A man dies. Death comes to collect him and tell him of his eternal fate. When the man reaches the afterlife, he is first startled and then smug to find that the afterlife has all the comforts he had hoped it would have and he is content in the knowledge that surely he’d gone to Heaven for Hell was said to be full of tortures that surpassed anything mankind could think up. Even as he came down from his haze of smug self satisfaction for what he saw as God agreeing with him and thus allotting him a special place in Heaven, he was greeted with the sight of dishes upon dishes being brought out, all by the most beautiful men and women he had ever seen. The only thought that greeted the man as they lifted the lids of the dishes of different and delicious looking foods was that he deserved this. He was right. He didn’t notice anything was off until he had been there for time immeasurable and he went to once more bite into a slice of pie that was literally exactly how his mother used to make. Instead of the flavors that he expected to greet him, he tasted nothing but ash. Frowning and taking a bite of another dish, he tasted the same flavor. It was exactly the same flavor. Ash. He started to notice that while what he ate still filled his stomach comfortably, he could no longer taste any of it. All he could taste no matter what he ate or drank was ash. He was put off by it and stopped eating soon after it was proven that he could no longer taste the flavors that he knew he had tasted when the feast started. He soon found other pleasures to occupy his time, the main one being the pleasures of the flesh. He had a far better time than he did in life and he thought that surely if things like this were in Heaven that God had no problem with him vigorously partaking. He did so and as he moved from person to person taking what he wanted, he began to feel less and less. Soon no matter what he did, no matter that he had been given the stamina of a man in his prime, he could not satiate himself. He always wanted more and the encounters became increasingly unsatisfying. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that he felt these encounters less and less. He didn’t want to face it when he realized that he finally felt nothing despite how good it had all felt when he had started. Slowly, the pleasures of the flesh were stripped of their pleasure and he abandoned such things, for surely there were still plenty of things for him to enjoy in the afterlife. It wasn’t until he had gone through the multiple (and at one time, enjoyable) aspects of the afterlife that he realized that he had nothing left to do, for everything he had once enjoyed had become a chore. Nothing that he enjoyed still existed as it had when he had first come here. Nothing caught his interest like it used to. The afterlife had become bland instead of pleasurable and he was left with bland, beautiful, boring people who only ate and partook of the pleasures of the afterlife as if they could still taste and feel them. It was at this point that the man realized that this was his reality for the rest of existence. He then began to realize that despite what he initially thought, he had not gone to Heaven or any incarnation of such a thing. He had gone to hell, surrounded by the joys of life and unable to enjoy partaking in any of it. It was only then that the man began to regret. Too bad for him that regret did nothing to get one out of their deserved fate. He had every pleasure he’d enjoyed in life slowly taken away from him until he had nothing left and that was to be his existence from then on. The man did not rage, nor cry, nor even react at the realization of what his eternal existence now was, for he no longer cared. He was empty.


The Thought The thick door slid shut, a metal bolt with its massive sound slid across finding its home. I guess I’m now home, here in my box, although I'm sure I'll be provided with a ‘mate’ soon. I hope he's not violent or found himself through religion. I don't belong here, I didn't kill her. Kill her! Kill her? Did I? Can't remember, I wouldn't have, would I, how did I end up leaning over her, oh god the blood; everywhere. Her face curved the wrong way, not again. He leant forward and wretched a colourful spill of vile scented lunch onto the floor. Wiping the curds of vomit from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and then across his trousers. I suppose I should call for a mop, that stinks, can I call for cleaning products, how does this place even work, I suppose I'll figure it out in time. But I didn't kill her, not me, never me. ‘You did do it though James’ spoke that maniacal voice again ‘you did it, I did it, we did it!, why didn't you tell them about me James’. James leapt at the sound, and inspected his cell, empty just him, alone, mumbling again as he did in court, despite the advice to remain still. You said if I let you in, just once, everything would be okay. ‘It will James, it will, everything will be just fine inside, think of how many people will we can kill’.


This will be my first entry, as I feel that, for the moment, I'm safe enough to record this account. I'm not even sure these words will ever be read by another soul, but the witch did say that, so long as I filled the pages of this journal with this particular ink, its contents would reach someone, somehow. I never much cared for quill and parchment, but I suppose it couldn't hurt to try. Let me start by introducing myself. My name is Isaac Jacobs. I was born in the small village of Thrawlst, just north of the Coarsha River, I shall disclose no more of my home than that - for reasons soon to become apparent. At the present, I'm twenty-seven years of age, but I feel as if the dread that fills me could suffice to send me to an early grave. We're it not for this journal, I would be utterly alone. I've been running from it for longer than I can accurately attest, and I know not how much longer I can endure its chase. I should be thankful of my abilities, I suppose, for were it not for them I could not run between the worlds, and would likely have been caught by now. Though, it is possible, if what the witch told me is true, that this thing only nips at my heels because of my ability to do just that. I realise that reading this will raise many questions, and I shall try to answer them all in earnest. I discovered some years back - fourteen, if memory serves - that I could visit other worlds. I can't quite explain the process involved, but I suppose it's like fading from one world and arriving in the next, like being born, but fully grown. The world in which I am a visitor of just now, it seems, is empty apart from myself. There are indeed structures, manmade it would appear, but alas the world seems empty, as though everyone has left it behind. I can't say I care for such an atmosphere, but as soon as I'm able I should like to leave this one behind. Maybe I'll return to the last one I visited, I should like to ask the witch a few more questions. The journal she gave me, besides it carrying the words of my pen across - as she claims - time and space, it's apparently able to bring message back from those who have read it. This, though peculiar indeed, is something I would be utterly grateful for, it's been so long since I've spoken to anyone. But I spoke of a chase, and should this first entry also prove my last, it must needs contain the core reason for my writing it. A warning. In my travels across the worlds, and of the many cultures I've seen, and of all the different events that fill the pages of all the written histories, there is, I have found, something they all share in common. A connection. This pathway between worlds was something that I thought only myself capable of traversing, but I was wrong, very wrong. There is, among the countless stars and worlds of the universe, an energy, a presence. It is a living, conscious memory that encompasses all that has existed, and all that will. It does not know time, and it does not know distance, it has no beginning, or an end. It is called The Fade. It silently feeds off of the worlds that find themselves connected by this unseen pathway, and in return it fills them with something, a sort of energy similar to its own design. Though, for what purpose I can only guess. The witch told me that the entity that is the Fade seeks to consume all of existence. The reason it chases me is likely because I have intruded on its otherwise private domain. I wish I had never learned to jump between worlds, perhaps I would have married that girl. I like to think on what could have been, it fuels me to some degree. Maybe I'll go home one day, but I dare not risk the Fade learning where I come from, so perhaps it is best I not return there. But, back to the present. The witch told me of this world. She said there was someone here that could help me throw the Fade off my trail. She did not say exactly who it was that I was looking for, but she gave me a piece of parchment with a rather odd drawing on it. Seven figures sat at a long table, with one eye each. So far, as I've said, it seems that I'm the only one here. Perhaps I'm wrong though, but if that picture she gave me is of any real likeness to whom I seek, I'm somewhat nervous of the encounter. I would feel safer if I stopped writing now. I know I'm still safe for the moment, but I haven't much ink, and concerning the nature of what it's supposedly capable of doing, I shouldn't want to watse it all on my first testament. I thank you, whoever you are. Though you may not reply to this, believing that you've read it is enough for now. Though I do hope to learn your name, I remain sceptical of this journals abilities. We shall see.


It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me. And that's when you met me. "What... what happened?" You asked. "Where am I?" "You died," I said, matter-of-factly. No point mincing words. "There was a... a truck and it was skidding..." "Yup." I said "I... I died?" "Yup. But don't feel bad about it. Everyone dies." I said. You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. "What is this place?" You asked. "Is this the afterlife?" "More or less," I said. "Are you God?" You asked. "Yup." I replied. "I'm God." "My kids... my wife," you said. "What about them?" "Will they be alright?" "That what I like to see," I said. "You just died and your main concern is for your family. That's good stuff right there." You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn't look like God. I just looked like some man. Some vague authority figure. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty. "Don't worry," I said. "They'll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn't have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it's any consolation, she'll feel very guilty for feeling relieved." "Oh," you said. "So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?" "Neither," I said. "You'll be reincarnated." "Ah," you said. "So the Hindus were right." "All the religions are right in their own way," I said. "Walk with me." You followed along as we strolled in the void. "Where are we going?" "Nowhere in particular," I said. "It's just nice to walk while we talk." "So what's the point, then?" You asked. "When I get reborn, I'll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won't matter." "Not so!" I said. "You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don't remember them right now." I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. "Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It's like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it's hot or cold. You put a tiny part or yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you've gained all the experiences it had." "You've been a human for the last 34 years, so you haven't stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for longer, you'd start remembering everything. But there's no point doing that between each life." "How many times have I been reincarnated, then?" "Oh, lots. Lots and lots. And into lots of different lives." I said. "This time around you'll be a Chinese girl in 540 A.D." "Wait, what?" You stammered. "You're sending me back in time?" "Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from." "Where do you come from?" You pondered. "Oh sure!" I explained. "I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you'll want to know what it's like there but you honestly won't understand." "Oh." you said, a little let down. "But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, could I have interacted with myself at some point?" "Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own timespan you don't even know it's happening." "So what's the point of it all?" "Seriously?" I asked. "Seriously? Your asking me for the meaning of life? Isn't that a little stereotypical?" "Well it's a reasonable question." you persisted. I looked in your eye. "The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature." "You mean mankind? You want us to mature?" "No. just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature, and become a larger and greater intellect" "Just me? What about everyone else?" "There is no one else," I said. "In this universe, there's just you, and me." You stared blankly at me. "But all the people on earth..." "All you. Different incarnations of you." "Wait. I'm everyone!?" "Now you're getting it." I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back. "I'm every human who ever lived?" "Or who will ever live, yes." "I'm Abraham Lincoln?" "And you're John Wilkes Booth, too." I added. "I'm Hitler?" you said, appalled. "And you're the millions he killed." "I'm Jesus?" "And you're everyone who followed him." You fell silent. "Every time you victimized someone," I said, "You were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you've done, you've done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you." "Why?" You asked me. "Why do all this?" "Because someday, you will become like me. Because that's what you are. You're one of my kind. You're my child." "Whoa." you said, incredulous. "You mean I'm a god?" "No. Not yet. You're a fetus. You're still growing. Once you've lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born." "So the whole universe," you said. "It's just..." "An egg of sorts." I answered. "Now its time for you to move on to your next life." And with that, I sent you on your way.


