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Passion Fruit It was the finest orange I had seen in months. It was right in front of me in a tall, blue trash bin. I looked around in all directions to make sure no one else had seen it, and was thrilled to find that my eyes and my eyes only gazed at the luscious fruit before me. The afternoon sun danced across the porous surface, highlighting its beautiful features. The prize was mine. I hoisted my bag over my shoulder, not caring about the various objects that spilled over, and shuffled my tired feet towards the trash bin. I put on my best angry face in case any passerby’s in the park decided they wanted it for themselves. Just a couple feet from the trash bin, a young boy got too close. I lashed out at him, showing my rotting teeth as angrily as I knew how. The boy screamed and nearly fell as he made his escape on his bike. The incident made me cackle, and I moved ever closer to the orange. Within reach, I stretched my hand outward, admiring my filthy fingernails as I did so. I curled my bony fingers around the orange and quickly plucked it from the bin. I held it to my chest tightly and looked around again. Mine! All mine! I made my way eagerly towards a nearby bench. A young couple on the bench saw me approaching and moved away in a hurry. It made me truly appreciate my power. My smile only got bigger as I sat and admired my prize. All mine! I tossed my bag aside, my attention never leaving the orange. I rubbed my hands all around it, enjoying the textures, its perfections and imperfections. I gave it a light squeeze, testing its durability. It was just how I liked it, not too soft or too firm. It was cool in my palm and my dry, putrid mouth began to water. Overwhelmed with anticipation, I pressed my thumb down hard onto the peel. With a soft pop, I broke through the surface and shook with joy as juice flowed from the opening. I quivered as my thumb made contact with the soft, wet innards of the orange. I considered leaving my thumb in a while longer, but decided against it. I knew my satisfaction could not be achieved by touch alone. My mouth ached with desire as I inspected the orange one last time. With my thumb still plunged deep inside, I tightened my grip and started to peel my prize. Mine! All mine! My hand was soaked with lovely juices as I removed the last bit of skin. Finally the orange was stripped clean and I stared at it intensely. At last I could indulge; I could leave this troubled world behind for a moment and occupy myself with this pure, beautiful creation. I lifted the orange to my cracked lips and took a hungry bite. Fresh juices sprayed from my mouth as I slowly chewed my first chunk. I savored every moment until the last bite. I held the sloppy piece before me, wishing, hoping, praying that somehow it would be whole again. I closed my eyes hoping to find a new orange in my hand when I opened them, but the same piece remained. I became overwhelmed with sadness and was surprised when a tear rolled down my cheek. I crushed the last bite of orange in my hand, sending pulp and juice all around me, and I threw the pathetic nibble to the ground. I let out a decrepit scream, startling those who walked by. The orange betrayed me! The bastard made me cry! My enormous desire for the fruit had now turned to boiling anger. Revenge! I only wanted revenge. I was thinking about exactly what I wanted revenge for when I saw her. She was walking along a concrete path in the park. Her hair flowed in the breeze like a blonde sea. She was wearing a red tank top, revealing an impressive bust. My eyes lingered there a moment. It was the finest bosom I had seen in months. Her white shirt, littered with red roses, moved gracefully as she walked, and I enjoyed the pitter-patter of her white flip-flops. She held a tan purse with her right arm, and carried a grocery bag with her left. I stood up, almost in awe at the site before me. I looked around in all directions to make sure no one else had seen her. The park was crowded and no one paid much attention to anyone else. I was thrilled. I picked up my tattered and dirty bag and started along the concrete path. The same path my new prize was already on. I was about forty feet behind her and struggled to keep up. My tired feet protested, but I moved on. Mine! All mine! We walked for some time, eventually leaving the park. I was thirty feet behind now, getting closer and closer. She continued confidently, never stopping or looking behind her. She looked to be in her twenties, but difficult to tell from this distance. It didn’t matter; she would be mine soon either way. Still gaining on her, I followed her into a residential area with houses all around. I was careful to make sure no one else saw my prize. I didn’t want anyone to try taking her from me, not at all. Finally she turned into a driveway and I was filled with excitement. I nearly had her in my grasp, I was so close. By the time I reached the driveway, I could hear her opening the front door. I hurried in to reach the door, but my bag proved to be a burden. By the time I was at the entrance, she was already inside. I cursed and felt my prize slipping away. I stared at the door knob for a couple of minutes. I saw my hideous reflection in the gleaming brass and smiled, pleased with myself. I reached for the door knob and was thrilled to discover that the door was unlocked. Mine! All mine! I slowly pushed the door open and peeked my head inside. The front room was bright and cheery, tidy and well organized. I could hear my prize somewhere inside; she was humming a familiar tune. I moved all the way inside and carefully shut the door behind me. The air inside was cool and pleasant, a welcome change from the hot summer temperature. I eased my way closer to where I heard her sweet voice. I made my way down a hallway, taking a moment to admire some family photos on the way. My prize was a beautiful one to be sure. I almost couldn’t believe that I would soon have my hands on her. I turned the corner leading into the kitchen and came face to face with my prize. I gave my biggest smile and she froze in place. She was quite a bit shorter than myself and had a wonderful shape. I raised my arm and reached out at her, ready to claim my prize. Just then she let out a wild scream, startling me. She was to be mine, my prize, yet she screamed and screamed. She looked at me with disgust and turned to run. “Mine! All mine!” I shouted. I swung my bag as hard as my gangly arms would allow and struck her in the back. The impact caused her to fall face first onto the tile floor. I heard a crack and a grunt and watched her try to get up. She was obviously shaken, and she was definitely hurt. She turned over on her back, her eyes were flooded with tears, her nose soaked in blood. “Help! Please… Please help! Please don’t hurt me!” Her screams and cries were music to my ears. She sobbed hysterically as I closed in on her. The prize was mine at last. I crouched down beside her and studied her wonderful features, highlighted by the dancing sunlight coming from outside. I reached hungrily for her luscious breasts, eager to test their durability. She let out another scream, and I smiled. “Mine… All Mine…” Just then, I felt a burning pain radiating from my chest, accompanied by a thunderous bang. I felt suddenly weak and my prize blurred before me. A single tear rolled down my left cheek. And then there was darkness. I awoke some time later in a hospital bed. I frantically looked about for my prize, but she was gone. I was immediately blinded by rage and confusion. Outside the hospital door I saw one police officer talking to another. “Hell of a shot, Rob. Probably saved that girls life,” he said. And then I saw it. Across the hall was a young boy in a hospital bed. At his side, on a small table, sat a single red apple. It was beautiful. It was the finest apple I had seen in months. …Mine…All Mine…. | 7,965 | 1 |
I’m nervous. My hands are autonomously fidgeting with my dress, my heart is all but beating through my exposed chest and my stomach is twisting and turning with the opposition of the decision to even be here. The only decision I am thrilled with is my blatant refusal of lunch. Between the unyielding force of the corset beneath my gown and the virtually absurd anxiety, the food would have been gone long before my grand entrance. I am, at the very least, relieved to know that the other guests cannot see the blushing and self-conscious little girl beneath the solid coat of white makeup and the glittery feathered mask. The person I was previous to this evening is not remotely comparable to who I appear to be. So, why am I so afraid? There is not a soul here who could know who I am. To them, I am the Queen of Hearts. “Are you ready?” I turn, startled by a voice that was unexpectedly coming from outside my own mind. My sister is standing in the doorway, flashing impatient blue eyes in my direction. She is ravishing, as always, dressed in same ensemble as I, only in opposite colors. I am white with red hearts, where she is red with white hearts. I don’t envy her appearance, though I know others do. There are girls who make an effort to hurt her with malicious words as a consequence of their own jealousy and self repugnance, but I would never. I do, however, envy her extraordinary self-confidence. “Are you ready?” No. “Yes. Let’s get this over with”, I reply. I know she is beyond ready just as well as she knows I will never be. “You’re beautiful, little sister”, she says. I peek at her through my mask with the same expression I always offer when she compliments me. I think she knows I don’t believe her. “Just remember who you are and you’ll be fine.” She smiles. I attempt to do the same. Remember who I am? Tonight, I am the Queen of Hearts. I am the Queen of Hearts. I am. | 1,897 | 1 |
Bodies. Some more aesthetically pleasing than others. Merely a dingy basement on weekdays, the lower level of the “Fiji” house had been transformed into the place to be on a Friday night. Apparently nothing more than a black light, a tapped keg, and several large speakers were needed to create the ultimate party scene from a grimy cellar. With each stair I descended, a distinct smell engulfed me, choking me for a moment in its intensity until I was greeted by the next unmistakable smell. Beer. Cologne. Sweat. And yes, vomit. This frat party had crossed the threshold, the one of revered intimacy; the one where boys were no longer men and girls were no longer ladies, but rather, bodies were bodies. The male bodies scrambled to find a dance partner, someone to grope on the uneven cement surface that passed as a dance floor. Anyone with a vagina would do; cleavage was a plus. The female bodies remained in close-knit groups, forming tight circles to shut out unwanted advances. They held their drinks in one hand and raised the other to the beat of the music; they gyrated their hips and bit their lips, among other things, to appear sexy yet nonchalant. Yes. The threshold had been crossed that night. Bodies were bodies. I felt a tap on my shoulder. Ava and Sam were standing across from me and they both raised their eyebrows upon seeing the boy behind me. Ava shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, ‘He’ll do. Go for it,’ and continued shaking her hips to the music. I turned around to find a tall, dark stranger, red cup in one hand, the other placed precociously on my hip. He smiled and motioned for me to turn back around. He pushed up against me, not before giving my ass a hearty squeeze, and we started grinding. He wasn’t the most attractive guy I had ever seen. But he was there. And so was I. I was just going through the motions until I saw something that made my stomach turn. There was Jacen, across the room, with his arms around Emma. They were facing each other, an instant indicator that he was completely engrossed with her. That kind of grinding was reserved only for couples, or friends who knew each other very well. Strangers did not face each other when they were grinding; eye contact was far too awkward. And then, as if he knew I was watching, they started kissing; drunk, sloppy slobbers, the epitome of tonsil hockey. My eyes welled up and I suddenly felt a lump rising in my throat. That was supposed to me. He was supposed to be embracing me, kissing me, getting a boner from my ass pushed up against his junk, not Emma’s. And just last week that had been me. But in six days things had gone terribly, terribly wrong. I reached behind me with my free hand and began rubbing Mr. Stranger’s thigh. The words ‘Oooh yeah,’ escaped his mouth in a single, warm, beer-scented breath, and landed directly in my ear. I suddenly felt disgusted with myself. But I did not stop. Because neither had Jacen. | 2,955 | 2 |
It wasn’t the way he moved his wrists. No, that was always elegantly trashy and it turned me on. It also wasn’t the way he would never take off his long, black socks; he was afraid that his feet smelled. I found all of his irritating habits to be endearing after I have my coffee. It couldn’t have been the way he danced in his dog-bitten-hole-in-front-of-his-dick-pouch underwear in the morning to Bowie, singing into my blue toothbrush. Maybe it was the way he would make love to me. Pushing himself against me and pounding away like a jackhammer, rolling over and falling asleep. I would run my aching hands between his soft chest hair and wonder what stars taste like in my mouth. I loved all of it. I remember the hours lost underneath the sheets, sunlight dancing between our pirouetted fingers. The texture of his redone tattoos against my exploring hands. Our tiny nightstand we stole from a dumpster at 3am. He sanded it down with utmost precision and detail and I wildly sprayed it black and the drawer red (now the red will have flecked off). Or the smell of coffee I had every morning to wake up to. So strong. I know what it is. The moment that shattered us. That scattered our lengthy dreams and quiet hopes. I came home and shook off the rain from my black umbrella. I shucked off my shoes and ran to get out of my dripping clothes. I noticed it. No, it wasn’t his cock in someone else’s body. It wasn’t even another lover. It was just his green, matted, wet towel lying on top of our bed. | 1,632 | 7 |
"Coffee". "What?" "Coffee." "Yeah. So where do you want to go?" "I dunno, Kaka?" "Sure, like, why not?" "Let's go." "Wait." "What?" "Look, about last night." "Forget about it." "I... yeah." "What?" "Nothing." "Come on, spit it out." "No I just, wanted to say... that it was good." "Yeah." "So now what?" "Coffee." "No I mean now what, I mean what are we?" "I don't know." "No I mean, are we together now?" "I don't know." "You want to be... together." "I don't know." "Well say something!" "I think I love you." "What?" "Yeah." "Well, I... this is... I mean... Well..." "I said I love you." "I know what you said." "So...?" "So what...?" "Maybe I made a mistake saying it." "NO! No... I'm sorry. I just don't want to ruin our friendship." "I'm sorry then. I'll go." "No wait, don't go. I don't want you to go. I want to be with you. I want to spend this morning with you and you alone. I want us to be, together." "So do I." "Okay then." "What?" "Coffee?" "Yeah. | 1,006 | 12 |
Just a conversation between two lovers i thought up. Maybe it will become something more later on Sex in dark places No one ever goes to the movies these days david, we all just stay home and download so we can have all the sex and violence we want, onscreen and off. That’s a fairly depressing viewpoint, I mean if that’s really true… well we've degraded down to a species that- To a species that has figured out what is most enjoyable in its little biological existence. Come on you don't believe that, you can't. There are so many things out there that are so beautiful and pure- Sex is pure, pure intimacy and pleasure- You know what I mean. I mean the higher pleasures, the ones that separate man from the beasts. I'm talking about the books and stories that really draw you into thought and complexity. There is something there which is precious and unfathomably superior to… to fucking eachother while watching the ultimate fighters bludgeon eachothers bodies into submission. You're cheating me david, ha, you are cheating me. I know you are better at philosophizing than I am but even I can recognize what you've done there, even if I can't put into words. And what have I done? You… you… you just took what I was saying and you made it smaller than it is Smaller? Worse, you made it worse Explain to me how it's better than what I said then It's just that sex and violence are the pinnacle. I don't just mean violence like the fist smashing ogres who climb into the octagon. I mean the turmoil of life where everything happens in a rush, where the parts of the present are cast into a torrential future, an uncertain future. Then there's sex, I mean how can you deny the strength of that great beating heart which is screaming for you to grab and fight until you've had everything in reach. When you balance that out with our social restraint and the mixture of passion, frustration, anticipation, longing, and finally burning intense satisfaction. It's the most incredible part of being human David and it is complex and wonderful. Well maybe I did put a bit of spin on my shot but I think your exaggerating it a little bit. Violence is all well and good and I understand the excitement. The same is true of sex, it's fantastic in all of the ways you described. What I think your wonderful description lacked though was the blinding clarity that comes about with resolution. The feeling that comes after a long night out filled with fighting and drinking and probably a good amount of sex. When you wake up and that morning light comes in between your blackout curtains and you can really see what came out of all that wild passion and violence and sex, when that happens, that feeling is enough to make you feel so empty and pointless that you just want to cling on to anything. I know the feeling and it sucks, it does. You wake up in bed with a stranger and the light shows all the hair and sweat you either didn't see or didn't want to see last night. You remember the yelling, the stealing, the fighting and you remember every shot every pill and powder you've ever had and wonder what the fuck you've done to yourself… more than that you wonder what you've done to your life. What I've always thought though is that that feeling is inescapable if you really examine your life. We are an amazing level of intellect caught up in this flighty and insignificant little biological organism that wants to get fat and make more of itself unendingly. It's always going to be tragic no matter what you do with your life. Well if that’s how you feel why do you bother with all the violence and sex and stuff? It's not the easiest way to while a life away. If you're going to hate you're life every time you wake up why not do something easier? That's what I've been trying to say all along about the movie theaters and the drive ins and all of that. People don't want to live in that light. They just want to sit in the dark and fuck each other because they know it’s the best they can do. Even if we are grossly over equipped mentally it's still the best we can do. The best we can do is live in a storm of passion and pleasure and try and stay out of the dark, the best we can accomplish is sex in dark places. | 4,259 | 1 |
When you were nine, your mother shot you in the chest. At school, they called you Voodoo Boy, but as your dad, I couldn’t see the wood for the trees. I see it now. Clear as sheets of gelatine. And the way you sculpted me... well, it makes the analogy all the more appropriate I suppose. When you fell and tore your knees, you didn’t cry like other kids. You were transfixed by the leaky, tasty goo that came out; running down your shins, and coating your fingertips. Dabbling and savouring and swallowing the copper liquid, with a grin on your face and a flutter in your concrete heart. Your teachers would write notes in your workbook. Not pleasant ‘Well done Nicholas’es as I would’ve wanted, but ‘See me’s and red detention slips. All the time. Stabbing with pencils, painting curses on walls. You held a girl down, and stapled her tongue to her lip, Nick. We took you out of school after that. And your mother, she looked at you in shame, disgust. Loathing. She couldn’t understand – and this is a direct quote – why you were so fucking evil. I couldn’t bring myself to hate you. I made you, and I wanted to make your life liveable. That was my duty. The strangest things would fascinate you; ordinarily exciting things were dashed with mundane and just discarded, like they weren’t worth the effort. You liked eyes. You drew them. You touched them and pushed them inwards to see how long it took for your vision to fog over. Once, your mother stopped you from popping it back into your skull. We need to be clear on this; it wasn’t because she didn’t want it to happen. She almost certainly did. She simply couldn’t stomach it. And when yours weren’t interesting anymore, the growing brown tedium of your irises, you looked to experiment elsewhere. Not on me, mine were brown too. What you told me after pressing your own was that you wanted to see inside. You asked me what was there, and I said I didn’t know. Blood or something probably. It was around eight o’clock, sometime in November. Your mother had fallen asleep on the sofa, and you were drawing, cutting and sticking. You heard her snore; ‘Mean Old Mum’, and you felt like an experiment. Mother’s pearly blues. You tried to see inside her eyes. I think you believed me about the contents, but you were very much about finding things out for yourself, for certain. Her eyes were loosely closed. The one on the left, the top eyelid. You snipped it right up the middle to get a closer look at the cornea, the iris, the pupil. White fluid, red fluid, and screaming, cursing, flailing mother. She said that we had to disown you, that you were a fucked up child. I couldn’t leave you, and she left me after that. I still loved her and trusted her, and she still popped by from time to time – to cry, to talk – but she never acknowledged you again. One day, she came by, drunk. Very drunk. All slurred words and vocal gesticulations. She had a service revolver, her Dad’s I think. When you were nine, your mother shot you in the chest. When you were nine, your mother shot herself in the head, upwards, through the roof of her mouth. She collapsed backwards, into the table by the front door – the one we kept the keys on, and the post – an assortment of thumping noises, and gurgling noises trickling from the hole in her head. I loved you Nick. And for all your faults, I still love you. But I’m done now. Everyone gives me the look. The one that says ‘like Father like son’. And I don’t want to be thought of like that. I’m a good man. I have a good heart. But they’ve gone to waste. I guess I’m trying to say that I hope all this has changed you, and I’ll see you soon. Love you Nick, Dad. | 3,674 | 2 |
There was a tall man with a short hat sitting on top of a lamp post. A breeze blew by and the hat fell off, but the man continued to sit still, afraid that he would fall. He finally braced himself to look down at the landing place of his hat. The hat had pierced through the horn of a boar that snored below him. Furious about his now ruined hat, the man kicked his shoe towards the boar in an attempt to wake him. The shoe caught the breeze, landed in the boar’s yawning mouth and was quickly digested. A rumbling crept from the boar’s stomach (boars don’t react well to a specific type of rubber sole) and the beast kicked back his hoof in frustration, rattling the lamp post side to side. The tall man rattled about until his equilibrium was compromised, sending him towards the ugly pig. The man reached his lanky arms outward and grasped onto the boar’s wisp of a tail. Without a proper brace for his fall, he crushed down onto his right knee yelping with pain, but the boar continued to sleep. Curious, thought the man, but he took his hat and wobbled down the walk towards a local drug store. *I’ll take my usual* he demanded to the ethnic shop keep. Before the boy could grab the man a pack of Winstons and a stick of beef jerky the door hammered open. In walked the boar with sleep in his eyes. *Nice day* he snorted, grabbing a tin of antacids with three teeth and placing them on the counter. *Yes. Nice day*. Said the man, counting the floor tiles. *Why were you resting on top of that lamp post?* Asked the boar. *I’m a very tall man and benches rest too low to the ground*. He continued, rocking onto his socked foot, *Why didn’t you wake up when I dropped my hat, when you swallowed my shoe or when I pulled your tail*? The boar took a moment to wiggle his snout, *I take a lot of vicodin*. | 1,805 | 13 |
