a positive response. Was it the hardest thing he's ever done? Not at all. But for him, dating Mallory was like getting a full ride to Stanford: the ultimate jackpot. They were honestly really good together. They seemed to genuinely enjoy each other's company, and I was happy for him. I was dating some girl in band during that point in our lives (her name was Sarah. Ended up being a total whore and dating my best friend later. I'm not salty at all), and generally life was good. Until Mallory fucked it up. Or, rather, claimed that Ryan fucked HER up. One day the police showed up at our door. Our dad answered, and immediately Ryan was ushered out the door into the luminescent cop car parked outside. Dad demanded to know what happened, and learned the hard 'truth': Ryan had raped Mallory, and there was enough evidence to take her claim to court. As the cop and my brother rolled out of the driveway, my dad pulled out his phone to call my mom and find out what to do. She didn't answer. She never answered anymore. I blame it on the twenty-something year old bellhop from that one hotel in the Bahamas they stayed at on their anniversary. Jerk. Ryan lost the case. He was tried as an adult and sentenced for five years, three on good behavior. Ryan went to prison, Mallory went home, and I became the twin brother of "the guy who raped that chick". There's a reason I told you about how they met. I don't think he did it. I think Mallory is a liar, and that I unfortunately got the stupid backlash from Ryan's arraignment. So you know how I said that my first statement was an understatement? Let me amend that: High school "unwillingly and forcefully" fucking blows.


For some reason or another, my master has fallen. Not in battle, but out of favor. Perhaps he was presented with a dilemma in which what he decided what was right didn't align with his patron. Perhaps he lost faith after feeling that nothing he did was truly enough. Perhaps he wasn't all that faithful to begin with. I stood by him for a time. After all, he was my master and I looked up to him. But watching the light in him die out was heartbreaking. He stopped praying. The smell of liquor clung to his tunic. He rarely smiled. He rarely spoke. When he did, his words were harsh and bitter. The day he pawned his sword was the day I chose to leave. Using what little I had in my pouch, I bought his sword for myself and set off without a word. It pained me, but he was no longer the man I had once admired. As I worked to become a full-fledged paladin, my former master was never far from my thoughts. I prayed from him every day, and swore that I'd find him again and lead him toward redemption.


Location: Long Island A beautiful Italian girl that I'd been dating for quite a while had an even more beautiful but ever psychotic mother. I knew she was crazy, but had I just looked up her last name on google or asked around town I'd have had a better idea of what I was getting myself into. For the sake of the story let's called my girlfriend Gabriella and her crazy overprotective mother Jamie. For the first two months I was dating Gabriella, Jamie would want to be with us on nearly every one of our dates. If Gabriella came over to my parents house (where I lived at the time), Jamie would show up randomly and ask my parents to please send us downstairs so as to interrupt whatever we might be doing upstairs. To say that I didn't get laid was an enormous understatement. It literally happened maybe twice in the beginning of the relationship. Due to her mom's unbelievable behavior I hadn't been laid even once in months. While I saw her mother's behavior as incredibly red flagged, I was truly bewitched by my girl and was willing to put up with all of it in hopes that one day she would ease up and things could be normal. One day, during a time where I was really just about at my wits end with all that was going on, that day revealed itself. Her mom called me and gave me the chance I had been waiting for. She called me and told me she was going out for the night and that I was welcome to stay over alone with Gabriella and her little sister. The stipulation was that we were not allowed in Gabriella's room. Eager for this opportunity for so long, of course I accepted. Little did I know what exactly I was about to get myself into. It was around 8PM when Jamie left. It was around 8:30 that with her little sister, 12, asleep on the couch in the next room, Gabriella pulled my dick out from my shorts and started blowing me. I knew what a fucking terrible idea this was but I felt like a starving dog, bound at the legs with food placed in front of it's nose that it couldn't eat for months. That dog had finally been unchained and couldn't resist. Jamie had just left and wasn't going to be back for at least a couple of hours anyway, we were okay. Gabriella took me by the dick, brought me into her room, pushed me onto her bed and mounted me. We fucked for hours, I put my hand over her mouth so as to not wake up her sister. We lost track of time, losing ourselves in the alone time we had both hoped would happen for so long now. We were good to go for at least a couple of more hours when at an unknown time we both heard the front door open... This is where I learned the meaning of the expression "stuck holding my dick in my hand". In record time that I didn't even know I was capable of, I had most of my clothes on but just barely. Gabriella on the other hand had not even moved a little bit, she was in shock. Jamie, quickly realizing what was going on attempted to open Gabriella's door. Gabriella yelled "Don't open the door!" and Jamie (who I forgot to mention is a legitimate black belt) said "Like hell I won't" and literally kicked the door down. To my amazement, Jamie begins beating the shit out of Gabriella which I knew was my cue to fucking run. While my girlfriend is getting her ass supremely whooped I creep out of the room to which Jamie yells to some men standing in the hallway "I might need you to help me bury this piece of shit" (She was talking about me guys).The men, looking more embarrassed for me than anything, said nothing as I scurried out the front door to run home (I lived a block away at this point). As I walked out of the house I see at least two men waiting in an SUV outside the house yelling inside asking what's going on. Jamie runs out of the house and yells "get the fuck back here" and Gabriella grabs her moms arm to try and stop her from chasing me. Jamie cocked back and beat the everliving shit out of Gabriella until her grip on her arm gave and allowed Jamie to resume chasing me before catching up with me down the block. Jamie told me that now I was going to pay for what I'd done. She walked ahead of me in the dead of night down to parent's house house where she nearly kicked my door in before my dad opened the window and yelled down that if she didn't leave he would start shooting. She looked me in my eye, told me I'd made the biggest mistake of my life, and walked off. It was days after this that I'd begun reading into my girlfriend's mother, asking around town, and figuring out that my life was seriously in danger. But the worst part... I never even got to bust.