Titled: Brain Powered Victorian Age Android Submitted By: Agent 819, Catherine Wolsky Types: Sentient, Mechanical, Human, Technology Date Submitted: 1/7/[REDACTED] Status: Safe/4 The original Android concept was created by Professor Charles Babbage (12/26/1791 - 10/18/1871) in collaboration with an unnamed doctor. The two created the blueprints for this contraption in 1851, though Pro. Babbage dropped the project after the clear insanity of his unnamed doctor accomplice. Pro. Babbage decided to pick up the project once more in 1871, but died shortly thereafter. A French inventor by the name of [REDACTED] in 1998 decided to try to follow the blueprints he had found for the contraption, and succeeded in the creation of a sentient robot. The contraption was retrieved by P.O.L.A in the year [REDACTED] and placed under the authority of Professor [DATA REMOVED] Browns, the world's leading robotics researcher. The Android is a roughly humanoid shaped robot connected to the generator by many sprawling wires and tubes. The wires and tubes are 18 feet long, and attached to a large pod roughly the size of a refrigerator laying on it's back and contains a man inside with wires and tubes sticking out of each of his orifices. (noted, the pod seems to be designed after the iron lung.) The container is attached to a larger machine that constantly has the hissing of hydraulics and the pounding of pistons as it pumps the fluids, and powers the Android. (noted, that the machine weighs 2 metric tons, Professor Browns was amazed at how much machinery was required for it to produce the required computing power for the Android.) The man is floating inside of some type of fluid, and has yellowing of the skin, balding and extreme wrinkling as his body has begun decomposing. (noted, that the fluid appears to be embryonic fluid, farther testing required.) The man inside the pod appears be in his late 30's, though it's difficult to tell due to his decomposition state. The pod which the man resides in must always be kept between 74 and 126 degrees, and his pressure inside the pod cannot exceed 200 pounds. Professor Browns has discovered that the man is used simply for his brain, as a computer for the Android, and that if the man became damaged in any way, the Android would most likely be rendered useless. The Android is slightly taller than an average man at 6' 9'', and it's weight is roughly 550 pounds. The Android is capable of basic motor skills, but not fine tuned motor skills. the Android does not have a voice box, but rather a buzzer that whenever the Android tries to speak, the buzzes come out in morse code. The Android is mostly docile, but can be agitated whenever told that it isn't a human, but an Android. Though it is much to slow to harm any personnel, it should still be handled with minimum caution. The Android seems to only grow in intelligence as time goes on, though. To have access to the Android, you must be an Agent with a pass, regardless of level.


The moon never set anymore. All day and all night it hung above the red sky, flecks of its shattered surface breaking off into the cosmos. There was always just enough light from it. Just enough. Enough light to see, enough for plans to grow, enough for things to feel almost alright. Almost. Things were almost normal. The dust storms were no longer a daily catastrophe. Meager crops could be grown from the soil, and it rained just enough to make wells a backup instead of a primary source of water. Wild beasts with a taste for people roamed the wasteland, but they never rolled into town anymore. They stayed outside most of the time. Trade was almost regular again. Men from other places came and went, selling their wares. Men with different skin and different faces. Men and women who weren’t human but were close enough. Polite enough. They’d come selling food and crafts and machines, they sold things that one would expect to be sold in market stalls. It was almost normal. Almost. The killings had started again, just like before. First it was a pet, a dog found wrapped in silk. Then it was a vagrant, the fluids drained from his body. Then another and another until people were being found in packs of six or seven, all of them sucked dry, all of them wrapped in the same silk with care, stuck up in the alleyways and the back lots. Hidden. Saved for later. There was no longer any doubt about it. People lived in fear once more, after 7 long years. The Queen of Spiders had returned. Everybody knew who they should ask. He got rid of her the first time, they would all whisper in secret, he could do it again, couldn’t he? He drove her away last time, drove her away every time. But that was just it. He only drove her away. People doubted him because that was all he could ever do was drive her away, push her out for a few years. Every time she came back. Eventually she always came back. Men in bars bragged that they could do a better job, but in secret they admitted they never could. They were afraid of her. They knew he had to be the one to do it. Nobody dared ask him to go do it, though. They all knew he was already on it. Donnie went though the same motions he always did. Find the bullets, not the normal ones, the ones made of tungsten. Count them out, seven is enough, bring an extra just in case. Find the gun, oil it, and make sure all the parts still work. Load it, test it, and make sure the safety is on when it gets holstered. Find the vest, find the hat, get dressed and go get a drink before you head out there. Don’t get pissed when they call you The Dawn. The man behind the bar was elated to see him. “Well if it isn’t The Dawn himself! How ya been, Donnie?” Donnie gave a half hearted thumbs up before asking for a bottle of the usual. “Judging by the gun, I take it you’re headed out there to deal with her again? Give the spider a run for her money?” “Yep” Donnie grumbled, not wishing to have the same conversation for what felt like the hundredth time. His monosyllabic response left the man working the bar at an awkward loss for words, allowing Donnie to finish his drink in peace. He eventually stood up, payed his tab and began to head for the door when the barman grabbed him by the shoulder. “Listen man…I gotta know. How are you gonna find her? I mean I know you’re gonna find her and you’re gonna drive her back but…but how ya gonna find her? We never find her when we go out looking!” the barman stammered, just a hint of fear in his eyes. “Finding her ain’t the hard part. Doing what needs done is the hard part,” Donnie replied before heading back out the door. The moon hung above the town in the red sky, casting almost enough light for things to be normal. Almost. Visibility didn’t matter much though. He knew where he was going. She always waited for him in the same spot. He started the long march to the edge of town, past the people in the streets, past the children clutching their mother’s skirts. Past row after row of dirty wooden homes and paddocks full of livestock eating scrub grass with both their heads, three eyed dogs and saber tooth rats tied to posts nearby to keep guard. He had done this a hundred times. He knew the path. He knew what to say to get her to leave. What to do to make sure she left these poor people alone. The house was easy to miss. The windows were broken and the door hung lazy off the hinges from being kicked in too many times. The vibrant paint had long ago been blasted off by the sand storms, leaving behind the dull, blackened timber. A faint smell of sex and alcohol lingered in the air, the ghost of former inhabitants. She was here. Walking the halls brought back the same awful memories it always did. The laughter. The drinking. The kissing. The embraces. Floorboards creaked in agony at being forced to bear weight again. Paintings followed every move as he went deeper into the house. The sex. The love. It was all coming back, back in waves like the tide. The anger. The betrayal. The beckoning to come back and the reluctant agreement to do so. It was all here. All those years were pent up here. A wretched archive. The Sex. The Venom. The Addiction. It was all here. She was in the same spot she always was, an old love seat, draped in spider silks to the point of being unrecognizable. A throne fit for a queen to recline on, and recline she did, sprawled out as if she had not a care in the world. Lying naked in repose as if there weren’t corpses on the floor. As if the past hadn’t walked in the front door with every intention of bringing her harm. She was still beautiful in that horrible twisted way. The long blonde hair, the shining blue eyes, the curvaceous figure with perfect breasts and a pudgy belly that bore a red and black hour glass mark. Long, thin spider legs extended from her back, toying idly with lengths of silk. Fangs could be seen as she opened her mouth for the occasional sigh. “I’m sick of this Jeannie.” Donnie snarled as he finally entered her room. The Spider Queen sat up, smiling coyly at him but making no move to stand up. “Aw, you came back. Come here Dawn, talk to me. Tell me what you’ve been up to, let me take your pains away…” She sang, beckoning with an outstretched hand. “It’s Donnie. And No, I’m not here for that. It’s time for you to go. You’ve done enough.” She frowned at his response, pouting like a child before standing up on her arachnid legs and moving to him. “I don’t wanna go. I’m not done with you this time Donnie,” she gasped, grabbing at his jacket, “I’m so lonely out here and I need you. I need somebody to play with.” “I’m not playing this anymore, I’m done, you hear me,” he snapped, placing a hand on the gun. “I don’t need you anymore, I’m walking away. It’s over. Leave these people alone.” Her playful expression faded entirely. Now her face spoke of anger and mockery. “Oh but you do need me. You need me because deep down you know I’m all you’ve got. Because no matter how much you get hurt you’ll come back. Because admit it, Donnie, You like this. You ENJOY it. You know deep down that whenever I call you’re gonna come crawling right back here because you NEED me. Because deep down, you and I both know you’ll never let go because you love m-“ BANG A casing and a body hit the floor. Both could be heard from miles off. For the rest of the night, the town was quiet. It was finally over. The Spider Queen was gone, and she was never coming back. The moon still shined with almost enough light. There was still just enough rain, and the sky was still blood red. People were living with what was almost a sense of normalcy. And if you walked out to the edge of town, and stood by the old farm house, you could almost hear somebody crying. Almost.