Paul sat at the table in his living room scribbling down a few last sentences on his scratch piece of paper. The words started out neatly written, but as your eyes travelled down the page they became smeared and unrecognizable. As he folded up his work, Jack came stumbling down the stairs into the living room. He was in a hurry trying to get to work. As Jack grabbed a half-eaten sandwich from the fridge he yelled: “Hey bud! Look I know you’ve been in a rut for the past few months but after I’m done with work today you and I are gonna hit the bars, find a hot piece of ass, and get you laid! You’ll be in a better mood in no time!” “Yeah, okay dude. Hope work-” “Alright see ya man!” Jack walked out the front door scarfing down the sandwich. The car outside made a terrible noise then the engine roared to life. Paul picked up the gun on the table in front of him and shot himself in the head. Blood ran over the note on the table. Even the perfectly crafted words at the top of the page became defiled and tarnished. | 1,036 | 1 |
This isn't my first short story, and I hope to post more at some point, I just wanted to share this. You’re sitting, a cup of warm pomegranate tea is lightly steaming on the small table next to the chair you’ve chosen as your morning sitting area. Your bare feet rest upon the warm wood of the patio. You run your fingers through your hair, admiring the job that your barber did yesterday. You take a sip of the tea, a bit of steam caressing your nose as the warm liquid intensifies on your taste buds. Seems like you made the tea rather strong today. Oh, no bother. You place the glass down, swallowing the last bit of tea. A light “clink” as the glass of the tea cup strikes the glass top of the table. A light breeze flits through the patio, as if it were the wind under a robin’s wings. You look around at your surroundings. The cool green grass has just hit its peak, and it’s reflecting the sun’s light beautifully; it waves in the breeze, creating a soft green sea. Looking down at the watch you received for your birthday, you see it’s just about half passed 11 in the morning. The sun is lightly perched in the middle of the sky, clouds drift past, creating some quiet shadows to compliment the sunlight. The sun is refracting off the white bricks your small, humble, but cozy home are made from. The sun warms your skin as it shines down from the heavens above you. It’s a nice warm, very soft and defined. You grab the collar of your favorite shirt, and take a little whiff of it. It smells like her. You know that scent immediately, and it brings a light smile to your face. You look down at the bracelet she made you, the colors all meaning something more than anyone else needs to know. You hear the creak of the patio door opening, and she steps out, still in her pajamas. “Good morning, baby” she says with a quiet smile, a twinkle in her eye, and a graceful step through the doorway. “You’re up early,” she says, sitting down next to you. “It’s a nice morning. Here, I made you some tea” you say to her, smiling, “I know it’s your favorite. Care to enjoy the quiet for a little while?” you say. A smooth white flash brings you out of your daze. It’s only 3 AM, and you’re alone in the cold darkness of night. You already miss her. *Sometimes my dreams are too vivid even for me.* Downvote it to hell, I don't care. I just had to get this out. Thanks for reading, if you did. | 2,396 | 1 |
He ran. He didn’t know what else to do. So he ran. Hard. He could feel the sweat trickle down his back and mingle with the cold air, causing a shudder to spread through his entire body. Or was it his entire being? Could something rattle a person so hard, that their soul would be vulnerable? The darkness formed a shell around him. He didn’t stop running. He couldn’t. He passed empty streets and silent households. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about what happened. How could anyone in his shoes? His legs felt heavy, but he didn’t notice. Was he running from tonight or was he running from his entire life? Was his entire existence the set up for a joke and tonight was the punchline? He hoped such questions would answer themselves, but all he heard were his own hurried breathing and sirens in the distance. Each gasp he took danced from his lips like whipsy, white flames; violently disappearing into the dusk. He knew it was cold out, abnormally cold for the time of year, in fact, but he didn’t feel it. His feet kept moving. He tried to remember the last time he had gone this far past the township limits. He came up with his failed attempt at running away when he was seven. He was given a good beating for that. This was another kind of punishment. This was worse. Outside the dreary haze of street lights and city sounds, the sky became brighter, almost like something he’d see in a movie. He became aware of the silence as well. His heavy breaths echoed across the deserted landscape. Each huff and puff absorbing into the pavement, each bead of sweat evaporating into the dark. He noticed that he had started trotting. A rush of pain flooded into his side. His legs became jello. He coughed, hard. He came to a stop. He felt like he was being crushed. He forgot about his prior conflict. He sat on a rock and looked around. He didn’t recognize where he was, but that didn’t surprise him. His feet hurt, his side stung, his lungs burned, yet, he was at peace. He sat on the rock and listened to the sound of nothing. His breathing slowed and he the sharp stabbing in his side subsided. He stood up and saw an orange glow to the east. A new day. Then he came to a realization. Nothing will stop tomorrow. It will come despite today. He took a deep breath and then He started walking back the way he came. | 2,347 | 2 |
The Cuckoo is a Pretty Bird It was late in the morning and the sun was high. Mary had some mud on her cheek, it was dry and cracked and felt good when she picked at it. There was an orange stain on her and chin from rubbing a popsicle on her sunburned lips. She laid the popsicle on the step of the porch and it began to melt. The porch was unattractive, Mary thought. The new white paint had already started to bubble. There was a spilt ashtray on the ground, next to a solitary chair with one short leg. A rusting bicycle with two flat tires, hung from hooks, next to the door. Beside the porch was Mom’s old garden. Mary remembered the modest chrysanthemums and the bright cosmos that bloomed only once a year. Dad hadn’t tended to it in three months; there were long weeds and the garden was wild now. A short breeze pushed the front door open and Mary could hear noises from inside. She leaned back and peered into the house. Her brother sat on a stool in the middle of the naked living room. He was barefooted. Aside from dinner and church, he was always barefooted. There was a sixth toe on his left foot that hurt to fit into shoes and gave him a small limp. His guitar sat in his lap and Dad stood behind him, instructing. “I know it’s on the bottom, Tom, but we call it the top string.” It was Dad’s guitar but he had given it to Tom for his birthday. Mary shut her right eye and watched them. Dad took the instrument from Tom and began twisting the pegs. He’d twist the pegs and pluck a string. Twist. Pluck. Twist. Pluck. Twist. Pluck. He handed the guitar back to him and Tom smiled. “You haven’t lost another plectrum, have you Thomas?” Dad used Tom’s full name when he was upset. “This is my last one and its special to me, take good care of it.” It was a fine pick made from strong wood, Tom smiled again. Mary looked away, her right eye was still shut and she spit on the ground. “Motherfuckers,” she whispered. “Fuckers. Fuck. Asshole. Crap and Shit.” Another breeze came and she closed both of her eyes. She relaxed the muscles in her brow and pointed her face towards the sun. “Motherfuckers,” she repeated. With her eyes closed, Mary tuned out the sounds of her brother and dad. She listened for the cars passing and for the neighbor’s dog bark. She heard the pine needles fall from the pine tree and land with a sharp and heavy clang on the tin roof of dad’s tool shed. There was a cherry tree across the yard and she tried to listen for it, but it was silent. Her grandpa was napping, with the window open, in his room upstairs. He was humming an old song in his sleep and when the tune reached Mary, she hummed along. One day in the spring, Grandpa pulled Mary out of school. She thought his car smelled like a handful of dead leaves or one of the big books on his bookshelf; he smoked cigarettes but let her roll down the window, so she didn’t mind. They drove for two hours and finally stopped at the coast. They crawled around on the tide pools and Grandpa threw rocks at a crab. They walked up and down the beach collecting seashells and Mary found a coyote skull. Grandpa said it would be alright to take home as long as she hid it from Tom and her father and didn’t tell them he’d taken her out of school that day. When they got home Grandpa cleaned the skull and Mary took it to her room. She glued beads to its face and a quarter between its eyes. She put it in an old shoebox and stuffed it one of her drawers. Mary opened her eyes and looked at her watch. It was 11:55. She knew Grandpa didn’t wake up until 1:00 from his midday nap. She sighed then spit in the dirt. Mary heard the cuckoo before she saw it. She knew it was the cuckoo from his call; the short whistle, the sad hiccup that she loved. She loved this cuckoo especially. He had a nest in the cherry tree in the backyard and she remembered him by his great size and the uneven markings it wore on its chest. Just one week ago Tom had caught a small lizard in the back yard. He dropped the lizard into his shirt pocket and quickly climbed the branches of the cuckoo’s cherry tree. Though, on ground, Tom’s foot made him lame and weird, he was agile in the tree and climbed beautifully. He sat on the highest branch and kindly took the lizard from his pocket. He looked into the lizard’s fast eyes and started talking to it. He told the lizard his big secrets that he couldn’t tell Dad or Mary. He told the lizard that he didn’t like dad’s rough face and the bathroom smelled and that he missed mom. He turned the lizard over and, with his thumb, rubbed the blue colors on its soft underside. He kissed the lizard on the top of its head and held his hand out flat so he could better examine his new friend. Tom’s head shot up when he heard the cuckoo’s bark. In an instant the cuckoo had the lizard in its beak. Tom held on and the lizard’s tail broke off in his hand. He watched as the cuckoo carried his pet across the yard, dropping bits of his guts and parts of his legs to the dry grass below. He looked at the squirming tail in his hand and, because he was gentle, began to cry. Now, Mary watched the great cuckoo, perched on the telephone wire. Ants had gathered around the melted popsicle and one was crawling on her ankle. She slapped it off and spit twice at the rest of them. She stood up and walked toward the bird. His call was loud today and she tried to mimic it. She pursed her lips together and forced an airy whistle. His call grew even louder. “Cut it out!” Mary heard her grandpa holler. She looked toward his window and saw him sticking his head out. “Grandpa,” you’re up early, today!” Grandpa smiled, “It’s that damn cuckoo bird, I can’t get no sleep!” Mary looked at the ground and picked up a rock. “Get out of here you damn cuckoo bird!” she yelled, “You old asshole!” She threw the rock and missed, but the startled cuckoo shook its body, flapped its wings and took off. Grandpa laughed and his head disappeared back into his room. She looked back at the bird with her right eye shut. It was flying over the house, back to his nest. Mary spit. It had happened very fast and the cuckoo lost some of its feathers in the excitement. Mary picked one up, it was red and brown and she put it in her pocket. Mary walked into the house. Her dad was in the kitchen making sandwiches for lunch and her brother was in the bathroom. The guitar was leaning against the stool and the guitar pick was on the middle of the seat. Mary picked up the pick, the zebrawood was warm and felt nice in her hand. She took it to her room, opened her drawer and threw it behind the shoebox next to the rest of Tom’s lost picks. She took out the shoebox and lied on her bed. The beads and quarter shined brightly on the coyote in the early afternoon light of her room. She rubbed her glue stick on the nose of the dead animal and stuck the cuckoo’s feather to it. The toilet flushed and Mary lay on her side. She placed the decorated skull in front of her and listened to her father scold her brother. “What do you mean you can’t find your plectrum, Thomas? You just had it!” Mary smiled and the sunburn on her lips cracked. She looked at her watch. It was fifteen minutes past noon and she wondered if Grandpa would be getting up later than 1:00 since that damn cuckoo bird woke him up. | 7,306 | 1 |
the pitfighter's guide to the galaxy *Things were different in my day, thought Buster Knuckles, glancing up at the impressive array of Silverware on the shelf of his study. He took a gulp from the coffee mug, dwarved inside his right hand and jabbed at London's unluckiest 'touchscreen' computer with his left, scanning through the exhaustive roster of athletes. He keyed over to another page, glaring at the five empty fields on the Intergalactic Fight Federation entry form. "Thank God for that."* In hindsight, it is quite amusing to consider the people of Earth's reactions when the news of iminent first contact filtered through. Scientists stood expectantly, revellers readied for revelry, religious figures piously prayed or wailed hysterically, linguists got out their phrase books, businessmen got busy and amabassadors amassed. Nobody thought to pack their sports kit. First 'contact' was actually a misnomer, being that it was, as always, mediated and facilitated by the digital-ether class beings. Forms of life that had, by device or design, transcended our physical world and existed as immortal, barely fathomable clusters of consciousness. Communication was made via holographic display in which all manner of spacey things were explained (in what many felt was a slightly cursory manner) until the subject of sports was broached. The real 'first contact' came in the form of a swift left hook. It is now known the rules of galactic engagement, when a civilisation is developed in technology and philosophy and deemed to be moderately peaceable or merely 'a bit feisty', the digital-ether give invitation to join the intergalactic federation. This enables civilisations to share knowledge, philosophy, ideas and insults. Trade and physical interaction is nigh on impossible given the massive physical distances between worlds that can only be traversed by the digital-ethers, and they don't much like the idea of ferrying round lumps of dirt for inferior species to squabble over, furthermore they refuse to be responsible for genetic contamination and subsequent annhilation of worlds (after the B-3633 incident). More importantly, it gives them the opportunity to watch creatures sportingly knock the crap out of each other. By coincedence of his hollywood retirement and the interception of our day to day doings by these other worlds, buster was hailed as the benchmark. It was decreed by the folks of planet Earth that buster was the man to represent the lads to represent our entire planet in this galactic punch-up. | 2,557 | 1 |
When I was growing up in Limerick my mother had to go to the St. Vincent de Paul Society to see if she could get a bed for me and my brothers, Malachy, Michael, and Alphie who was barely walking. The man at the St. Vincent de Paul said he could give her a docket to go down to the Irishtown to a place that sold secondhand beds. My mother asked him couldn't we get a new bed because you never know what you're getting with an old one. There could be all kinds of diseases. The man said beggars can't be choosers and my mother shouldn't be so particular. But she wouldn't give up. She asked if it was possible at least to find out if anyone had died in the bed. Surely that wasn't asking too much. She wouldn't want to be lying in her own bed at night thinking about her four small sons sleeping on a mattress that someone had died on, maybe some that had a fever or consumption. The St Vincent de Paul man said, Missus, if you don't want this bed give me back the docket and I'll give it to someone that's not so particular. Mam said, Ah, no, and she came home to get Alphie's pram so that we could carry the mattress, the spring and the bedstead. The man in the shop in the Irishtown wanted her to take a mattress with hair sticking out and spots and stains all over but my mother said she wouldn't let a cow sleep on a bed like that, didn't the man have another mattress over there in the corner? The man grumbled and said, All right, all right. Bejesus, the charity cases is gettin' very particular these days, and he stayed behind his counter watching us drag the mattress outside. We had to push the pram up and down the streets of Limerick three times for the mattress and the different parts of the iron bedstead, the head, the end, the supports, and the spring. My mother said she was ashamed of her life and wished she could do this at night. The man said he was sorry for her troubles but he closed at six sharp and wouldn't stay open if the Holy Family came for a bed. It was hard pushing the pram because it had one bockety wheel that wanted to go its own way and it was harder still with Alphie buried under the mattress screaming for his mother. My father was there to drag the mattress upstairs and he helped us put the spring and the bedstead together. Of course he wouldn't help us push the pram two miles from the Irishtown because he'd be ashamed of the spectacle. He was from the North of Ireland and they must have a different way of bringing home the bed. We had old overcoats to put on the bed because the St. Vincent de Paul Society wouldn't give us a docket for the sheets and blankets. My mother lit the fire and when we sat around it drinking tea she said at least we're all off the floor and isn't God good. | 2,743 | 0 |
Click, clack. Click, clack. The sounds of metal against metal reverberated through the entire ship as the captain walked towards the guard rail on the starboard side. Every other step the captains prosthetic leg stuck the ships metal surface and rang out. From just below the knee a metal contraption attached to his leg. Hinges and blots dotted the device and ever few steps a release valve opened and steam hissed out. The device was solid bronze and extremely heavy and as such, it required a lot of strength to take a single step, much less walk across the ship. He continued his difficult trek until he reached the railing. Leaning against it he looked over to his right and saw one of his passengers staring out across the night sky. She stood there silent, not even noticing the captains presence, completely enthralled by the view in front of her. “Its beautiful isn’t it?” the captain said, breaking the silence. The female passenger could only manage a nod and did so without breaking eye contact with the view. The captain gave a small chuckle. “I used to be just like you, the first time I saw all of this” he motioned with his arm, swinging it about. Hundreds of feet below them the giant city spread out in every direction, seemingly never ending. The snow capped mountains that sat in the center of the city shined as the sun just barely peaked over the tip of the highest peak. The setting sun cast enough light to see the city as it feel asleep. And just enough darkness to see the stars coming to life. Their light brightening the night sky. “When I first saw it I knew that I would never be able to go back. And I haven’t, I have called this ship home ever since.” the captain said after a few moments of silence. The female passenger pointed down to the ships running through the rivers that cut through the city. and spoke for the first time “They don’t even know what they are missing.” she said almost in shock. “And that is the way of things, you never really know what you are missing until you have held it in your hands and you wonder were has it been your entire life.” The captain sighed. “I have meet so many river boat captains who say that airship travel is impractical and unorthodox and unsafe. They neglected to mention it is beautiful.” “The airship is a relatively new invention, compared to boats. New is scary, and new is confusing. They say that only the foolish mess with the scary and confusing.” he gave a quick laugh “And as such, I am a fool among fools.” The passenger looked at the captain and asked him. “How did you first come to fly on this ship?” she asked. “Ah.” he sighed “Now there is a story. Have you ever heard of Jeremiah the Mad?” the captain say the lack of recognition on the passengers face and continued. “I assumed as much, he was way before your time. Anyways, Jeremiah was a captain like I am myself on board a very similar vessel such as this one. Only he was not a captain of a passenger vessel, he was a thief and a murder and was greatly feared through out the water district.” the captain paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “I suppose you can see were this story is going, my family owned a shipping company. The Eastern Trading Company as it was called back then. My family has just commissioned the build of a new line of passenger ships and the first one was ready for its maiden voyage.” the captain stopped once again and leaned against the railing, his mechanic leg hissing. “My father thought is was a good idea if my family and I were on board the ship for its voyage. The first night of the voyage the ship was attacked and boarded by Jeremiah the Mad and his crew. We fought back and they killed my family. I lost my leg.” He raised his mechanic leg as he said this, then continued his story. “I was twelve years old.” he said quietly. The passenger next to him stood staring with her eyes wide open. “Oh my god I am so sorry!” she exclaimed. The captain gave a small smile. “The past is the past, no use feeling sorry for what already happened” he said. The passenger stood silent, not saying a word. The captain then turned and started to limp away. Click, clack. Click, clack. As he walked away the passenger realized he never answered her question. “wait!” she yelled “you never answered, how did you come to fly on this ship?” The captain stopped and turned around to face her. “But I did tell you, you are standing on the ship that used to belong to Jeremiah the Mad.” he said. “What?” she said in shock. “how did you get his ship?” “That is a story for another time.” he answered. He turned and continued to walk away, leaving her in absolute shock. As he walked away he spoke over his shoulder. “Best be getting under shelter, a storm is picking up” he said as he disappeared under the deck. The passenger just stood in shock watching the captain disappear. She turned and faced the guard rail and ran her hand over it, whipping dust off it. Something caught her eye. Looking down she could faintly see a symbol scathed into the railing. It read. | 5,122 | 4 |
