I saw the whole thing. I work in a cramped gas station kiosk for a department store chain. The wall-to-wall front window overlooks Freddy Gonzalez street. On that street, I shared in Snowden's secret for the first time. Only on this day, there was no elegant prose, no moral learned, no imagination at play. Only grim reality. It was a muggy Saturday evening in Texas not far from the Mexican border. The air was damp and hot, encouraging me to stay within the walls of my air conditioned box with the radio on. My favorite song by Pink Floyd was playing on the radio: "Wish You Were Here". The sky remained grey and heavy between the episodes of violent rain. The blue Nissan Xterra appeared in my left peripheral. It always did. The vehicle crept forward to the stop sign, idled a moment, and turned right onto the street, unaware of the fate to which its harbored passengers would succumb. A beautiful young girl sat in the rear passenger seat. Her dark brown hair went past her shoulders and shined with a vibrancy challenged only by the radiance of her skin. She faced out the passenger side window - her cell phone was in her hands. She sat facing that way for a reason only she and I knew. The vehicle was still moving slowly, the driver taking extra caution on the wet road. The girl looked up and caught me staring. I tried to look away, but I was transfixed. She was my Beatrice; she was my salvation. That's when it happened. In my right peripheral, a second exit opens onto the same street. It is much closer to my kiosk than the exit on my left. I heard later that the driver was drunk; the driver was asleep; the driver had a heart attack. It didn't matter. She was looking at me, and she smiled with those lips that became fuller and more beautiful by the day-much in the same way that Beatrice's beauty increased for Dante as they drew closer and closer to the center of Eden, to the Good itself. My lips began to form a smile back, one that would always pale in comparison to the ones brought forth by those lips that sustained my life. That's when it happened. The truck collided directly into the rear passenger door. I hadn't noticed how fast it was going until I witnessed the magnitude of the impact. I saw the whole thing. When the ambulances and police cars arrived, only two of the occupants were of importance. The young boy in the car was the only one moving. The mother was unconscious at the front wheel. The boy was removed first. He was hysterical. One eye struggled to remain open in a swollen pool of black. From the other sprang tears. As a waterfall crashes into the pool of water below it with a grand and indifferent force, so did his tears cascade onto the puddles of water that littered the road. Blood painted his upper lip a dark crimsom. The heart wrenching sight of him was diminished only by the most painful and broken wailing I have ever heard in my twenty-one years. He didn't want to be pulled from the backseat. Where his strength failed him in the struggle to free himself of the paramedics, his eyes succeeded in maintaining an unbreakable grip on his mother and sister. The mother was removed second. She offered no resistance. Her airbag had been deployed. Her face was red and purple, a swirl of the two colors which appeared so mixed that one could not tell where they separated and joined. But something told me she would live. Before the onlookers had arrived at the scene, the EMTs had covered the girl's body. She was removed last. There was no rush. The crowd that had gathered there did not know what had happened to her. They craned their necks and squinted their eyes in a vain attempt at discovery. But I saw the whole thing. When the truck hit her door, she was still smiling at me, phone in her hands. It was bedazzled or bejeweled or whatever it was she called it. I always teased her that it was childish. But now, the glimmering plastic emeralds and rubies seemed more inappropriate than ever. Her eyes were brown, just like mine. In the next fraction of a second, which is still an inescapable eternity in my heart and mind, her forehead broke the glass. Only half of her phone was still visible. The precious plastic jewels had changed colors. The rubies were no longer shiny, but redder than I had ever seen. The green of the emeralds had morphed into wet peas in marinara sauce. A few glistening strands of cortex added the final ingredient. Her right right eye was shrouded in a gory fortress, taking refuge from the fatal scene. A hint of brown hid near the center of it, all of it's radiance and gleam wrung from it forevermore. The other half of the phone was buried in her left eye socket. Her smile was gone, replaced with lifeless, parted lips. They seemed poised to whisper something; perhaps an unwanted secret she had learned and had hardly the time to process. But her lips didn't have to move for me to hear it. It was the secret that Snowden had spilled while he went cold in the sun. It was a secret that I would never forget - not now. I saw the whole thing.


It was a good day to die. Most of them are, out here. This town isn't unfamiliar with bodies popping up like Robert Oliver's. After all, even the best men have secrets. Had secrets. I got out of the Chevy, it was approaching noon. Don't ask me why I choose noon to work, it's the least sensible time of day I could do this. Digging's awful hard when the Sun is dropping bricks on you. I tried to ignore the banging from the trunk for as long as I could. Finally, when I had had enough of it, I decided to let him out. The stench hit me harder than I expected when I opened the trunk, I should have laid down a towel or something. Doesn't matter now, we're at the end of the line with no connections. He was on his knees twenty miles north from El Paso, Texas. Forty or so miles from where I picked him up an hour ago. It was always this spot, here, where I took them. I brushed off his jacket so he looked presentable while I made the preparations. It was hot, too hot, for something like this. It's the only way I'd have it. The closest man to us would be at least ten miles away. The road itself is nearly that far from us. The sweat rolled down my face in the sun. I marked out an 'X' on the ground with my foot. "Here." I said, pointing to the mark. "Wh-what?" He stammered. "Kneel here. It has to be here." "Okay." He said as he shuffled into position. I took the .337 Magnum out of my jacket and pointed it to his head. One silver bullet, that was all I needed. He whimpered as the metal touched his forehead, I glared until he composed himself. You may be thinking that I have real balls pointing a gun at a man tied up on the ground. Well, this isn't the Grand Arena, this is the fucking desert and if you're on your knees and covered in your own shit with a gun to your head it doesn't much matter. "Are you ready for this?" I asked. He shifted uncomfortably on the sand, "It's just... Death's awful lonely for a guy like me." "I'll send you company." I replied. Bang. His name was Robert Oliver, he was the eighteenth man I've killed. Eighteen times I've made this journey, eighteen silver bullets I've put between thirty six eyes. I've dug eighteen holes and filled all eighteen of them. Every one of the men and women I've killed has known why they died. Robert Oliver owned two small print houses in the Bowery, he participated in charitable work when he was free and he had two foster children from troubled homes. It was no surprise to him to be on his knees in the dessert with a stranger's gun to their head. I can say the same thing about the others. I hear you ask what crimes these men and women committed to deserve this fate? How had they wronged me? Well, they all knew in their last moments why they were dead. Y'know, it's funny how things work out that way. I just picked their names out of a hat.


The rat is the ugliest animal of the animal kingdom. They eat trash. I mean, think of that - you're at a restaurant and some guy gets a menu and says "I'll have the rotten egg with some shit on it." That's what rats are like. They also will eat each other when they run out of trash to eat. So, it's like they are at that restaurant and they are like "What's on the menu? Oh, nothing. OK, I'm just going to eat my children." Then they make those rowwrowrow eating noises and everyone tries to ignore them, but they can't because it's horrific and then everyone leaves and it's like "OK, way to fuck up dinner, rats." Then you never go back to that restaurant and they go out of business and that's what's wrong with the economy. *The Human* The human is like a dog, but bigger. *The Goatee* The goatee is a special animal, and not to be confused with the goat. The goatee is a hairy little muskrat that will climb on your face if you play old Phish albums and stay there until you get a job. *The Goat* The goat is like a dog, but with horns. They will eat anything. This one time I fed a goat some nuclear waste and it was like "Dig in!" And it ate all the nuclear waste and became a super goat. You might wonder what a super goat does - anything. I actually got it to get me groceries and clean my yard. The super goat is totally cool. But the regular goat, like the one before the nuclear waste, they suck. Sure, they will eat anything and can clean up your lawn, but do you really have respect for that kind of animal? No, it's like the manual labor slut of the animal kingdom. I have no respect for goats. *The Pig* Often maligned, the pig is actually a pretty cool animal. They will eat almost anything. Not everything, they aren't scumbag goats. They have self-respect. Anyway, they are also cool because they will turn themselves into bacon for BLTs. But don't go asking them for mayo or lettuce or bread or tomatoes - they aren't goats. *The Horse* The horse is like a dog with really long legs and way more obedient. The dog will get your paper and stuff, but the horse will actually let you ride it around. It's all piggy back time with the horse. The horse doesn't care. Anytime - "Hey, horse, can I piggyback ride you?" And the horse is like "You bet, I'm always game to give you a piggyback ride." The horse is cool. *The Ant* The ant is this little speck of a guy that trundles to and fro all the live long day on the ground. They pick up food and are like "Hey, better get this food back home." So, then then turn around and take it back home. But they're like Communists, so they share their food with an entire hive of ants. There's like millions of them. Just hanging out and waiting for food or running out and getting food. But there's also a queen. She has wings. So, on holidays she'll fly up and get really cool food, not just stuff that other ants found on the ground. Like ripe apples and berries. But the joke's on her, the apple is way too big for the hole in the hive, and she just ends up plugging up the exit hole and all the ants die because she's stupid. Stupid queen. *The Possum* The possum is the only animal that is always dead. You would think that the definition of animal would include being alive, but not the case with the possum. Every. Single. One. Is. Dead. They are born out on the street and they are basically some fur and a bunch of guts. They just lay there and wait for hillbillies or the highway patrol to pick them up and eat them or bury them. They are the laziest animal besides the tree. *The Tree* The tree is like the laziest animal in the animal kingdom. It literally does nothing. It grows, but that's not really doing something. It can't move, unless the wind blows. And when that happens, all its leaves fall off and then it's just this naked tree in the woods and you have to shield your kid's eyes, because it's a naked tree. You're like "Hey, isn't it beautiful out here?" And your wife goes "Yes. What's that?" Then your kid goes "That tree is naked!" Then you freak and your kid is scarred for life and you burn the forest down and YOU end up in jail. Not the tree. Bunch of bullshit. I hate trees. *The Bird* The bird is like a dog with wings. They eat food and fly. That's all they do. Sometimes they air-hump and lay eggs, but that's it. They are like the most boring animal. But, they sometimes will give otters rides on their backs and then the otter is in control and he will do loop-de-loops and cool 360s and stuff. That's when the bird can be cool. Otherwise, the bird sucks. *The Dog* The dog is said to be man's best friend. But in truth, man's best friend is Jim. The dog has been a companion for man for millions of years, but Jim will let you borrow his car and sleep with his wife. Jim is THAT nice. You try asking a dog for that kinda help. *The Rhino* The rhino or rhinoceros is the last of the dinosaurs. They have been around for millions and millions of years and are still dino-looking. They are also the most dangerous animal after the hippo. But the most dangerous animal is the hippoceros. At 7'5 it has a vertical leap of 7 feet and can ruin your game. *The Tiger* The tiger is basically a lion with not as much fur. Basically, up in heaven, God was sending animals down and he was telling everyone of them "Don't forget your coat." But the tiger was like "I don't need a coat, I'm good." And God was like "But it gets cold at night, c'mon, wear a coat." And the tiger was like "No, I don't want to wear a coat; you can't make me." Then God was like "OK, have it your way." Then the tiger got down to Earth and found out that God was right - it was cold. Some of the tigers pleaded with God to give them coats, and God was nice enough to do it. And these tigers became lions. But, there were some tigers that were too proud to ask God, and they remained tigers. This made the lions proud, and that's why a group of them are called a Pride. A group of tigers is called a bunch of whiny jerks. *The Beaver* The beaver is a builder. No one is sure how the beaver learned to build, but he builds all day long. Sure, he'll stop to get a coffee and a doughnut, and later have a sandwich, but the rest of the day he's building and bitching about the union. The Beaver Union. They are a million strong and they will shut down a dam in an instant if they don't get paid. The thing is, they are paid in wood, so no one really cares and they really don't need the union. But they are proud of it. *The Lion* The kindly lion is possibly the most important animal in the jungle. This is because he is at the top of the food chain. That means the lion can eat anything. So, if you are at a restaurant, he totally doesn't care what he has. He'll just say "Whatever." Therefore, everyone wants to have dinner with him because he doesn't take nine years to order. That is why he is the most important animal.