The sand had shifted from blinding white to the dull crimson of spilled blood. Bodies lay scattered about with little regard for anything even resembling burial rights. In the distance a crowd of thousands roared for more, more violence, more blood, and more death. But their screams meant nothing to the two men left standing. Their ears had long ago grown dull to the masses and their demands for unfettered carnage. These men were no longer fighting to entertain. The rules had been abandoned long ago when that…thing… had been released into the pit. This was no longer about spectacle, this was about survival. The horrid being would not stop until it had massacred all it laid eyes upon. It did not fight to please the masses; it fought to feed its bloodlust. It was clearly not human. That much had been certain from the start. The emperor claimed his men had found it in the deserts of Egypt, within a great metal structure that fell to earth. A flying tomb, he had called it, and within was a sarcophagus fit for the great kings of the Nile. But within there was no long dead Pharaoh. Only evil beyond imagination. It stood at least 3 heads above even the tallest of men and possessed four arms that widened out into massive 8 fingered hands, each of them large enough to envelop a small child. Its head was elongated at the jaw and topped with an ornate headdress made of metal unlike any other, adorned with jewels that sparkled like the inky blackness of the midnight sky. The beast’s entire body was covered in such ornamentation, necklaces and bangles, jewelry beyond measure laid atop the decaying gauze bandages wrapped so tightly around every inch of its being. The bandages themselves were just as fascinating, moving and shifting of their own accord as if the beast were entangled in a nest of serpents. What little flesh could be seen was dark and shriveled, that of a corpse left in the sun for weeks on end. The emperor had warned his favorite fighters that they would face the creature in the pit. Such an exotic beast was too good to be kept locked away. The people grew tired of Christians being fed to lions and tigers, but who could tire of a monster from beyond the heavens that had the strength of ten men and the passion of one hundred? One By one the gladiators had filed out into the coliseum. Each had waved and shouted, trying to rile up the crowd, trying to draw the most attention and praise to himself. Eventually all were made to turn and face the mighty casket that stood upright in the center of the pit, rattling and thrashing, the beast inside making unholy such an unholy din. The handlers refused to open it themselves. The animals of China and the Dark Continent were one thing, but this creature knew no concept of loyalty or mercy, and the beast masters refused to let it prove this on anybody other than the fighters. The first brave soul who opened the sarcophagus was swiftly punished. The beast’s bandages shot out from the inky darkness inside and grabbed his arms and legs, swiftly tearing him to pieces before dragging the torso in and slamming the lid shut once more. Moments later it emerged, the once pristine white gauze soaked in gore. More fighters tried to rush in, some managing to strike it with their swords before having their skull caved in by a strike from one of its mighty palms. Two more were strangled by the animate bandages, hung by their necks about the horrid thing while it used its limbs to face more pressing challengers. A brief spark of hope did appear when one man managed to catch the monster by surprise and stab at its chest, causing it to fall to its knees in shock. The crowd roared with excitement as the warrior lifted his sword to take the beast’s head, but it took too long. The creature screamed with rage, the very sand on the ground around it whipping into the air and creating a furious gale that enveloped him. The sheer force of the coarse particles blasted flesh away from bone, and soon another corpse laid upon the ground, reduced to little more than a skeleton. Two men remained standing against the creature. The first saw no victory, and promptly fell upon his sword in despair. The second however, had other ideas. The creature may not tire, and it may not be slowed by conventional attempts to wound, but it was old. Old and dry. Which meant that in theory, he reasoned, it could burn. Quickly he sprinted to the outer edge of the coliseum, making a bee line for the torches that brought light to the pit when it was enveloped by the shadows of the day. The gladiator grabbed a burning fixture and lobbed it, striking the beast in the center of the chest. A brief sound of surprise escaped its mouth before it was enveloped in flames, bandages and desiccated skin blazing like tinder. Once more the horrid thing dropped to its knees, but before it could truly die, something truly strange occurred. The sarcophagus, originally dormant at the center of the pit, flew open once more, and a violent wind pulled from within it with hurricane force. The beast was ripped from the battlefield, the raging fire dissipating as it was pulled back from whence it came and the lid slammed shut. The box no longer rattled and shook. It was done. For now, this was over. But as the gladiator heard the people cheer, and the emperor praise his bravery, something stuck within his mind. He could have sworn, that for the few moments before the sarcophagus closed…that within it he saw an ocean of stars.


It happens faster than I ever thought it would, hits me with the force of a moving train, and pierces me like an unforgiving bullet. "What?" I say. But those words don't come from my mouth, escaping from the confines of my throat. They don't, because this isn't happening. It is all a dream - and a pretty bad one at that. Everything will be fine, I think, everything is, in fact, just fine... "I'm sorry. I should have told you about this way earlier. Before things got so dire." His voice is distant, dry, emotionless. He doesn't even sound human at all. "l don't get it. What do you need to tell me so desperately?" I sound so stupid. My voice soars like a magnificent eagle hunting for prey and then falls, crashes against the ground like a pathetic pigeon with broken wings. "Why can't you just tell me this in person?!" I scream, and I realize, horrified, how psychotic I have become in just a couple of moments. Are things so bad? When did we go off the rails like this? Is this my fault?! There is a cough. Even through the phone, which strips reality of every detail and delivers a naked, vulnerable and warped mess to my ears, I can sense that his mouth hasn't opened at all. There is someone else with him. A woman. She coughs again, as a tear rolls down my cheek. I know exactly where this is going. "l have been seeing someone else lately", he finally lets out, and I notice that he doesn't seem concerned, or sad, but rather relieved, liberated as if an invisible burden had been finally disposed of. That burden, of course, is me. "Look, I obviously didn't want things to happen like this", he says. "I loved you, Liz. I really did. But you drove me insane." Loved. Have I become so soon an unfortunate memory, a sad reminder of his past? "We have been together for a while." He stops. That's it. He isn't going to speak anymore. "So what? What do you want me to do? Do you want me to get up from my chair and clap? Do you want me to praise you for cheating on me?" I'm not even talking; I'm yelling, screaming at the top of my lungs, bursting half my vessels along the way. This is not happening. We are fine. We. Are. Fine. "Please, calm down. I need to you to understand that- " "To understand what, Peter?! To understand that this is magically over? To accept that some random woman just got in your way and bam, there goes our relationship?! Tell me! TALK TO ME, YOU BASTARD!" "Take a deep breath and calm down-" "Don't tell me what to do! I AM NOT A CHILD! You cheated on me, you disgusting pig, and I swear that you--no, she will pay for this!" "What are you going to do Liz, huh? Are you going to pay my new girlfriend a visit and slay her as if she were some pest you have to get rid of? NO! I love her! She does not behave like the venomous, possessive snake that you are! She lets me go out with my friends when I want to! She isn't attached to me all the time as though she were a leech! YOU DISGUST ME. YOU SICKEN ME. Do you not get that? Have you fallen that low?! Listen to this with extreme attention, Elizabeth: the second you dare lay a finger on her, I will make sure you won't get in our way ever again, by any means necessary." Did that just really happen? Did she just call me "a possessive woman"? Am I one?! Of course not. I helped him. I took him in my arms when others spat on his face. It is clear now, however, that I took the wrong decision. I should have left him to wither and die. "Oh. You're threatening me." There is not a hint of emotion in my voice. "So if I try to take away your new bone, you're going to bite me like the rabid stray dog that you are? What a wonderful world this is! HA! Can't you see? You belong to me. Without me, you are nothing." "Are you even listening to yourself? I do not belong to anyone! I am a free human being! You are sick, Elizabeth, perhaps incurably so. This is why I left you alone in the house. You are a parasite." "Don't you dare lecture me as if I were some obtuse--" "Enough, Elizabeth! I have tried to be patient, to be reasonable! I have tolerated you for too long! You are sick. You might be bipolar, delusional, or schizophrenic, for all I know. You keep claiming that I 'belong to you'. You have always told me that 'you made me'. You may be right, since, after all, you made me sick. Every single day with you was torture. It is now when I realize that I only tolerated you because I pitied you. It wasn't love. It was pity. I saw you, alone, troubled, reviled by many. Now I know why. You are vile poison." For some reason, I fail to respond. I just stand there, looking at my own contorted reflection in the mirror. "Tell me, Peter...of all things, why did you let me buy such a hideous mirror?" There is silence. Then, he speaks. "We never bought any mirrors, Elizabeth." That must be wrong. That is wrong. We bought a mirror a long while ago. I remember it clearly. It is the one that now I face. "Of course we did! The one in my bedroom!" "Elizabeth...seriously. I think you might be very stressed right now. And I understand, of course; in all honesty, I could have handled this better. But this is concerning. But know this: there are no mirrors in your bedroom." "You're lying, Peter. I can see my own reflection in it right now." "No. I once bought you a small mirror for Valentine's Day. Your reflection horrified you. You shattered it to pieces, and said: "I'm sorry, Peter, but never, ever buy a mirror again. I hate them." For a moment I stay quiet. I almost yell at him. But then I realize that his words are not lies. I hate mirrors. I stare at an empty wall. The mirror is no longer there. Then there is nothing. His voice fades away. He is far, far away from me. He will never hurt me again. "Elizabeth! Hello?!" The phone wiggles around on the sand. The waves wash it away. "l am at a beach. I love beaches. I love the water." I say this, even though there is no one around who can hear me, even though the phone is actually my fist, even though I am here, trapped on a cell on the psychiatric ward of a hospital, yelling the name of someone who, long ago, put me here 'for my own safety'. "Peter! Let me go, Peter! I am fine!" I crash my fists against the window. What is wrong with me? "PETER!" Nobody hears me. Through this dirty pane of glass I can see other people like me, trapped in these metal cages as though they were dangerous animals. We are not sick. We simply choose to see the world in a different way. "But I still love you, Peter." Those words did not come from my mouth. Of course they didn't. I drop myself against the cushioned floor. Even pain has been taken away from me here. Eight years ago, Peter brought me here. He said I was schizophrenic. He said I saw things that were not there. A psychiatrist told me that I could construct entire worlds, full of people and places, each with their own completely fictional story. Is this one of such worlds? Am I where I think I am? I'm not certain of anything anymore. I don't even know if my name truly is Elizabeth. In spite of that, I think they both lied. I think they did, because I can feel the sand in the beach, swim in the warm water, as the nurses look at me with an expression of horror and pity on their faces. If only they saw and felt what I do. I am at a beach. I have always been at a beach. I love you, Peter. Thank you for setting me free.