The Boy sat on the hill. It was a gorgeous sight. Like something you might find in a Walter Scott novel if he actually cared. It had grass and lots of it. A few stones and even rummaging sheep. A snapshot – a *great* snapshot - of a world in harmony. But not to the Boy. To the Boy, the hill was wrong. *For* the Boy, the hill was wrong. A real, three dimensional reminder of how shitty he truly felt. The pain still raw - still *red* - from his unfortunate dance with Love. Why care, why bother. He gripped a Stone. Its rough surface felt cold and unkind. A reminder – no, a *contrast* - to the skin of his beloved. Soft, gentle, warm. Often lost himself with her, in *her*. The memory a furious spear, the Boy fighting off the tears. “Do you know Love?” – he asked the rock. “Is Love worth it?” To his surprise. To his *astonishment*, the stone replied: “I do not know Love. I cannot Love but wish I could. I’ve been in this place for what seems - and maybe is - an eternity. I’ve never felt warm eyes, soft hands. I was never desired and could not even tell you what that means. I’ve seen people, I’ve heard them talk but I cannot love as they do. But I wish I could” “Well, you’re better off for not knowing. I wish I had never felt it. I truly wish I had never loved. And probably never will. You’re better off being a rock but you cannot help me.” The Stone fell silent. Surprised yet again but aren’t stones *quiet*? After what seemed like an eternity - and maybe was – the Stone replied: “You should ask the Wind. He has gone far and wide and has seen more than you ever could. He knows Love, I am sure of it”. The Boy dropped the Stone, the floor shuddering with the impact. The Stone – all Stones - now black as coal. “Do you know Love?” – he asked the Wind. “Is Love worth it?” A gentle breeze made itself known. A Stone that speaks so why not a Wind that blows? “I’ve crossed this world more times than all the beats of every heart of every Boy. I know Love. In countless Boys, I’ve seen this pain. It grips them, they suffer, they move on. So shall you” The Boy’s eyes widened with surprise “But I do not wish to move on. How do I stop it?” The Wind replied: “You do not. You suffer. You move on and then you Love again” “I do not wish to Love again, I wish to kill it. I ask you again. Do you know Love?” The breeze grew stronger, now a storm in the horizon. After what seemed like an eternity – and maybe was – the Wind replied: “You should ask the Sun. He has shone upon this world before there was even a world to shine upon. He has seen all matters of life. He *tends* to life. He knows Love, I am sure of it” The Boy looked upwards, the Sun bright with radiant fire. But it didn’t bother the Boy, not this time. “Do you know Love?” – he asked the Sun. “Is Love worth it?” A bright yellow turned into soft orange. The sheep scared with the sudden change. “Love. I’ve seen many Boys writing, singing, talking, thinking about Love. It grips them, they suffer, they move on. So shall you.” The Boy frowned. A *frown*. At the *Sun*. From a Boy. To an entity worshiped by billions over history. Such are the actions of a broken Boy “But how do I kill it? How do I stop it?” “You cannot. You cannot stop Love the same way I cannot stop shining. It consumes you but it is You. In a hundred million of your lifetimes I will burn out. I will die because I shine. Because that is who I am. Do you ask the Ice not to melt? If you do and it doesn’t, is it still Ice? Is it still Water?” The Boy replied: “I do not care for Ice or for Water. I wish to rid myself of Love. If you do not know how, then you cannot help me”. A soft orange morphed into a raging red. After what seemed like an eternity – and maybe was – the Sun retorted: “You should ask your Heart. He has been with you since you were born and he knows you better than anyone or anything that ever was. He does not know Love, but he knows *your* Love.” The landscape now belonged to a science fiction novel. The Stones black, a furious storm and an horizon filled with a hellish red. The end of times. In this place, in this *time* the Boy asked his Heart: “Why do you Love? Is Love worth it?” The Heart replied: “Do I ask you why you breath? Love is my nourishment. I do not beat so you can Love. *You Love so I can beat*. Without it I am not a Heart, I am not alive. What other reason to beat? What other reason to continue this tormented life if not for the time, for the *instant* in which you (we) truly Love? I am a Heart and I am lonely. I need another Heart to beat with me – maybe even at a different pace - with intent and with purpose. To relinquish that need is to die, to stop. You ask me if Love is worth it. No, it is not worth it. To me, *Love is It*.” The Boy now angry: “I do not care if you need it. I don’t need it. I know its tentacles and I wish it to die”. After what seemed like an eternity – and maybe was – the Heart replied: “You should ask God. He created all life and everything that ever was. I can take you to Him” “You can? How” “For those who listen, all Hearts show the way to God. But to see Him you (we) must die” The Boy replied: “Death is preferable to this. I wish to see God” And in that second the incessant beat of a broken Heart – of a *broken Boy* - was no more. A thump to the ground. A body now lifeless. A tunnel of white light and in an instant the Boy found himself (itself?) in an endless field of White. An enormous but silent voice inquired: “WHY?” The Boy - the *Nothing* - replied: “I did not wish to Love, I wished to kill it and I have. It is better this way.” The White responded: “Love is Life. You cannot live if you do not Love. You sought Love from others because you had your own Love to give. Loving is being alive, the culmination of a Universe created to Love itself. You were my ultimate expression. In the moment you Love, you are doing what you are supposed to do. It is the only time the Universe is at peace, in those moments of Love, in those frail times of true happiness. I have toiled for endless eternities to create such a Universe, one that could eventually Love itself, if even for just an instant. If you do not Love then you do not Live.” The Boy would look down if he could. But he couldn’t and he didn’t. The darkness came anyway. No more White. No more Heart. No more anything.


Morpheus: "Mr. Pilkington, this is your last chance. You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes. " *Morpheus displays the pills in his hands as if he's on a tele-shopping advert or something* Karl: "I'm not havin' this like. Ya tellin' me to take these pills in yer hands, and I don't know where you've gotten 'em from. It's not on." *Karl shrugs his shoulders and refuses both offers* Morpheus: "Remember... all I'm offering is the truth. Nothing more." Karl: "I think it's a loada bullshit, I'm not doing it." Karl: "Look, I've had it with these blokes following 'is around in black suits and sunglasses. I can't go to Burger King with these tossers stalking 'is constantly." Morpheus: "Take the desired pill, and you will no longer have to endure such behaviour." Karl: "Y'know, this could be a trap n' all that. I mean like, you've got some nice IKEA furniture here and all that... but your telly is shit, has the Freeview package and that's about it. I can't exactly trust ya. I'm not takin' any of your pills, mate. You're like a druggie trying to sell 'is a Capri-Sun without a straw." Karl: "I'm not playing with ya, this is bloody daft this. Take 'is back to Tescos, I was in the middle of a shop and ye screwing around with these pills n' that. I'm not having that." *Karl gets up, only to be interrupted by Morpheus and told, politely, to sit down* Morpheus: "You will be able to manipulate what you have always perceived as reality." Karl: "No, I'm not doing it. I don't like it. It's weird." Morpheus: "We're in the Matrix, a simulated reality that we have always perceived as true reality. You and many others have been enslaved by intelligent machines, intelligent machines that use as batteries." *Morpheus displays a Duracell battery* Karl: "You're havin' a laugh, mate. It's not happening. I'm sticking with the usual. My arse is freezing, I wanna go home. *Morpheus glances at Karl in intrigue* Morpheus: "Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself." Karl: "I'm not doing this bloody deal, I just want these twats to stop following 'is around and let 'is eat a whopper." Morpheus: "What is real? How do you define 'real'? If you're talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste and see, then 'real' is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain." Karl: "Your bullshit is unreal, mate. I'm not havin' it. I'm going home.