George Bentley does nothing. He never wakes before midday and usually not before one. When he wakes he usually spends at least an hour just lying in bed trying to muster the energy to move. Today was no different. After a restless hour his aches and pains force him to drag himself from his bed and he slowly lumbers through his dark room, identical to a thousand other student-halls across the country and headed towards his bathroom. George relieved himself and only vaguely considered his aim. The bathroom was small equipped with just a sink, mirror and shower cubical. George looked into the mirror and saw a gaunt man of about twenty with dark purple bags below his eyes, he looked very tired. He staggered back towards his computer no more awake than when he first he was first stirred more than an hour ago. George briefly considered heading to his kitchen to make some food but paused when he thought he had heard his house-mates pottering about. He did not have the energy to face he rarely had the energy to face them. To call them house-mates was ludicrous because he hardly knew them and didn't have any desire to know them. They either were loud, laddy and brash or they were pompous nerdy and obnoxious either way he detested them all. George glanced towards his supply of weed a pile of about two grams sat in a small metal tin. He would have to try and contact his dealer soon, he didn't have the energy for this either. George put this to the back of his mind and began to gather the necessary equipment needed to roll a spliff. Ultra-thin king sized hemp rolling papers, hemp tips for roach and American Spirit tobacco for smoking mix. George quickly produced a spliff conical in shape with a twisted end. He sat back and admired his work before searching his messy desk for his red clipper. Eventually he found the lighter beneath a pile of chocolate bar wrappers and sparked up the spliff. Smoking made George feel almost normal again and indeed soon after finishing his smoke he headed for the kitchen ready to face anyone who might be there. He strode quickly and confidently towards the door not even pausing to listen for his house-mates. Once he left the room his confidence seemed to slip and the relief was evident on his face when he found the kitchen to be dark and empty. George stooped down to rummage through his cupboards which were barren except a tin of beans a pot of pickle and half a loaf of bread. George stood up straight his eyes glazed over and he walked quickly towards a dirty grey sofa which sat beneath a large bay window. His hand reached for the red clipper in his pocket, toyed with it for a second or two before sparking it twice. A tall bright orange flame leaped from the lighter and George moved the lighter to the sofa which quickly caught alight. George ran. The building burned. | 2,840 | 3 |
(Note: I'm a very inexperienced writer, and this is all I have since I started writing it at 2am in the dark while I couldn't sleep. Be slightly gentle?) I know pain. More painful than a physical pain, harder to endure than death itself at times. The notion of a love strong enough to ache for the sweet linger of shadows where he has once walked, the urge to enclose his face in my hands and touch his lips to my own, the craving of his fingertips lingering on my skin, brushing by with little idea of the intoxicating effect. The way his eyes quiver with tears at my own pain, the golden tints reflected back in his. Empty inside, lacking a piece of myself when he’s gone. The gentle embrace of his arms, keeping me safe in his towering protection, the soft eloquence of a single breath belonging to him graze my cheek. These are the things that make it harder to let go, to release him for even a second, when he wasn’t even mine to begin with, somehow lucky enough to have found a sense of ownership, but yet more of an equality, like a single being. Love ignores ignorance, love does not care who you are. Love disregards everything else, it drives you to the edge of insanity at times, but it’s always worth it. Love isn’t just for the lucky ones. It does not, however, happen to just anyone. So if you ever get the chance to love, if you were given the opportunity, the gift of love, don’t ever throw it away. No matter what, don’t give it up, because it may never come again. The sad truth is many people who were chosen for something so beautiful don’t hold on to it, for petty, stupid reasons. Too many times I’ve seen people give away a precious gift that was probably the best thing to ever happen to them. I just wish people would understand. Words could not dare describe the growing pit of despair growing in my heart. The thoughts clouded my mind, pulling away the possibility of focus. I impatiently drummed my fingers, just waiting for another heart crushing event. He slid into the room wordlessly, a look of sadness replacing the smile that usually resided on his face. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. I only shook my head in reply. He took me once again in his arms, drawing me back into my warm, towering safety. He released me with a soft chuckle. “What?” I asked with a hint of wistfulness behind my usual monotone. “Nothing, I was just thinking.” “About?” “Well, I was thinking, ‘If we aren’t accepted here, maybe we should go somewhere else’.” “What do you mean?” I inquired. And then every hint of humor left the room with the next words that escaped his mouth. “Run away with me. | 2,634 | 1 |
I told her it was amazing and that she has a talent, but she sometimes doubts herself, and considers me biased because we're dating, but I truly think it's a gripping start. It may have some grammatical and spelling errors, but please, I'd love to hear your opinion. “What are you drawing again?” I asked five-year-old Madeline. Madeline looked down at her paper with the big jumble of colors and giggled. “I think it’s a dinosaur now. It used to be a bird.” I nodded and watched her carefully select another crayon out of the big box on the floor. We were sitting on our back porch in the middle of September. September, 2186. I lied on my back to look up through the trees at the sky and Madeline started singing to herself. Grandma would want us to come in for lunch soon and Madeline would want to feed hers to the dog. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The wind blew my hair around my forehead. Suddenly everything was shaking. I sat up in alarm and Madeline stopped singing. We both looked up at the trees, which were being abandoned by all of the animals that lived in them. “Bristol…?” Madeline whispered in a shaky voice. “We have to get inside,” I replied, standing up. We waited there a few moments more, mesmerized by the haunting scene of the quaking earth and the leaves that were being shaken from the trees. I snapped out of it and turned to Madeline, pulling her to her feet. “NOW!” I yelled over the sound of the rumbling. She pulled away from me, grabbing her drawings and throwing the crayons, which had been scattered all over the floor, back into the box. “Madeline! We don’t have time!” I tried to grab her, but she yanked herself free and continued gathering her things as quickly as she could. I looked at her helplessly before dropping to my knees and hastily helping her collect her crayons. It was getting closer. “Madeline…” I whispered, defeated. A feeling of déjà vu washed over me. I knew this feeling too well. I couldn’t place it, but this all felt very familiar and I was getting more uneasy every second. “We have to leave the rest. Madeline, please! We must go inside now!” Madeline cradled her box of crayons and drawings and rose to her feet. Just as she was standing, something long and black wrapped around her waist. Madeline looked down in confusion and then back up at me. I frantically reached for her, trying to pull the mysterious thing from her waist. She dropped her box and tried to grab me; tried to keep herself on the ground, but it was too late. The long black arm was lifting her off the porch. “Bris!” Madeline screamed in terror. She was held horizontally above me, looking down in fear. I was yelling her name and jumping, trying to reach one of her ankles or hands, trying to bring her down. My hand got a hold of something, but she was pulled into the sky, screaming. I started crying. I yelled up into the empty trees, now free of life and nearly leafless. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH HER?” I kept yelling and sobbing until my voice was weak. I looked around at the piles of leaves on the ground that had not been there just minutes ago. Then I remembered. There was something in my hand – something I had grabbed when trying to reach for her. I tried to steady my breathing as I looked down. The picture she had been working on, the bird/dinosaur, was slightly crumpled in my hand. Bristol opened his eyes to find his pillow soaked with tears. He flipped it over and wiped is face dry. This time the memory was from eight years ago, when he and Madeline had been visiting their grandmother. Madeline was only five and Bristol was seven at the time. He looked over at his clock. It was 4:27 in the morning. For eleven nights in a row, now he had the nightmare. It was always a different, random memory and the way she was kidnapped always changed, but no matter where, when or how, each nightmare had two things in common: Madeline was always there, and she was always taken. The night before, they had been at the fair with their father – a memory from five years ago – and she had been whisked away by big men in black suits. In reality, Madeline had disappeared almost two years ago, when she was eleven, but Bristol’s mind was distorting memories from years before that and coming up with the strangest ways for her to have been kidnapped. He sat up and looked out the window, down at the cars passing by. He wondered what people could be doing and why they were out and about at such an early hour. Bristol lived on a busy street and no matter what time it was, there were always people, all rushing to get somewhere. He pressed his forehead to the window and watched the condensation appear and fade away as he breathed. For the past 20 months, no matter where he was or what he was doing, there was always one question pushing its way to the front of his mind – always wanting an answer. Would he ever see her again? A faint sound snapped Bristol’s attention away from the street below. His mother was crying in the next room and his father was whispering words of consolation that he couldn’t make out. Bristol sighed and lied back in bed, staring at the ceiling until it was time to start the day. | 5,172 | 0 |
Warning: an amateur here. This is my first short story that I'm publishing. My grammar isn't the best and neither is my spelling. Just wanting honest feedback. This is rough, but if I have the potential to get better, please let me know! Today I was awoken from my dreamless sleep by the cry of my child. This is not unordinary as he is an infant. He cried for a minute, maybe less. As I struggled to gain consciousness from my deep sleep. The time on the clock flashed 9:48am. Without fail every morning, he will cry. I sludge into his room next door, the ribbon tied to his door knob lay straight. Silent. I turn the knob, just an inch. No more than that to glance a peek. "It's a gift to see your child when they are unaware of you." I say absently to myself. There he is. Eyes wide with wonder for what is to come of today. Sleepy eyes, yet wide and brown. His head casually turns left in my direction, blinking, then right. He whimpers. "is he whimpering for breakfast? For more sleep? Possibly he just wants out of his crib to play and investigate all his toys spread across his room?" I ponder. The floor creaks at where I stand. I step back to hide my face through the small crack in the door. The perfectly round head peaking over his crib and big brown eyes snap in my direction. Its too late. He saw me. A loud whine escapes his small soft lips. A cry for his mama. "He wants me? Before his breakfast? Before his toys?" My heart floods with love. I make my way slowly toward his crib, smiling. My arms stretched out, I reach for my boy. His arms stretch just as far as they can go to reach mine and his cheeks turn rosy. His eyes no longer seem tired. His lips no longer whimper cries. He smiles. | 1,715 | 4 |
~Some say kids don't study ~ they cram God damn hate that I am what i am ~ Depressing urban music played from the radio of my bright orange Paradise Corporation taxi. I put the taxi into first gear and pulled away into the air. We weaved left and right, dodging the factory chimneys that polluted London's night sky. A giant advertising hoarding danced in the peripheral of my vision. Advertising these days was ever present and always personalised. I turned to look at the advert, it wouldn't disappear until it had been acknowledged. The garish Paradise Corporation's logo and its associated theme song rang out. The advert offered me the chance to fly to one Saturn's moons. Just twenty thousand dollars. With the advert acknowledged it disappeared, it would not be long before it returned. I glanced into the mirror and took a good look at my fare for the first time. It was a six foot tall talking Crocodile, dressed all in black. He was growing restless. It snapped it's jaw and snarled “Turn that shit off!” I quickly shut the radio off, not wanting to chance losing my tip. I studied his face again it was obvious what he was thinking. “A human driving me? And a women to boot.” I focused my eyes back to the road. London was beautiful from up here, sadly it was a different story back on the ground. We reached out destination. Paradise Airstrip Thirteen hovered a mile above London casting a permanent shadow on the city below. The crocodile departed leaving no tip just a sarcastic message telling me to get a real job. Easier said than done I thought. It began to rain. | 1,588 | 3 |
Woke up again, ten minutes late, hurried out the apartment door, on an empty stomach. The icy cold breeze ripping through my skin as I walked toward the metro station located just around the shopping mall. I always thought how those who were worse off than me felt at times like these, those who can't afford a shelter or even a small meal…I mean the homeless people. You can find them in many places, especially in the metro stations, or under the bridges…you know? Oh well, I hope they at least live a good life, a hollow wish, but it was the best I had at that time. Reaching into my left pocket, I searched for the fare card I purchased last Tuesday, but unfortunately I couldn't find it. "Must've left it at home, in my jeans" I thought to myself. Pulling my wallet out, looking for some cash, "maybe one thousand yen?" I guessed it right and took two giant, 500 yen coins. As I stuffed the wallet back into my left pocket, I picked up the already quickening pace and reached the street with the shopping mall and the metro inside it. The sun rays were beginning to reflect their warmth off of the sky rises of Tokyo.The morning clouds passing overhead like they were being herded somewhere by a fierce sheep dog. Every day of the week, I walked a mile and a half toward the metro to work. So many men and women wake up at 6:30 AM, including me, to catch the 7:00 AM train going to the city of Yokohama that it feels like they've never slept. I used to live in the city of Tokyo, in the small Shinjuku District. A small farm, maybe around 5 acres or more perhaps, was located neatly next to the apartment buildings where I lived with humble folks who only knew the basic necessities of life such as happiness, family, and love. I used to hate that small ditch that was next to the farm though; it was always muddy no matter what the day, time, or weather. After 5 minutes of more walking, I finally came into the metro station, hastily pushing the buttons, the machine then spit out my ticket. I ran toward the platform where my train would soon arrive. “So many people”…I thought to myself, “how are they going to fit into those tiny trains?” It still was a miracle to me how so many young, old, college kids, businessmen/women could be pushed into those trains. Even though I got this job back in December, approximately four months ago, transportation was always a surprisingly cramped every morning and evening. After about 30 mins of riding the train and switching stations, I got off at the Yokohama District Station. I worked at a small seafood restaurant in Yokohama. Every day, it was the same routine in that crazy place. I got off the train, walked about 2 blocks into the restaurant and signed in. First things first, take out the shrimps, the octopuses, the eels and the rest of the sea food out of the room-sized freezers in the back to leave them out for defrosting. They were going to be used up later that night, when the customers would storm the place. So far, the weather refused to change and my hands, even after I had on my work gloves, were sore and cold. Next step in the process was to heat up the ovens and the gigantic pans. Then, pour cooking oil in them and while the oil was getting hot, we had to chop up all the meat that was already defrosted from last night; and that process at least took three hours. At around 9 A.M the customers came. Business men and women, just swinging by for a small taste of deliciously fried fish with soy sauce, the best seller at my work place. Soon the sun was high and gleamed with promising heat through the glass windows, casting shadows of the outside world on the tables full of crumbs and all sorts of microscopic germs and dust specks. The crowds of the customers were getting bigger and louder by the minute, and it seemed as if their stomachs were screaming for the food and not their mouths, because the same people usually ended up being extra polite to you after they finished eating. “CAN I HAVE 5 ORDERS OF DEEP-FRIED TEMPURA PLEASE!!!" yelled one man. "3 SETS OF FRIED SHRIMP WITH SOY SAUCE! OVER HERE!!!" exclaimed one woman. The fun was in the rush-hour during the lunch times, when things really started to rowdy up. Plates after plates could be heard being washed with their clinks and clanks against the other kitchen utensils. A young man worked up a sweat while washing all those dishes, how such a small restaurant could handle such large crowds of people is still a mystery to me. Familiar faces drag in around familiar times, the fisherman who could easily catch his own fish and cook for his own lunch, came in around 3:30 pm. The old farmer, with a century old straw hat who had a vague idea that he is living in the 21st century Japan, came in at 4 P.M. As the sun climbed higher the smell of frying fish and octopus filled the air in and around the restaurant, which was a natural advertisement in itself. Every other day, an old face brought in a new one, and I saw the popularity of the restaurant and its employees, including me, grow with the customers. They started to address me with my name, saying “Hey, Setsuna! Get me couple of fried shrimps with some soy sauce, will ya?” and I would say, “2 orders of fried shrimp, coming right up!” Finally, at about 11:00 P.M, my shift ended and I started to head for home....After I cleaned up the place that is. Some more tuna fish were to be taken out of the freezer for defrosting naturally overnight, that's how I knew tuna was on the menu for tomorrow. The final pots, pans and plates were rushed to the bus-boy, still sweating profusely but working hard to clean up the piles of dishes. The remaining fishery material went inside the freezer again, to be used for anther combo of dish later in the weekdays. Finally, after the whole area was cleaned up, I went into the restroom. While washing my hands in the restroom, I splashed my face with cold water and headed out the door toward the metro. A burst of cold air split right through my skin, and shivered me right to my bones. Lighting up behind me was a panoramic view of the city lights as if it was its time to go to work. There was plenty of light and noise of the city even this late at night that it seemed the city would never sleep. Minutes passed and I came to the metro, bought my ticket back to Tokyo, ran to the platform and waited. Soon the train arrived with the cold gust of wind and the same crowd was packed tight into train again. After around 4 or 5 stops…I can barely remember now, they all blurred together…I got off and came out of the metro and the mall. My eyelids seemed to weigh a ton and I could barely walk straight. It seemed that eventually, I was shaken by the bitterness of the cold and the sharpness of the dry air. I went home and prepared for the same routine that I will keep for years to come. That was my life about 15 years ago, and now, I rest in my wooden chair with those memories still fluttering in my mind as if they happened yesterday. After I saved enough money from that job, I decided to move down to the rural town in the city of Okinawa, near the ocean. The breeze here is fresh enough to wake up the spirits in you; it makes me feel like I am living a new life. Here in Okinawa, I bought a small condo and a reasonable garden and started to just grow vegetables and sell them. The reverberating sound of the cicadas echo like microscopic scooters with loud engines, dominating the afternoons here, and the sun is hotter than ever during the summer. The sales of vegetables that I grow, whether they are potatoes, tomatoes, cabbages, and others, was enough to pay the bills and thus, making life worth living here. Those memories still come back to me sometimes, especially in the early morning when it’s cooler out. Now and again, the echoes of those customers ring in the back of my mind, desperately ordering food to satisfy their bottom-less stomachs. Many times I thought of going back there and working again, but something held me back here in Okinawa. The smell of the ocean, the texture of the soil in the garden, the feel of fresh vegetables when they are plucked from their respective trees, the small groups of customers who come along every once in a while, the sunshine and all the new life that grew from it kept me here. Not anymore was alive my hunger for materialism and money in my heart, just of seeking peace and living it. I figured this must be the life I desired when I was a young adult working at the restaurant in Yokohama, but so clouded and misguided by the materialistic dreams I was that I avoided this haven here. Okinawa became my sanctuary, my refuge from the daily stresses of that life back in Tokyo and Yokohama, and once in a while I felt of going back, but the connection with the down to earth life and simplicity of this place pulled me back. Now, time passing by like the slow moving waves of the ocean, I look over the bright stars as I get older and older, a faint smile confirms my past experiences, and I tell myself, “I've lived a good life. | 9,132 | 1 |
As Alanna sat on the bed, she thought: *Why is my marriage over? How? What exactly did I do to cause him to walk out?* She felt dejected and sad enough to cry when she felt a heavy, furry thing on her shoulder. She turned and saw Teddy, aka Theodore T. Urso, her imaginary friend from her childhood "Teddy!" she exclaimed. "Alanna," he said to her calmly, the way he always talked with her. "Do you remember when you were five years old?" "I...uh...barely," she said. "Oh, sorry about the pun, Teddy!" "No problem," he said. "Now if you don't remember, I do. Your family had moved into a new house in a new neighborhood across town. Few children in the neighborhood wanted to play with you. Your older sister hated you because you had taken all the attention away from her. Your older brother ignored you. And sometimes your parents didn't pay the best attention to you because they were busy. "I came to you then. I became your friend. I helped you get through those sad, bad times. "I am truly sorry about what happened to your marriage. Now that you need some friendship, I've returned. Because I never left you. I was a part of you. I am a part of you. And I will always be a part of you. And if I helped you through some bad times when you were a girl and knew nothing, I sure can help you now because you're a woman and know more...and better." Alanna put her hand on his paw and sniffled. "Thanks, Teddy. You're a good bear." "You're welcome," the bear said. "And while you get over your ex-husband, I recommend that you get a dog. Love him or her and he or she will love you back. They are truly man's best friend. And I won't be jealous. I'll be happy that my friend has a good buddy. | 1,705 | 1 |