[Something I was writing goes here] *This is why you type outside Reddit.* *This is why YOU type outside Reddit.* *Stop forcing yourself to write. Go play a game.* *I can't fucking stop writing! This is terrible, but I have to do it. I won't want to do it later.* *You don't want to do it NOW.* *Write me a novel about it.* *Isn't that what YOU'RE trying to do?* *Hush.* *What's the matter?* *There isn't anything to write about!* *Oh, of course there is.* *Shut the hell up. No, there isn't. Maybe It's another disorder of mine. I could use another for the shelf.* *Just because you have OCD and talk-* *More like think, really.* *-to yourself doesn't mean you're crazy.* *That wasn't what I said. And for the record, being able to see something that isn't - might not - be there qualifies me.* *It's probably just a symptom.* *Of what, puberty?* *Yes.* *Doubt it. I could always see it, you should know that, seeing as how we're the same fucking person.* *Does that count? We're just you thinking, as far as I can tell.* *What he said. And you know you couldn't always see it. There was a time...* *I don't remember that far back, okay?* *What DO you remember?* *When you didn't exist.* *I think we always have...right...?* *(Murmuring)* *What are you ACTUALLY thinking when you're typing this thing, by the way?* *What I'm typing, come to think of it.* *So...is this something we would actually think.* *See for yourself.* *.....Yeah, that's pretty accurate.* *What were you saying about writing?* *You know damn well what! There isn't anything I can write. I wrote a two page apocalypse novel, once.* *It was 3/4s of a page. In 78 point font.* *Yeah, that.* *What was it called?* *Never came up with a name.* *Mr. "I can't be cheesy or stereotypical in any way whatsoever" over here is bland and unimaginative, then?* *That's very, very accurate.* *I just thought of something.* *What? That this is surprisingly easy to write and flows pretty well?* *Well, it flows pretty well for US. For them, though, they, uh...* *Yeah.* *Look, no, I meant that...fuck. I forgot.* *That's because you were revising that bit up there and you have horrible memory.* *Both valid points.* *Are we allowed to revise and edit what would in any other situation be our normal thoughts? Can we do that?* *The better question is whether these WOULD be our normal thoughts.* *I'm pretty damn confident they would be.* *That's your opinion, then.* *Everything's an opinion.* *Including that.* *Think people'll agree with us on that? We might get some death threats.* *Quiet. I'm writing.* *HOW LONG DOES THIS DAMN THING NEED TO BE?!* *I could type like this forever, you know that.* *I know a lot of things.* *You make a lot of valid points, there.* *And you say "there" after things a lot.* *You also make a valid point.* *Are we all the same person.* *I can't tell. You?* *You got me.* *No clue.* *How many of us are there?* *Don't answer that. Are we just asking those questions so whoever is reading this won't be confused?* *They're reading, I hope, a post about someone's train of thought. It's most likely already confusing.* *Maybe they can figure it out. Reddit isn't the Youtube comments section or Yahoo Answers. People are intelligent here.* *Here?* *We're on the site, aren't we?* *Anon1: I would say so.* *Anon2: Stop pretending this is 4chan.* *Anon1: It isn't? Sure looks like it.* *Just because....good, no Anon thingy. Just because it's a long string of text with each individual thought having it's own line doesn't mean it's 4chan.* *Anon4: Besides, you barely know what 4chan IS.* *Anon5: Dammit, they're back.* *Anon6: Yes, but I did look it up on Wikipedia during Journalism earlier today.* *Anon7: We know, we were there. Oh, hold on.* *Anon7: > ...because it's a long string of text with each individual thought having it's own line confirms my belief that it's 4chan. FIFY* *Anon1: Damn you.* *Anon8: I'm hungry.* *Anon7: Right on time! Pizza Guy is here!* *Anon6: Does that have to be capitalized?* *Anon4: Yes. 7, what kind is it?* *Anon7: Pepperoni.* *Anon2: Don't they have anything else?* *Anon4: Nah. It's not a chain restaurant.* *Anon6: Follow me, 4channers! Let's eat!* *Anon2: Please don't call us that.* - If you can understand this, consider it funny, or read it at all you must have the patience of a saint. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm hungry.


Life is one road block after another. The trick is to maneuver around them. When all else fails, just drive over them. Sure, most of them you can't drive over, but continue smashing your life against them until the engine explodes and you are expelled in pieces all over the road. That way, you can say you made a statement about life. Also, when someone has to come and pick up your guts and excrement off the road, you can think from beyond the grave "Ha Ha! I did that! Sucker! Boooooo." And then you can drive off in your cloud car. *Risk* You will never achieve anything unless you take risks. That doesn't mean you will achieve great things, it just means you will be kinda bored without risks. For instance, if you jump on a landmine to save a bunch of your friends, you are risking death, but if the landmine doesn't explode, you will survive and be a hero. And for what? Because of a technical error that some terrorist made. You didn't really do anything but take a risk. Then you get home from the war and everyone applauds you and you feel great. But then your cable goes out because of another technical error and you think "Oh, the irony." But it's not really ironic and you're just sitting there calling Comcast and bitching, then someone throws a grenade at you and you die. And for what? *Birthdays* Birthdays only come once a year, and that's good. If they came more than that there'd be some people that could drink at like nine years old and that would be bad. Or, like some people could get sent off to war at age six. There'd be this drunk nine year old on the battlefield just because he had three birthdays a year. And then that kid gets shot to death and everyone decides to dumb down the birthdays. The President proclaims "No more multiple birthdays - not on my watch!" And everyone cheers and the President is like better than Abraham Lincoln for all the children he saved. Then he goes home and cracks a beer and feels a little empty about life. So, then he runs naked on the White House lawn and everyone thinks he's crazy. Then another President comes along and reinstates multiple birthdays and everyone is happy all over again. That's how the world works. Seriously. It's stupid. The world is stupid. Plus birthdays. *Cell Phones* It's weird how everyone talks on cell phones now. And a lot of the time they will use Bluetooth and it will look like they are talking to themselves. Then you start thinking they are crazy. But then you realize they are on Bluetooth: they are just talking to their friend. But then you think about all the homeless people you saw before Bluetooth and how you thought they were crazy and it turns out they were just innovators and had Bluetooth before anyone. Then you think about why homeless people would have Bluetooth before anyone when they have no money. Then you get a wise idea and quit your job thinking you will acquire future technology somehow by being homeless. But you don't. And you say all of this out loud and people think you're crazy, but then you tap your ear and say Bluetooth. That's probably the cleverest thing you have ever done. Be proud. *Sorrow* Losing someone is very painful. A good thing to do is dress up in clown makeup for a good month. People will let it go, because you lost someone special. They will think that you are having a hard time and are trying to cope. But in truth, you are having the time of your life and learning new card tricks. Then start stealing from people. You can get away with this for a good month. Ride it. *Asia* Asia is like a major big deal. It's a continent, but it's like really big. I think it's the biggest one. But then I think that I'm wrong and that it's one of those tricks where someone pulls down their pants and exposes themselves to you and says "No, Antarctica is the biggest continent." And then you feel stupid. And violated. And lied to. Turns out Asia is the biggest continent and you just got flashed - now you really feel bad. Anyway, Asian people come from Asia. And I think panda bears live there. Vietnam might be there. Yep. It is. That's Asia, baby. *Computers* Back in the olden days people thought that computers would like take over the world. Like they would be in front of everyone and just kinda brainwash them into reading stupid things all day and dressing stupid and caring about stupid things and then becoming totally stupid and worthless. I guess we showed them! *Love* Love is a tricky emotion. It can get you into a lot of hot water. Like when you love someone and they don't love you back and you get all mad and dress a bunch of squirrels up in rat costumes and let them lose in their house and then when they get mad, you pull off the costumes and show them that they are really just adorable squirrels, but then the squirrel bites you and you involuntarily fling the squirrel against the wall and break its head open and then you have these charges against you that make it sound like you enjoy crushing dead squirrels against walls as some message to an ex girlfriend about how you are going to get her, Judge. *Boredom* Boredom can get the best of us. You're just sitting around watching TV and it dawns on you that you are bored. You think about all the things you can do and none of them sound appealing. So you kinda just move into a different position on the couch and that quells your boredom for a second, but then it comes back. You think about getting up and going for a jog and this makes you laugh because you are 394 pounds and can barely get up, but you made yourself laugh so now you are not bored. But then you get over the joke that is your awful body and you are bored again. So, you reach behind the couch and grab one of the hoagie sandwiches you keep back there and you start eating it. But you eat too fast and you are bored again. So, then you get drunk and that fixes it until after you wake up and you're bored again. Boredom is a vicious cycle is what I'm saying. *Garage Sales* If you ever throw a garage sale, check to make sure you aren't selling gold for super cheap. Like you might think that that nine ounce ball of gold is useless, but it's not - it's gold. It's worth a lot of money. You can sell it for more than the nickle you are asking for. But, if I come by, you can sell it to me for a nickle. Just joking. I wouldn't do that to you. I would tell you it was gold. But then I'd kinda expect that you'd sell it and give me some of the money because that's prospecting on my part. *Divorce* There is nothing more unnatural and unholy than divorce. If you get a divorce you have failed at love. You should feel bad about divorce, you love murderer. *Winning* Winning is not everything. There are other things besides winning. Like scabies, grass, furniture, etc. I could go on all day. *Hatred* Hatred is actually a very maligned feeling. It can be a good thing. You can really get your energy up by hating people and then go for a good long hate jog. Or, eat a really big hoagie sandwich with all your hate fueling your jaws. But you should never take your hate out on other people. That is hateful. You don't want to be hateful, you want to be hatefueled. *Jealousy* An important thing to think about the next time you are jealous of someone is that whatever they have someone else has more of and the only person with everything is God. Can you be jealous of God? Sure you can. And God is way easier to attack, so you can just go out and start kicking trees and stepping on worms and know that you are hurting God and that hurt will trickle down to whomever you are jealous of. It might take awhile, though, so pack a lunch.