Hello all! Last November, I wrote this short story on a whim. I haven't had the chance to update or modify anything on it since. I was hoping I could get some feedback from every one here. First time posting to this sub as well. Thanks! Depression: a short story. When I was born, I was given a candle. I was told that this is my happiness. I held onto this candle for as long as I could. Eventually, it disappeared. I couldn't find it. I searched everywhere throughout my mind to find it. I fell quite a bit. I stumbled often. Sometimes I would just lay on the floor after falling, little to no motivation to continue my search. Years went by. I still didn't find that candle. The world around me grew dim, cold, void of colors that were once vibrant and welcoming. Eventually, darkness settled into my mind. I accepted my fate after a while. I sat in the middle of the inky darkness. Staring into a random area of the room. Everything looked the same. I stayed in that room for quite some time. More years went by. Occasionally, lights would flicker on and inevitably turn off again. I stayed in that same spot, even though the lights would illuminate the world and show me what was there. But it would always become dark after a few hours. I felt safe there, in the dark. I couldn't see and nothing could see me. I thought about that candle from time to time. It flickered dimly in my memories. Having not seen it in years, my memory of the candle was cloudy and faded. I stayed in the dark room, but would wander around, trying to map out the area I had grown comfortable in. A few more years went by. I was still in that dark, macabre room. I had mapped the whole area out by that time. I had memorized everything around me, even though I could not see. I grew more and more comfortable with the objects and corners I memorized. I didn't realize it at first, but the room was never ending. One day, I felt the wall and found a door. I had never found a door before. Naturally, I opened it. Expecting more darkness. More numbing sadness. More uncertainty about what was behind it. Beyond the door, I found a hallway. Dimly lit. I followed this hallway for a few more years. At the end of the hallway, there was another door. I was excited to find something else other than two walls beside me with a ceiling and floor and endless darkness ahead of me. I took a deep breath. Preparing for more disappointment. As I placed my hand on the lever, it was different this time. The door felt lighter than the heavier one behind me, years away. Pushing the door open, I found a giant room. With an endless ceiling that went much higher than I could ever fathom or care to know. There was a small voice. It didn't make any sense at first, but I followed it. The voice would rarely make sense, just garbled words that I couldn't understand. It took me up many flights of stairs. So many of them. I thought it would never end. I would get tired and have to take a break every so often. Recently, I ascended all of the stairs. I had finally made it to the top! My eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness by now. I was used to it. That's when I saw the candle. It was right there. A few steps away, sitting on top of a table. It hadn't changed much. Still the same size and it was still burning. My eyes hurt to look at it. Having not been around visible light for years, it gave me extreme headaches if I looked at it for longer than a second. A few months went by. I was still at the top of the stairs. The candle was still there. And I had grown accustomed to its dim glow. I was afraid of it. It was new, different, and unfamiliar to me. The voice came back. After being gone for months, it startled me. I could hear it with great clarity and could actually understand the words this time. I realized that it was the candle talking. It told me stories of adventures that I had been on, the wonderful and inspiring people I met along the way, the people I helped in life, and many other stories that made me happy. Happy? What is this? This isn't something I was familiar with. I'm 25 now. I have gotten a bit closer to the candle. I can make out the intricate details of the table legs and the color of the wood. The candle still tells me stories that make me happy. One day I'll hold it again. One day I will carry it down all those stairs, that long hallway, and eventually back to the room where I started. The light will illuminate everything around me. A warm, soft glow will soon overtake the darkness. And I will sit in that same room, in the same spot, with my candle. We'll tell stories to each other. Learn about each other. And grow together as a single entity. I'm not going to give up. I will return to my comfortable room with the candle in my hands. Until then, I'll sit quietly and listen to the candle. I'll let it warm me with stories of love and excitement. One day, I'll believe those stories. One day, I'll be strong enough to carry both my happiness and my sadness. On that day, I will celebrate quietly. By myself and the candle. Alone in the room. And everything will feel okay.


"The Struggle Knows Not the Logic of Morals" *** Walid sat at a table across from Mahmud. All Mahmud did was look at him, shaking his head. None of Walid’s apologies worked. He woke up with sweat gluing his shirt to his skin. Walid's sleeping wife stirred, but soon returned to her steady breathing. He swung out of bed and walked out to the lawn, listening to helicopters in the distance. He was tired of the sound. The steady beat of an American machine gun started up, hitting a note inside his chest. Either someone was standing up to them, or they were shooting at shadows. Walid lit a cigarette and shivered as cold Baghdadi air leaked into his blood. The Samarra Mosque had been bombed earlier that morning, and though he still felt anger, he wasn’t certain what to do about it. “Walid, they’re coming!” Salaam yelled. Walid turned. His mind lingered on last night's dream. Smoke from late morning fires thickened the air and blurred the street. They had just set up a checkpoint, and he wasn’t certain if Salaam was joking. “Minoo?” “The Americans,” Salaam yelled as he climbed into his car. “Wayeen?" “The bridge to Azamiya.” Salaam started his car. No way, thought Walid. He had promised last night to get at least one. “Get back out, they are at least five daqa'iq away,” Walid said. He tried to stop his voice from quivering. Normally, he would've done exactly what Salaam was doing. They were parked on the side of a small road that was regularly used by people who tried to avoid the main street's traffic. Taking a deep breath, Walid pulled out his handgun and pointed it at the first car that came down the potholed street. He hoped it would stop; he knew he wasn’t going to shoot. “Identification. Where are you from?” Walid asked the driver. “What is this, police checkpoint?” the man asked, scrutinizing Walid with a look of disdain as he handed over his ID. Walid looked at the man, surprised that he had obeyed him so easily. “Us?” he looked back at his group and felt more powerful. “We ask the questions here. Where are you from?” Walid asked. The ID checked out. “Hurriya, azizi, you?” Walid smiled. One of their own. “We are only looking for Sunnis, drive on.” The driver hesitated, looking at Walid, Salaam, and their entourage before swallowing his words and driving on. Walid pointed his gun at the next car driving by. “Walid, they’re getting close,” Salaam said. Walid tried to slow his breathing down. The car squeaked to a halt. “Identification, please. Where are you coming from; where are you going?” asked Walid. “Where are your uniforms?” the driver asked back. Walid pointed the gun at the driver’s asymmetrical, beady eyes and large nose. “No questions, just answer.” “Azamiya. I’m going to the market.” Walid’s heart jumped. This was his moment to act, to prove Mahmud wrong. Walid felt queasy. He was not certain if this was right. He turned to Salaam and the rest of his group, and they came at the car. “You are Sunni, sah?” The man’s eyes darted to the other men, and he nodded uncertainly. “But I am a good man, I work with Shiites, azizi you must not …” Walid opened the car door and pulled the man by his shirt. “No, please, I have a family. What are you doing?” Salaam opened his trunk, and they stuffed the man in. When the man gave Walid another look, Walid felt like crying. They all jumped in their vehicle and drove away. Walid looked behind to see an American Humvee slow down near the man's car. Two soldiers nervously approached it, guns out, like it was a car bomb. “They think it’s a seeyara mufakhakha!” Walid forced out a laugh. The rest of them laughed with him. They drove a little ways to Salaam’s place. They pulled the man out of the trunk and dragged him into the house. On the living room floor, the man got on his feet and started to beg. Walid tried to stand as tall and steady as he could. He could feel the eyes of his group on him. He fought the urge to shit. He hated the man for not making this easy. “Please, why are you doing this?” Walid stepped forward, his hands shaking, sweating. “You think you can destroy our mosques and murder our women, and not expect us to fight back?” “No, no, I have never done anything. I don’t know anyone who does that. These are Arabs from other …” Walid stepped forward, steadied his hands, and shot the man through his face. The sound jolted everyone, including Walid. The man crumpled to the ground. Walid realized he had been hoping the gun would jam. A pool of blood spread. He told the group to clean up and dump the body near a Sunni neighborhood. They stared at him in silence. He decided it was awe. A good night’s rest was all he wanted, but his wife was giving him that look again. “What is it?” Walid asked. He'd been scared of killing again, so he found other things to do. Many Sunnis lived in Hurriya. He took his group and forced the Sunnis to leave. Walid and his men managed to collect taxes from some of the people, or take some of their possessions. His wife pulled out a poster that had his picture on it. Wanted, for 500,000 dinar. He was shocked; first that he would be on a wanted poster, then that he would be worth so little. “Where did you find this?” “At the market. I tore some down, but then there were police everywhere.” He smiled; he loved that his wife would do that when she saw his poster. Other women would have just run away. He kissed her and caressed her smooth skin. She turned her head away. Walid followed her eyes to the door. There was no one there. His stomach churned. Would the police knock his door down at any moment? “Is dinner ready?” he asked. She didn’t reply and walked into the kitchen. *** That night, after they had made love, she stared at the ceiling in a way that let him know that he needed to say something. “It will be zian, honey, don’t worry about it.” Walid, of course, hadn’t stopped thinking about being caught for what he'd done. He felt small, foolish. “You have one son and another on the way, in sha Allah. What will we do without you? Think about it, Walid?” He wanted to slap her, but she was right; he had to think about his family. He could not get arrested. He knew what happened in those prisons; sometimes people never returned. His family would most certainly starve. In the end, she was concerned with him turning out like Mahmud. “I will,” he said to calm his wife down. “But what will you do now? Your face is everywhere and people need money.” He looked around their room; the house had been theirs since they married. They recently bought a new heater, but the cracks in the wall were still growing. “You could live with your relatives in Karbala until things got quiet again.” “Walid! Don’t become like your brother, you are not him.” “Sukti,” he hissed, angry that she would dare to say such a thing. “I will take care of this.” Mahmud would have known what to do. Walid had fought with him after their father was killed in a missile attack during the invasion. But Walid could never stay angry with his brother for long. Mahmud had always been the one people in the neighborhood looked to for guidance. After the invasion, Mahmud had told everyone to wait and see what the Americans were going to do. He always thought about some greater good that Walid couldn’t see. Walid walked into the kitchen, put on a coat, and stepped outside. Winter was giving way to spring, but the air still bit. He could hear the helicopters again, and, in the distance, some shooting. He lit a cigarette, sucking in the smoke to warm his insides. “Mahmud, Mahmud, Mahmud,” he muttered. He missed him. It was Mahmud who, when Al-Sadr rose against the Americans, decided to fight. “We cannot lie down like dogs.” Walid had followed his big brother to Karbala, and they fought against the Americans. Mahmud fought without fear, firing clip after clip at the occupiers. Sitting in a dilapidated house, they found themselves overwhelmed as the Americans returned fire. Walid hugged the ground, his stomach churning. He remembered the disappointed look Mahmud flashed him, a look that he'd given Walid throughout his life whenever Walid had acted too weak. Mahmud was shooting from a break in a wall when Walid, who was looking for a way to get out of the house, heard a grinding splat. He looked over to see Mahmud, half his head gone, falling to the ground. Walid remembered lying on the floor of that house in Karbala and thinking about how to escape. He hid as the Americans came through. He crawled away when night fell. He came back to Baghdad and everyone thought he'd been a brave warrior. People stood in awe of him, of Mahmud. He didn’t tell them how wrong they were. Instead, he lied about how many people he'd killed. Only he knew that man in Salaam’s living room had been the first. That man’s face was still etched in his brain. Walid finished his cigarette and threw it into the street. He walked back inside the house. *** The next day Walid awoke to his cell phone ringing. “Yes?” “Walid, your pictures, they are everywhere. Abdullah was stopped at a checkpoint today, and they asked if he knew who you were. I think you should lay low right now.” Walid felt his stomach acting up. He wondered what would happen if he did lay low. Would the police forget him and chase someone else? No, he was being a small man again. It was his time to stand up. “We will not hide; we are protecting our neighborhood. Have the police done that for us?” He fought to keep his voice from cracking, from showing Salaam his fear. “No,” Salaam said. “Of course not. Drive here now, we’re going to settle this once and for all.” He reached for his gun, but remembered that it was in the bedroom. He had the urge to drink, to stop his trembling. He hung up and put on his clothes. It felt like someone else was doing it for him. He checked his handgun, tucked it into his pants, and grabbed the wanted poster. His wife was cooking breakfast, and he rushed out when she called him. He did not want to stop, but she called him again. He poked his head back through the door. “I will be back in a few hours.” Salaam pulled up in his car, and Walid jumped in. “Where to?” “The police center, where else?” Salaam stared at him. “But…” “Are you deaf? Drive!” Salaam put the car into drive, but didn’t press the accelerator. “Are you mutaeqed about this?” “Yes. Stop being a coward and drive. You have your gun, right?” “Yes, but the police center?” Salaam’s voice threatened to kill the bravery he had mustered. “You never fought against the Americans. Are you a dog?” Walid asked. “No.” “Then drive. When we get there, I will go inside and you will stay with the car. All right?” Salaam drove the car without another word. Walid fingered his handgun and remembered what his father had told him: that no one was scared of an AK, since everyone owned one, but handguns reminded people of Saddam’s secret police. Five minutes later, they stopped in front of the police station, and Walid hopped out of the car. It was a large cement building with massive steps leading inside. The guard at the front door stood silent as Walid walked past him to the shiny main lobby. Walid rubbed the wanted poster folded in his pocket before realizing that he was sweating too much. He wished he'd asked Salaam to come with him so there would be someone beside him. He would not be able to fight all these policemen. A large poster with his face grabbed his attention. He couldn’t stay in the lobby for much longer. Walid saw signs for the police chief’s office. It was down a long hallway to the left. He touched his gun and started walking. His hands trembled. He felt like he did after he shot that man in Salaam’s living room. He stopped at the door with the police commissioner’s name printed in English and Arabic. He leaned against the wall and looked up and down the hallway. No one seemed to have noticed him. From inside the room, he could hear a man yelling on the phone in a gruff voice. Walid thought about Mahmud; he thought about his family. He knocked and squeezed his trembling hands together. “Enter!” The voice sounded large. Walid pulled out his gun with one hand and his poster with the other. He stepped into the room. “What can I do for you?” the chubby, bald, man asked, hesitating when he saw the gun in Walid’s hand. Walid placed the wanted poster on his desk. “You’re looking for me?” The police chief glanced down at the image, and recognition crept up on his face. “I…” Walid felt his nerves calm as the man stuttered, unable to finish a single sentence. He went around the desk and grabbed the policeman by his collar. He was fat, but compliant. Walid pulled him out to the hallway, over to the lobby. “On your knees.” The man fell down and started to cry. Everyone was looking at him, but even the guards with their AKs didn’t move. “I am Walid, the man on this poster.” He pointed at the poster on the wall. “I am not here for anyone else but this man.” He looked around when he said it. He felt invincible, and the trembling stopped. The overweight policeman continued to whimper, rocking himself like a child. Walid pointed, shot; the man fell. He looked the guards in the eye, and they turned away. Outside, he lit a cigarette. He absorbed the nicotine hit and sauntered over to the car where Salaam sat, staring at him. “Drive.” He didn’t say another word to Salaam. When they got to his house, he nodded and walked in. His wife warmed up his breakfast, and he ate it, not speaking to her either, but keeping his eyes on Mahmud and the first man he shot, both standing behind her.