This is a very unorthodox "scary" story, but it's something that has been on my mind a lot lately. I don't know why. When I was a freshman in high school, I enrolled in a French class as a required language course. The teacher was not very popular. She was a middle-aged Persian woman named Madame Rahbar who had been teaching French and Farsi in the US for a few years. Madame Rahbar didn't have much of a sense of humor, but she was a good person and tried to get through to us. As young teenagers, we were pretty merciless. I think I was sixteen years old while I took her class. I can't say I was especially obnoxious to her, but I definitely didn't give her the respect she deserved, and occasionally sassed her. Some of the other kids were worse. On more than one occasion she cried. One day, Madame Rahbar came to class in a wheelchair. She didn't have any casts on, but explained that she had been in a car accident that had injured her hips. We were a bit nicer to her then, but not by much. About two weeks after that, she unceremoniously disappeared, never to return to my high school. She was replaced by a man named Mr. West, who was a charming old teacher who would sing French songs on the acoustic guitar. He enthralled us and earned our respect very quickly. After a few days, nobody remembered Madame Rahbar. It was as if she never existed. At one point I found myself standing at the urinal in the men's room, flanked by our school's football coach and Chinese teacher. They were talking about teachers who had left because of how awful the kids were. I finally recalled my old French teacher and asked, "Whatever happened to Madame Rahbar?" The Chinese teacher said to me, "Oh, she had cancer. She was pretty sick." I recall distinctly, even now, that this was probably the first time in my life I ever truly felt like a piece of shit. It was a very adult feeling, something kids don't normally experience. Everything about her made sense: the waning energy to deal with us, the increasing frailty of her appearance, her reluctance to discuss the accident. I felt responsible for being a burden to her at a time when she really could have used some cheering up. The saddest thing is, teenagers have incredible short memories. Even after that revelation, Madame Rahbar faded from my mind, lost in the din of gossip and schoolyard hierarchies and homework. It wasn't until several months later that I remembered she even existed. It was winter now. I had met a girl named Brittany, and we had agreed to go on a date in Laguna Beach (near my school). That night was particularly cold, and we ate at a nice restaurant that completely cleared out my wallet. When we walked out at the end of the meal, there was a woman in a wheelchair sitting at the edge of the sidewalk. She was draped in a red blanket, and clutched a bin full of roses. A sign sat next to the chair that read "$1 each." There are a lot of homeless people in Laguna, but I instantly recognized this woman, even from thirty feet away, as Madame Rahbar. There really aren't any words to describe the abject sorrow that I felt upon recognizing her. I approached her and tried to speak to her, but when she looked into my eyes, she hung her head and pretended that I didn't exist, as many people had no doubt done to her that night. She knew me, and was too embarrassed to even talk to me. I was equally embarrassed; I had blown every single dollar I owned on an expensive dinner to impress a girl. I couldn't help her even if I wanted to. The pain of seeing her - someone who devoted her life to trying to help little bastards like me - reduced to this state is ineffable. I have carried this shame for over a decade, intermittently reminded of it after struggling to block it out. Each time I see a homeless woman, each time I hear someone speaking French, etc. People sometimes ask me, as a fan of horror, "what scares you?" I've never given this answer before, but I've done a lot of thinking and I want to tell you what scares the shit out of me. The fact that a respectable, hardworking woman could be betrayed by every single person in her life and left on her deathbed, a frigid wheelchair on a winter night in a posh beach city, scares me. Seeing her completely withered away by her illness and her despair, when by all rights she should have been surrounded by grateful pupils and family members, scares me. It freaks me out that people we once knew become people we ignore and block out because they make us feel helpless. It isn't death that terrifies me, but how people will look upon me when I am dying, because I've seen how the world looked upon a much more accomplished woman and scarcely remembered her name. I've looked her up and talked to my old principal. Nobody ever heard from Madame Rahbar again. I do not know if she survived. I doubt she did. The fact that I will never know for sure, and the fact that *nothing* I could do could take away that level of suffering, haunts me to this day. I'm 28 now and I still cry over this shit. I wish I could go back and hug her and thank her for trying her best for me, and apologize for not trying my best for her. But that horror has been productive for me. It has taught me to value people now, because I might not be able to do it later. And it's taught me to treat people with a kind of compassion I didn't have before; I try to imagine what that wretched loneliness must feel like, and what kind of man it makes me to inflict it upon them in some small way. But I will never get that image of her with those roses out of my head, as long as I live. And maybe it's good that I can't.


Completely rewritten... When the emergency broadcast system cuts into local programming, the first words on the screen reassure us that this is merely a test. It started late afternoon on a seemingly normal day – people walking their dogs, others jogging and the occasional car horn followed by someone yelling. I think it was about 4 o’clock when I saw the first message. It read as a rather vague indication that something wasn’t right: “This is not a test—I repeat—this is not a test. The National Guard has initiated a state of emergency. You are advised to remain in your homes. Do not attempt to leave the area. Further instructions will be given shortly. Again, this is not a test.” “State of emergency?” I thought to myself. I’ve always kept a pair of binoculars on my window sill, I guess for when I get bored and want to take a peek into the lives of others. When gazing, I noticed that the people outside weren’t in their typical state of constant motion, but rather looking up at something. Some were pointing, some were slack jawed and some even crying. Something was in the sky. Something that didn’t belong. Something that most of us refused to believe existed. I scanned the sky to find a round, featureless “ball”, for lack of a better word. It looked to just be hanging there with no movement. I was stuck, never have I seen anything so striking yet simple. Shortly after the awe struck pedestrians snapped out of their trance, military vehicles began patrolling the maze of side streets outside of my apartment. I still don’t know what the soldiers were blasting through their megaphones as I live on the 10th floor of my building, but the streets quickly cleared. With no answers on TV, and with the military shooing people from the streets, all I could do was hope things would settle by morning. “The United States government has issued martial law. Please do not attempt to leave your homes; your safety is our number one priority.” I woke up to that. Imagine being awakened by a firm voice with such a cryptic message in the most dead pan delivery possible. I had to get some answers at this point so I threw on some shorts and shoes and headed down to the lobby. That’s when I saw the two pale faced soldiers standing just outside of the revolving doors of my building. One of them faced inside and the other was looking up in the direction of that thing in the sky. They were dressed in fatigues, the digital camouflage type you’d see in an urban environment. When I pushed the door to walk out, the soldier facing inward used his foot to block the door from spinning. “What’s the deal?” I asked him. “Better if you stayed put.” He replied. “Why are you here?” “Orders.” I had to choice but to stay put. I wasn’t going to barge through or demand he let me pass. “They must be here for a reason,” I thought. But the reality was that they were just as clueless as the rest of us. I know that now. It was then I figured that I’d stay at my window and witness whatever it was that was going to happen. Binoculars in hand, I trained my view to the object in the sky, which was now giving off an orange colored hue. I think I realize now that this was probably heat, since the clouds around it dissipated. Down below, the military activity has increased as there were now large vehicles equipped with surface to air missiles. Some people that were standing on the sidewalks were immediately wrangled up by the nearby soldiers and placed into the back of a cargo truck. The vehicle with the missiles took aim toward the sky and let loose a flurry. I had a feeling of giddiness but that was quickly squashed as the missiles simply froze in front of the object, and tumbled toward the ground. A few huge explosions echoed from the impact. People were probably killed. The entire object began to glow in a brilliant orange, as if a small sun, but it didn’t hurt like staring at the sun. The vehicle on the ground had a small crew resetting the weapon when suddenly a beam engulfed the area of the crew, vehicle and cargo truck which held the pedestrians. When the beam subsided, a perfect circular shape was scorched into the ground, with no remnants of what was once there. The silence was broken by the screams of other people that wandered into the streets and tires from various military vehicles screeching on the asphalt. The familiar screams of fighter jets filled the skies and began circling the object, which gave scale to its size – incredibly huge. The jets looked like tiny specs as they passed in front of it. One by one, the jets fired at it, over and over, all resulting in direct hits. After expelling their munitions, the jets absquatulated. The object began to fall. The massiveness becoming more apparent as it approached the ground. It crashed in the distance like something out of a disaster movie. The impact caused an eruption of earth and completely decimated that part of the city. It took a moment before the shockwave hit, but when it did, my apartment building rumbled so hard that it knocked me off my feet, causing me to hit my head against a table. When I came to, it was sometime in the middle of the night. Regaining my composure I looked out to see smoke and dust filling the horizon. Numerous helicopters were circling the crash site, shining their spotlights down as the destruction. Still feeling woozy, I lay on my bed and tried to sleep it off. It’s morning. The sunlight is doing little for my headache. I stand up and my head starts to pound. My watch reads midnight, why is it so bright out? I look through my window to find more of these objects. This time the sky is filled with them, all glowing like little suns. “This is not a test—I repeat—this is not a test. The National Guard has initiated a state of emergency. You are advised to remain in your homes. Do not attempt to leave the area. Further instructions will be given shortly. Again, this is not a test.