Very first story, give me any feedback and be brutally honest if necessary. Enjoy! It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be fine in just a little while, just wait. I sit here in bed, in my room. My dark, quiet, still room. Nothing can be heard in this tiny room. I sit up on my bed and realize that I can’t see a single thing in front of me. It’s like I’m not here. I reach my hand out and drift it from side to side, hoping maybe it would bump into something, feel anything. Nothing. I’m starting to feel dizzy. As far as I know there are two things left in this room, my phone and this bottle. Both lying in my lap. I pick up my phone and turn it on. The screen light bursts into the room, ricocheting off of every wall revealing a shadowy silhouette of everything in my room. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the light. I squint and see that the number is still dialed. I know who waits on the other side. The only person left that would hear me, the only person I know that would drop the world for me is just waiting on the other side of one button. I could call, I could talk and talk, and maybe they would come visit me. They would come in, sweep me off my feet and drive me away to a better place. A place with smiling faces in every room. Everybody there will be dressed in white and everyone will want to know how my day was, how I’m feeling. I’ll be do distracted by my new friends that I’ll never be here again. I sit and stare into the darkness, smiling at my fantasies. But that’s all they are, fantasies. Maybe, on another night they could become my reality, but it’s far too late tonight. I put down my phone, the light goes off, and I’m swallowed up by the darkness of my room. I pick up my bottle. Contents half gone, the dizziness is really kicking in now. I knew it would be okay. Just a little while longer now, and it’ll be even better. I look at my bottle, and consider finishing it off. I twist the cap off just as a slight tingling zips through my entire body, even dizzier now. I decide against it and put the bottle back on the bed in front of me, next to my phone. My eyes have readjusted to the darkness, I stare into the darkness and see nothing. It’s as if I’m already asleep, but I can still hear myself think. I lay down and wait for my eyes to close, but my thoughts have me wired, wide-eyed, wide awake. My mind starts to race and my head starts spinning. Is this what I wanted? I want to fall asleep, but it’s not coming fast enough and the pain becomes too much bare, excruciating. I start to kick and twist in my bed. I hear myself whimpering into the empty room. I roll off the bed and am followed by my phone and still open bottle. I hit the ground with a thump, and I hear the pills from the bottle scattering all over the floor. “GOD!” I shriek aloud. My voice echoes around the room and falls flat after a moment. The pain subsides, and euphoria sets in. It’s quiet again. God, a fantasy I haven’t believed in for a while now. Heaven too. Where are God and Heaven at a time like this? I don’t need to find Jesus. That’s what everyone thought I needed, Jesus. I don’t have time for someone who isn’t here. I needed someone real, I need someone now. The euphoric feeling overwhelms my entire body. I can’t feel a thing anymore. I can’t feel my head spinning, my heart pounding or my limbs aching. I can only see and hear, and I see and hear nothing, still. It’s quiet and dark. Serenity like I’ve never experienced. I can't tell if its fantasy or reality. Finally, I’m going to fall asleep. My eyelids start to drop, but a light bursts into the room, ricocheting off the ceiling and dimly exposing the floor where I lay. I see my phone lying face up on the floor by my feet. I muster up any strength left in my deadened arms and drag my body around to see who is calling. I swirl my head around to where my feet were and gaze through hazy eyes at the screen. I can barely make it out on my phone screen: “CALLING". Below that: “911”. I can barely hear the ringing on the other side of the line, where that one person left in the world will be waiting for my response when they pick up, my plea for help. My vision and hearing start to fade to black and nothingness, and I fall asleep. I open my eyes and I see a bright light. A shadowy silhouette stands in a background of white, but I can’t hear what he or she is saying. Everything is hazy, almost misty, and I squint to make out what is before me, but to no avail. I can’t tell who this person is, but at least there’s someone here with me.


Personally, I don't think this is the best example of my writing. But my teacher liked it, and I felt like posting something on here. So here we go. - I sat across from the swingset. There’s a boy there. He’s laughing. He’s playing. He’s happy. He ran to the slide. His friends called him. They’re playing Tag. Hide and Seek. Cops and Robbers. They ran to the merry-go-round. They’re playing Spaceman now. He’s blasting off. Snowballs are being thrown, with snow forts as cover. Impenetrable castles, strongholds, citadels to young, effervescent minds. He’s smiling. Laughing. Living. His shaggy brown hair hangs over his blue eyes. His friends tug on the dark strands. Wrestling. Their mothers are talking. His calls for him. It’s time to go. I sat across from the swingset. There’s a boy there. His mother is beside him. “Be careful,” she says. He nods. He looks sad, but the friends call again. He smiles and runs over. The mother walks to the other parents, through a path of budding flowers, green capsules ready to burst from the life inside. The other parents try for conversation, but the boy’s mother is quiet. The boy is laughing. He’s slower. Less energy. The friends notice. So does his mother. She calls for him. It’s time to go. I sat across from the swingset. The boy is there. His mother is beside him. She adjusts his woolen cap and frowns. “Don’t you want to go play?” He shakes his head. His feet dig ditches in the woodchips. She walks back to the other parents, through the now-bloomed wildflowers. Anger flashes through her mind at the thought of something so insignificant living so beautifully. The other parents say nothing to her. Her hair is frizzy. Disheveled. It sticks out here and there. She’s worn out. Exhausted. So is he. His eyelids droop over tired, grey orbs. They’re empty, a thin layer of cloudiness covering them. Haggard. He watches his friends. They don’t notice, or pretend not to. He sighs. His mother comes over and takes his hand. It’s time to go. The other parents begin talking. I sat across from the swingset. My eyes scan the ditches in the woodchips. A quilt of colored leaves lay flattened by young feet, browns and yellows and reds. The friends are there. They’re laughing. They’re playing. They’re happy. The parents are talking. Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Living. The friends are playing Tag. Hide and Seek. Cops and Robbers. They run to the merry-go-round. They’re playing Spaceman. He isn’t.


When he was born, the first thing he did was scream. But, unlike other babies, he stopped as soon as the scream reached his ear. Doctors and nurses quickly came and checked on him, flashing their instruments, probing him with their green-gloved hands, directing blinding beams of light at him. But all that did not make him scream. It was all the sound, filling the room, reaching every corner and covering every surface. The humming and buzzing of the machines, the quick footsteps on the floor, the agitated chatter and the little screams of preoccupation. He started to scream again, adding even more sound to the cacophony, making him scream even louder. That day, he started his quest for silence. He grew up in a big city, the streets filled with old cars, new cars, people shouting, trucks crashing, music pouring out of every shop and house. He grew up to be a calm and silent boy, always seeking the quietest corner of the small apartment. But he could not find it, so he told his parents he wanted to move away, to some quiet place. The following week, they left the city and moved to a farm. Silence at last! No cars could be heard driving, no people shouting. But after a few days, the farm became too loud, too crowded for him. The hammering engine of the tractor, the hoofclaps of the horses, the infernal mooing of the cows, the savage rushing of the wind. So he decided to seek the silence, wherever it could have hidden. He studied, became a successful businessman and spent all his money on the science of sound and silence. Finally he learned that only up there in the cold space there was no sound, that sound needed air. Everything he had he invested in a journey to the stars, closer to the absolute silence. And finally he went to to the stars. And when he left the shuttle in his spacesuit, total silence surrounded him. He was truly happy, until he became aware of his own heartbeat, of the blood rushing in his ears, the million small sounds of a living body. He wept, having lost the silence, beat at his suit, his heart, his body, commanding himself in vain to be quiet. In blind despair he finally ripped away his helmet, releasing the air inside and letting in the perfect silence, the total nothing and with it, finally, pure joy. A moment later, only the silence remained.


“The complete dismemberment of punctual holiness is utterly preposterous.” “Agreed. We ought to do something about this monumental injustice.” “Look here. This poor soul has denied the art of proofreading and has ended up concluding his statement with your trademark. A real pity it is.” “Well, I cannot partake in the observation of this crime any longer. If you won’t do anything, I will.” “But…we’re just a couple of forgotten ink splotches on a page most likely in the realm of ancient history my dear friend.” “Well, at least one of us still has hope.” “I have always managed to retain my hope on this matter but I’m telling you, we are just too powerless.” “Side by side we have fought through this time of desperation and now…now I sense the defeat in you. So do not lie to me.” “Well, sorry for being a realist. We don’t even have hands! I apologize for being so blunt, but I’m afraid this is the end. There’s nothing you or I can do.” “You’ve been brainwashed. You’re completely wrong. There’s nothing I can’t do!” “Oh, did you forget about the hands situation?” “I heard you the first time, and I assure you, I do not need them. Just watch me.