The first time he asked me out. We went for a movie and though it was already midnight, we didn’t feel like leaving each other’s company. We took a stroll along the riverbed and there wasn’t a moment of silence. There just didn’t seem to be a dearth of things to talk about. I felt tired after a while so he suggested that we sit down on the grass, facing the river. I was hesitant at first as I didn’t want to get my dress dirty. But he took my hand and pulled me down beside him. I fell against him with a laugh. Our arms rubbed against each other. It was the first physical contact we’d had all night. My hand tingled from the roughness of the hair on his arm and I felt goose bumps creeping up along my skin. I knew he felt it too as his breath hitched when his arm touched mine. Conversation ceased and the tension was palpable. I could feel his gaze on me as I stared at the ground, not wanting to meet his eyes. He called my name, huskily. I shivered at the tone of his voice. I turned my head towards him and found his lips inches away from mine. I licked my lips subconsciously and his breathing labored. He tilted his head and started coming closer. A thousand thoughts were running through my head as my eyes fluttered shut. His lips touched mine softly, and then with a little more pressure. The sensations were incredible. I felt his kiss in places that shouldn’t be talked about. It got a little too overwhelming and I broke away. I opened my eyes to see him staring intently at me. “What are we doing, ?” I whispered, seeking reassurance. “Shh, it’s okay. Just trust me,” he replied as he lifted his hand to cup my cheek, his fingers stroking my skin. His words were strangely comforting and I nodded my consent. He captured my mouth again, this time with a little more force. His tongue traced my lower lip, prompting me to open my mouth. I complied and our tongues touched for the first time. We both drew a sharp intake of breath at the foreign sensation. His hand slid down to my lower back and his grip tightened as our tongues massaged each other. I could feel the warmth of his hand through the thin material of my dress. I realized I wanted to touch him too. I reached up and started stroking his jawline. He made a sound at the back of his throat and I felt him tense up. He broke away and started kissing my neck. “You taste so good,” he whispered while his teeth scraped the sensitive skin at the base of my neck. I couldn’t stop a moan from escaping my lips. “And that’s why we should stop,” he said, breathing heavily. I looked into his eyes and saw my own lust reflected back in them. I realized that both of us would lose control if we continued any further. He was right. I rested my head on his shoulder and he put his arms around me. I could feel his heart racing and I was pretty sure he could hear the loud heartbeats of mine. He kissed the top of my head and I smiled contentedly. It was the start of plenty more moments to come.


"We stood there, looking east, in disbelief. We had been on the trail ten days now. Tired, hungry, and dirty. Dark clouds rolled up the valley towards us. A flash and light would rip through the sky. When it folded back into itself, the sound was deafening. Wind gusts tore the stakes to my shelter out of the ground. I was scared, really scared. Darted towards my shelter to secure my rain protection the best I could. The drops got heavier and faster. The wind whipped through the tree tops. Made a blood curdling sound. Again it flashed and roared. It sounded as if the Earth was falling apart around us. I walked out of the grove and looked over at Thomas. "This is going to be bad," I said. "I know," he replied. Softly and quietly I began to repeat per ardua ad astra, per ardua ad astra. Through adversity to the stars. The storm raged further up the valley, inching closer to us. Another flash! Another crack! It appeared as though the Kraken had found us hidden in the valley. The Kraken was going to kill us for trying to hide. Thomas and I sunk into the tree behind us. We gave each other an awkward glance. Together we were facing a monster, impervious to bullets or even a cry for help. Per Ardua ad Astra. Another flash, thunder clapped around us, the wind got stronger. Fear paralyzed me and I watched in utter disbelief. The storm drained in its intensity, quickly broke up and oozed over the ridge on our left, into the next canyon. We could still see flashes of light, hear the cracking whip of thunder." Author's Note: This is a test write, I was going for a very specific feeling. I would love everyone's opinion on this short little piece. Good or bad! I really would appreciate some feedback.