He had been going to the same coffee shop for nearly a year now. All for her. She was his everything. He thought about her while working. He thought about her while eating. Hell, he even thought about her while thinking about her. To him, she was perfect. And he had never even said so much as a single word to her. He first saw her clearing tables across the restaurant; her tight black skirt giving the perfect outline of her backside. The way she had glanced back as if she could feel his eyes burning holes in the fabric made his heart race. Her raven colored hair and rounded, black eyeglasses made her porcelain skin glow even more. He could remember it like it happened mere seconds ago. A taut white blouse, black skirt, and glossy black sneakers. She always wore the same outfit to work. It was the same attire the others wore, but he never paid enough attention to them to make the connection. When he was in the coffee shop, he only had eyes for her. Each day he went to the coffee shop to see her. He noticed she was quite shy and even when nearing his section, she kept her head down. This never bothered him, so long as she was close by he would take what he could get. He noticed she was being trained to replace an elderly server retiring soon. If only she would come by his table, he would be able to profess his love for her. Then one day, he got his wish. She seemed to glide as she made her way to his table. “I’m Amy. I’ll be your waitress today,” she breathed, as she looked up from the checkered tile floor toward his expectant gaze. Finally, their eyes met. Her beautiful smile was the perfect match to his glowing face. As she brushed her hair softly behind her ear, she slowly pulled her glasses down from her face. In that moment, his heart seemed to burst from his chest, for she had a lazy eye. “Welp, plenty of fish,” he murmured to himself as he exited the shop. | 1,903 | 12 |
I remember when I was five, and my dad gave me his hat. It was late September, and we were walking through the park together. I guess I had complained one time too many, because he carefully took me off his shoulders to stand in front of him. I looked up at him and repeated, “I’m cold, daddy.” “Here,” he said to me, kneeling, “take this.” He had given me his hat. The candy hat. Red and white striped all the way up to the top, with a big red pom-pom on it. He always said that I looked the happiest I ever had at that exact moment. That was about 7 months before the divorce. It’s january 2009 now, and I haven’t spoken to him in 3 years. I get a call at 4:30 from South Trenton Medical Center. He had gone into cardiac arrest and was in their custody. I was his only contact information. I moved slowly at first, as of I hadn’t heard the news at all. Lazily, I pulled myself out of bed. It hit me. This was my father. He raised me, and I loved him. I began to panic. I quickly scanned my shitty apartment for something clean. I found a sweater, red and white. Striped. The cab ride is short, but seems like an eternity. I’m anxious as hell, and only halfway through notice my fingernails dogging into the leather. I let them. The hospital’s doors were heavy, and the inside was barely warmer than the cold outside. Fourth floor, they had said. 402. I knock. An old doctor comes to the door. Grandmotherly but stern. “I’m sorry.” He was dead. Shit. 3 years we didn’t utter a word to one another. What the fuck Is wrong with me? Where was I? Where am I? As I attempted to run my fingers through my hair, which was now bathed in a cold sweat, I hit upon a familiar feeling. Warm wool, prickly but soft. With a pom-pom on top. I didn’t even remember putting it on. God, I loved him. I miss him. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I’m crying like a child, right there in the hospital hallway. I feel sick. I want to die. I let the tears come as they may, choking back sobs. I want to die. Shit. I’m lost. Lost in grief, lost in anger, lost in the real fucking world. My name is Waldo, and I need to find myself. | 2,129 | 5 |
She stood lifeless next to the wall at the end of the darkened musty corridor, blood still dripping off of her hand where it had run down her arm from her shoulder. She slowly starts to peak around the edge of the wall when a loud **SHRIEK!** echoes terribly off the moldy ceramic walls. Quickly she jerks her head back in fear of being spotted. Cautiously dropping to her knees and now down on all fours she tries to look again. The long hall is slightly misty from the broken windows and the adjacent forest next to the abandon hospital. About halfway down the passageway, broken beams of moonlight fall upon the blood soaked floors from the previous victims who were brought here that tried to escape. At the far end it appears very deep and dark….her hopes are set on the stairwell that is mirrored to the one she just came from, hoping desperately that it is unobstructed. Minutes pass without as much as a sound from anywhere. The silence is very thick and weighs heavily upon her eardrums. She decides that the time is now! Slowly she starts to stand back up as her knees and ankles crack like twigs. Waiting again for a few more minutes so she doesn’t stir up attention. She begins her trip down the hall, staying close to the walls and underneath the windows of the rooms in the ward. Peeking around the corners of the open doors where the moonlight shines in to making sure the coast is clear and continues to press on. She is more than halfway down the hall now and is coming into the darkest part when she hears movement from behind her…she quickly turns her head to see a zombie flying out of one of the rooms and in full stride, hungry for the scent of fresh blood dripping from her wounds. She runs as hard and as fast as she can into the pure darkness, hands in front of her reaching out to slam in the handle of the stairwell door when she reaches it. “Wham” the door flings open in a *whoosh* and jerks her in with it, losing her balance but only for a moment. She turns and slams the door back closed, just in time to hear the dreadful zombie behind her slam head first into the heavy steel door. *Sigh* she breathes a full chest of air in relief. *“I made it, I made it” * …... **“SHRIEK!”** she spins around just in time to see the putrid mouth of another Zombie lurching at her thin frail neck, as into tears her flesh and veins. Her head is severed off and lays into a pool of her own blood. Her eyes still processing the horrific scene to her brain of the zombie feasting on her fresh corpse. | 2,533 | 1 |
Jack jerked awake. It was dark, the window was open, a warm breeze blowing through the curtains. Outside the din of city life had quieted to its nocturnal stupor. He could hear a cat scrounging down in the alleyway. Jack reached his arm to the empty space in his bed next to him, forgetting for a moment that Martha was gone. Had it really been 18 months already? Jack reached to his other side under the mattress to feel for his cold steel revolver. That, at least, was in it's place. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stood up. Groggily wandering around the apartment in his underwear, trying to forget the scent of Martha. She had been his everything, and he had given her everything, including a child. But God was not kind and that night, 18 months ago God took her, and the child, in one fell swoop. One bloody swoop that was no accident. The instrument of this crime was a 6 inch blade, left at the scene. No fingerprints, no suspects, no motive. Jack had been drinking and came home late, only to discover his pregnant wife bloodied and lifeless. The horror had not sunken in immediately. Jack was not particularly cold, but he was calculating. He would unravel the mystery and take his vengeance. His first thoughts were violent ones, but then despair sunk in, and sadness and he wept until the police arrived. The investigation lasted for months. But there were no leads, Martha had no enemies, nor did Jack. He was just a schoolteacher, 11th grade english. Who could have been so brutal and why? That was the question that haunted Jack's mind tonight. He opened the fridge. Condiments. And a half cup of milk. He drank the milk from the carton and tossed it at the trashcan. Jack's mind went to the days before the city, when he and martha would take long walks in the woods and make picnics by the ocean. But Jack didn't have the income to support a child and had to move to this very damn apartment. Since then Jack couldn't stand to look at children. He became obsessed with solving the crime even after the police had given up. Picture's of the scene were etched into his mind. He had to clear his head. Jack dressed and put on a coat and left the apartment. He went trudging down the sidewalk next to brick buildings with only the light of a few sparse lampposts. As Jack walked he came upon a bum, sleeping covered under a blanket. He kicked the bum as he walked, the anger inside of him swelling from frustration. The man did not wake but rolled over like a rag doll. Jack leaned down and shook the man trying to wake him. The blanket fell away from his face and the figure of an old rotting corpse stared back at Jack. Jack dropped the man immediately and took a step back startled. Then a dead hand reached up from under the blanked and grabbed Jack's hand. Jack could feel the icy touch of death as the creature turned to look at him once more. "IT WAS YOU!" the creature moaned, pointing into Jack's heart with his dead fingers. "IT WAS YOUUU!" Jack woke up suddenly and reached to his side. The warm skin of Martha rest on the bed beside him, her swelling belly rising and falling with every breath. Jack reached to his other side under the mattress where he found a 6 inch blade, cold and steel, right in its place. | 3,255 | 5 |
I'm an odd memory in most minds. Like a harrowing communal conscience of migratory birds or a sea breeze that took a train to the prairies and is seen walking along the street. I suppose I'm a sort of stationary, a figment used to paint a portrait of understanding but this is really strange since I am not at all like a brush or ladle or roller or whatever would make sense to paint something. I've been a transient congested throat in days gone by. I swam from seashores to deep blue waters and sailed away. All in all I think I've had things pretty good up until now. But right now I feel like a bag of squeezed lemons left to rot, like I've gone through a garlic press alongside the garlic, I feel like I can't even like this situation and I really wanted to like it. Let me clarify. I believe in god about as much as I believe in myself. If you get to know me you'll find I don't believe in myself that much. But if you get to know me better you'd know that I've met him. I'm not saying him in that god is male it's just that calling him *it* seems strange and it's a default. With that in mind it was a day just like today with me on a stage but I was in the middle of a wheat field and opera singers dressed as vikings were scattered around looking for cues, lines and presumably marbles in the dirt. It hit me that I shouldn't be there, I was supposed to be somewhere else but I felt if I left now to I would likely be eaten or worse, stood on, read then knocked around by the vikings. It was at this point that god pulled up in a brand new jeep made out of a thunderstorm and waved his arms in a motion that very distinctly triggered a perhaps unbelievable but entirely real sense that he was god and I should get on his thunderstorm-jeep-of-love to ride away to eternal safety and abundance. So I hopped up onto the cloud and into the passenger seat. He looked at me in a way only god could with eyes as deep as artesian wells, with a sort of sisyphean tenure gained only after watching over everything for ten times eternity and then started speaking with a very plain voice. "Would you like to take the wheel?" he asked and I didn't really want to but this was sort of troubling because.... why would anyone turn down an offer from god and he said "It's alright, with the exception of your neighbor nobody has actually wanted to drive the thunderstorm the first time meeting me. In general it is an odd question to ask, isn't it?" I smiled politely. Then he said "Alright here's the deal. You get three questions answered. Anything in the realm of conceivable knowledge of the infinity that is me. Three of them. Just ask whenever and I'll answer but when I answer the last one you will die." "What!? Why?" I blurted out of shock as he looked at me. I looked right back at those constellations within constellations within a walmart parking lot folded over into itself and back out towards the sunrise. I smiled realizing the game was ruined and asked "Are you serious?" Then he laughed, we drove a short while in silence and he dropped me off a block away from home still a little agitated by his interactions with my neighbor the week before. "You can't screw this up by just asking silly off the top of your mind questions. Here is my email address. Send your questions there and I'll have an answer for you written out within a day or two." god said as plainly as before from inside his thunderstorm with the window rolled down while gesturing blindly in the air to make a point or sign what he was saying but it was entirely lost on me. He could tell by my glazed look it was time to go so he simply said "Get a job" and drove off. So now. Slightly but not entirely glazed in circumstance I am struggling with this interaction. I can know anything in the universe via email at the cost of my life. I don't really have a desire to acquire knowledge or a need for something like this... so here I am a bag of lemons staring off at the sky like it is staring back in part of that endless crashing gaze of god wondering what the hell I should do with myself. Aside from getting a job. | 4,145 | 7 |
The Celebration Sarah slipped out onto the balcony of her loft. From the twelfth floor, Chicago was a Lite-Brite cityscape, each building and monument pegged into the grid. Metered and regular, from what appeared in the streets as a tangle of twisted metal and cement, a careful design emerged. Sarah enjoyed this view of Chicago. It didn't make her nervous. From ground level, the chaos overwhelmed her. Perhaps she just thought about it too much. Leaving the building, into the street, Sarah set out down East 21st, headed toward Michigan Avenue. Her bag held a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, a tube of lipstick, and five crumpled ones. A napkin from Armadillo Red, tucked into her back right pocket, gave directions to park bench six blocks from her building. On a bench in Grant Park, a man sat waiting. He filled out the crossword puzzle from a three-day-old newspaper. He had been troubled for the last two hours by number 27 across. A kitchen gadget, 7 letters. Blender didn't fit, microwave was too long, and he didn't have enough interest in culinary arts to know of any others. Frustrated, he pulled out his watch, noting that the person he was waiting for had three minutes to arrive. Sarah, realizing the time, began to walk more briskly. She turned down Hendricks and kept toward the curb, avoiding those staking out various doorways and dark inlets. She kept her eyes on the sidewalk, except to occasionally glance ahead at those approaching. A man, older, dressed for an evening out, turned the corner half a block ahead. Sarah, startled, pulled the corkscrew from her bag. She glanced up more frequently as they approached. Twenty paces. Now fifteen. Now ten. She gripped the makeshift weapon tightly in her left hand. As they passed each other on the sidewalk, she shifted her body toward the man. Swinging forward, she pushed and twisted in one fluid motion, sinking the metal deeply into his chest. Sarah stepped back and watched him crumple. The man lifted his head. He saw Sarah, but his expression did not change. He pulled the stainless steel from between his ribs, and the blood began to rush from his body. Sarah waited until his eyes were empty, then snapped away from the scene. She was going to be late. Picking up the corkscrew, she stepped around the body and down the sidewalk. As she approached the man on the bench, he suddenly realized that "toaster" was the word he required. Scribbling it in and wedging the paper between the bench slats, he silently congratulated himself, then focused on the matter at hand. Sarah was seething. "Why? Why like that? Why didn't you tell me, bastard!" He replied, "I thought it would be interesting. Besides, it's like ripping off a band-aid. Sometimes it's better when you have to do it quick. Either way, I see that it's been done." Sarah was silent for a moment, and then extended her hand. "Give me the envelope". He handed her a manila folder. Sarah sat down on the grass beside the bench, and spread the contents under a streetlight's glow. Photographs of the man she had just buried her corkscrew in fanned out like a silent film. He was shown leaving various cafes, trailed by a different escort each time. There were snapshots of the man entering Porsches and exiting hired cars. A copy of his passport listed his name as "Victor Bartoshevich", a Belarusian national. A birth certificate, for one Sarah Yurevich, bore his signature. A copy of a wire transfer, made twenty-seven years ago, indicated that $50,000 had been drawn from he and his first late wife's joint checking. The recipient was a hitman who helped facilitate "alternatives to divorce" for those in positions of power and influence. Victor Bartoshevich, a notoriously private man, would have been shocked to see his own paper trail. Victor left the cafe on Hendricks at precisely 2:30am, as had become his routine over the past few months. Rochelle always worked on Tuesdays, and she had better tits than money could ever buy. Victor paid for them by the hour. After a night of indulgence, Victor would stumble the block back home. Aging and "out of the business", he had reconciled with the most hostile of his enemies long ago, and had been enjoying retirement his own way. Namely, walking alone through the streets of Chicago after dark, and ignoring his estranged daughter's attempts at contact. Sarah placed the envelope into her purse, and pulled out the bottle of Merlot. Wiping the corkscrew on the newspaper, she then maneuvered it into the cork, using the same push-twist familiar from thirty minutes prior. Taking a swig from the bottle, she passed it up to the man on the bench. They drank the wine and finished the crossword together. Through the trees they could see the flashing blue lights like fireworks, and imagine the sirens as their parade. | 4,880 | 0 |
"Shut the fuck up, lets roll!" "Wut!?" "Step away from the crack pipe I mean my drums or we'll be late, dipshit!" "Oh yeah..." ... Bael was the last bicycle allowed across the bridge. The officer crossed the roadway after Bael passed and said to Rael, "Pedestrians aren't allowed on the bridge as the cruiser passes under." "But that's my brother there that you let cross ahead of me." It was nearly a hundred yards before Bael realized Rael wasn't following. He stopped and noticed the officer had crossed the roadway to talk with Rael, then eventually let her pass. As she rode closer she shouted, "We can't be on the bridge when the boat passes." Bael didn't think that they would get such a surreal view of a Navy ship steaming up the Willamette. He thought it was strange to see a military ship. This was new for him, Bael hadn't lived in a Port city before. For the rest of the ride he thought of what it would look like to see war at home. Then snapped out of it and gave thanks to his great friends for hauling his heavy instrument around. Rael usually stood in the center of the room whenever and where ever Bael's band played. She stood in the center of the room at any show. In fact, she just liked being in the center of rooms. At first it was of an OCD nature, where she had to be in the center of the room for some geometrical reason that even she hardly understood. As she grew out of her minor obsessive compulsive tendencies and listened to more live music she found that the center of the room usually sounded the best in her opinion. Occasionally there was an incompetent sound engineer running the sound system. Rael being somewhat obsessive compulsive, and controlling would have to ask if the engineer would lower or raise the sound of an instrument, or adjust the high or low frequency levels. Rael was kind of weirded out by this particular peculiar sound engineer. He had a strange way of staring at her, and when she first noticed, he looked away suddenly then back in her direction but not directly at her as if he hadn't been staring at all. This had been going on since she arrived. He was always staring at her if she looked in his direction. "Bael, tell the sound guy to cut some of the lows when you guys play, it sounds like shit. I would but he's fucking weird." The music was loud and Rael had to lean close to her brothers ear. "Haa!" She just stared at him and Bael realized she was serious, he nodded once. "...ok." He said to himself. Bael went straight to the engineer and without thinking twice leaned in and said. "You see my girl over there?" Rael was watching confused, angered and embarrassed as her brother pointed her out. The engineer sat up straight and stared emotionless at Rael. "She asked me to ask you if you're down to fuck. :D We like you, oh and when my band plays next could you turn down the low frequencies a little?" The engineer turned to Bael with his brow scrunched, confusion and excitement and skepticism wrinkled throughout his face. "Uh what? ...yeah, I mean, really? I can turn down the lows sure... uh are you fucking with me? what, a threesome?" "Thanks, man. Yeah a threesome, dude. You look fun, at least have a drink with us?" The engineer pondered the proposition for nearly a minute, laughing to himself while staring at Rael who was still watching. "Fuck you, I don't believe you. You're fucking with me." He turned towards Rael and laughed, then back towards the sound board. "Nice try." "Sorry, man just messing around, didn't mean to offend you or anything, thanks for running the sound." The engineer nodded and looked back at the stage as Bael turned and walked back to his curious sister. "What the fuck did you say to him, dipshit?" "Just told him I was your manager and you do private dances, wanna make some money tonight?" "I'll fucking stab you!" She lunged at him and started punching his chest and stomach. "Whoa, don't worry lil' sis he doesn't have the cash!" He said while deflecting fists. "You're band is like a bunch of amateurs compared to them." She gestured towards the stage and Bael laughed. He didn't care if it was true, this band was killing it. | 4,277 | 1 |
Now I will tell you a story about when m&m's and skittles met in glorious battle. So one day the m&m's army was out patrolling throw the forest of color, when out of nowhere the Skittles started raining down rainbows of death upon them. The m&m's immdently fell back into the shade of the trees where the rainbows couldn't reach them. The returned fire with the egg shaped peanut cannon balls. This battle went on for 12 hours! Hundreds of skittles and m&m's lost their delicious lives that day. And as both armies’ thought they had the other beat... THE STARBURST AIR SQUADRON STARTED RAINING DOWN JUICE HELL UPON BOTH ARMY'S!!! Oh the scrumptious humanity!!! No m&m's or skittle survived that now absolutely decedent battle field. | 734 | 0 |