Teetering on the edge had become her specialty. She learned - and learned very well - how to maintain her composure through all situations. She was good at ignoring that gut wrenching feeling in the pit of her stomach and pasting a smile on her face, a laugh on her lips. She made sure to never say a word when her boyfriend stayed out hours later than he said he would. She convinced herself it wasn't that big of a deal because he always apologized and she knew he was faithful so what's the harm in late nights with his boys on the weekend? She never gave it a second thought when that guy who was so good looking it was intimidating came into her pub and took a seat at the bar directly in front of where she spends her idle time. She also didn't dwell on it when the equally intimidating (albeit for different reasons) regulars had too much to drink and let their anger get the best of them. She outwardly handled everything life threw at her with the utmost of confidence and pushed the nerves out of her head. She went to meetings, volunteered with the elderly, spent time with her boyfriend's family (and her own), and even decided to ignore past wrongdoings in favour of current peace with old friends; all the while convincing herself all was good. There she is, can you picture her life? The edge always right there, as a subtle reminder of what was really going on; Quietly daring her to take on one more thing. C'mon, you can handle it. All is good. And she was good. Her balancing act on that edge had become something of an art form. Until that day came. The day she fell. Her weight became too much and she felt the ground give out from under her and off she went. She felt herself free falling through the air with wild abandon. It all made sense now, that feeling of impending doom that had become her shadow. She knew she was in danger. That feeling in the pit of her stomach? It was definitely there for a reason. This reason. She completely and utterly lost control. It was almost exhilarating, once she accepted the panic that took over her completely. It's so much easier to stop fighting. Just give in. All of a sudden, just as she made that decision to let go of all the cares she's ever had in the world, just as she decided none of it mattered, she hit the ground. Now, I bet she feels nothing...except maybe relief. Sweet sweet relief.


History is told by the victor. So simple it is for the them to revel in their glory, their pride. To look to their loved ones that they fought so hard to protect with caring, yet tired smiles. Not even a hint of remorse for the families they've torn apart, destroyed, and broken. Of course, there are those who regret, although happy to be alive,yet burning from inside out simply knowing they can never forget the lives they extinguished for their countries ‘noble’ cause. How they seek retribution for their actions, solace in their emotions, a sanctuary amongst their inner turmoil for the hopes at piecing together what is left of their broken hearts. Some fail, and continue their lives all the while rotting away, but a diamond in the rough exists. It just takes one with enough heart to make the difference, even if it doesn't exist. Gyrus (Jy-ruhs), a country of science. Humans of technology whose pride is within their problem solving androids, capable of emotion, yet given orders unable to disobey. Built of turning gears, and clicking clockwork breathing life into their very being, while families treat them as if they were their own children with just more of a; technological disposition. Cities mirroring it’s ‘Children of Gears’ composition of moving clockwork, co-inhabited by its human denizens. Its government comprised of one true ruler holding all power, king of the ages said to have ushered in peace, tranquility, and progress. Yet with all this power, when a ruler is lost, the lineage must go on. Feyrus (F-ey-ruhs) a country of magic. Its denizens, humans with animal like qualities whose pride lie within their medical advancements through the use of mana. A teal energy that exists in all things, yet unseen to humans. With an aptitude for channeling the latter, they heal the sick with ease, while moving with almost superhuman speed, and strength. Clans based on the animals they ever so slightly resemble, but with each of their chiefs together form the Feran Council. The country itself comprised of a democratic government, and as such each village has a say in political matters, at least, they did. Once Gyrus had taken an interest in Feran magic, things changed drastically. The advanced medical technology possible with Feran magic was far too valuable to ignore. Androids now outfitted for war, and Gyran armies compiled together; they were to invade Ferus under the orders of King Rheon ( R-ee-onn). For most soldiers of Gyrus it was not hard, as the Ferans, similar in their names, were thought to be no more than feral animals. But as the war dragged on it was evident that these animals, these people. They were ever so human as the invaders they feared. Click. A Feran soldier fell dead, Click, and yet another. A steel maiden gliding effortlessly through the battlefield resembling a village, while not even a hint of emotion evident. Sword coated in blood, glinting in the moonlight with every swing. A negative emotion with every click that resounded, but what emotion was it? Bang. A gunshot resounded in the rain. What did it all mean? "You, and your unit are to take this village." A Gyran captain announced, while pointing at a map. 'By any means necessary.' The emotions in his face hardening, lips forming a tight line. His words ringing through the deafening sound of the raging storm just outside the tent. “Understood.” An android of the Valkyrie Model confirmed, a click resounding in the room. Her face unreadable, with an unknown emotion coursing through her circuitry, after all this isn't the first village shes taken. The android beside her, a Medical Model, frowned. “What about the villagers, their families, the children even?” She said with obvious discontent. “We’ve already won!” Her frown deepening immensely, eyes briefly tightening shut. The captain stared at the Medical Model, his emotions unwavering under her glare. “If they fight back, then they are to be eliminated.” A smirk coming across his face. “It’s not as if you could disobey a direct order anyways.” His voice now dripping with venom. “Those Feran scum deserve it.” All that could be heard now was the deafening rain, the village was deathly quiet. The villagers, all of them, fought to protect themselves, but their orders were evident. “Titania, how do you do it?” The Medical Model said with barely a whisper, staring at the aftermath of the attack. “How many lives have we taken?.” Click. Titania the Valkyrie Model stood there silently taking in the sight of the bodies littering the village. “Orders.” She said frankly, her gears whirring quietly, and her face still devoid of emotion. “ You know this is wrong!” The Medical Model’s voice rising. “They didn't deserve this, none of them!” The rain trickling down her face reminiscent of tears, how ironic. Click, she had nothing to say, simply because she did not understand. Titania, as all androids should, have the capacity to experience emotion, but for her it was different. When Titania was first built, the scientist were mesmerized at her lack of display of emotion. It was supposed to be in her programming after all, and yet nothing they did to get a rise out of her worked. For Titania, with every attempt they tried, she heard a click resound in her head, but she could never tell what it was. Was this a so called emotion? What does it mean? What does it do? So many questions, but a question like “What is emotion?” cannot be simply answered. Her model was to resemble the word Valkyrie in such that she was a guardian to those who needed guarding. They wrote it off as a glitch, because of that fact. But because Gyrans valued androids as people, they could not bring themselves to decommission her. “Sylph, what is emotion?” Titania asked, her voice monotone. Sylph the medical model simply looked at her, eyes tired, and emotionally broken. “Something i wish i didn't have.” She said now with her eyes downcast, unable to look at the bodies any longer. Sylph, created with the purpose of pharmaceutical needs, was always very emotional. After all, she must be, medical models need emotions to help reduce panic in patients during treatment. Once the war started she personally believed it to be a curse, with every village she invaded with Titania’s unit, she could feel a part of herself break. But orders were orders no matter what they were, they were impossible to disobey. Each of the androids were produced in pairs, and as such created sibling like environments. To her surprise, Sylph’s designated sister, was none other than Titania her complete opposite. A babies cry resounded through the rain from a lone cot in the distance.”Ah!” Sylph felt immediate joy, yet the negative emotions were still fresh, as she sprinted to the small building. Click. Following suit, face unchanged, Titania bolted after her. With the cot now in front of her, pausing briefly to take in the rundown building. “I'm so sorry.” Titania heard a voice from the now opened door. Upon entering she saw, grey, and black? A small baby boy with wolf ears, and a tail, was being cradled in Sylph’s arms. Click. “Can you believe it?” Sylph said with mixed emotions. “ A baby boy, but with no family to take care of him.” Rain Water trickling from Sylph’s hair, falling past her eyes, yet again reminiscent of tears. Click, Titania heard it, but this time it was different, something- hurt? “Ha-ha, finally something huh?” Sylph was looking at her solemnly, a smile on her face. Titania was frowning.


Sometimes when I can’t sleep I find myself turning on the light, to burn through every shadow in every crevice. However, tonight I decided I should stay under my covers for protection. Something just knocked on my door—it’s not uncommon though. I’m always convinced it’s real, but nobody ever ends up knocking again. My least favorite time of the year is the middle of October. When the rain starts, the leaves fall, the shadows thrive, and haunted decorations are abundant. Have you ever seen the silhouette of a claw fenced by dim moonlight at the other end of your room? Only to find that when you trace it back to the source, it’s just a shredded leaf chained to the window by hydrogen bonds. October is dreadful, mainly because October is when my insomnia returns. It becomes difficult determining what time it is, and even worse, reality from nightmare. Sometimes I am startled awake in a nightmare, convinced it’s reality. Then I find myself again startled awake by the clash of wind-blown leaves on my window. A few minutes later I hear it again, the most terrifying three knocks I’ve ever heard—knock, knock, knock. It has to be real. I should just wait for it to go—KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK—away. Between me and the shadows that surround me, the shimmer of moonlight coming through the dampened window, the chaotic air—CRASH—and the famished anxiety. The anxiety slices through my blanket, through my skull, and releases a flurry of images in my head; IT’S A MAN, a man that will kill for the sake of pleasure, for the feeling of a knife puncturing the skin, for the sweet crack of a skull, for the cascade of hot blood pouring from every wound. My imagination shifts, perhaps a werewolf? The weight of each footstep might as well be one, each one gets louder—thump, creak, **thump, creak, THUMP, CREAK**. I hear the abrasion of its claws dragging along the stucko layered walls in my hallway. But when it gets to my door, all sounds halt. An echoing silence fell about my room. After a short while the anxiety has left and I can finally get some fresh air. I ease off the cover and discover everything to be normal. The claw still sits, the rain pitter patters, and the shadows are still dragging themselves through the light. A wave of relief briefly falls over me, only I don’t recall leaving a crack in my door. I didn’t leave a crack in my door. I open my pupils and grasp every photon from every shadow that resides in my room. I feel a faint tug of my quilts and instantly slip back into my imagination, the Boogie Man? The Grim Reaper? A Werewolf? I try to heave my sheets back over me, but there’s resistance on the other end—my eyelids stapled shut. The blanket gets heavier and harder to keep hold. It’s stronger than me. My hands slip and I can hear a tear echoing from the other ends of the sheets. The weight of something presses on my bed by my feet, the mattress begins to sink towards them. It’s starting to crawl up my bed, crawl over me. Every crawl closer creates a new valley next to me, starting from down at my feet, to my knees, to my hips, torso, face. It hovers over my body. My senses heighten and I can feel the warmth of it engulfing me. The breath of it is heavy and offbeat, maniacal. A drop of saliva drags down my face. I force myself to open my eyes, there’s no other way to stay sane. I expose my eyes and everything is still black—the image is still being focused. Eyes start to creep into the picture, but everything else is still being pieced together. Still trying to gather as much light as it can. I start to see the outline of its head; then its teeth, the creeping benevolent shining smile—the teeth of a man. His face edges closer to mine, until he’s less than an inch from mine. He pauses and stares through me—as if to avoid a sense of pain. In the split seconds that I tried to piece his face together, I didn’t notice him scuttle his hands closer. They are on my neck with pressure. The squeeze comes quickly and suddenly as a boa constrictor would strangle its prey. It’s impossible to escape, no matter how much I struggle. The smile just gets brighter. His face lights up, but the picture of his face reverses. Shadows smother his smile, then his skin, then the outline of his skull, leaving only his eyes. I wake up, only to find myself still intact. In a cold sweat I analyze my body; nothing but unscathed flesh. My body feels like there have been no wounds, cuts, stabs, burns, tears, rips, or punctures of any sort on it. It’s all the same; everything in my rooms back to normal, serene. I look at the clock and it see that little time has passed—although it’s difficult to tell on these rainy days. It’s only 1:42 A.M. I must’ve fallen asleep about an hour ago. I sit up on the side of my bed, listen to the crackle of rain calming down outside, and see the shadows still dancing about; there is no leaf greeting me anymore, I am home. I stand up to go turn the light on, rub my eyes, stretch, and start walking towards the switch. I freeze, staring to the corner of the room. My heart starts racing again, almost as if I were in another dream. Next to the light switch something is out of place. Right next to my door stands a sliver of light peaking its head through the opened crack. I don’t recall leaving my door open.