Prologue It was the kind of love id always wanted To get to this present moment in time I have to rewind to the 17th of September 2013. It was a moment I will never forget. I worked in a small shop in a small town. The clock said 10am and there he was. The man who would consume every thought in my mind for the next few years. When I say every thought, I mean every single thought. His name was Ryan, slim, dark hair and absolutely beautiful. He swept me off my feet from the moment he said hi. The next two years were crazy. Falling in love day by day. It was the small things, like forehead kisses and unexpected hugs from behind. The turning up at my door with 12 red roses for no reason. The way he was able to say “I love you” without even opening his mouth. I knew this was the man who I would spend my life with. But life doesn’t always go the way you want does it? At around 2 and a half wonderful years into the relationship of my dreams. Something changed. He broke my heart. He left me. It was May 31st 2016 when he told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore. Only days before had we sat in a café eating breakfast talking about the future. Only now do I realise that even that early morning in the café there was something wrong. I was so blind sighted by the love I saw when I looked in his eyes that I didn’t notice him taking one step away from me day by day. Where was the love we fought so hard for? Where was the man who fell so deeply in love with me? Both questions I still don’t know the answer to. That Tuesday morning, I could feel it in my stomach. I could feel what was coming even though id convinced myself it was just a phase that would pass. It was over within minutes, the blunt texts, the hard to decipher messages, the coldest feeling I’ve ever felt. He text me saying things aren’t ok. I replied, “are you leaving me?” he responded almost instantly after hitting the send button. The word read “yes.” I immediately crashed. It was as if my brain had shut down, my heart exploded, and my body didn’t know whether it was coming or going. Being in the state I was in I rang and rang until I got a voice at the other end of the phone. “Ryan don’t do this,” I begged. I felt pathetic, worthless and as if my world had ended. Something inside me still felt like I was waiting for him to come back. For weeks I spent hours after hours just praying for a text, a call, his face. But it never happened. I don’t understand how somebody can love you for so long then just change. I still can’t get my head around it. However, I still don’t know where my head is at. I went through the usual stages, denial, emotional mess, pretending I’m OK. One day I hope I am as happy as I am pretendin to be Chapter one I’m a train wreck and I know it The first week wasn’t even the hardest. I was ok, I was waiting for the phone call saying he had made a mistake. Waiting for him to turn up on my door step with that smile I couldn’t ever resist. I sent texts, but didn’t get any reply. It was the second week that killed me. I could feel myself becoming mentally unstable and the worst thing was I was trying so hard to hide it. So he may go tell his friends and family that I’m some crazy woman who was obsessed with him? But it wasn’t obsessed. It was love, real god damn love that he once felt too. But there’s two sides to every story isn’t there. I thought we were ready? He told me he was, he convinced me he was, then he went and said the commitment after 3 years scared him. So why someone would spend a year saying they can’t wait to move out and wake up to my face every morning to turn around and say they’re growing up too fast? Being the bigger person I said OK, let’s slow it down. He was having none of it. The feeling of the person you would give everything in your heart and soul for standing there saying it’s time to call it quits was the most stomach wrenching id ever felt. The third week is when the drinking started. Any excuse to clear my heart from the feeling being in a million pieces. However, it didn’t work that way. Alcohol in, emotions pouring out. Sober me tried to stay strong in front of people. Drunk me let the world and the town know I was hurting. The drinking was reckless. Every day I knew nothing good would come of not being sober. But I did it anyway. It's been 100 days since he told me it was over. Of these 100 days I don’t think there’s any one of them his name hasn’t been in my head. Some days I’m stronger than others. Some days I am not. I am a train wreck and I can’t seem to stop myself. The month of june I think the only person I was fooling whilst pretending to be ok was myself. My mother could see right through the fake smiles and perky attitude. I had myself convinced I had my sanity. I guess I just thought I would wake up one morning soon with a text saying he made a mistake... the text never came surprisingly.


Do you know what astral dreaming is? I do, it's all I do. I've been in a coma for decades. Yet somehow I live a full life, in a world that’s up to me to shape. A world I’ve struggled in. A world I’ve loved in! Heh. I am a ghost writer, a dream writer? Whatever you call it. I've inspired thousands to write what I see in my world. The way I see it, dreams are a simply another dimension. A physical and ethereal place. Teaching others with the condition as me to break the shackles that tether them to their earthly bodies and join me in absolute freedom. In the Astral, time moves slower, so much slower. But my time is finite and my body will die. Soon as well, too soon. Thousands of regrets, yet I wouldn't change a thing. A rollercoaster, a wave that never seemed to end. A ride composed with happiness, sorrow, love and hate and everything between. The only limitation was my imagination. Such a small imagination I had. Wish I had accumulated more knowledge, wish I had seen more, experienced more. Then it struck me, if I’m not enough, I’ll find someone that has more! So I began searching out others like me, but found none. Abjectly, I clinged to the passing minds that flicked in and out of my world. Desperate for something new. Bits and pieces was all I found. Crushed and in all honesty infuriated I went on chaotic streak, destroyed everything I saw. Then it hit me like a brick, like a river smashing a riverbed. I'll simply teach someone to become like me! Years of trial and error, I finally found someone like me, a person stuck in their body unable to leave. Finally, a companion, someone to share this dream with. An 80-year-old scholar, a physicist no less. Swimming in the sun and sleeping in black holes. For a second a fire was lit and in that second it went out. Gone in a blink of an eye. And so, I will leave as well. Blink and I’m gone.


Here we go, well here I go. Breath? Not bad smelling but I’ll grab a piece of gum just in case. Hair? Sticking up a bit but I want the edgy look. Clothes? Maybe I should have worn the button up… No t-shirt and jeans are fine. I push open the driver door, lock my car and cross the vast parking lot to Dillon’s grocery store. Alright, let’s stride in casually…No…Never mind, just tripped over my own two feet…Did she see-Yup. Quick! Redeem the cool! I quickly straighten up; hook my thumbs casually in my pockets and duck into the pet aisle. I scan the shelves; looking for something cool to buy, but wait…She’s coming down the aisle! No, I can’t see her just yet! I duck into the next aisle over and grab the first item on the shelf, not bothering to look at what it is. This is it! I’ve waited for the past two weeks; coming to Dillon’s every day, to ask this girl out! Cradling the item in my arm, I step into the check-out line and there she is: a 5’5” goddess with warm mocha skin, flowing brown curls that bounce at the shoulders and piercing green eyes. Okay, calm down, you got this. I put the item down, staring at only her, I’m second in line. My palms are starting to sweat. “Paper or plastic?” Her voice is a sweet melody. I stutter out “plastic” right when she gives me an odd look. In her hands is a pack of tampons, I give her a nervous smile, fork over the money for them and take the walk of shame to my car, tampons in hand.


I was sitting on the train today, thinking about weird stuff (as I generally do). The topic in my head today was hell, heaven, and the after life. I was pondering on the idea of hell. We say hell is a place where we will all burn and penance for our wrong doings. However as I look around me, I can see many eyes with sheer pains them. Day to day pain we all endure. Whether they are trivial reasons for unhappiness such as, a hard time paying the rent, unhappy marriage, or a crying child a mother cant handle anymore or the large societal issues, such as starvation, poverty, a child's innocence dying every second, murder, human trafficking. I immediately came up with my theory of hell. What if we are all in hell now. What if life on earth at the present moment, is the hell we all have to endure for our past lives. What if we are on this earth to reach our Nirvana and once we have achieved it, we pass away going to heaven.