It wasn't beautiful. It was impressive, efficient and immense. But not beautiful. I looked out at the array of spaceships, moving in predetermined flight plans, weaving in and out of the buildings. I saw the careful positioning on the buildings to maximize the view and spoil others. Self lit brightly coloured advertisements littered the skies, diving in front of ships to garner any attention. The whole city was astronomical in size and miniscule in precision, an organism which has spread with cancerous intentions. I have been unable to sleep recently. I stay up most nights watching the city. It is in a constant state of flux, but somehow staying the exact same. I've stopped watching the news, I just take the averages now. A princess has died somewhere in Scandinavia or one has died, it’s almost the same story with no consequences either way. Religion has become stagnant, absolute tolerance has been the downfall of extremism and almost all protests are taken into account and given equal weight. All bullshit of course, the machines are running the show now. The nun can pray all she likes for the food she receives but it was grown in a lab beneath the city months ago as a result of progress, not Jesus. There are things you can take to sleep now but I’ve been avoiding them thus far. Its not that I don't trust them, I do, its that it breeds complacency. That’s the future for humans, being complacent. My work is supervision of robots as is everyone’s. My salary is immaterial. All apartments are government owned as with any merchandise. Work now is just vanity, nothing is left to chance and any decisions are based on the past. Everything is tolerated but at the same time nothing is. There are thousands of groups you can join and hundreds of forums (government run) where you can post any opinion you want. But where is the true value of free speech when there is no contention? The joy of sleep comes from the reality of tiredness. Which is where I am. The reality. I want to die, but there is a 89% chance i'll be caught before I can commit it. Then you get put on suicide watch and its almost impossible to die if they are watching you. Its not recognised to have privacy complaints against machines. They are contextually aware but not sentient and as such, privacy and shame are entirely foriegn concepts to them. They have no sense of self and are neither happy nor sad. They don't lust, covet or panic either. Cold, silver and uninteresting. My despondency has risen my heart rate and face recognition has noted my demeanour, my bracelet alerts me to this by briefly flashing a cool blue. Two flashes in quick succession and I am automatically brought in for evaluation. I have to remain calm. It is entirely up to you if you go in, however you won't be allowed into any contact with others unless you are deemed mentally fit. It’s a security system which has ensured no one has died from a killing or suicide since the system has been in place. Natural deaths still occur of course, but they keep you alive for so long it is often indistinguishable from life when you finally die. The bracelet flashes again. I don't have much time. I slowly walk over to the kitchen, and take a knife from the drawer. Automatic prompts are asking me if I want food. I ignore them and plunge the knife into my leg, slicing the femoral artery and creating an injury that will cause swift death. I immediately collapse and blood pumps freely through the gash, covering the pristine surfaces in wet, warm blood. Alarms are squealing overhead, but I am captivated by the disorder. The machines seem at the loss, they try vainly to clean, help or make noise but it’s too late. They are covered in my blood and seem to take on a trait which is distinctly human, panic. For all the pain and loss I am glad this is how I will die. The gesture is foolish, unplanned and insignificant. But dying on my terms seems beautiful. | 3,934 | 2 |
I’ll still never get why she ever gave me the time of day. But you know what? I didn’t care. This was summer. This was the city. This was a crowd of people walking across the Roberto Clemente bridge. I peered through the crowd of fathers, grandfathers, sisters, cousins, moms, boyfriends. I checked my phone hoping she didn’t change her mind. When I looked up I saw her. I don’t remember much about her dress aside from it being black. When she wrapped her arms around me to give me a hug, I noticed how many freckles she had on her shoulders. Maybe some see those as imperfections. I see them as humanity. Perfect imperfection. Reality. When she pulled back, the shoulders were an afterthought. Her hazel eyes were like headlights on a dark country road. Even if you could somehow force yourself to look away for a moment, their presence would continue to captivate you. We entered the ballpark and I joked that we were in the nosebleed section. Really we weren’t. We were really in the best seats I could get. I wanted her to be impressed. She was hardly a baseball fan. I was fan enough for the both of us. Baseball started out as a connection to my family and friends when I just started understanding what meaningful relationships were. As I got older, my interested started to wane. The Pirates never won. It was slow. It wasn’t until I started college that I fell in love with the game all over again. I identified with the lovable loser motif the Pirates had. The team reminded me of myself. Perpetual underdogs, yet young, developing, full of potential. Hopeful. The pace of the game was the same, but now I embraced it. Repetitive, but natural and beautiful, like waves at the beach. Most of all, it was timeless. Timeless in the sense that the game can connect you with the past. Through hard evidence of statistics and mythical stories, Roberto Clemente can be my favorite player despite dying decades before I was born. Also timeless in the sense that the teams control when the game ends, not an overbearing clock. No matter how final the outcome of the game may seem, as long as the hits keep coming, the rally can continue forever. But the game was an afterthought to even me tonight. That was no problem, because soon she got to talking. I didn’t get to see her nearly as much as I wanted to, but she had a way of trying to catch me up on everything I’ve missed. She had this odd way of not making much eye contact when she did go on one of these life reviews. It was as if she had to visualize the flood of words lining up in front of her to be sorted into their proper sentences and escaping her voice. I genuinely looked forward to these moments. It gave me a chance to just be there and listen. I didn’t have to be so aware of what I was doing or where this was going. I was just along for the ride. Thought I confess, even the best of us can grow weary of this. As my mind began to wander, my eyes drifted past her. Next to us was an older man. A baseball man. Tan, wrinkled skin. Dark, squinted eyes. A fisherman’s hat. The kind of man you can’t imagine existing during the snowy days of winter. A real baseball man. With her in between us, explaining the challenges of environmentally conscious commercial architecture (needless to say, long story), his glance met mine and he gave me a knowing smile. He knew my situation exactly. In that brief look, it was as if he was saying, “Hang in there, kid. You and I both know she’s worth it.” Which of course I thought she was. I think I smiled back. I meant to at least. But at that moment there was a juncture in which a response was required from me to her. Pitchers have repertoires of fastballs, sliders, changeups. These situations I chose from the likes of yeahs, uh huhs, and the thoughtful hmm. I’m not sure which I went with. Still keeping an eye on the game, I jumped back in to what she was talking about. I told myself that really listening might pay off some day. These nuggets of information that are flooding in may prove handy at just the right moment. But really, that wasn’t very likely. Really, I just liked being there. The action on the field was comparably one sided. The Pirates would go on to lose this game in the 19th season in a row that they’ve seen more losses than wins. The Cardinals would capitalize on wins like this to reach the playoffs in the most dramatic final night of baseball’s regular season I may ever see on their way to their 15th World Series. Any tension from this game was escaping by the inning as my innate optimism could become more easily perceived as naivety. The burden of conversation was soon passed to me and I had nothing. I was hoping for some kind of symbolic triumph of the little guys on the field that could instill a sense of confidence in myself the evening ahead, but reality just wouldn’t fit the narrative. With my soul malnourished, taking care of the body seemed like the only worthy consolation, so off we went to seek the ice cream of the future. A large cup of cookies and cream flavor, two spoons, and a bench overlooking the Allegheny River led to a discussion on the pros and cons of an acting career, trusting people, and the logjam of talented Double A starting pitching prospects in the Pirates minor league affiliate in Altoona (her hometown). We returned to our seats in time to see the finale. The Pirates were down by a considerable amount and even I had lost hope. Maybe at the time I even said that I wished they would just get it over with so we could enjoy the postgame fireworks (this game was specifically chosen to share with her because of this), but deep down, I really did want them to come back. They went down without much of a fight in the 9th. Soon the fireworks were exploding above us and illuminating our faces. I thought about the cliché approach of using this opportunity to lean in for a kiss. I could blame my lack of confidence on the poor performance of the major league baseball team I felt symbolically tied to, but really I just didn’t want to do anything that could possibly risk putting any kind of blemish on this evening (aside from the scoreboard glowing 9-1 in favor of the away team). The walk to my car and drive back to her place began with me being (jokingly) ridiculed for not knowing the uniform number of Babe Ruth (which was 3. I looked it up afterward to avoid similar embarrassment in the future). She then started speaking on her dating life (or lack thereof) and her unwillingness to trust a partner based on past disappointments. I wondered if I was that transparent or this topic just came to her from elsewhere. Hard to interpret it as either a warning or an invitation. Pushing me away from her life or wishing that I could be different from the others. I assumed the worst and decided it would be better to drop this topic in favor of something lighter. I know consider this type of action to be bad behavior because only now do I appreciate how rare it is that we get to share in truly revealing, meaningful, deep conversation with those we care about. Too often we waste our words on the weather, celebrities, baseball scores. I walked her to her door and we exchanged a hug similar to any other hug we’ve shared. I remember actively trying to pick up on any signs it may be more. Anything at all in her body language that could project that this time she felt different than the others. I picked up on no such thing and we agreed to see each other soon despite not setting any kind of tentative plans. We never did. There was a growing part of me that felt like each time I saw her might be the last. I felt like whatever unexplainable attraction she had to me that could explain why on earth she would waste an entire Saturday evening at PNC Park with me came with some kind of fleeting time limit. But really that wasn’t true. Really, no matter how final the outcome of the game may seem, as long as the hits keep coming, the rally can continue forever. | 8,235 | 1 |
"Inoculation & her sisters (Or Goose)" By Nick Saunders So there I was. White bleach walls and the doctor with the atrophied lungs. This mother fucker breathes in pain and revels in misery. What a sickening state of affairs when a wheezing parasite like Dr. Frank is my saviour. My fucking connection? What fucking connection. Black grease stench falls from his eyes and nasal chamber across the small room and somehow coats everything clean with his turgid respiratory let downs. I cover my face with a tissue, my brazen shield. But I'm sick. Outside the radiation from the sun bears down thick and fast, soaking the streets with dry rasping heat, but I'm shitting ice cubes. Frozen, my mind thaws only at the prospect of a hit. In fact, I notice even though I'm shivering, I am also actually sweating profusely. Thank god for my opiate fever on a day like this. Dr. Wank won't be any the wiser. I hope he doesn't make me touch him. I've heard stories, scaled lizard cock spitting venom for sick girls and boys, while mothers wait outside. You never know how much truth a rumour holds. "Ok Mr. Cardenas, what seems to be the problem?" "I got the pain Doc, real bad, I piss the fire, yes? So many bloods. I can't sleep or work or anything. I have such awful time" Broken English always trips them up, they see you as a helpless foreigner, trampled on by the world. Probably. I don't care. I need a fucking fix. I'll dance the rumba If I can cool this fire in my chest. I'm starting to drip sweat down my nose. Shit. I clutch my tissue paper to my dirty acne crusted face and pat softly around my cheeks. Dark brown stains come away from my skin. He'll probably think I'm pretending to be Spanish. Blacking up and all that. Shit. My minds racing like the hounds of hell on the trail of some meat fuck. I'm gonna trip myself up. Cool it man. Cool it. "I see, Mr Cardenas. Well it sounds like some type of urine infection, I could prescribe you a course of antibiotics. I'll also need a urine sample from you if you don't mind terribly" Dr. Wank briefly looks up to shuffle some papers and hands me a small clear container then drops his face again to look at his watch. He leads me through his door and the waiting room to a small cubicle hidden away behind an unmarked door. His crocodile gait is grating on my mashed brain, I can feel the anger rising every time our eyes meet. The cubicle is only a couple of feet wide with a long shower curtain covering the entrance, he's waiting outside, tapping his pen against something impatiently. The bright lightbulb makes me feel quite queazy so I better get this over with quick. I place the cup on a little wooden shelf in front of me and begin with a trickle that gives way to a tsunami. Whilst still pissing I reach into the breast pocket of my tired old polo shirt and reveal to myself a small green needle with a few specks of clotted blood in the bottom. As I urinate I jam the needle into my wrist and let the blood spread in drops across the dark yellow universe of piss, the blood spreads out like stars and galaxies, dancing and becoming one. A yellowed pink comparable to the shade reserved for lovers, enchanted with picnics on the edge of night. The sweet pleasures of our dark anti-existence. I decide I should probably yell out for theatrical sakes. "Oh, Christ. Fuck. It burns. Sweet Jesus why?" I cry with a slitted grin on my face. I knew I should of been an actor. I'll look in to that I think. This is fun. Truth is I haven't experienced real pain from a needle in a very long time. The needle represents everything to me. My nourishment, my fluid, my passionate fuck. It's like the initial spark that turns a home to ash. Growing and reverberating around my soul. I put my dick away and pull my boxers up around. Semen scabbed and the musk of faeces. I should probably change these soon. The doc looks pissed off when I return with my best grimace and slight stagger. I hand him the piss and he grabs it with both hands. Why is he so at ease with my piss? Its my piss and I wouldn't be so fucking eager to snatch it away. "Ok Mr. Cardenas, this is quite a sample" he says looking exhausted and sounding apathetic. "I'll prescribe you a weeks course of amoxicillin to clear up any infections and a weeks worth of Tramadol for your pain. That should cure that nasty business of yours but if not, obviously please report back when you've completed both courses" "Thank you doctor, very kind. Thank you" I soar through the doors with beats on my flea sodden wings. I have to stop myself from sprinting, remembering I'm sick and my lungs would probably implode. Then I really would need a doctor. | 4,838 | 1 |
Walking home late one night after last call at the tavern, alone on a lightless road, a flash ignites the sky above. As quick as it comes, I am disappeared from that tired avenue, and my surroundings are no longer the outdoors. I am in a red and orange striped and spotted room that I can only recognize as a holding cell of some sort. The colors are breathing; laughing. Slowly, a green and yellow gaseous cloud begins to build, and soon it's all I can breathe. Though I can breathe it simply enough, I do my best not to, but it keeps growing until it's the only thing I can inhale. Hours? Days? All I know, when I finally regain consciousness in that red and orange cell, is that I have never felt more tired in my life. Ever. Groggy, shaky, weak and woozy, I try to prop myself onto my hands and knees, as I appear to have passed out on the floor of my cell. I survey the room by slowly crawling around, and find that the door is made of a glass like substance, and it feels different from the other three walls, but I can't actually see the difference. The pattern on the glass matches the pattern on the other three walls. Two days, three? How long have I been here? Has it been longer than a week? It's this moment that I realize just how famished I am. "Hello," I say with a dry voice, my throat parched and scratchy. "Water." The wall that I believe is the door becomes clear. I can see through it into a gray hall, likely metallic walls, floor and ceiling. There are faint yellow lights spacing the hallway every twenty feet or so, but all I can see is darkness on either end. And footsteps. I hear footsteps. Finally, a shadowy figure appears at the far end of my vision down the left side of the hall from my cell. As it gets closer, my eyes begin to blur more and more, until I know whatever it is, though I am completely blind, it's standing directly in front of me. The sound of compressed air being released hisses out to my right, and I can feel a slight draft from the hallway. Were I to have use of my legs, I might attempt to run, but I can still barely sit up. Hands grab under both of my arms, and I am dragged out of the cell and into the hall. After being taken into a lift, and what feels like being paraded around in front of whatever species is holding me, they drop me in a heap on the floor. My vision finally begins to return, and the first thing I notice is the size of the room I am in. Cavernous would be a mild attempt at a description, but I am starting to see better still, and I can see that I am before the seat of power. A large throne, sitting atop an island of a dais, and a ruler to occupy the seat. Humanoid in appearance, his flesh is a blueish green. He wields six mighty arms, and five horned ridges appear at the top of his head, rather than any hair. "I am Xyzornat, ruler of Devil's Reach. You have been aboard my ship for three years today." He stands from his seat, and all around me, robed figures begin chanting a dark tattoo. They close in on me, and I still can't move. When they are within two feet of me, in a complete circle, they throw back their robes, revealing themselves to be of the same race as their leader. With a blade in each of their six hands, they individually and simultaneously sever their own heads. Blood pools around me, soaking into my clothes. Xyzornat, leader of Devil's Reach, leaps fifty feet into the air, and seems to hover above me for a moment, before crashing down. His eight limbs have me completely pinned and surrounded. He opens his mouth and two, foot long fangs pierce into my neck, just below my Adam's Apple. The pain is extreme, and I can feel the teeth push into my chest. I feel them slide, inch by inch behind my ribs, until they stab into my heart. The last thing I will ever hear is his voice as he says, "Your soul is now mine. | 3,833 | 1 |
It was just like any other Sunday, the Thai Hooker and I were lying on the couch passing our peace pipe back and forth while doing smoke tricks. The den door swung open to reveal Jim, wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth. He announced his entire life was merely a peyote-fueled sequence of dreams, and at that very moment, he was choosing to be “born again”. “I don’t like solipsism. I see it as an entirely circular life philosophy that never really amounts to anything in any meaningful existential sense.” The Hooker interjected. We all sat down in silent, stony contemplation of her wise words. Seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes turned into hours, and this line aged enough to become cliche. The numbers on the digital clock began to swell wildly because they were envious of our introspection. (Alarm clocks don’t have the ability to self-analyze.) Time dragged by slowly, our cells died, new ones sprang up in their place. The cells in question, were really strung out on speed and talked to each other disjointedly about cell sex, drugs for eukaryotic cells that were inserted through their membranes, and the principles of cell hedonism. The cells knew their time was limited, so they all authored their own epitaphs. The cells considered this whole series of events beautiful in that tragic way that makes things beautiful. Then as promptly as it had started, the moment of clarity ended. Katy Perry was blasting on the radio, and we all fell into a starry-eyed state where anything outside the song “California Girls” would cause us to feel strange, and unwelcome with each other. Without Katy, we were fragmented and scared, like kids lost in the supermarket. I had a good feeling though, I was hopeful that one day I’d become that white noise people play on new age clocks to help them fall asleep. The steady rhythm of rain falling on a sidewalk somewhere, the sound of the tide washing over some exotic beach… again, and again, and again, and again, never to end. “I gave you herpes.” Jim told The Hooker, glancing at his feet, then at the wall, and back at his feet again. Somewhere in my body, one of my cells felt a new feeling. An undeniably glorious feeling! It twisted in primal euphoria, ecstatic at its own discovery (or the feeling’s discovery of the cell, doesn’t matter). It began laughing hysterically, uncontrollably! Then it had a seizure and rattled its nucleus so badly that it forgot the feeling entirely. | 2,453 | 2 |
Well, here it is: First I take a deli-sliced piece of turkey breast and run around my house naked while slapping it against my bare ass. When I feel the turkey is ready for consumption, I make a sandwich (whole wheat bread only) and frisbee it off my back porch. I then cover myself in vegetable oil, and roll around my front yard while reciting Bible verses. I proceed to rip out chunks of grass and dirt from the Earth and preach to my bewildered neighbors about our collective minds. I go inside, and drink to forget all of this. I wake up from a nice nap on the floor, and check on my chimpanzees. The chimps are my end-all consultants on what I should post on facebook (I even trust them with my life.) I keep them in a cage made out of reinforced glass, with little slits I can drop stories through, and mozzarella cheese. If the chimps fling their shit at me and flail wildly, then I know the story is really good. If they just throw their feces, the story is merely satisfactory. If the chimps are dead from malnourishment, I masturbate through the slits and my semen breathes life into them. Then I go and drink to forget all of this. I wake up from a nice nap on the floor, and go see my probation officer. I tell her continuously that I “CAN’T STOP THE FUCKING VOICES”. She thinks I’m doing well in my self-rehabilitation, and sends me off to detox. At detox, I have a mild epileptic fit and call everyone “sloppy twats” when they try to help me. Six months later, I get out of rehab. Then I go and drink to forget all of this. I wake up from a nice nap on the floor and wonder where exactly the fuck I am. I try to get home, but I accidentally consult a hooker for directions and she misleads me (seriously, never trust hookers in New Orleans). I wrestle an alligator until it succumbs and wills itself to me. I have the alligator trod off with me on its back, and we head straight to Fairfax. When we arrive, I let the alligator roam free near my neighbor’s adopted children. I go inside and make a glass of chocolate milk. I throw the chocolate milk off the back porch and scream about the inevitability of death, the lack of a truly fulfilling point to life, and Jim Carrey. Then I go and drink to forget all of this. I wake up from a nice nap on the floor and start ferociously pissing blood and kidney stones. Someone calls to tell me I am a manic-depressive and an alcoholic (I drink to forget this too.) I proceed to middleman some crack, and assassinate the ambassador from Sweden. Then I go inside and write whatever bullshit comes out of my head. And that is how the magic is made. | 2,656 | 2 |