My soul has been cold for some time now. My parents, fiancee,and I were in a fatal two car accident 15 years ago. I was the only survivor; six other people died. I lost it after that. Nothing else mattered at all. I spent a few years trying to drink and drug myself to death. It didn't work. I had a cold empty chill in my body that would not leave. I began stealing, grafting, and hustling people just for something evil to do. I had no conscience left. No matter what I did, there was no feeling of remorse. While hanging out in an Irish pub on the south side of Boston one afternoon, I was approached by a fellow drinking about doing a hit. At first, I thought he was kidding or the booze was talking. However, he told me he had heard about my con rackets around the neighborhood and that the Irish mobsters weren't too happy about it. I needed to do this hit to make peace. I thought, "What the fuck." That's how I became a hit-man. I'll fast forward ten years. I had become the primary hit-man for the Irish mob in the greater Boston area. My severe lack of any soul or conscience made me a perfectly built killing machine. In fact, I even got off on it in a way. It seemed to help fill the empty hole in my life. I know that may seem contradictory, but the loss of my loved ones changed me deeply. It made me a monster. Before I started killing for a living, I would stay awake for days dwelling on the reason why I survived the crash. I could not come to terms with it. Being a hit-man allowed me to sleep. It removed me from my depression. I had no remorse for the people I killed and I could care less if I got caught. My life, nor anyone else's, had any meaning to me. I was perfect. Yesterday, I met "One Thumb" McShane at Paddy's Pub. He gave me the address and the last name of a guy I was to take care of. The guy ran a deli in a mob controlled neighborhood. He had stopped paying protection money and was rallying other shop owners to follow suit. This could not continue. "One Thumb" gave me $1500 up front and told me take care of it right away. I nodded and ordered a double Bushmills. I waited for darkness to set in and set out for the mark's house. The mark lived near the neighborhood I grew up in. I rolled up in front of the old brownstone and I saw him through the dining room window. He was a single guy. I didn't have to worry about family members. I cased the spot for an hour. The scene looked ripe. I grabbed my gun, stuck in my shoulder holster, and walked across the street. He opened the door for me and had a look of surprise. I asked, "Are you Mr. Brennan?" He swallowed hard and said, "Yeah, what do you want." I stared coldly at him for a moment. I finally said, "Some folks are telling me you're not paying them some owed money. They aren't too happy. They want something done." He wobbled a bit and braced himself against the kitchen table. His nervousness gave me a rush. He knew why I was there. I asked, "What are we going to do about this Mr. Brennan?" He cried, "Look man, my parents opened this deli 40 years ago. If I pay the protection money, I can't afford to stay open. FUCK! I don't want to lose my family deli." A memory came over me. I softly said, "Brennan's Deli? You're the Charlie Brennan from Perkin's Elementary?" You grew up in this neighborhood?" He looked up, stared at me for a minute, and asked, "Holy shit! Roman?" I nodded and a wave of something I hadn't felt in a long time rushed over me. I had some feelings come back. They were raw and piercing. I had buried them for so long. Charlie had been a friend. When were in 5th grade, Charlie and I were walking home one evening. Charlie was walking backwards so he could face me. A car came screeching down the road and Charlie saw it swerving at us. He yelled for me to get out of the way. I slipped in some gravel and fell. The car was speeding closer. Charlie grabbed the hood of my jacket and pulled me between two parked cars; just as the car nicked my shoe. I would have been killed that night if it weren't for Charlie. I hadn't thought about that for a long time. That was the first time I realized my own mortality. When I was in the accident with my parents and fiancee, my mortality left me. Seeing Charlie made me get a little of that back. Had Charlie saved my life again? I couldn't do what I had intended; not to Charlie. I told him some of what had happened to me. I told what he had given me back. We talked for awhile. The memories filled my head and dizzied me. After another hour of talking, I got up to leave. Charlie was walking in front of me to get the door. I took out my garrote and wrapped it tightly around Charlie's neck. I drew him close to me. I whispered in his ear, "You should have let me die that night Charlie. I would never have had to live with the obscene emotional pain of that car accident. I was supposed to die that night you bastard." The life escaped his body and his legs fell limp. The emptiness returned to my body.


One thing no one is scared of on Halloween, but should be, is drugs. Typically, kids will shoot up their alcohol and smoke their Quaaludes on Halloween and go around playing their hip hop music super loud. If you think goblins are scary, try walking the streets of New York on Halloween and seeing a gang of Vicodin fiends bearing down on you. That's why, if you want to really scare someone this Halloween, ask them for drugs. "Got any drugs?" "Yeah, here you go." "Cool." Then go smoke your drugs and pretend that you were just trying to scare people when in fact you were trying to get high. Joke's on them! *Goblins* Goblins are little monsters that hang outside of supermarkets around March and try to sell you cookies. You'll be walking in to buy a Tostino's pizza and there will be two at the front doors of the supermarket. You'll walk to the other entrance and they'll be more. So, then you kinda try to walk behind someone into the supermarket and you think you made it. You buy your pizza and then come back out, forgetting about the goblins, and they will assault you with cookies to buy. And you're always scared out of your mind by the goblins, so you buy those crappy caramel and coconut ones and be totally pissed. I hate Goblins. *Ghosts* Ghosts are probably the most popular things to scare humans on Halloween. It's like ghosts, venereal disease, and calling Comcast. Those are the three most popular Halloween costumes according to Forbes. And it's no wonder - a ghost is a dead person that comes back from the land of the dead simply to fuck with you. Most ghosts, in fact all ghosts, in real life (the ones reported) rarely kill anyone. They just kinda turn your lights off and on and make noises. Hardly scary. I really think we need to give venereal disease more PR on Halloween. That's actually scary. Especially the ax wielding venereal disease - that shit is spooky. *Meteors* A lot of people get comets and meteors mixed up, but they are totally different: comets will incinerate everyone before crashing into the Earth and ejecting most of the Earth out into space as everyone dies in lava and fire, BUT then its inner core will blow dry ice all over the place and everything will look frozen and cool but no one will be alive to see it; meteors don't do the last part. I don't even know if comets do the last part. Or the first part. But I'm pretty sure everyone dies either way. What would be cool is if a meteor hit a comet that was about to hit Earth and then everyone is like "The meteor saved Earth!" And then everyone feels bad that they kept thinking a meteor would eventually kill Earth. The meteor just wanted to help Earth. Then the meteor starts thinking about it and gets mad and turns around and hits Earth. *Volcanoes* K, so you're looking - go look at a mountain. Then think about it just going tits up. Like the entire side of it blows out and fires its lava and mountain parts all over the place. Then think about the children. Then think about your mother. Then think about how they are all in flames and have pieces of mountain hitting them in the face. They try to run away from the fire, but they are getting hit right and left by topsoil and squirrels and granola bar wrappers and those park signs that tell you about the flora and fauna...that's a volcano. *Nuclear War* There is nothing scarier than nuclear war. Basically, what happens in a nuclear war is Russia and the United States fire nuclear missiles at each other until everyone in the world dies. It sounds funny when you actually write it out, but that is the basic premise. When you really think about it, it's about two nations that just kinda say "The hell with this!" and then blow up the world. Which, I understand. Everyone has a bad day, but everyone doesn't have a bunch of nuclear weapons laying around. Like, this one time I got in a fight with a coworker and was totally mad all day and wanted to kill the entire world - luckily for everyone in the entire world, I didn't have a bunch of nuclear weapons. But if I did, I would have called up Russia and said "Let's do this." That's why I'm not President. That and the math part. I think you need some basic algebra. *Aliens* K, so it's like years later and Ripley is on Earth and this big company talks her into going back to where the alien came from and she goes back with the marines and the dude from Weird Science and they all get killed except for Ripley and the girl and the robot and that one dude from Terminator. But the girl and the robot end up dying later on. Also, Ripley. OK, this movie is basically pointless. Everyone dies. Yet, they made like nine more. *Dirty Bombs* I don't know a lot about nuclear stuff, but I do know that dirty bombs are bad. You basically take a bunch of nuclear waste and you fling it at someone, and then you yell "Dirty Bombs, Ahoy!" *ISIS* When was the first time we heard about ISIS? Was it a couple of years ago? Months? No. Back in the 90s. ISIS, Baby was a hit song by Gangster Rapper, Vanilla Ice. His thick riffs on urban life and street hustling spawned a religious cult that can be seen today enjoying the beauty and everlasting wealth of Iraq and Syria. Look at the high top fades on those militia men - that's pure Ice. They just want fat beats and fatter butts, I don't know what the fuss is about. Anyway, Vanilla Ice also killed Ice Cube and projected his spirit into him. Oh, plus Ice T is a deep cover businessman from an Ad Firm that gave way to the docudrama, Mad Men. MC Hammer was the inspiration for the song Purple Rain. Also, EPMD stands for Every Person Must Die. LL Cool J was actually a dinosaur. The list goes on. Point is - the entire rap industry is a conspiracy. *Ebola* For years, the government has been preparing the public for this disease with zombie movies. Think about it. I mean, really, think about it: zombie movies. Anyway, the time has come and the dead are walking the Earth and flying around on airplanes and so forth. It doesn't take a dead nurse to let you know that you probably have Ebola right now. Like you're sitting there and thinking you're just fine, but meanwhile, you feel an itch in your eye and you draw blood. Then you eat your neighbor. But it turns out you were just on drugs the whole time. So, like I said, Drugs are totally underrated when it comes to Halloween. Oh, and isn't it weird that that dude in Aliens ended up getting saved by a robot, considering he was totally trying to kill robots in Terminator? That in itself should speak volumes to the rap conspiracy. Plus I need to learn Algebra.