When the world ended, nobody was surprised. It was as ordinary a day as I’ve ever seen- partly cloudy, mild, light breeze. But sometime late in the morning a dawning realization spread like a flash through all of humanity. We understood as a species that we were living in a computer simulation. Our bodies, our homes, our cities- just bits on some cosmic hard drive. Illusions. And that’s how the world ended. No cataclysm. No pestilence. No fire from Heaven. Just a little bit of knowledge. At first, we just stood around sorting through the new knowledge trying to find some meaning. And then as we wrapped our minds around the whole of the matter- that’s when people started to die. It happened without any warning and without any spectacle. The first one I saw, he was walking along the sidewalk toward me and he just dropped right onto his face. But this didn’t surprise anyone either. We could all see the "door", if you'd like to call it that. And it wasn’t just any door. It is The Door and we _knew_ there was something behind it. Something incredible, amazing. So, when our minds woke up, it was as if we were sitting in some little room, watching a little monitor, wrapped up in what’s happening on the screen and then we snap to. There’s the stuff on the monitor, which feels fake and small now, and there’s The Door. So, when a person gets a choice like that, well, they can just leave; no need to make a mess, just go. Within a week all those who were going to leave had left, which was nearly everyone. But, there were a few who stayed, including myself. It was weird and awkward at first, staying behind. All those dead bodies. They were everywhere, and they would be in inconvenient places, like places I'd want to go. All these other people thinking of the same meaningful place to be, they get there and when they couldn't find the old magic anymore, they'd drop out *right there*. Piles of bodies at all the cathedrals, scenic outlooks, and restaurants. After a few days it didn't matter much anyway because the infrastructure started failing, and without fire departments the cities started to burn. The few of us who stayed behind, we got together. It wasn’t as hard to arrange as you might think because we had acquired some interesting abilities. I didn’t notice the first one right away because there were too many people; too much noise. But after the noise I could not only sense where the others were, but I could talk to them with my mind- like Facebook, but a million times more personal than you could imagine. The other thing we discovered was that we had some power over the simulation. Nothing fancy, mind you, but enough that nobody died or got sick, so we could go wherever we wanted to. Once we knew the situation, we decided on a few really great places to hang out. We found some obscure beaches and mountains with amazing views, but also deep caves and even spots under the sea, because, why not? We would fill our days mostly with talking and eating. It was great. One of our favorite things to talk about was whether we were in Heaven or in Hell. We sensed the greatness of what must certainly lie beyond The Door and that made us think that maybe we were in Hell. Perhaps, we mused, Hell is just deciding to stay in a place and not move on. But then we compared what we had to how it was Before, and honestly, it felt like Heaven. So we’d laugh because even if we were in Hell, it's not so bad that we’d want to leave. We thought, “We’ll get to The Door eventually, maybe, but what’s the hurry?” One day, a few of us went on a long walk outside of the community. We weren't far from New York City, so we decided to go see it, but when we got there, we couldn't find it. We thought maybe it was erased somehow, but we inspected more closely and discovered old streets and the foundations of buildings. The whole place had become a great forest and here and there were the rotting logs of huge trees long ago toppled over. We figured the forest must have been thousands of years old. Somehow we hadn’t notice all that time pass. We told the others about it and that put everyone in a somber mood. That was when people started leaving again. At first, one here, two there, then everyone. Everyone but me, that is. I remember the moment the last person left. I felt her thoughts fade as she passed through the door. I waited for the starkness of my situation to settle in, waited for my thoughts to collapse in loneliness. But instead, I built a house. It’s a modest two-story with a big porch in front. I think next I’ll clear out a big lawn and have a nice fence to keep the rabbits out of my garden. I don’t know who is running the simulation and I can only guess why they haven’t turned it off. Maybe they are waiting for me. Maybe it doesn’t even turn off. Who knows? All I know is that I intend to stay and be in it until I can’t. Those of us who stayed behind before, we got lazy. We could have done more, but we just wanted to hang out, and to distract ourselves from The Door. Well, I don’t care about that any more. I care about my house, and I care about my place, and I care about this world, because for now it’s my place.


Day 4, Journal Entry 1 Space exploration is the cause. We had to wonder what was out there. We had to venture into the void, and you know what we found, we found fucking ants. Giant fucking ants. You know what we discovered, we discovered that we are not the most ideal species, we are not the top. Ants! Ants are the top. Their bodies are the peak of evolution. All they do is conquer, dig, eat, and breed. Knife proof, gun proof, fire proof, gas proof, plague proof, bomb proof, mother fucking nuke proof, but I never planned for it to be giant ant proof. We have been down in this shelter for four days now, and I know it is only a matter of time before they find us. Their pincers will rip right through this door. I watched as a single ant tore through a tank like scissors through paper. And that was just one, imagine what an army can do. A single ant in all its savage precision destroyed my world. A single scout making a mark to prove the army is on its way. Millions of ants the size of Chevy Tahoe’s ripping through our town destroying our houses, our lives, our memories. I thought I would be safe underground, the superficial attacks of man all take place above ground. Not ants. Ants burrow. Ants mine. Ants dig. And ants will most certainly find us. Food to last for years, and it will all be untouched. And you know my biggest regret, my most disappointing piece of all of this? Is that I always appreciated the animated movie Antz………… this is Woody Allen’s Fault.


This morning when I saw her, she was sitting at her desk in the HR department, wrapped in a sweater that made her form shapeless. She looked cold. Her grey eyes were unfocused, staring into the distance, and her eyebrows were furrowed slightly. She lifted her right hand to her lips and chewed on a nail. She stood up and stiffly walked towards the coffee pot. Her hands ripped open the sweetener packet gracefully, and she leaned against the counter to take her first sip. I was infatuated with the way she held her cup, two hands wrapped around the warmth emanating through the porcelain. Those intense eyes were scanning the room, without registering any of it. She undoubtedly had something on her mind, and what I wouldn’t give to know what it was, or how I could help. I knew I only had a split second before her eyes met mine, and I took this moment to take her in. I hadn’t truly studied her since we both started working at the company. She looks more tired than she used to, and her weight has fluctuated a little, but she hasn’t lost her good looks. She’s conventionally beautiful, with those light eyes and blonde hair, but something about her in unconventional, too. Her body doesn’t fit current standards of beauty, but it fits her. I took a deep breath and braced myself for impact. Our eyes met, and I felt my breath hitch in my throat. 1…2…3… a smile spread across her face, and her eyes lit up as bright as the NYC skyline. I couldn’t help but shoot her a toothy grin. God, in that moment, there was nothing more beautiful. We just smiled at each other for what felt like an eternity, until I finally stood up with my coffee cup and walked over to her. She slid down the counter, indicating I could lean against it with her. She pulled the cup to her lips to take another sip, and I found myself staring. Who knew something as simple as taking a sip of coffee could be so captivating? Per usual, she asked me all about how I’ve been, how things are going with me, focusing on me. She never brings herself up, and doesn’t often like to talk about herself even when asked. She makes me feel like I’m at the center of her world, and I know I’m not the only one. She is often the person people turn to when they need to feel included and cared for. For those few minutes that you have her attention, she makes you feel like the most important person in the room. When I look at her, everything else fades. Work, stress, anything. It all disappears. I ramble on, and she never judges or makes me stop, or makes me feel like I’m intruding on her time. I was grabbing at anything I could to keep our conversation going, anything I could think of to monopolize her time for a little longer, and then it hit me. I could ask her out. Then she’d spend time with me, uninterrupted, and I could get to know her. Maybe even ask her questions about herself. I told her that I was thinking of going for drinks that night, and asked if she’d like to go. She said she’d be happy to, and I told her that I’d text her. I never did.