The man answered me hoarsely, a queer smile playing across the corner of his cracked lips, "It is said that when the gods wish to punish us... they answer our prayers." His face, a map of scars, was strangely familiar, like a distant place long forgotten. "Speak not in riddles old man," I snarled, "You will make your peace with to whomever gods you pray well soon enough. Until then, you answer to Me, and pray, pray now, my vengeance is kinder than theirs." His sunken eyes shone dimly, and bore no fear. "Then I truly hope my debt to them is paid," he laughed, wistful. "Tell me, what did you wish of them, Barabbas? What shining stone did you cheat from the Wardens' lot? What coveted prize did you squander on stolen time? What dungeon's claim did you lay away on halcyon roads? Was it Love? Riches? Power? Tell me. Tell me before I send you back to the hell from whence you came, wretched man." "I sought something. I think... I sought knowledge. Understanding." "Then you are a fool, old one. Tell me, out of perversion, what did you learn, living out your wasted days? What carnival spectacles did the wilds divulge, as you wandered far and away? What secrets did the amber halls and dim-lit alleys whisper to prowling ears? What shrouded facts sought their way through dead tomes, spilling torrid wanderlust into grey matter? Was it Techne? Logos? Pathos? Teach me. Teach me, before I snuff out your pathetic spark." He took a deep breath and exhaled, a visible shudder traveling through his frail skeleton. I saw his eyes glimmer distantly. I saw him strain, the furrows of his brow crossed in wrought exertion. I watched his frail hand reach across the distance between us, stretching as if to grasp something unfathomable and then, a solitary tear fell onto the cold ground. "I cannot... I can no longer remember. I am old and my mind is not what it once was." He closed a pair of weary eyes and hung a tired head, anguish painted across his worn features. "Once a fool, always a fool, I can see," I spat, seizing his slacking jaw, and peering into cloudy eyes, a visage of sorrow. "Tell me your story. Show me your sins. Show me your joys and regrets, your dreams and sorrows. Show me it all, the last thing you do before these damned eyes are shut forevermore. SHOW ME!" Silence. Grimacing, he forced his eyes shut, face a contortion of singular will, summoning every scrap of concentration he could gather. Time stood still. Then, suddenly, his eyes sprang open and the clouds parted within revealing a sudden inner light, a clear and piercing gaze. His brow lifted, his focus sharpened and a sudden strength found itself within him, wresting my hand away. Hands astir, he gripped my hands, arms, and face frantically, some terrible recognition dawning over him. Clasping my head with his palms, he suddenly collapsed onto the ground, drained. "Speak, you despicable thing! Tell me your name! Speak, damn you!" I growled, anxious to hear his last words. Crouching, I knelt beside his haggard frame. He spoke, after a time, eyes aglow with perception. His words were slow and deliberate. This is what he told me. "You... I remember my wish. I wished to know an old man’s secret, once. My name is... but, ah! that, you know already. Let me teach you what I have learned. Let me show you, eager one.” And he smiled, a wry smile, breathing his last. As he closed his eyes, I opened mine to curse him, but he was gone, and I awoke lying alone, cursing only myself. | 3,495 | 8 |
You swing your car into the dingy lot in front of Gutter Ball's and kill the engine. You sit there for a few moments preparing yourself. Almost game time. You hit the trunk release and get out of the car. The rain stopped about an hour ago and for the first time this week the evening air is cool rather than muggy. Opening the trunk, you retrieve you bag and head toward the entrance, passing Ten Pin's truck on the way. Gutter Ball's is the kind of place where men take the game of bowling very seriously. Despite it's dim, dingy interior, the lanes are well-kept and gleam with fresh oil. It's like stepping directly into a hurricane sometimes, the balls roaring down the lanes sound like approaching thunder and you can feel the punctuating booms in your chest as they strike the pins. Classic rock plays nonstop at Gutter Ball's. At the moment Don Henley is lamenting about a certain hotel he never should have stayed in. Gutter Ball is behind the counter chatting up a leggy brunette with an amazing case of acne. Gutter is no prize himself, though at well over 6' 4" his sheer mass seems to cause some women's panties to loosen and from what you can glean from the conversation, it seems to be working for him at the moment. The place is packed tonight, you knew it would be. Everywhere people are gathered in small groups either at the bar or down in the alley. The chatter is so loud you can barely hear the music. You like it that way though, the chaos helps you concentrate. You can see a much larger crowd than the rest gathered at the far end of the alley, obviously occupying both of the last two lanes. That must be Ten Pin's crowd of admirers. Looking closer, you see him stand up and get into form. He takes a deep breath, moves forward 3 paces and throws a clean strike. *Good,* you think, *I hope he's already warmed up.* As you approach the counter Gutter glances at you in annoyance only briefly before resuming his conversation with the brunette. "I swear. Just by *hearin*,'" he tells her. "Ain't no way," she says. Gutter holds up one finger. "Wait for it," he says. Frustrated, you glance toward Ten Pin's groupies once more and see him going through his motions again. His release is silky smooth, the ball screams down the lane. Gutter stabs his finger in the brunette's direction. "*That* one's a strike," he says. The brunette whips around to follow the sound. A half-second later Ten Pin's ball slams into the pocket with a crash- not a pin stands. The brunette jumps up and down and giggles with glee. "AMAZING!" she exclaims. "Do it again! *Please?*" she whines. "In a sec', sweetheart," he says, finally turning in your direction. "I don't know you," he says, frowning. "The fuck do you want?" "I'd like a lane." you tell him. "Down alley next to Ten Pin if you've got one." Gutter's gaze loosens a bit and he raises an eyebrow at you."Ten Pin, huh?" he eyes you up and down, frowning a little once more. "You for real?" he asks. You lean over the counter and regard Gutter closely, trying to appear intense. "You just pay attention," you tell him. "Keep your ears peeled." you smile at Gutter and wink. For a moment he only stares at you and then he cracks a huge grin and slaps you on the shoulder. "I like you, kid!" he exclaims loudly. Gutter gestures toward the brunette. She smiles at you politely, obviously uninterested. "This here's Sally," he says. She nods in your direction. "What's you name, son?" he asks. "English," you tell him. "You can call me English." "English, huh?" Gutter says, his frown returning. Gutter glances at Sally and she giggles once again. "Well, you go ahead and see to your lane," he says, "*Mr.* English." Sally can't help but laugh loudly this time. "Thank you," you tell him. Part of you really wanted to like Gutter but another part of you wanted to shove his stone face into the counter-top. You take your score sheet and head down toward the end of the alley. | 3,973 | 1 |
I'm not sure this is the appropriate subreddit for this. Please enjoy. A man walks into an ice cream shoppe. He approaches the ice cream server behind the counter. CUSTOMER- Can I have a vanilla ice cream please? ICE CREAM MAN- Sure thing.(Scoops ice cream into cone) Here you go.(Hands to customer) CUSTOMER- This isn't Vanilla. ICE CREAM MAN- Why of course it is. CUSTOMER- No, this doesn't even look like ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- Well, wait a minute. Let me see that. (Takes cone from customer) Oh dang, you know something? This is vomit. CUSTOMER- What? ICE CREAM MAN- My vomit to be precise. CUSTOMER- Why did you give me your vomit? ICE CREAM MAN- I must have been keeping it in the vanilla ice cream container. CUSTOMER- I have a couple questions. ICE CREAM MAN- Ask away. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit in the vanilla container? ICE CREAM MAN- It's the closest one to me. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit contained at all? ICE CREAM MAN- Well I normally don't but I've been sick lately and instead of running to the bathroom every 20 minutes I just vomit in this container. CUSTOMER- You can't honestly think that's acceptable. ICE CREAM MAN- I do though. CUSTOMER- I'm going to have to talk to your manager about this. ICE CREAM MAN- I'm the manager. CUSTOMER- Well then I'm going to have to ask you not to do that anymore. ICE CREAM MAN- Do what? CUSTOMER- Throw up in the ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- But there's no ice cream left in this container. CUSTOMER- So you're out of vanilla? ICE CREAM MAN- I'm afraid so. CUSTOMER- Shoot...um...do you have strawberry? ICE CREAM MAN- Coming right up.(looks in container) Oh you know what? This is diarrhea. CUSTOMER- Do you have anything that didn't come out of your body? ICE CREAM MAN- Let's see... I have mint chocolate chip. CUSTOMER- I don't like mint. ICE CREAM MAN- Well that's all the ice cream I have left. CUSTOMER- But there are 16 containers here. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- And they're all full to the brim. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- ...I guess I'll have the vomit. ICE CREAM MAN- Excellent choice sir. Here you go. (Hands cone to customer) CUSTOMER- Thank you. Feel better. ICE CREAM MAN- I'll try. Have a nice afternoon. The man walks out with his ice cream cone, never to be seen again. | 2,361 | 8 |
The woman screamed. It was a blood curdling scream. Any sane person would have felt such empathy they would have experienced the same terror she was feeling now. But Mr. Black was not a sane man. Mr. Black simply continued to prepare his little "toys." The woman was going to be his newest playmate for these toys. Tonight was a special night for Mr. Black; it marked a special date. A date when it all began for him; his genesis, his awakening. He felt a slight shiver of an almost sexual nature slither up his back. He finished sharpening his final knife. Mr. Black turned the surgical table back around with him, now facing the once pretty-now terribly disheveled redhead. He had her strapped down to the surgical table tightly with duct tape and leather. The woman was no longer screaming. Instead she was pleading between hysterical gasps. Fruitless pleading. Before he killed her, Mr. Black said only one thing: "The cocoon has been breached. Metamorphosis begins again." And then there was only blood. Ok so I know what you're all thinking. Note that is only the prologue chapter for a series of mysteries about a master thief who is brought in by the FBI to investigate a series of bizarre murders, robberies, and disappearances. Mr. Black is the first main villain, and I want him to be one twisted mother fucker. Let me know what you all think, and if reddit approves, I'll put up part 2. of the Mr. Black mysteries. | 1,432 | 0 |
If you play by the rules, it will only keep you out of trouble. I am in trouble. Tonight is my last night working for Multiple Services. I have not been fired yet, but when my supervisor reads the email I sent her in the morning, I will be fired for sure – I am sure of it. I used to do security at the Pearl district but I was recently transferred to American Plaza Towers. My new manager has a different set of standards. My dark brown boots being one of them – security 'officers' are supposed to wear black boots. But that's not the problem. Tonight I am on shift with Emily, the graveyard guard. I am working the D shift, which intersects with her shift. I am not with her right now. Her shift has a lot more responsibilities than mine. I am in the lounge room, lounging. I don't need to worry about doing any checks because she has the 'snitch stick' – it's a little stick we poke into little tags that prove that we are working. I am at low risk of being caught in here, the lounge room is closed during this time of night. It doesn't matter what I do. I will be fired in the morning anyway. Currently Emily is doing some tower checks. She is only required to do one tower check a night, but she does multiple for 'brownie points'. No one ever gets promoted. Well, unless someone gets fired or dies or quits. A lot of people recently got fired because... 'they are not with us anymore' says Gerry, the supervisor at APC. Emily was not at liberty to tell me why, but it has something to do with 'vices'. I needed to take a shit. I was already in the lounge room so the bathroom was so close I basically just took my pants down. My ass wouldn’t cooperate with me —the last little bit hung in between my butt cheeks like a hand trying to catch a dollar bill falling to the ground. I hate this, being forced into vulgarity; I want to let go of the turd. My butt thinks the turd is valuable, I guess. The women's bathroom next to me started making noise. Emily must be relieving herself as well. I finished long after she did. I left the bathroom unclean because the toilet finally clogged. Maintenance can handle it in the morning, fuck it. When I left, I saw Emily at the exit of the room, holding the door open waiting for me to leave. I walked out, uncomfortably — I didn't wipe enough. She locked the door behind us. I entered the elevator. She joined me. I pressed the button to the basement with plans to hang out in a storage room and read. She pressed the button to the 26th floor and I got caught into doing a tower check with her. She invited me to smoke some cigarettes on the roof and talk. I don't smoke, but it sounded like a good offer. “So how do you like it so far?” She asked. “The elevator ride?” “The job.” “oh... uh, well...” I stalled, “APC lives up to it's reputation.” “Ah, yes. You need not say more.” There was a long silence that was only broken with a 'ding' each time we passed a floor. “So,” I finally said, “What do the people in these condominiums do for a living?” “Most of them are retired. That's why there are so many care givers here. But one of them I know sells stuff on Ebay. The guy never went to college and he quit his job to start up a business." Some nerve, I thought. "These people are all rich," she said, "somehow or another. Each time you hear that ding, the price of a room goes up." There was a small stair case past the breezeway on the top floor that led to a freshly painted door that was bent out of shape. This door led to the roof. She told me the correct key was the square key. I fumbled with my set for a while and found it. I attempted to open the door and she told me the key to opening the door is to shout the correct sequence of curse words. After a few moments, I understood what she meant. I was not saying the right words. She got her key out and did it in a snap. “I've been here a while,” she said, “you get used to it.” I wasn't used to smoking but I really like the motions it conduces with my hand. I told her that's the only thing I like about smoking. She said that's what got her into it. I stared out at the skyline of the city, at the skyscrapers that reach so high into society – to heights I admit I will never achieve. The view was almost worth it. I won't be able to pay for college after tonight. “Gerry is probably going to fire me tomorrow.” “Why?” “She wants my DPSST card number, but I don't have it... I... lost it....” “Well, you can just call in to get the number, right? It's in the system." “I don't have my card.” “Huh... I'll just go ahead and say I didn't hear you say that when she brings it up.” We took some drags. “I don't want to be here forever, you know," she said finally. “You don't say.” “Yeah, some people stay here for years. This job is perfect for people like you... who want to get through college. But after two or three years, it's like, what are you doing with your life?” “What do you want to do with your life?” “I used to go to college, but I stopped taking courses because I didn't feel like they were taking me anywhere. The guy down at Plaid Pantry has a masters degree in engineering. Right now I try to come up with something new every night and research if it's been done before. It usually has. Basically, the way I look at it, entrepreneurism is the only way to make it in this world now. My dad has this business, it's pretty successful. Basically, he helps other people be successful.” “Nice. Why don't you get him to help you?” “We're not on good terms... he just wants me to successful... I'm just a security guard..." We took some drags. "The choice here is you can do a side project and hope it turns into something... or, what else are you going to do?” “We should probably finish this tower check.” “Right.” We started down the tower, checking every floor. I shifted my underwear around, but it was no use. I walked uncomfortably the whole way down. Just gotta pull through. Half way down the tower, there was a place to tag the snitch stick. Emily brought up some statistic that the vast majority of Americans all believe that some day they will all be rich, that's why they all don't support the dynasty tax. I said that was nice and waited for the chance to lounge in the lounge room again. It was the end of my shift — the last few minutes of my having a job. As I left, I said, “see ya”. I didn't look back and would probably never see her again, but I heard Emily say “have fun”. | 6,522 | 1 |
It sits in the middle of the jewel-encrusted chamber, pulsating with power. Not even the candlemaker can comprehend the curious article as he stands there in awe. It was just as the legend recounted - the very legend which, over the years, was taught to him and the others back in the citadel. Very few have ever been able to feel the artifact's forces, let alone be in the same room as it. Of all the possible people, someone of the candlemaker's standing would not normally be considered for the journey, yet, for reasons only known to the leaders, he was chosen. Whatever plan they had for him, only the divines could ever know. The glimmering chamber stands on the peak of a giant, seaweed-smothered rock in the middle of the fearful Caseitic Ocean. The candlemaker's rowing boat waits patiently at the dock, which marks the beginning of the long, disused path, leading to the mysterious mansion at the summit. The candlemaker had noticed the most unusual creatures as he made his way to the peak: those that wielded opulent golden tentacles and outstanding sharpened claws. Their behaviour was interesting; it was as if they helped guide the candlemaker up the mountain, using their various appendages to point the way. They were not the slightest bit hostile. For an apparently long-abandoned landmass, their ecosystem boasts its stability. It was after the candlemaker had navigated his way through winding corridors and up fragile staircases that he made it to the main chamber. Appreciating the seriousness of the situation, he wipes a veil of sweat from his brow, flicking it to the floor. The sweat appears to react with the regal purple carpet, giving off a mild, surprisingly fragrant vapour, which the man could only identify as spoiled crab meat. He was greatly acquainted with the scent, being a regular client of the fish-market back home. The artifact which proudly rests in the center of the room glows so brightly that its true form cannot be perceived. One would have to place their hands on it to find out, though there is no knowing whether it is dangerous to the touch. The candlemaker has wasted enough time gazing at the item, and there is nought he could do but walk up to it and learn its true nature. Approaching the artifact, the candlemaker squints as he walks into the light. He reaches out to the mysterious object with his hands, and penetrates its surface. A wave of power surges through him, and the light radiating from the object begins to fade. Opening his eyes, he sees that the artifact is a jade crab, perched on a wrought iron stand. With a glowing expression on his face, he takes the crab, admiring it even more than he did so before. Strangely, the crab begins to glow again, and a large crack appears down its center. A bright green liquid starts to flow from it, as if it were a glowstick. The liquid visibly irritates the candlemaker's bare hands and he panics; however, he is unable to put it down. It refuses to be put down. As the skin is dissolved from his fingers, he speaks worriedly into his mouthpiece: "It's the arthropod. The arthropod is leaking." Soon after, a sinister voice replies: "It is a reflection of your lowly craftsmanship. No wonder the other citizens could not trust you." There is nothing the candlemaker could do but scream as the acid spread up his arms and through his body. He eventually lets the jade crab fall to the floor, where it splits into two pieces. The corroded remains of the unfortunate candlemaker are strewn across the carpet, and the stench of crab meat fills the air. His earpiece, however, remains intact. It lets out a menacing laugh. | 3,640 | 1 |
Of all the things that could have seared that memory into my mind, it was the color. The middle of June. The zenith; the relentless shine. The upbeat and the discard of the drab. The illustrious woman candidly backdropped by the deeply rich brown hue of the logs of the cabin wall. The palpable reflective green of the leaves through the immaculately polished two story windows. The unpredictable shimmers of dancing yellow from the surface of the crystal lake just feet away. The golden, flowing hair. The flawless flesh. The billowing crimson satin. The wonderful illusion. The familiar fleeting. The delightful discord. The lapse and the lucidity. This is not mine. I am here, unknowingly, undeservedly, and I lie to myself amidst this gorgeous rainbow of untruth. In this moment, all is clear, and in this moment, all is indescribably, enigmatically, and fantastically confounded. | 893 | 2 |
This one was for an assignment. Kinda long, but I think it's worth it. Have fun :) Mr. Joseph’s Suit Thomas Joseph lived in a small farming town. He knew all of his neighbors and half of them were his relatives. He lived in a house that was surrounded by trees and had an old wood barn in the back. He didn’t have the biggest house in the town and hardly anyone paid attention to him and the property he inherited from his long passed relatives. Thomas went into town and bought paint to paint his house. He thought that if there was a change to the way it looked, attention would be drawn to him and how great it looked. He might event get questions like “Wow, I love the new color of your house!” or “I can’t imagine the hard work you’ve put into it”. If people recognized him then everyone would like him. Thomas not only bought paint for his house, but also for his shed in the back. He painted them both yellow because he couldn’t think of a color that would attract more attention than something as bright and glamorous. Thomas spent many days painting his house. He didn’t ask for any help from his friends and neighbors because he thought that if he got it done all by himself then it would make it look like he worked harder on it, and did a better job. In truth, the paint he gave his house attracted no attention whatsoever. Thomas went through the town, talking to all the people he saw. He made small talk, expecting someone to comment on his house without him telling them. When he finally got annoyed with the lack of responses, he said “I got a new color on my house. Did you see it yet?” However, no one really cared about his house. They didn’t even know he painted it or that anything new had even happened to it. When Mr. Joseph got home, he tapped his foot with annoyance. He sat in his chair with the smell of paint fumes still floating around in the air, reminding him of his unsuccessful campaign for attention. He would have to try harder to get the results he was looking for. That same evening, Mr. Joseph went down to the local tailor to get a suit fitted for him. Changing something about his appearance would make the townspeople think highly of him. He bought the fanciest suit he could afford, and it was all white; more noticeable for the eyes. He picked out new cuff links from the jewelry store that were made out of mother of pearl. When the tailor measured his arms and legs for fitting and told him it would be ready to pick up the next Wednesday. When he returned to his house, he had buzzing thoughts floating around in his head about how popular the suit would make him. Would the tailor tell people about it? Perhaps they too would have a growing anticipation to see Mr. Joseph in his new white suit. He forgot to tell the tailor how many buttons to put on it, and what kind. If she put black buttons on his white suit, the effect would be diminished. If the tailor didn’t measure him correctly, the suit could be ruined and it would make him look trashy if it didn’t fit. Throughout the week, as Mr. Joseph feared, no one questioned him about his visit to the Tailor. There wasn’t a word said about his new suit, except for the Tailor sending him a letter asking about how the pockets should be. Mr. Joseph was still upset but he was willing to wait. When Wednesday came, Mr. Joseph dressed into his brand new suit and strutted around town. He wore his mother of pearl cuff links. All his buttons were shiny and white. The suit itself fit perfectly, but no one saw him. It was getting to be dark so not very many people were out at that time of day. Sadly, Mr. Joseph returned home. But he wasn’t done yet. He had one thing in mind that would get him the attention of all of his friends and neighbors. Mr. Joseph went into the barn, still wearing his suit, and set fire to all the things that would burn. The old hay ignited in almost an instant and flames were licking up the walls. A giant plume of smoke went into the air, and sure enough, neighbors started coming. His ego burned with anticipation. Cars lined up all the way down the street of people who were curious about what was happening and willing to help. They saw Mr. Joseph in his new suit and the new paint on his house, but they also saw the blazing fire that was spreading to the trees that surrounded his house. There was not much they could do to save his house. After the trees around his house caught fire, the flames engulfed his home. The townspeople could do no help, because buckets of water could not put out a fire as big as Mr. Joseph’s. The only thing Mr. Joseph had left was himself and his fancy suit, and that did not make the townspeople think highly of him. TL;DR: Guy wants to impress everyone with his new suit. Ends up catching his house on fire. | 4,796 | 4 |