I haven’t been feeling good for weeks. There is pain in my stomach. I generally just don’t feel like myself. I tell my mom, because I am only nineteen, and can still run to my mom when I don’t feel good (Besides, as a mom, she has been diagnosing my odd aches and pains for almost two decades). She tells me that it’s probably nothing, but if I want to go to the doctor then I should. Her assurance means that I do not call the doctor for another few weeks, when the pain starts to get worse. I make the next available appointment, which is two weeks away. They are a good doctor and have a lot of patients. They tell me that if it’s urgent they can squeeze me in today. I don’t think about it again until two weeks later - the day of the appointment. There is no sense in worrying about it. I go to the doctor alone, because, again, it’s probably nothing. They run some tests and I’m on my way. I tell my mom the next time we talk, that they took some blood and I should know the results in about a week. We don’t talk about it again until I get the results, except the day after my appointment when she asks me if I’m feeling any better. I’m not, but I don’t want to worry her, so I say, “A little.” I get out of class and there is a voicemail on my cell phone. It’s the doctor’s office. They want me to come in and speak with the doctor. Tomorrow. That’s odd. They usually don’t have appointments available on such short notice. “Can you just tell me the test results over the phone?” “I just work at the front desk, I’m not qualified to provide you any medical information” “Ok, then can the doctor or a nurse just tell me over the phone?” “I’m sorry but none are available right now. Besides, the doctor really wants to speak with you in person.” I send my best friend, Katie, a text. “Hey, remember that test I was waiting for results on? The doctor called, they want to see me ASAP so the doctor can tell me in person. Kinda strange, lol” I’m worried, but I still go alone. I feel stronger when I am alone in this type of situation. The only person I would even bring is my mom, but I know that if she is with me, she will do the whole “supermom” thing, and I will revert back to being a child. If I go alone, I have to be strong because I have to be the adult. I’m waiting in the waiting room for about 10 minutes. And then 20. And then 30. Just tell me already. “Carly, the doctor will see you now.” I go back into the doctor’s office. Not the “doctor’s office,” his actual office within the doctor’s office, where he eats his lunch, and listens to NPR podcasts between appointments. He asks me how I’m doing. “I’m fine.” (Just tell me already) Well, we got your test results back, and the results are rather disturbing.” Just fucking tell me already. “You have stomach cancer. Based on the results, I would say it is either stage 3 or stage 4.” You know those “anti-gravity” rides at the fair, where you get inside and stand against the wall, and it spins around really fast and you can’t move much because the centrifugal force is so great? That’s what my body feels like. The force of gravity just increased tenfold. I weigh 1000 pounds. My heart is slowly inching down to the floor. I can’t move. “Ok.” “Because it is in such an advanced stage, there really is not a whole lot we can do. We can try chemotherapy and radiation, but I am afraid your cancer is terminal. I would like to have you come back in to do a PET scan, to see exactly where the cancer is and if it has metastasized.” To see if it’s spread? I don’t care where it’s spread. Why would I care if it’s spread? It’s killing me. I am dying regardless. Did you even go to medical school? Are you a real doctor? “To see if it’s metastasized” – are you joking? I decide right then and there: No more doctor’s appointments, no more tests, no treatments, no drugs. Fuck that. But I can’t move, much less form a sentence. “Ok.” The next thing I remember I am sitting in my car, in the parking lot, crying. I think to myself after a few minutes that crying is stupid and this is all going to be okay. I decide to go on a drive, kill a little bit of time, before I have to go home and back to reality. I drive past my old office. I miss work. I drive a little ways up the Interstate, past the mountains, and think about having my ashes spread in the mountains. I turn around, and realize that this could be my last time driving by these particular mountains. I have a few more of those realizations the whole way home. “This could be my last time hearing this song on the radio, this could be my last time being stuck in traffic, this could be my last time stopping at this stop sign” (The realizations got progressively more pathetic the more emotional I got). I don’t want to tell any one yet. I don’t even want to tell my self yet. I want to get a pack of menthols and a chocolate glazed donut. I stop at the gas station I used to go to every day before I quit smoking. There’s a new clerk. Must be new because he is way too enthusiastic to be working at this shitty old convenience store. “Smoking is bad for you, you know!” Ha. You don’t say. I wake up the next morning to my dog, Max, licking my face, and my phone ringing. It’s my mom. She asks how the doctor went. I’m not going to make her wait like the doctor made me wait. I’m not going to give her that kind of anxiety. Do I want to tell her over the phone? No. But I also don’t want her entire body to shake with nervousness like mine did for the 20 minutes it would have taken me to get to her house. “He told me that I have stage 3 or stage 4 stomach cancer and there is nothing that they can do.” “ Stage 3 or Stage 4? What the fuck does that mean? Which one is it? There is nothing they can do?! That’s the biggest load of crap I have ever heard, I’m calling them.” Ok Mom. She comes over shortly afterwards. I don’t think she actually called the doctor. But I’m wrong, she did, and thank god she did because I don’t think I could have told her any more details without completely losing it. She doesn’t want me to “give up,” but she says that I should do what ever I think is best for myself. I think it would be best for me to move back to Colorado. Spend my last few months in the mountains, in the snow, where my best friend lives, and smoke a ridiculous amount of marijuana. I never really smoked pot. I mean, I did a few times in high school, but it was just never my thing. I think now I would like it to be “my thing.” I want my mom to come with me. She likes Colorado, too. She used to live in a little ski town in the mountains. Her and my dad got married there. She comes with me, and I don’t even have to ask. I call Katie after my mom leaves. “So I have good news and bad news. Good news is, I’m moving back to Colorado. Bad news is it’s because I have stomach cancer… and I’m not going to, well, it’s terminal.” Katie and her husband grow marijuana for one of the local medical marijuana dispensaries there. She decides that she is going to grow a new strain of marijuana for me, one that she says will have really high amounts of the chemical compound in the plant that helps with cancer symptoms. I don’t remember the science-y part of it. CDC, maybe? No. That’s Center for Disease Control. CBD. The chemical’s name is CBD. Some friends send you flowers when you get cancer. Katie personally grows a pot plant for me. This is why she’s my best friend. She knows that I don’t want to cry about it, or get depressed and sulk around for the next six months. She knows that I want to enjoy the little things and do a couple of the items on the bucket list we made together in seventh grade. It doesn’t matter which ones. My mom and I work out all of the logistics. I don’t think I’ll make it a full year, so we get a vacation rental. You can rent those by the month. We make sure to pick a place that has a big backyard for Max. My mom can pretty much run her business from anywhere there is internet connection, so we go to the Apple store and I help her pick out a laptop. I’ve never been to an Apple store before. It’s pretty cool. I wonder if anyone here can tell I’m dying. I’ve lost ten pounds. My hair is thinning. My skin looks grey? This is new. Just noticed that in the reflection of one of the computers. Maybe it’s these fluorescent lights. Two months later, we hire a professional caregiver to come and stay with me while my mom has to go back to Arizona for a couple of days for work stuff. We also have our neighbor come over and help take care of Otis. He’s pretty low maintenance, but I can’t lift his dog food bag to feed him. Otis and I watch a lot of movies together. I like that he is a dog and doesn’t understand that I’m dying. I’m glad that my mom is getting a break from taking care of me; A break from having to pretend to be so strong all of the time. Sometimes I hear her crying, and it hurts more than the giant tumor in my stomach hurts. I know Katie would come take care of me at the drop of a hat, but I can’t ask her to do that. I don’t do much, except sometimes my mom wraps a bunch of blankets around me and we go sit next to the biggest window in the house and watch the snowfall. Something about growing up in the desert makes me feel like snow is a little bit magical. I can still walk, but only for short amounts of time. I’m having a hard time eating. I’ve lost another ten pounds, and I’m starting to look like a skeleton. Too bad Halloween already passed. The day that I fall trying to get out of bed is the day. I’ve read about dying enough to know that once the falling starts, the really slow, terrible death starts - The pain, the loss of mental facilities, the incontinence, the sleeping 23 hours a day. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to lose all independence. I don’t want my mom to see me like that. I call Katie. I’m getting weaker. When did it start to take so much energy to talk? This is new. I tell her that I love her and that’s all I need to say. She knows; We have talked about this. She starts crying. I start crying. “I love you too. I’ll see you later. And I’ll bring you a jet pack if we have them by then.” My mom and I had previously discussed this, but unlike Katie, she doesn’t want me to tell her. She just wants me to sneak out while she is sleeping, and do it. I’m ok with that. I don’t think I could tell her, anyways. I put a coat on. And then I put my shoes on. Max wags his tail like he think’s we’re going on a walk. “Not you, buddy, just me.” I’m scared. How will my body know it’s time? I don’t want to be stuck out there, alive. Hopefully the cold will help. I make it about 500 feet, which is a lot less further than I was hoping to be, but a lot more than I thought I actually could get. I can hear Max barking. I fall on my knees. About a minute passes. It feels like 5000 years, but I’m glad this minute felt so long because it’s my last minute. For 5000 years, I am thinking of all of the reasons not to do this. “What if I had tried chemo?” “What if I start to try chemo now?” “What if I miraculously recover?” “What if tomorrow they find a cure for cancer?” Ridiculous.