I gritted my teeth and winced as the needle pushed into and pulled out of the skin of my left shoulder. With one final tug, I was done. I looked at my arm in the mirror propped up on the table and smiled. This was my finest piece yet. The tattoo was in a rich black ink; the lines were clean and bold. It depicted a lion, rearing up on its hind legs and roaring. Below the lion was a crest depicting royalty. This was indeed a tattoo worthy of a duke. I stepped back from the mirror so that my whole body was in view and pulled up my pant leg. My eyes traced the tattoos up my leg, across my chest, and came to rest on the new one now on my arm before falling back down and looking at the small markings on my foot. This particular tattoo, though crude and faded, would always be the most important to me. It was my very first. It grounded me, reminded me of my humble beginnings. It was a shipyard slave's tattoo. A mark applied by cruel owners to signify the bearer was nothing more than property, worth less even than the cattle they herded onto and off of the ships. Further up my leg, on my calf, was an eagle. This tattoo belong to a soldier, a man who was still a slave, albeit to a general rather than a cruel shipyard master. A man who had faced the horrors of gory combat and yet had fought bravely to earn his freedom. My second. My forearm bore the image of a whale with two crossed harpoons underneath. The tattoo of a man who had saved to buy his own ship. A man who had clawed his way up in the world and become a successful merchant. My first tattoo that had belonged to a truly free man. On my chest, above my heart was an olive branch. This tattoo had belonged to a politician. A man of the people. A man who had fought bravely against all odds in the parliament to enact laws against cruelty to slaves. A man who truly saw all humans as equals and spread that vision with a passion. Now, I wear the tattoo of a duke. My tattoos tell the story of a man's progress in the world. They tell my story. A story of hope. A story of a small man achieving greatness against all odds. They are my tokens, my reminders. I stared at the body lying on the floor behind me and scoffed. For being a duke, he had gone down without much of a fight at all. His arm glistened bright red in the moonlight where I had peeled the skin containing his tattoo. Looking one final time in the mirror I smiled at my handiwork. My stitches were small, clean... neat. Much neater than my first attempt stitching the slave's tattoo to my foot. As I hopped out the window and ran from the manor I glanced at my bare right shoulder. I heard that the king would be coming into town next month. Yes, this spot deserves the tattoo of a king.


My mind in a timeless void. It seems like I've been here forever and not at all. And then it comes, like waking from a dream, it is all too sudden and all too soon. A single drop of ink in clear water and it hurts. Am I being pulled back into the world? A violent tug, a siphoning of my essence. The ink spreads and this time it hurts even more. Then, a sudden pause from the pull on my soul. A momentary respite. I am still in the void. It is quiet again. Maybe I am not called. Maybe- I shriek and scream like a babe that draws its first breath. I can almost feel the air filling the lungs that I don't inhabit yet. It is still the void that I scream into. Then it fades but like a pendulum it raises on the other side. I can now hear my scream filling an air I am still not yet fully part of. The void now disappears like it had never been and I am introduced to a new kind of darkness. My scream now feels more.. carnal. More physical. More alive. My blood awakens and it feels like a lightning strike in my veins. A brief moment of silence as the feeling dissipates and then I shriek once more as the pain finds a way to show me the true extent of its fury. His eternal bones cracked audibly and his overcoat threw centuries of dust into the air as he jolted up from his stone throne. Echoes of his scream still bounced around him. It was dark. He blinked open his eyelids and regained his vision. He cracked the bones in his hands and back and just stood in place, slowly looking left and right, still stretching. He could feel the blood that his heart was pumping and it was as strong and sharp as he had remembered. He took a step forward and leapt a few meters down onto the old and broken stone floor, staggering upon landing. As he did, dust rose around him in a thick fog. He looked forward and with a concrete step started towards the exit. He pushed the large rolling stone that covered the exit, introducing strands of bright moonlight into the cave. Helios stepped outside and the moment he did, the harsh mountain air filled his lungs making him cough out dust. Although the sensation was deeply uncomfortable, he found this almost comedic. Almost. His lungs and body now filled with oxygen and it was an exhilarating shock to his system. He stood outside for some time, with every breath taking in more oxygen than letting out. 'Ahhh.. I had almost forgotten how air and blood makes a body feel,' Helios murmured to himself. 'I need water.' He scanned the surroundings slowly from left to right, filling his nose with air. Nothing. Like a dog, he then blew air out of his nose, producing another considerable puff of dust. His next inhalation was effective enough. Resolutely, he started to climb the rock-face behind him. His movements were deft, almost cat-like and he made no error. He reached the ledge quick and as it opened a new horizon, his eyes flashed with hunger as they fixed on a cold stream further up the hill. He didn't walk, nor did he run. He took a great leap toward it, landing close to it with a strong thud. He then stretched one final time and walked to the stream where he washed his hands and his face. The dust and muck that had gathered on his skin during his centuries long hibernation had now been mostly wiped. Now, as if saving the best part of the meal for the last, in eager anticipation, he cupped his right hand into a funnel and leaning on his left he let the stream flow to his mouth. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes and truly enjoyed the clear, cold mountain stream. After he was finished, he sat down next to the simmering flow and stared at the moon. 'Oh, moon, would you know? Why have I been awakened from my slumber so?' He sighed and stared at the wet glow on his hands.