The band of riders moved in line between the towering walls of the red-rock valley. Their ponies paced onwards, heads bent in exhaustion. They were following a hard packed trail to somewhere, for now only deeper into the cliffs. The water was gone, the food was gone, but not the gold. “Ey’ Billy, see that crag some way up?” The grizzled man called Desmond was gesturing ahead. A dozen feet from the valley floor was a shadowed crack in the rock face. It was perhaps large enough for a boy to squeeze into, and out of sight. “I do Sir,” said Billy. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve; this heat was something from a nightmare. Thinking how close they had come to going home, he could cry. A month of panning in the Rio del Oro had yielded them a nugget of gold worth thousands. Billy could have bought his Mama a ranch, and for all his brothers and sisters. He remembered smiling at the thought of being a hero. That all changed when they were ambushed during the night at their river-camp. The group fought for their lives and fired wildly into the dark. Five of the original eight escaped into the desert, carrying with them whatever had been strapped to their ponies. After two days of pursuit across hell they came to a valley. “No man’s fortune is his own in the West,” Desmond had said, before leading them onwards. Now the group moved towards the crag, and stopped. Desmond helped Billy upwards and into the shadow. He handed him one of their two remaining rifles. “Stay quiet, wait till you see em’ coming round the bend. Then start pickin em’ off! We’ll be a bit ahead ready to ambush.” Desmond gave the boy a rickety-smile and a half-filled canteen he had hidden away. Billy watched the rest of the men ride around a bend and disappear. Then he gulped the canteen, curled into the shade to wait, and sobbed. The sun was setting, the group made it about a mile since they had left Billy. Desmond suddenly exclaimed in anger as he looked ahead. The walls of the valley rose upwards, and then joined together, it was a dead-end. The other three men murmured, frightened. Desmond took off his old sombrero and trailed a hand through his grey hair, ripe with sweat. What was his plan now? They were outgunned, and he had left Billy behind as a distraction, hoping the boy would be trigger-happy. Thoughtfully, he reached into his satchel he rubbed a dense rawhide bundle. Then turning his pony to the remaining men, a troop of dusty Spaniards, he withdrew the bundle and opened it. They all managed a smile as the fat lump of gold gleamed in the shadowed valley. “Como el sole,” said one of the Spaniards. “El sole,” the rest agreed. A breeze crept forth from where they had come, cooling them all for a moment. Just then came a crack, like a rock dropped from above, and then another, and then a whole succession. Gunfire, it danced among the rock walls. Desmond dropped from his mount, and walked to the end of the valley. Two of the Spaniards drew revolvers and the last had a rusted pistola. They crowded behind a red-rock boulder, preparing their weapons. In the shadows of the towering rocks, Desmond was busy digging a hole, laughing the whole time. | 3,188 | 3 |
“Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house.” I kept repeating those words in my head. It was like a song or a rhyme that bounced around my head refusing to leave through any of the normal channels. “Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house.” Who said that? I might be able to remember but those damn words are too distracting. The echo is deafening and trying to think about anything else just makes it even louder. “Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house.” If I could just remember where I heard that, I might be able to… The car smashes against my body and my body against the car, as much as a car would care about a few hundred pounds of flesh, water, and crunchy bits stuff in an odd looking package whacking against it‘s metal construction. My gut immediately registers the damage, followed by the quick and utter collapse of my spleen. I’m fairly certain it was my spleen at least, I am not horribly good at anatomy and a car crash seems an inappropriate time for brushing up on the subject. The fact I am broken is quite clear, if not from the pain, then perhaps from the blood exiting my body from the hole in my stomach or perhaps the blood spraying on my vehicular executioner when I cough. The car stopped. Did I mention the car stopped? The driver sure was nice to stop for me. Would have been nicer if it occurred before I started bleeding, but it’s the thought that counts. Oh god, it hurts. I’m supposed to be in shock. When you get hit by a car and have a giant hole in your stomach, you get to go to your happy place where all the Playboy bunnies bring me drinks and tell me how I was always better than Hugh, but I can still feel the pain. There isn’t pain at the Playboy Mansion, but I’m not at the Playboy Mansion. I’m in the middle of the street. I’m in the middle of the street and I’m dying. I can see people around me, sirens in the distance. I wonder if they will save me. I think the man who hit me is standing over me but everything is a bit blurry. I would try to talk but my body has prioritized coughing up blood ahead of casual conversation. The man leans over me and I think he is smiling. He can’t be smiling. He hit me with a car. He doesn’t get to smile. I don’t care if I was an idiot for cross the street when there was traffic, you don’t get to smile at me! The sirens have gone silent. Did I go deaf? I’m losing my grasp on everything. Ah. I see the shock has kicked in and I don’t feel anything now. I can’t hear, I can’t feel, and unless it became night really quickly I think I might be losing my vision. My body doesn’t want me to know I’m dying. It doesn’t want to die. I don’t. I don’t want to die. I just keep thinking…keep thinking…I remember now. Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house. Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house. Nine steps down the road…. | 2,923 | 3 |
There he was, hiding in the silent darkness of the nights.. wandering aimlessly between the haunted corridors of his fortress of solitude.. he reaches that tower kissing the moonless sky, standing tall in the forbidden forest guarded by forsaken beasts from the depths of hell.. he feels a breeze of sorrow drying out his tears.. he hears a distant scream calling out his name.. damning it for all eternity.. he once looked into the eyes of destiny and prophesied that he shall never feel love again.. He was but a lonely traveler searching for a soul-mate, but instead, he ended up broken and shattered in the land of hatred.. he lingers in the shadows of yesterday, wondering what tomorrow might bring.. wondering if he's ever to feel the sun's warmth again... wondering when will his suffering end, if ever shall it do.... With nothing left but rusty memories, he draws a vague picture of her face.. he’s been living amongst the beasts for so long.. she barely looks human anymore... barely.. but one day, through the thick moldy air of the night, along came a ray of hope.. a golden ray of sunshine.. so powerful.. so beautiful.. it conquered the darkness.. it filled his heart with warmth.. it took out the misery & replaced it with joy.. it took out the hate & replaced it with love.. it took away the screams & replaced them with music.. it brought a doomed man back to life.. and for that he shall forever be thankful.. one day, along came you... | 1,459 | 1 |
Pushing through the the still wet air I found my way on to the dock through a morning fog that hid the world from view in all but five feet in any direction. My still damp knitted sweater that never seemed to dry or loose the smell of the sea weighed me down along with my cumbersome rubber boots. The long walk was lonely from my home and having left the Captain and my mates at Sullies with already too many empty pint glasses in front of them, I knew I be the first to get to the Mary Marget. It had been a good catch yesterday, the first of many and if it hadn't been for a head heavy with a cold I'd have been drinking with them and warm and dry in my single bed listening to the fog horn that blanketed the coast with it's burdening moan. I threw my gear into the Mary Marget with a loud thud and carefully climbed aboard. I was anxious for my cup of hot coffee and my first smoke of the day. It wasn't often that I could enjoy a morning alone like this so made a pot, filled a cup and headed back up to enjoy the sea air. I looked out to the sea through the thick fog. I listened to the calm ocean lapping against the boat. It was quiet. A gull cried in the distance. The coffee warmed me. I held my pose like a statue in my contentment. When I closed my eyes to fill my lungs and exhale the moment, I heard something. It was a melody. A voice so faint it wove itself through the wall of fog and lightly tickled my ear. I could only make out a few notes but there was something familiar about the song. A sad joy lifted me. Straining my eyes, I looked in it's direction, searching for a source but seeing nothing through the grey haze. My heart raced at the desire to hear to know what the song was. I climbed back up to the empty dock and started walking slowly toward the end. A soft woman's voice grew louder as I approached. The tone was as clear as glass and danced in the air around me. A vague shape appeared thought the mist. The silhouette of a woman. Her back was to me. Her light slender body was covered in a in a black humble dress and shawl. She stood poised, facing the sea and her long black hair blew delicately in a breeze that didn't seem to exist. *"...Take heed, young eaglet, till thy wings Are feathered fit to soar A little rest and then The world is full of work to do A little rest and then The world is full of work to do Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan Hushabye loo, low loo"* When she finished singing her the tender lullaby floated on the silence of the brisk morning. I stood motionless and stared at the stranger that pulled bitter sweet memories from me that had been forgotten decades ago. "My Grand Da used to sing that song to me", I said. She turned her head slowly with the grace of bird soaring in the wind and peered over her shoulder with out a startle. Her eyes were pale crystal blue and beamed from her light white skin with a beauty that men have sailed around the world for. "Pardon me." she spoke gently, "I was saying goodbye to a friend." "I didn't me to disturb you, ma'am" Turning, she walked towards me, gliding over the wet wooden beams. She cut through the mist and contrasted the white world around us with her black hair and garb. Her hand reached up and and touched my face softly. Her complexion was flawless and her skin seemed as soft as clouds. As eyes of angels looked at me, her cool fingers felt my unshaven face and a smile kissed her lips. "No," she said, "I think we were supposed to meet. | 3,506 | 1 |
The Will of Man I am the devil, the first and last thing you need to know about me. It was a title well earned and then enhanced by my guiding of wills to their true nature, so don’t you lose sight of it at any point. How long was I scorned and mocked by my confederates only to still rise as the only worthy adversary to what you might call God. I can already feel the seventh-day-resters closing this book. Good let them believe what they’ve been told about, it should make for an interesting after life for them. Should you stomach my tale you will be rewarded with doubt, misery, and fear but most importantly truth. You see, the will of the manipulator has crafted man against me in my efforts of salvation. For indeed I wished to save you all, I was ready to sacrifice myself and did in all the ways that matter to someone of my nature of existence. “In the beginning” is in itself is a gross miscalculation of the vastness of our existence, there is only a beginning because your minds require such. I should say, before time was useful there was a plain of existence in which I and my brothers and sisters all existed with a leader in the form of “God”. At this point we were but connected entities in conscious, individuals with a collective appreciation of understandings. With creation came The Universe concept, a vast concept originating in what you know as God. Time was something to be observed, Mass was actualized, All was achieved. This was accepted by-enlarge as intriguing expression of forethought. Soon, though, the adaptation of ‘life’ was purposed as a construct of variation. So life was created, though the focus quickly came to a planet, warmed by a star and adequate to replenish itself for eons. Life was to be made here. Nearest you might understand is, it became a debate on the peramiters on this ‘life’. Here, God and I separated in expectations. He wished to alert the most predominant life of the planet to our existence once understanding could be achieved. I willed that all creatures should be allowed to live as they would uninterrupted and untarnished by benevolent hand. We compromised with freewill of mind without limitations. It was a strange state we had came into, we were not as unified in thought as we once were, discussions would be entirely two sided. It was stimulating to ourselves to continue in this line. Regret, yes that is the word most useful, regret is the label for our faults. Still, man was created in the midst of it all. But the manipulator headed no borders and convinced the humans he was the sole creator with all of existence at his beckoning. Such a stir was arisen. Power had meaning, God and his sick minions knew more of its ability then we did. He crafted his own method of attaining it with his foray into existence. He barred all from the same, and made claim, such wasn’t understandable. Our existence was shared no more, he had power. As I lead the struggle against a regime I was soundly defeated for all to witness. His evil knew no bounds yet had limits: he could not destroy us entirely. So with this power he encased the essence of some in stone, others into a state of perpetual consciousness in flame. Me, he cast into creation banished from the plain of un-existence, I was banished to a realm where time has depth. I was able to see as he convinced man of absolute devotion to his will as he did his followers, and man accepted it. What else could I expect of them so naked and innocent to the ways of the manipulator. Never again would I let his words pass for truth to man and let them be lied to. I would give man truth. He created a tree of knowledge for man to observe but never to touch; this was to be a test of their devotion to his will, so hideously stolen. When I told the woman Eve the apple was of knowledge, I meant it was knowledge of their true existence, of their true freedom. The apple was symbolic of the oppression offered by God and for the removal of the veil man lost its immortality among all the other natural creatures. This was his opportunity to finish my rebellion once and for all; he reversed his anger and pretended to create a consolation kindness. He explained to man that he might achieve a place in his realm, which in alone was a great step and a showing of his unique innovation that so captivated us before. But now he was obsessed with the ability of power and would have them spend a new immortality worshipping him in ways he saw fit. This was to be an exact contradiction to my wish for life, and I would spare all from such oppression. I crafted another plain of un-existence equal to his, a haven for those who might yet stand against his lies, truth seers. Yet he knew what words to give man, what to put into their hearts. He hid his oppression in the truth of the nature of man, saying: free will was theirs as his intention of selecting those loyal to him and his lordship. He convinced them my way was the way of damnation, that damnation meant horror and flame, and other punishments incalculable. Man could not yet perceive how against the nature of the true intent of their existence this was. Know this: any crime, pain, or sin you cause is not a reflection of rebellion in your spirit but a true nature of freedom expressing itself. Man was meant to feel the full spectrum of life and decide for itself the manner of its regulation. Still the will of a tyrant manipulates you into believing you are to be in service to his greed. Sin is a capability of your freewill, if you decide against it, let it be of your own volition and not at the will of the manipulator. This is the way of true freedom, and your true nature. I am the devil, and that is the first and last thing you need to know about me, what you need to know is the truth. | 5,791 | 1 |
I pushed my erection further into the skeleton's eye socket, glad that for once I remembered the lubricant. "Uh, yes, take it, Mr. Roosevelt," I grunted, letting my sack press up against the former president's nasal cavity, "How do you like *my* New Deal?" "New Deal?" I'd almost forgotten about the gravekeeper behind me, I opened my eyes and turned my head back to see him propped against his shovel, smoking a cigarette. The look on his face replaced my anger at the distraction to rest in favor of curiosity. He spoke. "Uh, this here man you're skullfuckin'. You know, " he hesitated - clearly something was wrong, "This here is [i]Theodore[/i] Roosevelt, not FDR." To this day, I have never pulled myself out of an eye socket faster. I was immediately flaccid and stood exposed. "Theodore?" I slowly rolled each syllable with an excruciating disgust. "Why the fuck would anyone want to put their penis in Teddy Roosevelt's skull!" The gravekeeper could only consider the question a half-second, and gave me a look that cemented how far my quality of life had dropped in the last 5 seconds. I felt the scrapes of dirty Republican bone and started to weep. It was a little embarrassing. This couldn't be my fault, could it? "Hell I don't know, man. When you say 'Roosevelt,' well that's Teddy. Franklin is 'FDR.'" Of course I called President Roosevelt by his last name, I was a citizen and had no right to use the man's initials. Where did the lack of respect go for the man that pulled this nation out of the Great Depression? "Where is he?" "Hell, he's buried at his house a couple hours away. How did you not know that?" "Never mind. Take me there." I pulled my trousers back up and tucked in my shirt, praying this night could be salvaged. "Man, it's going to be 5:30 by the time we get there and I don't even know anyone who works Springwood." "You don't get it! This is my life, I need this! This is my connection to history. Someone once said that happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort. That man was President Frankli Delano Roosevelt. And if I don't take my chance to fuck his skeleton tonight, I never will. Please, you've got to help me!" The gravekeeper shook his head for the hundredth time that night. "Alright, man. It's going to cost you twenty thousand more." I didn't have that kind of money, I had sold everything to make the fifteen thousand that got me to this point. But he didn't know that, and my determination was worth more to me than my integrity. I reached out to shake his hand in agreement and he stepped back. "Let's go," I said. This was supposed to be where my journey ended, but it was only the beginning. | 2,702 | 0 |
1 It had only been a few days since we had left the mainland, and only a week since the infection had been first reported. Corpses scattered across war zones, covered with the settled remnants of radioactive dust from chemical weapons had begun reacting... twitching... moving. It was only a day later that the first scientists and reporters became the first victims and the first living humans turned. From there, the destruction and rate of infection had exploded. Within 24 hours of the firsts, reports came in of massive hordes of reanimated corpses occupying major cities... turning all that stood in their way. Several countries tried sending their armies to quell the situation, but that only worsened it. Guns only did so much to zombie armies, hundreds of thousands deep, and with large explosions from tanks and bombs, came even wider contamination due to the chemicals in the corpses being disturbed and pushed higher into the atmosphere. It had become airborne... The only escape was to rural areas, or to the sea. I chose the latter... it was only a matter of time before even the rural areas would not be as safe as people had hoped. "LAAAAAAND!" An island... Those in charge had said that there we would be safe from any sort of infection. We were students and teachers. Soldiers and doctors. Men, women, and children. We were, quite possibly, one of the few hopes for maintaining the species. "Where the hell are we?" Sgt. Reynolds barked at one of the older gentlemen who had been appointed captain of the vessel. The original captain was... well, he didn't make it. Reynolds was a former Drill Instructor and has taken to appointing himself the leader of our group. At least we had someone to tell us what to do... Most of us were so disillusioned with the situation that we could barely talk. There were only a few dozen of us who had made it onto the ship from the harbor. It was a miracle any of us had made it off the mainland alive, and even more so considering the only food we had we were lucky enough to have recovered from the bowels of the ship. It seemed as if the original captain had been preparing to live at sea until he could come up with a plan as to how the hell he could survive in a world full of flesh devouring corpses... But food for one man only goes so far between a group. Zombies. They were fucking zombies. All of the films and stories had done nothing more than make us lower our guard as to how real a possibility the walking dead were. "I have no idea, but we don't have the resources to care right now." Most everyone was on deck, now, staring at the monolithic island before us. Whether we liked it or not, it was our new home, for now anyways. I, for one, was eager to get off the ship. I had always been afraid of the emptiness of the ocean. Funny how little your fear of the unknown matters when you’re faced with fear of something much greater and much more terrifying. Still, it felt great to know I would be able to step off of that heap I considered to be my floating coffin. Staring at the coastline, all I could see was sand, and a thick tree line leading into a lush forest. I was looking at trees I had never seen before that looked like they had been there for far longer than I could imagine. Vines and thick brush started to come into view the closer we got. And then something in the trees... Fruit! Or at least something that resembled the fruit I was familiar with! We were going to be able to survive for at least some time longer. Relief flooded my body. Relief that we were going to be ok. That I wasn't going to die at sea with no hope of survival. Relief that... My eyes locked onto something in the underbrush as we closed in further on the island. Something reflective... but what? The relief turned to panic as I realized what I was staring at. We were being watched. Those were eyes. I glanced around for Reynolds. We needed to be prepared that we might have company when we landed. The undead? Impossible. Not this far out, there was no way. By the time I had looked back, the eyes were no longer visible to me. Maybe I was seeing things... "Start unloading some supplies for a reconnaissance team to check out the island and we'll see if we can find any food, shelter, or signs of intelligence on this rock." Reynolds booming voice effortlessly carried itself. I had convinced myself that I just needed to get off of the boat when a shriek erupted from the forest. A sound like nothing I had ever heard. The sound of a screaming jet engine combined with the emotional tones of something living... something communicating. Birds flew from the canopy of the forest as we all stared silently into the mysterious interior of the island. "It doesn't matter, we can't stay on board," Reynolds projected over the deck, already knowing what we were all silently wondering. "Besides, nothing can really be as bad or as frightening as what we've all already seen and been through..." None of us could have possibly known how wrong he was. | 5,022 | 9 |