There is a time that is endless, it is endless. Endlessly running around the other times you endlessly failed to end this. This is not the time to.... How did you know? Know what? It was late in the evening And? He was in the study. What time was it? It was around the end. That's a good time. I would agree. The two headed monster went on like this for most of my stay in the little room. They refused to let me leave and simply argued about things I couldn't comprehend. Was it two? It was four? For who? For two. I listened and would occasionally try to break in to ask when they would move away from the door, but they continued to ignore me. Employ? Implore? It's all the same. Where was he again? In the study! It was late! Hours passed and they would not move. The room was small. The size of a child's room. It could have been my room. I'm not sure. There was a break in my thinking and then I was just in this room with this two-headed dragon keeping me from the outside. I had been meaning to go out into the main hall and mix with the others, but then this thing occurred. It occurred in my room and simply sat there and argued with itself. That's a silly thing to do. What's so silly about Billy? He's deeeeeeeeeeeee Ranged. Was I Billy? I began thinking back to the last thing I could remember, which was sitting on the bed and just humming to myself. I did this often before leaving the room. I am sure of that. I am sure that I needed to hum a bit before I got the courage to go outside. I looked around the room for evidence of who I was and there was nothing but a bed and a night stand. I opened the nightstand drawer for more information and found a bible and a coloring book. We addressed The address The address of where Billy is staying. Billy? I opened the book and saw my name scrawled across the top. Billy. Yes? "Billy - do you want to go out?" "Billy, what if you are out and can't get back in? Billy, have you thought of that?" They spoke in high pitched squeals and when they finally addressed me, I couldn't respond. Until then, I figured they couldn't see me. But then they addressed me. I put down the book and "I would like to go out into the hall." "You would like to go out into the hall? Dreeble?" "He would like to go out into the hall. Out into the hall with them all, is that it?" "I would like to go to the common area. I would like to leave this room and go out to the hall. I want to see the other people." "Isn't that nice? Be with the other people. That would be swell." "Swelled right up the last time. Chester hit him with a chair. Wouldn't that be a shame if Chesssssssssss" "Turd! He called you a turd, and hit you with a chair." "I don't care. I want to go out with the other people." "But you're insane." "He was outsane before, before they locked him up. Now he's insane. Inside the asylum." "I want to leave the room." I began humming and they went away.


He hadn’t slept all night. She hadn’t left his mind. He knew what they would probably be doing as he texted her. She would be curled up under a blanket, naked the same way she would have been all night, on the couch watching him make breakfast in his rolled up dress shirt and skinny tie. Early morning television would fill the silent void left between bacon sizzling and the words they weren’t saying. She’d see his text slide up on her screen, Interrupting her thoughts on how perfect he was in his tight dress pants, and gold watch. His rippled forearms commanding a spatula and skillet, the same forearms she had dug into with her nails the night before as he bucked over her. The nail marks were probably still there if she looked closely. Her own little marks on him. Marking him as hers. She would be telling herself he was enough, she would make herself believe he was more than enough he was everything she ever wanted and more. In fact at that very moment she would probably be reminding herself how much better he was than him, but she’d reply to the text anyways, just to tell him not to text anymore, she’d tell herself, she’d say she was never going to do that again, she wasn’t that person anymore, and he needed to know that, that’s why she would text him back. But she would know, in the places that people hid things they know but don’t want to admit, that she did want him to and she hoped he’d decipher the code, the message, “Don’t text me anymore, but come over and fuck me the way he can’t, though it’s not exactly that he can’t is it? It is just that you are different, and now that I only have him and not you, I want you too, you’re different, you think about me in ways he doesn’t. Why can’t I have both? Who’s going to tell me I can’t? Just this once, to make sure I made the right decision. Only one more time. He leaves in 15 minutes, I’ll still be naked.” and at the same time she hoped he wouldn’t because if he did she knew she wouldn’t say no. Just once though. She said to herself. Just one more time, if he even asks at all, knowing full well he would, knowing full well he would get the message, he knew her. “Don’t text me anymore..” The text lit up his face in the morning light and he smiled knowing he had gotten what he wanted, the anxiety that had filled him all last night, and the exhaust behind his eyes, was replaced with a push of euphoria. He knew he would regret it later even as he was typing the letters. He knew it wouldn’t end well. There was too much involved now, to much said and done, and too much that would be said and done. “What are you wearing?” He sent the message knowing what it would do to him later, but for now she was all he could think about, and just one more taste... “Nothing..” Rolled over the top of his phone screen a few moments later. “When should I come over?” He thumbed message out and began getting dressed. “15 minutes” He knew it would destroy him, all the progress he had made passed her, but he closed the door behind him anyways, taking small comfort in knowing what he was about to do would destroy whatever happiness she had with him as well. The same way she had destroyed theirs.


Four men looked out at the world from the ledge of a high mountain and they, one to another, asked, ‘How was it that this came to be?’ The first man, dressed in red, stepped before his colleagues and said to them, ‘Is it not abundantly clear that all the land before us was created by the higher powers? I believe that god looked down upon the formless and gave it form, creating all that we know today. And from this god, we were granted our higher reason and logic, and with that, it is our ability and duty to praise him for giving to us life.’ And after he had said these things, the second man, dressed in yellow, began to speak, ‘Nay, I would say that the world was not created by mindless superstition. Rather, the world was created by the random formation of a ball of rock in the zone of habitation around our sun. The world then shifted to become habitable, gaining dirt from which the plants would grow, which in turn fed the animals that evolved. Science allows us to take a look at the past and see it for what it really was, not one veiled in myth.’ After the second man had said these things, the third man stepped forward. He, dressed in green, began to speak, ‘Please my brothers, stay your tongues. Let us not talk of this, but rather get off of the mountain. Can you not see that the ledge we stand on is not fixed, but instead is fleeting?’ But even as he spoke these words, the fourth man pushed him aside, telling him to be silent. In turn, the third man walked away from the ledge, back onto the mountain. Then, the fourth man, dressed in white, spoke, ‘There is no need to fight. Hold your venom to yourself for you cannot know. We have no evidence for either being true, but only faith. The god you speak of may be real, and the science you speak of may be true, but we can never know. Please, accept this fact that god might exist and that science may be true, and be done with the matter.’ Yet, despite all of these sayings, the three men on the ledge could not stop arguing. They could not accept that the others believe something different, and the sound of the rock ledge cracking could not be heard over their verve. And as they spat their venom, the rock shifted, and the men fell as the third man watched from afar.


"You can remove it, can't you." It was less a question than a statement of fact. The young woman, staring over the rooftops into the blessedly empty sky, was hugging her legs to chest, gripping the denim of her jeans tight enough to whiten her knuckles. In the shadows of the run down attic they took shelter in, a young, yet somehow older voice sighed out wearily. "I could, yes. But I won't." For the first time since she *saw* it, its victims, it's *helpers*, she showed signs of emotion, brows furrowing as she tried to process what he just said. As though the very idea of removing her ability to *see* was anything but agreed. "Remove it." Another sigh, and he pushes himself out of the shadowy corner he had been leaning in, swinging his legs to join her sitting on the crumbled window ledge, looking down at the small town below. "I can't." "Bullshit. You just said-" "I know what I said. And I *can't*. It doesn't end well. Trust me, I've made that mistake before." He sipped from the bottle in hand and wished for something stronger. Five times he's had to guide someone through their awakening, and I never got any easier. He rocked in place as she punched his arm, silently demanding an explanation. Gulping down the last mouthful, he tossed the bottle at one of the many abandoned buildings in this part of town, the corner of his mouth twitching up a little as he scored a mental bullseye, becoming sombre once more as he turned to face her. "Its not that simple... Look, you've *seen*. You know what's out there now-" "I saw more than I wanted last night. I don't want to see that, or anything like that, again. Can't you understand that?!" A deep breath smothered the annoyance building up in him. Did he understand that? Yes, far more than she could imagine. The things he's seen, *seen*, done and *done* haunt and thrill him in equal measure. Standing up, he glanced back at the old mine set into the mountain and snorted, lifting a foot. "Meet me downstairs." Amidst her complaints and a demand to get down from there, he stepped off, plummeting several stories. The punch was anticipated. The baseball bat coming the other way was not. "Fucking asshole..." He laughed as he got to his feet, rubbing his jaw. She was already developing the strength needed for their kind of... Existence. Sooner than expected. Maybe he was wrong about when she woke? "Walk with me." She grumbled, naturally, as he led her through the town centre, holding up a hand to stop her. "What do you see?" A scoff, a roll of the eyes. A sarcastic quip as she gestures towards the barely surviving town centre, with its run down buildings and dishevelled people, eking out an existence without the rest of the world turning a blind eye. "The "gorgeous scenic views with traditional family val- ack!" Petty perhaps, but the slap to the back of her head was so very satisfying, discretely moving behind her, out of view. "What do you *see*?" Silence stretched between them until her head hung low, rubbing her own arms as though chilled by the waning summer sun above. "What will I see? You?" "Only if you turn round." She laughed, bitterly and shook her head, eyes closing. "You're such an aashole..." He shrugged. He'd been called worse. Came through this part of the world and ended up burnt at a stake for it. Shame he had grown too old by then. Standing back, watching as she took a deep breath,raise her head... And *Saw*. "... She was beaten last night. For dropping a plate. But it was the hand he broke a few days ago..." "Yes." She turned her attention from the woman sitting on a park bench to a young man bobbing his head to the music pounding in his ears. "He's... Like a star. He asked his boyfriend to leave town with him. He said yes. He's... So bright." He nodded as he slipped into his own Sight, observing the changes in her *other* self. Hair flowing behind her like a rising waterfall, a contrast to her cropped short hairstyle. Barbs all across her body, typically defensive. Hardly a change from her physical self. He awkwardly pulled his limbs closer to himself. Time would change that fact. Suddenly she started to thrash, a brief thought directing his physical hand to steady her body while he followed her line of sight, clenching his jaw as she moaned and begged him to let her go, to let her get away. "Look closer. Its okay. I promise you, it's okay." He carefully turned her head round, back to the child slowly swinging on the swingset. His other form was identical to his physical, in almost every detail. Save for the oily black, leech like tendril wrapped around him, lamprey jaws coating it as it spasmed, the child blissfully unaware of the parasite. "Look... Its dead, okay? Its dead. You killed it. We're just watching it's death spasms. He'll be okay..." She angrily wrenched herself free from both his grasps, rounding on him, mouth open to yell before falling short. "... You almost look exactly like it." "I'm old. I think I have a century left. Maybe longer, maybe shorter." He watched as she shifted her attention back to the physical, observing her in both states at once. A perk with experience. The bat in her hand creaked as she secured her grip. "It was like you?" "Us. Once. I think it gave up it's humanity long ago." Another bitter laugh, shrouded in disbelief. "And you won't remove it." Pulling himself back to the physical completely, he gestured to a bench, slipping into it and waiting for her to follow suit. "I removed it. Once. The first one I met after seeing things no man should see... I thought I could spare him that." A sigh past his lips as he fought back the memories. The once sane man turned into a broken, empty shell. Forever paranoid of things he could no longer see, no longer avoid, it was a relief when he finally passed away. "Let's just say seeing and knowing is better than knowing but not seeing. Come on." He held out a hand which she, reluctantly, took, and he pulled her to her feet, walking side by side while unconsciously stepping around or over quivering, decaying lumps of the beast that once entrenched itself here. "It's not so bad. You might be lucky and die before immortality sets in. I saw the Beatles perform live. Woodstock. Helped tear down the berlin wall. And there was this one time I helped out these US and USSR agents... Woo, nothing *cold* between those two under the sheets, lemme tell you!" He kept his attention fully in the physical as they walked back to her flat and friends. Kept his gaze away from the remains of the once man turned monster scattered over town, so much decaying, immaterial flesh. He felt a twinge of hunger in his other form and firmly stamped it down. A century. Maybe more. Maybe less. He hoped she was ready to face him by then. *A little experiment to see how I could hint at stuff more than outright say it.