A long time ago, in a forest not far from here, a little girl of no more than four stood looking up at the trees in awe of their great heights. She was amazed at the texture of the bark beneath her tiny fingers and the colours of the leaves on the forest path. Upon hearing soft foot steps crunching the leaves behind her, she giggled and darted through the trees, hiding behind an exceptionally large one. She waited, breathing heavy, for the footsteps to continue. She heard them pick up speed, and suddenly the girl was flying through the air, swinging in the arms of her father. Squealing in delight she begged to be swung higher and faster. Her father swings her around once more, before plopping her down into the foliage on the forest floor. Kneeling before his little girl, looking earnestly into her sweet face, he warned her not to run off again, for the woods were quite large, and it would be easy to get lost. The girl, quick to reassure that she would stay close, nodded her head vigorously, causing her dark curls to shake. Together they walked through the forest, marvelling at the trees and the path, touching the leaves and the moss mottling the tree bark. It was then the little girl saw it. A butterfly. It was the bluest butterfly she had ever seen. Ignoring her fathers earlier warning she left the path and followed the butterfly deeper into the woods, and away from her father. She climbed over fallen logs, and ducked under low branches. She walked for hours in the woods, following the butterfly, while her father searched for her. Eventually, after the sun had retreated, and the shadows crept closer, the butterfly landed on single flower, the colour of the morning sun. Creeping up to the flower, she stared, wide eyed, at the butterfly. At this time a boy, only a few years older than she, stood in the shadows watching the girl. He knew she was loved and that someone must be missing her, for her hair was tied up in ribbons, and her clothes, despite her trek through the woods, were clean. Stepping into the light he called out to her “Hey, you!” The girl jumped in fright, spinning around to see who was there. When she saw the boy, his own clothes dirty and ripped, she rushed to him, feeling great sadness the sight of him. She gave him a hug and told the boy how they were going to find her father, and he would wash and fix his clothes, “because that’s what daddies do.” She took the boys hand and gave a pull on his arm. “Come on,” she complained. “He can’t help you if you don’t come with me” The boy didn’t understand, but knew the woods were no place for such a girl, especially a nice girl. Giving in, he held her hand tight and together they looked for her father. Another hour passed, and the little light left soon turned to darkness. The girl was growing scared her, only comfort in the boy still holding her hand. He whispered to her that everything would be okay. Shortly after, the children noticed long sweeping lights, filtering through the trees. A search party was out looking for the lost little girl. When the children were spotted by the a member of the search team, they were scooped up and brought to the search base. The news soon spread, and the girl was rushed into her fathers waiting arms. She twisted to find the boy in the celebrating crowd, so her daddy could help him wash and sew his clothes, but he was no where to be found. The boy was gone. The girl was brought home, and while she and her father still walked the forest, it was impressed upon her that she never leave the path. The passing days turned to weeks, the weeks into months, until many years had passed and the girl was no longer a girl, but a woman. And as the woman walked the woods, staying on the familiar path her father had taught her so many years ago, she came across a blue butterfly. The second blue butterfly she had ever witnessed in these woods. Without a second thought, she took off after the butterfly. Her shoes, tripping her as she ran were quickly discarded. Her clothes caught and tore on stray branches, but the woman did not stop. She ran and ran until the sky had darkened, and the butterfly finally stopped to rest on a yellow flower. Recognizing this place she spun around, just in time to see a man step into the moonlight. “Its you,” she whispered, breathless. The woman had finally found the boy who had saved her so many years before. She ran to him, took his hand, and together they walked through the forest once more. This time the woman was not afraid, for she knew she was safe, and the man felt no need to reassure her, instead they walked in silence knowing they had finally found their home.


"When did I choose to come here?" he asked as he stood upon the cliff, looking up to the grey sky. It looked like rain. "Do you really want to know? " asked the older man in the black fedora. He could feel the mans cold blue eyes piercing his back like icicles. "No... I suppose it doesn't really matter, does it? " he replied without adjusting his gaze. "Because after this, I'll remember won't I? I'll remember everything." "Yes." the old man said "that is usually how this works." He turned his head toward the man for a moment. He was too bright to look upon, but he could see that hat and those cold eyes. Eyes that had seen the millennia pass, without rest. "Do you know... why do I do this? Walk among them, fool myself into believing I am one of them? " he asked the old man tentatively. "No." he answered coldly, and for the first time since they came here the man adjusted his gaze skyward. "Some believe it is your idea of amusement, or your way of keeping a closer eye on them. You share so little with us now, no one can be sure." He sighed pausing a moment. "I believe that it is your way of becoming more like them." Turning away from the old man, he fixed his eyes on the horizon. He wasn't sure of his reasons either. But as he watched the burning light fill the sky, he knew one thing. He did not enjoy watching himself destroy the world.


Any feedback on this first chapter of this short story is welcome. I just want to see if this is worth continuing writing or not. Thanks! Chapter 1: There’s nothing out here anymore. Occasionally we’ll pass a car or two pulled off to the side of the road, but for the most part, it’s just fields and hay bales. We’re headed to Rainwood, North Carolina. Supposedly, there’s a safe haven there. My shotgun’s in the back seat, and I’m holding onto my pistol, only because David told me that you can’t ever be too careful out here. You never know when you’ll come up on something that can take your life in an instant. Especially if you’re in the situation we’re in now. Our gas tank is empty, and our car is stopped, dead. David turns to me. “Alright,” he says as he unbuckles his seatbelt and grabs his gun from behind him, “let’s go.” I reach back, grab my gun, and put my pistol back in the holster on my hip. Luckily for us, there’s a several car pile-up on the highway about thirty yards from where we are. Maybe we can find some supplies, some gas, or even better, another car. David slings his gun over his shoulder, and I do the same, and we begin to walk. The silence, aside form the slight buzzing of insects around us, is comforting. It makes me feel safe, like I know were alone out here. Like *they* aren’t one step behind us everywhere we go. When we arrive at the jam, David immediately tells me to start searching the abandoned cars for supplies. He walks to the semi-truck about a quarter mile away from me, and I begin searching the cars in front of me. There’s about nine or ten here, so it shouldn’t take too long. Or at least that’s what I thought until I opened the back seat of the first car. I stop, frozen in my tracks, staring. Toy cars, a teddy bear, a baby’s car seat… all covered in an unnatural amount of blood. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes, and even though it’s hard not to, I can’t cry. I have to be strong, or, at least pretend I am for David. I don’t want him to think I’m weak, or that he has to always protect this “innocent girl.” What the hell happened to the world though? “Stop.” I tell myself. “Stop questioning. It’s over. The damage has been done.” David always tells me that you can question all you want, but questioning isn’t going to get you anywhere. You just need to deal with the circumstances the way they are. So I need to let this one go, as fucked up as it is. This can’t be our fault like the preacher on the radio said though, can it? He said, and I quote, “Sinners. You, your friends, your family, all of you. You are the cause. You’ve brought this on to yourselves. Almighty God has judged you, and this… this is your punishment.” No, this can’t be my… our fault. There’s no way we can be blamed for the state of the world now. But when someone pins the blame on you like that, you feel bad. You feel bad for the death, the innocence, and the heartache that the world has come into. “David?” I call out, and he answers almost immediately, “Yeah?” “Come help me search the rest of these cars.” I say, and he walks to where I am. As he arrives, he sees the car seat and toys, and I can tell that he feels just the same as I do about it. “Keep looking.” He tells me. “I got this one.” I can tell he doesn’t want it, the sadness is in his voice, but as I walk away, I’m thankful that he’s there for me. I’m glad I don’t have to look through the mess in that car anymore, though I can’t help feel bad for him. I walk to a Nineteen-Seventy’s looking pick-up truck, and peek over the edge of the bed to see if there’s anything worth taking. A toolbox. That could be good for something, you never know. I hop in to the bed of the truck and look at the small metal box in front of me, hoping, just hoping that there’s something useful in it. As I open the lid, I glance at David, now searching some sort of two-thousand’s SUV. He’s got the same serious, concerned look on his face that he always wears. I look back down at the box, now open, to see a pistol with two boxes of nine millimeter ammo next to it. The next thing out of my mouth is a cheer. “Shhh!” I hear David from behind me. He’s right. Those things, the dead, could be anywhere. I cover my mouth with both hands. “Sorry!” I say in a whisper, and wave at him to go back to his business. In the normal world, back before the outbreak started and the virus spread, it was just some stories on the news. ‘Ya know, “A man viciously attacked another man at So-and-So Mall today, taking a bite out of his flesh…” or “So-and-So Prison was quarantined today after several inmates killed and ate two of the guards, displaying the same symptoms of those infected in Asia, Europe, Australia, Mexico, and America…” But after a while, things got more serious. The CDC called it a virus, religious groups called it the wrath of God, and apocalypse nuts called it the zombie apocalypse. Whatever it was, it spread like wildfire. Soon enough, ninety-percent of the world’s population (or, so reported the World News) was infected, and there really wasn’t any hope of a cure, or survival at all for that matter. The army moved in and they were overrun almost immediately by the infected. Civilians were told to stay indoors and wait for help, though it never came. Bombs were dropped on the streets, cities were devastated, highways piled up, and people were killed. So now we’re here. David and I could be some of the last living people on the planet. The rest are either dead or turned into those monsters. So we just try to survive. That’s our goal. Survival. Naturally, when we heard word of a safe house in Rainwood, we thought it was the best possible thing that we could do for ourselves, considering that, prior to this, we set up shop in the storm cellar of a farm house, living off of 1 can of sardines a day, split between the two of us. You could say it was pretty hard for the first couple of weeks. I pull the pistol out of the box, but immediately retract my hand when I feel what I know see is a sticky clear substance, kind of like saliva covering the handle. I don’t want to think about what that is or why it’s on this gun, so I just pull out my bandana and wipe the handle off. As I put the two boxes of ammo in my backpack and the gun in my belt, I hear David yell, “Sarah, we’ve gotta’ go, now!” Quickly, I stand to my feet and look toward where he’s yelling from, but I don’t see him anywhere. To my surprise, however, what I do see are the brake lights of a silver minivan. I hop out of the bed of the truck almost to excitedly, and run toward the van. I open the door, and sit it the seat trying to catch my breath. “Tank’s full.” David says, and I turn to him, smiling. He smiles back, and begins to drive. This is the first good thing that’s happened to us since this all began. As David drives, he asks me if I’ve found anything valuable. Without a word, I smile and pull out my backpack. “What?” He says with a chuckle. I know he’s going to like this. First, I pull out the gun and hand it to him. “Nice! Jericho nine-forty-one. This is good.” He says happily. “That’s not all buddy.” I say as I pull out both boxes of ammo. “What? Are you kidding me? This is awesome!” he says even more excitedly than before. He smiles and so do I. It feels so good to know he’s proud of me. Ever since this all started, and ever since I met him, he’s been the only person I’ve had, so it’s good to know that at least someone is. And that’s it, we’re back on the road again. We’ve got a good ten-hour car ride ahead of us. That’s four and a half states to cross through, and that’s only if everything goes smoothly. Rainwood, here we come.