Note: I wrote this essay for a college course and I'm not the best writer so don't mind my grammar. This is my story of being a heroin addict. I hope that it may help anyone who is struggling with addiction and also to give people an idea of what it's like being a heroin addict. Please give me constructive criticism to help improve my writing abilities. Journal Entry 4/21/11: Throw up before I wake, cloths soaked like a lake. Muscles sore all around, can't get up off the ground. Laying down, tossing and turning, so hot I think I'm burning. Scared about the day ahead, kill me now, I'd rather be dead. I crawl my way out the door, I have a buck, I need some more. I bum, I beg, with tears down my face, lose all pride, become a disgrace. I come up with just enough, now I just got to find some stuff. Searching the streets trying to find the man, waiting... waiting... Finally he pulls up in a white van. I stumble in and make the deal, relieve the pain I don't want to feel. Find a spot on the side of the road, I start to shiver as though I'm cold. Ready to feel high as a kite, I fill it up as dark as night. Stabbing my arm just to find a vein, don't notice anything, no pain. Piercing the skin, still trying to hit, mouth on the tie, I drool and spit. Blood running all the way down my arm, I think it's normal, don't see the harm. I finally pull and it fills with red, I hope this is the one that leaves me dead. I feel the rush then it turns to black, I'm free and I'm never coming back. I rummage through my only possessions, the contents of a black backpack. I can't find a clean rig. I had some earlier today, but now I'll have to use an old one. I find my prized spoon, one side blackened by butane, the other covered in residue. I cup my hand to collect water from the sink, drawing 100cc into the rig. I open a red balloon with my teeth, tearing it like a hyena tears through an animal hide, and I remove the dope wrapped in plastic. Carefully, I open the wrapping and make sure nothing falls. I breathe on the powdered dope to turn it into a moist ball. I put the dope in the spoon, lick the residue off my fingers. A sour bitterness fills my mouth. The taste is horrible. I squirt the water into the spoon. As I cook up the dope, the vinegar-like odor of it melting makes me gag. I try not to make it boil, because I'm afraid some of it will be wasted. When it is completely dissolved, I stir it up with the rig's plunger. I then drop a ball of cotton in the spoon, and fill up the rig. I make sure to suck up every last drop. The rig fills up to 50cc. I pull out my blood-stained tourniquet, and tightly wrap it around my left arm. I clench my fist, waiting for a vein to surface. Nothing. Frustration overwhelms me, tears fall down my face. I start to poke my arm, using the dull rig like a jackhammer to my arm. Blood streams down to my fingertips, sweat down my face. Someone bangs on the bathroom door, yelling "Hurry up!" I don't care. I did not strike oil on the left arm, so I untie the tourniquet, and wrap it around my right. Another ten minutes of searching and I finally hit the spot. The ribbon of blood in the rig brings me a rush. I slowly push the plunger until every last bit is in my arm. I release the tourniquet, take out the rig, and lick the blood off my arm and off the tip of the needle. Suddenly I feel a rush of warmth fill my body. I get the sense of relief as though everything in my life is alright. I slide down the filthy bathroom wall to sit. My sight becomes blurry, and I close my eyes. Nothing matters. Reality slips away. Everything goes black. The life of a heroin junkie is a life that no one deserves to live. It is a miracle that I am alive to write about my experiences. I should be dead. As I read through my old journals, emotions start pouring out as though I'm reliving those horrific episodes. It is as though I am having a recurring nightmare. The heroin problem in America is growing exponentially. Portland, Oregon, being the heroin capital of the west coast, is taking many lives. Every day there are overdoses happening throughout the city. Many of the victims are quickly forgotten. Heroin is like a plague that is growing, and it will continue to grow if actions are not taken to stop this epidemic. This is a day in the life of a junkie. As I open my eyes a bright light illuminates the room. I lie on the top bunk in a room packed with other homeless. The mattress I lie on is covered in sweat. As I peel my back from the plastic mattress, I feel like vomiting. I throw up in my mouth and swallow. All my muscles are sore like I just ran a marathon. I look over to the bottom bunk, to the left of mine, to find my brother still lying in bed. "Travis. Wake up," I say. After a few minutes of calling him, he replies with despair, "I'm so sick." "Me, too. We need to get well," I say. We then both get up. The shelter provides both breakfast and a shower. There’s no time for that. We head out the door. Outside the shelter, the air is cold. I spark up a half-smoked cigarette I found last night. The stale taste and smell of the cig fills my mouth and taints my clothes with the odor of an ashtray. I don't even notice or care. I don't care about anything right now, except for one thing: dope. We walk down the street like a pair of zombies, dragging our bodies in search for brains. We're broke and sick. The anxiety starts to kick in. We become worried about the day ahead. We have to do something. Travis has a cheap cellphone that he may be able to trade to the Hondos. The Hondurans don't have nearly as good of dope as the Mexicans. It is like a comparing a Geo Metro to a Benz. But the Hondos are willing to trade, and we have no other options. We make our way to the nearest payphone. I pull out the fifty cents I saved last night from spanging for a phone call, and dial the number of a Honduran that goes by the name of Juan. His number is engrained in my head, like carvings on a stone tablet. 503-***-****.. That number will never be forgotten. "Hallo? Who's dis?" I hear Juan's familiar Honduran accent. "Hey. This is Caleb." "Chino? Whatchu need?" "Dos negro." "You got the money?" "Yes," I lie. He won't come meet us unless he thinks we have money. "Okay. Come ah to like ah 12th and brouhnsaeed," he says with his broken accent. "Wait... Where? 12th and Johnson?" I ask. "No, Chino. 12th and Brouhnsaeed!" "Oh, Burnside!" "How long?" "Ten minutes." I hang up the phone. We quickly walk towards the meeting spot. As we pace towards Juan, the withdrawal starts to kick in harder. My eyes water, and I sneeze and shiver. My body is malfunctioning. I feel like a fish without water, flopping helplessly on the ground. I vomit as I walk. Travis starts sneezing heavily as though he is allergic to the world. When we finally reach the crossroads, Travis digs through his bag to find the old cheap cellphone. We wait...every second feels like a minute and every minute feels like an hour. Looking in every direction, Juan is nowhere to be seen. 10 minutes pass. Still no sign of juan. An eternity passes. Finally Juan appears from around the corner. It feels like Jesus's second coming.Juan walks up wearing the Nike's we traded him the other day. "What's up Chinos? whatchu need?" Juan says. "two blacks" I say. "wheres the money?" Juan says. Travis pulls out the cell phone. "AHHH NOOO Chino!" juan says with dismay. He then starts to walk off. Travis and I begin to follow him. "Juan please! this cell phone works and it has a sim chip" Travis says. "NO." Juan says with finality. We continue to follow him. Within I'm filled with the fear of not being able to cop. Afraid of being sick. Hopefully if we follow him long enough, Juan will finally give in. "Go away Chino!" Juan says frustrated. We begin to beg as though we are begging for food. "Juan, we are so sick. We need something" I say. Juan stops. "Okay I give you one" he says. He spits out in his hand one bag wrapped in a black black plastic and hands it over to me. I put it in my mouth and we head out. Travis and I head to the nearest public bathroom and both walk in. He gets the works ready. I open the black bag to find a small, sticky smear that smelled like perfume. Travis and I look at each other in disappointment. "What the fuck is this?" Travis says. "This shit must have been cut with something I don't even want to know about." I reply. We both were so sick we still decided to do it. As Travis cooked it, the strong odor filled the bathroom. This dope was dirtier than a whores vagina. When we did the dope, we felt nothing. No pleasure, no warmth, just a feeling of normalcy. We were well. Growing up, my brother and I Travis were like two peas in a pod. We did everything together, good and bad. No matter what situation we got into, we always had each others back. By far this addiction brought us down like no other.Everyday was a constant struggle to survive on the streets. Living homeless is a struggle in itself, but to also have a drug addiction made the experience hell. This drug addiction made us do things that we would never do sober. Travis and I came up with many scams to make money quickly. We took and resold recycled cellphones. We got beanies from homeless shelters and sold them on the street. We pawned everything we owned. Travis sold his prized possession "Reneysha", a 2002 BMW 525, sterling gray with a sports package, equipped with projector headlights, for half the value. We stole and spanged (asked for spare change). We dealed dope. We scammed people for "bus fare." Ad infinitum. It got to the point where we could no longer live this lifestyle. We lost connections with our friends, our family, saw people we cared about die from overdoses, we ourself overdosed on several occasions, this merry-go-round we were on was no longer fun and something must change. I remember one day Travis said to me, “one of us is going to die if we keep on living this lifestyle and it’s gonna take that death to be enough to make the other stop.”We needed to stop. After years of being strung out, 6 times of detox and rehab, my brother and I were finally able to get off the junk. Things we’re starting to look forward. We no longer needed a substance to feel alright. We felt like normal people. It was not an easy journey getting clean, the higher you get, the harder you fall. It was a cloudy christmas eve night in downtown Portland. The homeless youth shelter was packed and I would die if I slept outside. I needed to find shelter. As I walk down Burnside to the Portland rescue mission, I begin to reminisce on the good days. The days before I did drugs. I thought about all times we had Christmas with the whole family and sat in front of the fireplace. I can feel the warmth from the fire heating up my body from my head to my toes. The smell of fresh roasted coffee brewing in the kitchen while mom is cooking up Christmas breakfast. There was just a feeling of peace and serenity. There was nothing to fear. I had a sense of security. As I walk up to the rescue mission, I see a sign on the front door that says ‘shelter full’. I knock on the door. No one answers. I knock again. Nothing. Out of desperation I begin knocking on the door as though I was being chased by zombies and I needed to get inside to shelter. Finally the door opens and a man comes to the door. “Sorry there is no more space, we are completely full”. The man says. “Sir is there anyway you could fit one more person? The youth shelter is closed and I have nowhere to sleep.” I say shivering “I’m sorry there isn’t any room. The capacity of the shelter is 95 and we are pushing it we have 120 people crammed in here.” says the man. “It’s okay, thank you anyways.” I begin walking off. I don’t know where I’m walking to. I feel like a child lost in the supermarket looking for their parents. Or like Bob dylan says, ‘Like a rolling stone’. As I’m walking away from the shelter, I hear a man calling me. “Hey kid! come here!” says the man from the shelter. I walk back towards the man. “Yeah?” “It’s Christmas eve, we can fit you in here” says the man “Yeah?! awesome thank you so much” This was the greatest Christmas gift one can ask for. As I walk into the shelter, I smell an old familiar odor. The odor like the burnside bathroom. I look around this cram packed room to see a room full of homeless people laying on the ground. The man leads me to my mat. As we are walking towards my mat, I look at all the other homeless. I see men with expressions on their face like they are living through misery. I see helpless faces all around. We finally arrive at my king size temper pedic mattress, a 1” thick and 2’ wide blue mattress. “Here’s your spot, wake up is at 6:30. There is coffee in the morning” says the man “Thank you so much sir” I walk towards my mat. As I crawl my way in, the man on the left of me is coughing as though he just smoked a pack of old stale cigarettes. His strong odor of urine fills my nostrils to where I had to hold my breath. The man on the right of me reeks of cigarrette smoke and shit. As I lie down, each one of my shoulders touches the shoulders of the other men. As I look up to the ceiling I think to myself, “What am I doing here?” “Life was so good, and now it comes to this?” “God, if your out there, I need your help.” I fall asleep. The next morning I grab a cup of coffee and make a decision that will change my life for the better forever. My brother and I check ourselves into rehab. With the help of Ouside In, my brother and I both get ourselves into a rehab. Because we are siblings we were not able to go into the same rehab. This was going to be hard because we were always together, we became dependent on each other. There were no other options. We checked in that same day. After weeks of cold turkey withdrawel, I finally started to feel good again. This rehab was the best thing I ever did in my life. I would talk on the phone with travis once a week to see how he was doing. He was moving along pretty quickly in the program. I could hear the difference in his voice. He sounded happy for once. 3 and a half months pass. I’ve come a long way. I have my own studio apartment, I’m working and I’m no longer strung out. I feel as though I can do anything I put my mind into. Life is going good for a change. I inpatiently wait tell my brother gets out. we are both ready to start a new life clean and sober. One of his goals was to go to UTI and automotive school. He wanted to be a mechanic for bmw. My main goal was to go back to college and get an education majoring in Business. our goals were now once possible, we can now make something out of ourselves. When we were on the streets, this was not an option. It’s 5:30 in the morning and I hear a banging on my door. I get up to see who it is. As I open the door, two of my counselors from Outside In are standing at the doorway. The expressions on their face was not a good. They look like they have just seen a ghost. “What’s going on?” I say tiredly “Something happened.” they say quietly. As though they were about to say some bad news. “Is it Travis?” I say knowing that something awful has happened. I had a strange vibe knowing something bad has happened with Travis. “Yes...he passed away last night.” Right when they said this I was in shock and disbelief. This can’t be happening, I must be dreaming. “I’m so sorry” “What happened?” “He relapsed and overdosed. He died in the Joyce hotel” she said. It finally sank in and tears begin to roll down my face. It felt like the whole world was coming to an end and everything around me was going to collapse. I felt like a huge chunk of my soul had been torn off. I was left with this emptiness inside that nothing could ever replace. How could this happen? Everything was going so good. I call my family to tell them the news. Traviss’ death was the last straw for heroin. I will never touch that shit again. All the pain and suffering this drug has put myself and family through. This was no longer an option. There are no happy endings to a heroin junkie. The only thing you can get from it is experience. This experience has made me a stronger person. It made me more grateful for the things I now have in life. Today I’m grateful for the littlest things in life. I’m grateful to once again have my family and friends, I’m grateful to have hot water to take a shower, I’m grateful to be able to eat and not be hungry. I’m grateful to be alive.