A traves de la historia muchos Imperios se han alzado, desde simples ideas politicas inyectandose en las mentes de las personas a filosofias que terminan dando lugar a completas nuevas religiones. Por ejemplo, el imperio romano: nacio como una idea politica, una manera de dar orden a la constante barbarie en la que estaba sumido el mundo antiguo, intentaron canalizar nuestra innata violencia en juegos y entretenimiento, crearon los coliseos, las luchas de gladiadores, entre animales, los circos. Esta violencia se mantenia, la barbarie se mantenia, camuflada entre las letras del entretenimiento, dando a sus ciudadanos la constante ilusion de progreso. A pesar de todo, este progreso si era en parte real, pero siempre tuvo un desarrollo basado en premisas que no se pueden considerar si no anti-humanas, en contra de la mismisima esencia del ser humano. La tendencia al caos, la tendencia a la fragmentacion, la descomposicion y la espontaneidad, los visibles principios de nuestro impredecible universo. Estas peligrosas y confusas ideas fueron desarrolladas y desarrolladas, sin nunca pararse el hombre a analizar la base de las mismas, dando por hecho su verdad, dando por hecho la necesidad de Orden y estructura en nuestra sociedad, sin entender que el caos puede ser tambien encaminado, que la espontaneidad no representa peligro si no sorpresa. Con este acercamiento filosofico nos encontramos una y otra vez, con la manera del hombre de recuperar el tiempo perdido en acciones extremas que engloban todo aquello que se negaron a si mismos a hacer durante su estado de auto limitacion en pos del orden y la estructuración. Estas acciones, estas formas de actuar, la manera en que Roma ardio y cayo en una fracción de lo que tardó en ser construida deja claros los peligros de la limitacion, de la ley y del orden. Pues mientras mas se hale la cuerda a un extremo, mas fuerte y mas lejos se ira cuando sea soltada. Cada dia lo vemos, con abrir los ojos lo notamos. Los edificios no pintados se deterioran, las frutas dejadas en el suelo se disuelven, desaparece su forma original, las personas pierden el sentido y desvarian. Y es ahi, cuando el hombre se asusta, cuando pierde su norte y no encuentra su motivo, cuando los conceptos de orden y civilización empiezan a disolverse como acuarelas y perder el ferreo sentido con el que los conocemos. No debemos tener miedo, la espontaneidad es la madre de la ciencia y del arte, es la manera sutil de un niño de analizar y correlacionar conceptos que en nuestra etapa adulta no somos ya capaces de ver, pues intentamos mantener una manera de ver y pensar lineal, que no nos asuste con sorpresas e improvistos. Desvariemos, perdamos el miedo. Como seria una sociedad desestructurada pero con reglas basicas? como seria un mundo sin limites mas alla de no herir al projimo, un mundo donde el desarrollo cientifico no sea limitado por sus riesgos y sus costes, donde el conocimiento no fuese clasificado en nombres que nos despierten o no el interés, un mundo donde el tabu no exista y la locura rija nuestras decisiones. No tendriamos razones para juzgarnos, no habria estandares y disfraces en los que calzarnos. Somos dios, somos la mano de la creacion y el fuego del final.


He gently placed his hand on my back. "Son." He spoke sternly, "go to her. She needs you." "Why?" I asked, tears trickling uncontrollably down my face. "Why what?" "Why couldn't I do anything?" "No time for this. Do it later. For now, go to her. This is the hardest part of being a father." I turned to him and looked into his eyes. He gave me a hug, embracing me firmly, forging my heart with the love and compassion he knew I needed. It ended, I nodded to him, and returned to my wife--her mind a faint light concealed in the hospital room. I sat next to her and held her hand. All the love I had received, everything left my father had to give me, I gave it to her.


Ray entered the room. He was exasperated – not because of what he saw, but because the sight didn’t surprise him. There she was – pretty, big-eyed, and red-handed. “I can’t believe you, Jane” She averted his gaze. It made her feel even guiltier. She knew she had just broken his heart. She wasn’t afraid of the big woman, but he was. She knew he was. Even though she didn’t want it, he always watched over her; made sure she didn’t do anything to incur the wrath of the big woman. She admired his efforts, and made it a point to respect his concerns. She wanted to stop getting caught like this, but she was far too gone. She was addicted. She thought she was addicted to what’s inside the box, but he knew her better – she was addicted to the thrill of breaking the rules. “You can’t even look at me, can you?” , he exclaimed. “Please, Ray, I can expla--” “Explain what? You know the rule, Jane. As long as you’re here, you can’t open the box. The big woman will find out” “I know. But I can’t help it. I’ve held off for too long. I need it Ray; I need it right now” “Don’t be a baby”, he scolded. “I don’t care what you call me. I know what’s best for me. I’m opening the box” “You’re begging for trouble. If you get caught, you’ll--” Ray froze, as he heard the footsteps. This was it. They were busted. Jane started crying. “I’m sorry Ray. I didn’t mean for you to get in trouble. I’m really sorry” The door creaked open, and the big woman entered the room. The couple was holding on for dear life. Jane’s sobs faded away in fear, leaving a grave silence in their wake. The big woman stared at them, her eyes burning through theirs. They stood in front of her, defenseless and vulnerable, waiting for the worst. And then, all of a sudden, the silence died. “I made her do it. Let her go” Silence again. Jane suppressed a fresh wave of sobs, while the big woman suppressed a smile. The big women were known for their cruelty, and this one was no different. However, despite her natural instinct, this act of nobility by Ray moved her heart. “This is your last warning. Don’t let me catch you in here again. Now take your boxes and leave” she said, with contempt boiling in her words. The couple scurried off the room. “We got lucky, Jane” “You took the blame. I can’t believe you took the blame” “I’ll do anything for you, you know” “I love you too, Ray” The big woman watched as they confessed their feeling on their way out. “Just don’t do it again, Jane. You know the rule. Say it” “We don’t open our lunchboxes in the classroom; only in the cafeteria”, she said, to satisfy him. “Remember it next time”, he sighed in relief. The big woman finally let out the smile, as the 5-year-olds ran into the cafeteria. “Ah, to be young and in love”, she sighed. After all, she wasn’t always a teacher. Once upon a time, she too, was a kindergartner.


"I could get you some water, if you'd like," the Hangman's voice was muffled by the thoughts echoing in his head. "Sir? Sure you wouldn't like some water?" This time the words did not fall upon deaf ears. "Uh no thank you," he replied. He studied the Hangman, his face soft and pale. His eyes were shiny blue dots in his skull, hair thick, black and curly draped upon his shoulders. He’d always pictured a more menacing man to be the one to perform the executions. "Why are you talking to me anyway?" The man asked eerily. Why would a man want to be near someone who someone whose life would be stripped away by his own hand? "Every single man I have... relieved has had something interesting to tell me before I did my job. I don't come here asking why you did, and I don't particularly care to hear you if you did, whatever it is you have been found guilty of. I want to know what it is that you remember the most. What part of your life was worth living for," there was honesty in the Hangman's eyes. His voice did not waiver, the man could tell he had done this more than a few times. "I don't know what about my life would be so interesting to you. Many probably give you sob stories huh? Try to make you feel guilty about what you're going to do come dawn. Maybe it's something you get off to in some sick way, listening to the damned grovel before you, but I doubt that. I guess there's no harm in telling you..." the man's voice trailed off as the words dripped out of his mouth. He walked close to the bars separating him from the Hangman, he grasped the icy, black iron and leaned his head between the, resting it upon the gap. "Well, go on," the Hangman urged. The man paused, then began, "A friend of mine showed me how to paint. How to get the strokes just right, to admire a subject for its beauty and how to amplify that in the art. The world around me just felt like it took a back seat to art when I worked. We traveled frequently, painting hillsides and rivers, mountain peaks and small bustling towns. Even portraits on the rare occasion. Many wanted to pay us for them but with my other line of work money wasn't really a worry for us. So we more often than not let them keep it for free," "Must feel good to make those people happy," suggested the Hangman. "No, not really. It wasn't their happiness that made me feel good. It was the approval of my friend. With every painting he acknowledged my improvements, made me feel like I was actually doing something worthwhile. It's silly really, the thoughts of someone meaning so much to you that you base your entire happiness around it. How you perceive the world, all of it really," "That's quite the adoration," "Aye, adoration is one way to describe it." The man looked down at the dirt on the floor that he had been scuffing with his feet. His shoes had gone ragged from the rough floor, he had spent nearly 3 months in this cell. "And what of it now, Hangman? You got what you want from me, going to give me a spiel on redemption now? Are you a Godly man? Is that why you wish to have me open up, to feel safe and comfortable with you?" "You think a Hangman to be a Godly man?" He chuckled, "If redemption is what you seek then by all means, ask for it. But I won't be preaching it here, or anywhere else either. I just want you to think about these things, I want you to be in a place that makes you happy. Even as death looks you in the eye, you have these memories. And rest assured, I am that which looks you in the eye," The man slumped down to the ground and rested his back against the bars. "I think I'll take that water now, if it's not too much to ask." The Hangman left to grab the water as the man traced a small scenery into the dirt with the tip of his finger. When the Hangman returned he glanced at the work. "Not too bad for being shorthanded on supplies," the Hangman smiled as he gave the man his water. He drank deeply from it and tears formed in the pits of his eyes. Steadily, the tears increased as they poured down his cheeks, dripping into his canvas of dirt. "It's hard, I know. I have seen many men in your predicament." The man finished the cup and choked back the tears. "I loved him, you know." The Hangman looked down at the man, his fingers were erasing the artwork. "Years we spent together, and it's all gone. He doesn't even know I am here. Probably thinks I ran off with another. Do me one thing tomorrow, please?" "Go ahead," "Make it quick.