“Hello? Is this the law offices of Bergstrom and Associates?” “Yes, may I ask who is calling?” “Hi um, well, is there a message machine I could leave a voice mail to... it’s uhh... it’s urgent.” “Please hold... “The mailbox belonging to ‘LARRY’ is full.” “Dammit!” I slammed the plastic receiver right back into place, making a loud noise I didn’t want anyone else to hear. The large black lady looked up from her paperwork through the glass with a stale smug. She had been assigned to strip search me yesterday. I guess she just always looks like she smelled something bad. I made eye contact with her, startled by the noise with a wild look in my face. She said plainly, audible but muffled through the thick scratched glass, “calm down or you’ll go upstairs”, no variable in her tone, like it happens daily. Ok deep breath, more oxygen will steady my hand, maybe. I fingered through the quarters in my hand. I had half a role left, plus some in my pants I shoved under the bed back in my room. A parade of crazies from upstairs stammered by like a pack of half living zombies and fairies with down syndrome. “I’M GONNA TAKE OVER THE WORLD WITH A TOOTHPICK!” As they passed I felt my face twitch. I made it twitch, it made an ugly feeling, ugly and fun. I felt it morphing into crazy, like a schizophrenic scowl or a bi-polar bite. It was necessary to get through here. Turn a dove into a dagger, a mouse into a maniac. I had to pretend to survive, I had to believe to succeed. It was all an act, a mind game to get to high water. Plainly, I was planning my escape. I was attempting to dazzle authority with a great spectacle, enough to captivate them while I slipped away. I had made it this far. At least now there was no doubt they all believed I was crazy. “MEDS!” Screamed with true ritual and repetition, so was the line of sad adults and their drug addicted counterparts formed outside of the thick, scratched, barrier. The barrier made it clear, them and US, whatever side you were on. At this time, the only daily reminder I was required to be present to, I repeated the truth, my truth. One I forgot when I would wake up to the questionable blue stitched blanket and unforgiving linoleum. The truth that I am privileged, blonde, teenager wearing a paper gown in a psych ward in east L.A. This truth scares me. Without any contact to my previous life I could live in here forever. I am comfortable, I am dosed to oblivious bliss, and I can escape the hell that lies beyond the minimum security. Keeping us from them, keeping them from me. 6 months ago I would have expected to be here. 4 months ago I didn’t want to exist and last week I would have done anything to get my life back. It seems I did the best I could. I swallowed my medicine, dry. I started puking out the anti psychotics once I got here, except for the Adavan. I took the phone book. I wrote the numbers to law offices in crayon on a coloring book drawing of a leprechaun. I strayed from the “L” pages. I was now mapping out gentlemen’s clubs, pawn shops and hostels on familiar streets. I thought, I believed that if my plan wouldn’t succeed I would escape with my belongings, find a hostel and start work as a stripper. It was a choice I was prepared for. A possibility I was trying to wake myself up to. It was real. I was running out of quarters. On the 5th day in my paper gown, I finally got ahold of an actual voice on the other end of the telephone. “What does this regard?” “Well, I am a resident, or was a resident at Clarity House. It’s an inpatient rehabilitation facility, but I am positive they are performing illegal...” “So where are you calling from now? I don’t work with drug courts.” “Ok I know it sounds ridiculous, you probably assume I’m a drug addict. I assure you that this place is completely illegal. They switched my drug test with an actual drug addict and now my parents think...” I rehearsed this for months in my head. Months! But said aloud, I just sound... crazy, delusional. I sound like a drug addict. Another dead call. I could feel myself sliding down a pole, I could hear the thump of the club music get closer and closer. I could feel myself sink into the Los Angelas lost pit of dreams, far away from my identity. I had 5 quarters left. “MEDS!” I swallowed all my pills. The fog returned to my eyes, then my limbs. I tried to walk back to my room 20 feet away but the pills had stop bending my knees. A man who seemed overjoyed to be in a hospital psychiatric unit, whizzed past me. “HEH, that’s the psych ward strut, you got goin’ there, yeh yeh” I scowled, he kept grinning. I fell into sleep right away followed by a dream. On normal occasions I always remembered my dreams, even when I was very small, but for 3 months while I had been wrongly badgered to a pulp in a behavioral modification facility, I hadn’t had a single dream. This dream was dark and singular, not filled with oddities and outer planetary sceneries. I was strapped to a bed and a thin nurse with blonde hair was injecting something into my arm. She looked menacing, evil. She resembled Cathy from East of Eden or maybe me. I woke up and upon consciousness I remembered the name of a psychiatrist at Clarity House. We weren’t aloud to speak her name for some crazy reason I could only imagine was in the same light as my predicament. I looked for the name in the phone book but there were no matches. I had no computer, should I ask the orderlies to get the number from their iphone? Fuck no! We weren’t even allowed to have shoe laces! “Excuse me?” Glass door squeaks open. “You get another one of those “panick attacks?” “No I need the number for a psychiatrist, do you have numbers for that sorta thing?” “We have a resident doctor that comes every other day.” “But we do have an old directory from years back you can look at” I flipped through the tattered handout, sorting through unpronounceable ethnic names, names I used to think would be mine one day. HOLY SHIT. I found it. Dr. VU. I used the last 4 quarters on the call. It probably won’t work, she won’t pick up, it’l be disconnected. “Hello?” I froze. I felt like I was about to regurgitate my intestines. But I thought about the strip club, I thought about motels on sunset boulevard and my parents. I dove forth without my intended insanity and told her everything like I planned. My truth lead her to believe my circumstance and with that she assured me she was going to help me leave captivity, unscathed. I started crying, I started sobbing. No one had even spoke to me like a real person in months. A tear dropped on my hand, the hand that had been gripping my last quarter. I hung up, shaking with joy. I looked down at my quarter. 1990. The year I was born.


"Everyone dies, son." We were at Wendy's. "But, why?" I asked. "God, son, I wish I could tell you. I really wish I could. But I can't." Then he thought for a second and repeated "Nope, I can't." Then he made a farting sound and we got in the car. *Your Mother* "Son, I will never say a bad word about your mother. But! I will say that you are half whore." *Religion* "Look, I was never a religious man. I was raised Catholic or - well, something. I think it was one of the ones with Jesus. God. What the hell am I? Shit...this is going to bug me. K, I went to a church or temple or - there was that lady, you know, the one that went to your mother's birthday last year with the drinking problem." He sat silently thinking. Finally he yelled "Carol!" *Fighting* "Son, you may never get in a fight in your entire life. Like you'll come close. You'll piss some people off, but no one will ever draw you out for a fight. Or, maybe you'll get swung at and you'll duck and then someone will stop the fight. Or, maybe you'll swing at someone and they won't fight back. Point is - you may never get in a fight in your entire life. It's something to think about." Then he punched me. *Get a Job* "Son, I don't want to be one of those parents that makes you go out and get a job when you turn sixteen, but I do want to offer you a job. Take a look at these." They were war bonds. It was 1992. *Drugs* "Have a seat. Your mother told me you've been taking drugs." "Yeah, I have asthma. I have an -" "I don't want to hear it!" *Women* "Son, it's time we talked about women." "OK, Dad." I said. "Women are like men, but they have purses." "OK, Dad." "Did you do your homework?" "Yeah, Dad. Can I have some money to see Last Boy Scout this weekend?" "Sure. You wanna know something else about women?" "What's that, Dad?" "They ask for money to go see movies." "OK, Dad." "I'm calling you a woman, boy!" Then he started laughing and then crying. "OK, Dad. Where's your wallet?" "A woman's got it!" He snarled. But it was on the counter. *Sandwich* "Come here, son. Look at this. That's MY sandwich. Do not touch it. OK?" I nodded. He had spent the better part of the morning making it. "It means everything to me." I nodded. He started crying "Everything." *Being a Man* "Come over here. Take a knee. Now, son, being a man doesn't just mean going out and getting loaded and hooting at women, it means eating cheeseburgers and nacho cheese, it means throwing beer cans at people and much, much more. Now blow into this tube so I can start the car." *The War* "I don't like to talk about the war." He said as I passed by him sitting alone in the living room, playing Doors records with the lights out. "That's just something I won't talk about." "OK, Dad." I said, and grabbed my backpack to go do homework. "Wait, son. There's something I never told you about the war." "What, Dad?" "Oh, now you want to know - well, I don't talk about the war." "OK, Dad." "OK, just this once. What do you want to know about the war?" "Which war?" "I don't even know. That's the main reason I don't like to talk about it." Then he started crying. Then I went and played Mario Cart. *Computers* "Son, this is a computer. I have no idea what it does. Let's go." *Oil Change* "The thing you need to know about changing oil is that you're gonna need some new oil. And an oil filter. And some beer (grabs me by the back of the neck and starts laughing to the point he's shaking, then he starts crying, then we change the oil)!" *Geology* "Son, see this here? That's shale. You know how shale is formed?" "No." "You know how rocks are formed?" "No." "Jesus, I guess I haven't been that great of a father." "You've been fine, Dad." "No. No. Look, so, let's start with subduction zones." "What are those?" "You see, the Earth - is that old Bill Cabot!" And then he just kinda ran back into the house and hid. I'm pretty sure he didn't know about Geology, but I was glad that he gave it a shot. *Babs* "You remember Babs?" "No, Dad." "God, I loved Babs. C'mon! Blond hair? Had that muffler on her car?" I still didn't know who Babs was.