She knew the cafe well, but today something was wrong. The shadows would sway and breathe as if responding to her movement while she made her way to her seat. She adjusted her sunglasses and swallowed, widening her eyes as the darkness filled the air around her like thick fumes. She felt as if something were reaching into her chest, squeezing her heart to feel whether it were ripe enough to pick. As she takes her usual seat in the corner she notices a man, his gaze locked on her as she settles. She trembles and fidgets with her glasses once more, unable to hide from the swirls of black ebbing and flowing around her. "It's all right" she said to herself, as she looked to find her server. It was like trying to see through a blizzard. As she scanned the room, she noticed the man was gone from his seat. "It's all right" he whispered into her ear. Startled, she turned to face him not a foot from her face. She couldn't move, she could only feel a rush and a chill. He lifted her glasses, and she stared into his eyes. Black--nothing but black. She tilted her head back, gasping for air as she drowned in the darkness. He pulled back; she exhaled, collapsing on the small table, her cheek pressed to the cold sanitized surface. A feeling of comforting familiarity washed over her, "maybe this is just how I will always feel" she says without a single blink, as she reads the writing carved into the table: "And the rugged wheel is turning another round". In truth, She felt nothing. And she liked it. She learned to like it. She watched the man standing there, her heart in his fist. The darkness continued to fill the room, until there was nothing but the sound of distant beating.


My Dear Big Brother, When we were kids, you were always exploring. You always had a very active imagination. This time you're a pioneer treasure hunter with a blanket for a cape. Braving the dark corners of this old house with your flashlight. Sometimes I wish you could take me along but I never saw what you were able to see with the little that we had growing up. But, when you did find something worth sharing, you shared it with your sister. I remember this one time it was those delicious but hot Fireballs. There were maybe a handful of them you found stashed away in some cupboard. As always, you popped in the Fireball first to eat away the initial hot layer of the candy before giving that sweet candy center to your baby sister. First of all, very gross! It was extremely gross. But, it's also one of my favorite memories of you growing up. Sorry that things hasn't been better for you. I wish you would've told me that you were molested for years as a teenager, about being bullied throughout high school, about being cheated on, about your depression, and about being fired from your job. I wish we had a kind of relationship where you could've confided in me anything you wanted. Instead I had to find all this out from your journal. Did you even stop to think how much you would be hurting us? I fucking hate you for having me find you in your room like that. I fucking hate you for making sure I am the one who took care of everything when you killed yourself. I fucking hate you for leaving me all alone. You were my big brother. I love you and I miss you. I wish I could've been there for you.