There once was a girl with a golden gaze. Everything she looked upon would be made to look and feel beautiful, including other people. Gazing upon people and making them feel lovely was the girls favorite thing to do, and she would make friends with everyone she came across. When the girl grew into a woman there were many men who wanted to be in the light of her eyes. Men would talk about all the great and wonderful things they would do for her if she let them be soaked in her gaze. The woman knew that her gaze had changed and should be given to those who were worthy of it. She would pick and when she did the lucky man would get a look with her eyes wide open. Some men were overwhelmed by this and couldn’t stay around. Some other men tricked the woman and when she realized it she left them in the dark. One day a man convinced the woman that her gaze shouldn’t be shared but should be special for one man. The woman thought it would be good for her to focus all of her light on one person and in return feel the pride of making that one person feel golden. So, she agreed and went with the man. This man, like many others, turned out to be greedy and not worthy of her gaze. He locked her in a room and put a blindfold over her eyes. He told her that her gaze was for him only and that he would tell her when he wanted it. The woman sat for days on end waiting for the man to return. When the man would return and remove her blindfold he was so sweet and gentle the woman always thought he had changed his mind and would free her. He never did. Instead he would take in her light until he was happy again, then recover her eyes, and tell her about how the world had forgotten her now. The woman became less and less of herself each time the man took her golden light until one day when he took off her blindfold her eyes were dull and no longer could he bask in her light. Appalled the man had her thrown into the streets. She took off the blindfold and started walking the now unfamiliar streets. This proved difficult as her dulled eyes could hardly see what was in front of her. The woman made it to the forest at the edge of the town. She continued walking into the trees and began feeling a strange drowsiness. When she reached a meadow she could not take one more step and fell asleep among the sweet flowers and the long grasses with the wind softly blanketing her. She did not awaken from this slumber but she found her gold once again.


I'm not a writer but I've always entertained writing about my life and my experiences. I like this alot, what do you guys think? Edit: changed some things. I roll over sluggishly, trying to find my phone that somehow always finds its way into the pillowy waves of my comforter. Without my glasses I search aimlessly, patting the sheets, looking for my phone. I find it half buried undernearh my girlfriends leg. Pulling it out from under the covers, the screen blinds me. 4:53AM. Fuck. This has been happening to me alot lately. I have a dream in which i die; always in different ways, but always by the hand of someone i love. I dont believe dreams are profound or anything and normally dont give them much attention. This one bothers me though, keeping me up. I keep trying to interpret some kind of meaning from it aside from the very obvious. I lay awake in bed with Emily, my girlfriend, next to me. While i try to remember every detail of the dream i lose myself staring at the ceiling. The fan flicks shadows upon the walls of my bedroom, illuminated only by the blue lightbulb from my lamp in the corner. Emily calls it the omnious lamp. It sits alone in the corner of my room casting a dim blue light eerily across it, yet somehow, the glow is relaxing. Its almost as if the light was a metaphor for the inevitable end that was staring me down, and for some reason i relax in it. The thing is i never get to really relax. My anxiety makes sure of that, and if it weren't the anxiety, it would be the paranoia. Its almost six am now and my mind is numb from replaying my Shakespearean demise over and over. I get up and go to the living room hoping that looking out over the city with a cigarette will ease my mind. I stumble around the living room looking for my pack and a lighter. Theres still lines cut up on the coffee table from last night. The ashtray is full of cigarette butts and roaches, my half empty pack laying next to it. I light up my smoke and inhale. I hate it, but i instantly feel calmer, if only for a few minutes. Disgusting habit i picked up back in highschool right around the time i started drinking and smoking pot. Not much has changed since then. My first taste of this lifestyle came shortly after that. I would sell some pot to my friends and occasionally we would come across some blow and geek out for the night. That was almost ten years ago now. All those years i was selling i said i would get out and grow up, find a job and move on with my life. Last week i turned twenty-five and im still here supplying this campus of depraved trust fund kids looking to piss off their parents with whatever drug they will crush, snort, eat, smoke or inject. Im in the process of trying to leave this life. Its catching up to me. The anxiety from looking over my shoulder is becoming debilitating. I cant sleep anymore. Im not happy. Im depressed and exhausted from putting on this facade. Everything is spiraling, i no longer have a grasp on my life. Its like ive fallen into a narrative with a vindictive author, hell bent on seeing me get mine . My luck is running out and i need to be gone when it finally does. This is my story.


Kissing Kate K. E. Elliot Here I am. In the corner of a dimly lit bar sipping a whiskey on the rocks. My date has excused himself all too early in the date to make a trip to the bathroom. I look at my reflection in the mirror on the wall in front of me. I'm young, twenty three, but not young enough to still be dating these kind of men - the guy you had an old flame with when you were an immature teenager who ultimately treated you like shit and for god knows what reason you said yes to going out with him again years later. I have reached the falling action of my story. Steve saunters back into the room and does a quick scan, either because he already forgot where we were sitting or because he's checking out the other options in the room. It could very likely be both reasons. He sighs and heads back over to the table; he was definitely doing the later, ass. Steve is cute. Soft brown hair which I can tell he took some time to style. Deep brown eyes that almost had a shine like he had just been crying. What got me was the smile. I'm a sucker for smiles. The most narcissistic jerk could flash an endearing smile and my knees go a little weak. What wasn't cute about Steve was his flippant attitude towards women. I have a long running pattern of winding up with men who don't respect me. More on that later. The clanking of a fork on the ground breaks my chain of thought. Steve is playing with his silverware. We only came for drinks, I did not want to fake the niceties of a dinner date at this point. Steve ordered for me. Some women view this as an insult to the feminist way, but, I enjoy it. I think a drink can tell you a lot about a person - how they are feeling, where they are in life, where they want the night to go. Steve ordered me a whiskey. Steve knew exactly where he wanted this night to go. We sit and chat for awhile. I almost think I'm having a good time until Steve asks me why I smile so much. Steve wants a leach. He wants someone who will mutually suck all the hope and happiness out of him so together they can sit in a mutual drunken empty stupor. At the end of the evening, we split the bill. It's the least I can do after I put Steve through the misery of an engaging conversation. We pull into my driveway and without any warning Steve grabs the back of my head and pulls me in for a kiss. This is very odd. Usually a man gently pulling me in for a kiss is hot; this was not that. This was Steve's way of avoiding having to lean over the center console. His kiss is unsolicited and is dripping with lust. It's too much, I pull away. A little surprised but quickly unbothered Steve says bye and I thank him and get out of the car. Later, I see Steve's snap story at another party, I was just the pre-game for the night. Same old Steve. I've met a lot of Steve's. Always wanting something more, never appreciating what's right there in front of them, selfish. I might sound crass but I'm painting the nicest picture possible of these men. I mostly blame myself. I often welcome the wrong guy into my life. Walls crumbling in the process. But, not all guys are Steve's. There are a lot of Sam's out there too. And Jacob's. And Bradley's. My name is Kate. I've kissed a lot of men. Bad ones, good ones, and some great ones. This is my journey. Follow a hopeless romantic in her efforts to find the perfect kiss and the perfect guy behind it.


She was leaving. I politely asked her to hide her bags and belongings. I didn’t want a reminder. I figured I’d let it all hit me when I woke up after she drove away. The problem was the bags, hat boxes, and suitcases and such that filled the back laundry room where I suggested she hide them. I suggested this as it also meant I wouldn’t have to do laundry until she left. So, I was adding relearning how to do laundry to the ugliness of that first day alone. She sat me down and made me understand that her belongings were now hitting the ceiling. “I want to pack my change jar – it won’t fit.” I understood. “You’ll have to throw some stuff out.” But she wouldn’t listen. She continued to fill the room. She found nooks and crannies to hide herself and even managed to pack the washer and dryer with her belongings. “I’m finished.” She said one June morning. I went into the back room and pried the door open and just looked at her, all of her, all packed into the laundry room. She left the next day. On the ground were little bits of debris she couldn't pack. A hair clip, a bottle of suntan lotion, books... She moved to another office in another country. I began inter-office mailing her little pieces of herself that she left behind: change, paperclips, photos, lip balm... An email went out to the office explaining that all non-paper products could not continue to arrive overseas as Customs was cracking down. I gave up sending her all back. I left the laundry room alone for a month. But eventually... I opened the door to the laundry room and began doing laundry. I’ve been doing laundry for 13 years.