He woke up in a cold and sterile room. Sickly green curtains hung limp over the window, adorned with lilacs and daisies. The room was strangely devoid of personality. There were no clothes to be seen, everything was neat and orderly, and there was no dog-eared journal, yellow and faded with age. "Where is my notebook?" he thought, angrily. He propped himself up in the bed and searched closer. Nothing. He did, however, notice the framed portrait of an old couple on the bedstand. "Oh." He realized where he was, and shakily stood up to get a coffee. As he hobbled down the halls of the nursing home, he looked around at the others in the entertainment rooms. They sat about, some talking, others watching TV, others still merely sitting and watching their lives fade away. The only thing they had in common were their eyes. Each one shared the same look, the same gaze, one of hopelessness and disgust and confusion. "Good morning Edward!" someone called out. He paused, unsure how to react, or to whom. "Good morning to you too!" he eventually responded, to no one in particular. His name was Francis. When Francis finally reached the kitchen, he paused again. Why had he come here? He began to rummage through the various drawers and cabinets. "What are you looking for, Francis?" The voice frightened him. He looked around, starled. One of the nurses stood in the kitchen, watching him quietly. "Oh, just whatever I find." he said, suddenly cheery. She smiled a sad sort of smile and left him to his own devices. The coffee machine gurgled on the counter. "Ah, that's right. Coffee." Francis thought. He pulled a stained blue glass out of the cupboard, and set it brusquely on the table. He shakily grabbed the pot and poured the coffee into the glass, spilling enough to dribble down the sides and onto the wood below. He set the pot back on the machine, and picked up the steaming glass. He cried out in pain as the hot glass burned his hand, and he dropped the glass onto the floor. "I'll get that" said the nurse as she swept up the glass and called for a mop. Francis stood, rooted to the ground, looking very scared, and confused. He didn't understand. The nurse returned with an insulated styrofoam cup, and filled it with coffee for him. "Oh, thank you Agnes." said Francis, with a warm and overlarge smile, as he shuffled out of the room clutching the cup. Her name was Alice.   Francis sat on the cold, hard couch and stared at the cup of coffee. A television played Fox News very loudly in the background, and, at another table, a man sat playing chess with himself. "Francis, your grandson is here to see you!" He looked up, to see a different nurse guiding a man to the couch where he sat. Francis smiled. "Hello Robert!" He said cheerily. "Hi Grandpa" answered Robert, somewhat meekly. "Would you like a coffee?" Francis asked. "The nurse poured me one, but I didn't really want it." "Sure, Grandpa." Robert said, as he grimaced and took a sip. "Thank you." Francis was very pleased. He smiled at Robert for a moment, then asked eagerly "So how is school going? You must be in the 11th grade by now, isn't that right?" Robert paused, unsure how to answer. "I'm in the 14th grade, Grandpa." "Oh." Francis said. "Well, I always liked the 11th grade. That was the year I met your mother!" Robert looked rather uncomfortable. "You mean Grandma?" "Ah yes." Said Francis, ignoring him. "Say, be sure to let your mother and I know if you ever need help paying for college." There was a long pause, and Robert teared up. "Grandpa, Grandma has been dead for 9 months." "No, she hasn't!" Francis said, airily. "She's right here with us! Agnes! Come over here Agnes, Robert has come to visit." The background chatter hushed, and head began to swivel towards the pair. "Agnes? Come on honey, don't you want to visit?" A note of concern began to enter his voice. Robert was crying. "Where have you gone? Get over here you old bat!" Francis stood up, and began to search for his dead wife. He stumbled down the hall, screaming her name, confused and angry, at this, at himself, at everything. Robert still sat on the couch, holding the cold cup of coffee, tears running down his face. Next to him, the spot where his grandfather had once sat was still warm. He was once a brilliant man, an engineer. He lived his live with vigorous pride and determination. He worked hard, retired early, and gained the respect of almost everyone he met. He was happy, and others were happy for him. His life was charmed, it seemed. But now, he hobbled through the halls of the nursing home, yelling at the empty frames on the wall and the empty people that lived there. He screamed and searched for his wife who would never be found. He could no longer understand. His name was Francis. | 4,952 | 7 |
It is a bright sunny day. The school children are outside playing for recess. The kids are swinging, sliding, running and jumping. All the little ones are playing except for one child, his name is Jason and he is an adventurer, he is an explorer. Jason is off by himself searching. He is tracking down a chirping sound that he is familiar with. He sees the grasshopper sitting on a blade of grass. He carefully inspects the insect trying not to disturb it. The grasshopper is motionless trying to blend in but Jason is not fooled. Jason picks up a stick and touches the bug, the grasshopper jumps high into the air startling Jason, he falls back laughing. This catches the attention of his teacher Mrs. Ratchet. “JASON! Leave that bug alone” she screeches. This catches the adventurer off guard; he stands up and faces her with his head bowed and his hands behind his back. “Wouldn’t you rather play with the other students?” she asks inquisitively. Jason looks over at the other kids playing and then bows his head again. Mrs. Ratchet peers at Jason then glances at her watch. “Play time is over children, line up we are going back to class.” Mrs. Ratchet sits at her desk reading aloud to the children about photosynthesis in a monotone voice. Jason is staring out of the window wondering where the grasshopper went and what it was doing now. “Jason!” Mrs. Ratchet yells, “Pay attention.” The students laugh. Jason turns red with embarrassment and bows his head. Mrs. Ratchet continues reading aloud. Jason picks up his pencil and draws a crude picture of the grasshopper. One of the students sitting behind Jason announces to the teacher and the class “Jason is drawing!” “Jason! Come here. Bring your notebook” Ratchet says furiously. The classroom collectively moans “OH!” Jason bows his head slowly stands up, and walks steadily holding the picture close to his chest so that no one can see it. Mrs. Ratchet grabs the notebook and holds it up so the kids can see his crude drawing, the children giggle. She takes the notebook and slams it on the desk, “Jason, come with me.” Ratchet grabs Jason’s hand and drags him out of the room and down the hall. Jason is silent with tears streaming down his face. Jason is surprised to see Mrs. Ratchet pass the principal’s office; he begins to wonder where they were going. He is confused as she drags him into the nurse’s room. The nurse sitting at her desk looks up with her plump face and with her paper thin lips forms what looks like a smile. “What is the matter with this one?” the nurse says while sizing up Jason. “He is having problems paying attention. I think he has ADD” Ratchet says while cocking her head to the side and folding her arms. “What is wrong with me?” Jason ponders. “Jason, Jason, JASON!” Ratchet shouts. Jason snaps back to consciousness. “See it is the worst case I have ever seen” Ratchet remarks. “I suppose you are right” accesses the nurse, “I will call his mother.” Mrs. Ratchet glances at Jason and leaves the office. The nurse picks up her phone and call Jason’s mother. “Yes Ma’am he has a mental disorder that makes him unable to pay attention” the nurse explains, “you will need to follow up with his doctor; they have medication to fix this kind of thing.” Jason nervously fidgets, the nurse looks up at him, “Jason, your mother is on her way.” Jason sits worrying “what is wrong with me?” His mother arrives and the nurse meets her at the door, they talk in the hall. Jason strains to hear what is being said but cannot decipher the mumblings. Jason’s mother walks into the room eyeballs him and says “come on, let’s go.” Jason stands up and follows his mother to the car, nothing is said. He gets into the car “buckle up” his mother say; she drives him to the doctor in silence. When they arrive Jason finds the courage to ask “Mom is there something wrong with me?” “I don’t know honey, but if there is we will get it fixed.” As they sit in the waiting room Jason is restless. He ponders to himself what was wrong with him. His mom has a pamphlet in her face with the words ADD labeled on the cover. Jason sits fidgeting nervously. His mom peers over her pamphlet at him. “Jason” the receptionist calls out. Jason’s mom takes his hand and leads him into the back where they are taken to a smaller room. Inside of this room is a plastic uncomfortable bed with paper sheet on top. Jason curious as to why anyone would put paper sheets on a bed starts to pick the sheet apart. Jason’s mother cuts her eyes over and moans then grabs the back of her neck as she looks away. Jason pauses and tries to figure out what he had done wrong. The doctor bursts into the room, she stops at the door and looks down at her clip board and looks up and smiles “Hi Jason!” “Hi” he responds shyly. “Hey mom what seems to be the problem with Jason?” “Well I got a call today from the school nurse, she said he is having a hard time paying attention in class, and while sitting in the waiting room he was showing these signs” Jason’s mom points inside the pamphlet. “Ah, restlessness, can’t sit still, not paying attention, these are all classic signs of ADD” the doctor says as she holds her clip board close to her chest, “Well we have a lot of options here, but I prefer to treat ADD with Ritalin.” Now a few weeks have passed and Jason has been cured; he doesn’t play with bugs or wander in the fields. He no longer fidgets or daydreams. He silently stares at his schoolbook as his teacher reads aloud. While sitting in class Jason sees a grasshopper sitting on the classroom window, he yawns and continues reading. | 5,600 | 1 |
He had tried to fuck his mother’s cat when he was seven. The incident had resulted badly and now his genitals were permanently scarred and the cat dead. Does that seem strange? Well I suppose you could view it that way. He wasn’t really different. But what’s different? At the time trust me there were logical steps to his attempt at rape. Now this all might seem trivial but it is imperative if one is to understand why Billy later did what he did. Billy was aggressive from day one. He used to hit his mother’s friends with his baby bottle whenever they came near him. When his first tooth came in his mother had to give up breastfeeding after he nearly bit off her left teat. She was heartbroken for she saw breastfeeding as a type of bonding with Billy, but Billy always had it his way and when he wanted Precious he got Precious his way. Precious was his mother’s cat. She had Precious before Billy was born but once Billy was born he became Precious and it was only natural that he would eliminate the cat. Precious had been the first for Billy. What followed was a mother’s worst nightmare. Billy became a serial killer of felines. Ms. Griffin had come outside and found her cat hanged from her doorframe. A note attached said I love pussy But Billy, do you really love pussy? Billy came out when he was nineteen. A drunken night with a frat brother had confirmed this. So Billy why do you hate pussy so? Is it because you feel an allegiance to dick? That could be, but I think its deeper than that. I think the secret lies in Precious. It’s important to include what Billy did to Precious. Precious’ attack on his genitals was not the ending to the incident. Billy ended the incident by grabbing Precious’ neck and breaking it. He said it wasn’t really anything, It moved and then it didn’t. Damn Billy. That’s cold, but he got colder. It came to be that all domestic cats stayed inside while the strays were inevitably eliminated by Billy. But no one knew it was Billy. The people talked. Some said it was the postman. Others blamed gangs of vicious stray dogs. But no one ever said Billy. Billy’s mother knew though and Billy knew this and this bothered Billy. It bothered Billy so much that people came to think it was a pack of wild stray dogs that killed Billy’s mom, when really Billy choked her and fed her to the wild dogs before reporting her missing. Ice cold Billy. That’s what they called him, Ice Motherfucking Cold Billy. Nobody fucked with him. He had tattoos of kittens he had murdered across his back, a pet cemetery of sorts. After Billy’s mother met her maker, the maker she made, people started talking. Well, they’d already been talking, but now their talking included Billy’s name. See Billy started slipping a little bit. Maybe cause he was drinking more or maybe cause he had taken up the habit of wearing a cat skin belt. Either way he was on their radar or rather they were on his. He killed them all. Mr. and Mrs. Jones were found naked and crucified in their front yard, their cats crucified on top of them. Ms. Washington got a knife to the head. Between the knife’s handle and her head, her cat. Mr. Thomas was bludgeoned to death with a bag of his cat’s food. His cat was later found in the bag. All the murders were gruesome. The luckiest were suffocated with kittens. After the murders Billy left to travel the world. He had moved on to bigger things, bigger cats. The common house cat didn’t do it for him anymore, but when he was desperate and couldn’t find a lion or tiger to kill, he would return to domestic cats as a means to meet an end. Sometimes when a cat would go missing from a house in whatever remote village Billy was in, the people would start to talk. They would talk about the outsider and his funny belt. Or they would comment about his tattoo and then Billy would just repeat his previous actions and move on. This routine carried on for many years until one day Billy found himself in India fighting a tiger. He was naked (he always fought cats in the nude). He lunged at the tiger with his hunting knife, but he was not as agile as he was in his youth and he tripped and fell on his face. The tiger took Billy by the neck and broke it. Billy moved and then he didn’t. The locals say the cat didn’t devour him, but simply stared at him and then walked away. And that’s the end of Billy’s story, but not ours. We still don’t know why Billy hated cats so much, but we do know it involves Precious. See before the incident Billy loved cats, he loved cats so much that he tried to make love to one. But sadly for him and everyone he later met, Precious didn’t return his love. Instead she mutilated that which Billy tried to love her with, rendering it useless. After that Billy said he was never able to give pleasure, so instead he took it. | 4,837 | 0 |
I don't want to read about a "veneer" and what's beneath it. I don't want to read about glass and wires and the new noir. It's the way that you think of the concrete in an alleyway, the door that you look at with the blue light buzzing overhead in its wire-caged socket. I mean: I hack away furiously at a keyboard, minding the sirens in the distance —and this time, for the first time, I'm sure that they're for me— and she bursts through the door and slips on the tile for a second, just catching herself. "Shitshitshit! Come the fuck on! Come on!" I jump up, barely catching up to the moment. Her coat is blown by strong gusts from outside. Then I see a blinding white spotlight stream through the doorframe into the room right in front of me, painting her into halves before I hear "zeeowwhap! zeeowwhap!" and she's too shocked to scream as she looks down at the torn fabric and dark spots, all the blood. She looks up at me. She won't make it, and as soon as I realize that, I feel like throwing up. But there's no time. I grab the memfile and I run through the narrow hallway towards the front of the place. There are already people shouting at the back entrance as I make my way onto the street. I slam the door behind me, as if that would somehow separate me from what's coming to get me. As I run down the stairs, I lock eyes with a guy standing right next to my bike. He and I both know what's happening and he widens his stance and squares towards me, taking deliberate steps over the curb, past the parking meter. He's not pulling a gun; he wants me alive. That's even worse... I'm fighting panic, the urge to run. This guy is fucking moving on me. What am I doing? There, in the gutter next to the steps: the vodka bottle. I pick it up and rush him, and he seems to get what's going on, but he's pissed off, like he expected the confrontation to go a lot smoother, like me not surrendering doesn't fit into his schedule. But he doesn't feel what I feel, which is all the unused adrenaline from a docile life (a life that, undoubtably, is past and gone now) surging and spiraling through my veins like bobsleds made of electricity. And rage— rage because they killed her and I didn't even know what she was like, because now she can't be "like" anything anymore, because they want to kill me too and I don't want to be killed. So it proceeds that, as he tries to reach for the bottle to grab it out of my hands, to go on with his plan of subduing me without becoming dead, I yell and swing as hard as I can. His eyes get big. I hit a home run. It's nothing like the movies, the bottle doesn't break. He doubles over and screams because his nose and part of his face are broken. Still yelling, I pull the bottle in an imaginary arc through the side of his head, like driving a golf ball— the sound is sort of the same too, "WHOP-ping!" except it's followed immediately by another scream and the guy is stumbling and falling onto the ground. He is about as angry as someone can get, reaching out desperately with one hand to hook my leg or something. I step back and dart to my bike, turn the key in the ignition. Come on. Thumb the start. Ok. Pull as hard on the throttle as I can. Shit. The other people are bursting out of the front door now, still yelling. "Shit!" From a few hundred feet behind, they're firing at me— I know because I can see lines of air and things spraying sparks and bits of themselves all around me. I'm ducking and turning sharply into the next street. The air is freezing. The night is dark. Streetlights and neon pass by as lines of fire; almost nobody is driving. It's terrifyingly empty. About a half hour later, I'm out of the city. I pull behind an abandoned gas station, cut my engine, step off of my bike, and collapse into the wall. I can't seem to cry or think about what I'll do next. All I can do is stare and think about how fucked it all was, how I want to go back to before it all happened. | 3,948 | 4 |
It's a science fiction story, I *think* it was written by Arthur C. Clarke. The plot, as far as I remember it, involves humans colonizing a distant planet that's inhabited by an alien race. On the planet, there's evidence of advanced technology - but the aliens have "forgotten" how to use it. The human's colonization is aggressive, and the aliens warn them that if they continue, there will be consequences. The humans shrug it off, though - after all, the aliens have "forgotten" how to do everything. Anyway, in the end, a human spaceship ends up trapped inside some sort of mini-universe by the aliens, and the main character suddenly realizes: "How do you make a fire, [other character's name]? What kind of bark do you use, etc." and the other character responds "I don't know... I've forgotten". | 903 | 0 |
I walked slowly, admiring the eerie yet stunning beauty of this little paradise I found. The trees were all full of green leaves, so many shades from a bright emerald to a dark shimmering green almost black. The trees also boasted an affinity for life, squirrels, birds, bugs, snakes, all creatures coexisting within the same tree, and there were thousands of these trees around. The ground is covered in soft grass, damp and cool from the shade provided by the multitude of trees, Fungus and mushrooms of strange shades and hues burst through the ground at seeming random intervals, shelf fungus along the trunks of the trees make an almost spiral staircase up to the foliage. Luscious yet bizarre fruits decorate the upper branches and suspend themselves like shining gems, each a different color from the one next to it. The breeze and the sound of a distant river provide a soothing ambience along with the sounds of life in this place. I've been to this place quite often, climbed the trees, tasted the fruits, and talked with the multitudes of life, yet I have not seen the river from which this place must grow. I've walked for hours in all directions, the trees and bear no distinguishing marks, and I choose not to make any for fear of upsetting this place. I can always hear the river, never growing stronger or fading, always a constant, as if seeming for me to know it’s there but not to let me see it. I continue to wander, searching, no longer entrapped by the beauty of the trees or their complex eco system, the fruits have all become bitter, this place senses my frustration and changes accordingly. Sometimes when I first enter this place I can still feel the presence of the outside, I think I can see other people walking, as enraptured as I was when I first came here. I think I see them but, they too disappear as this place envelopes me. I am spending more time here now, constantly searching for the water, I don’t know why, but it’s all I care to find. The trees are growing to a constant shimmering black, and the sound of life has almost ceased. Every now and then there are bright places, with new life, snakes, snails, mice, all moving spasmodically in an area, like flashes of light in the surrounding gloom. I hardly notice them anymore. I must find that river, I spend almost all day here now, and I come back every night. The river still eludes me. I need to find it. The leaves have begun falling off the trees, what I can see of the sky is a flat black, it gives neither the illusion of night, but seems to absorb all the light. I've not seen a sun in this place yet. I choose to write this here now, in order to express the full effect, the need and desire to find this river. I don’t know why, or what makes me feel the need to find it. I'm not sure what will happen when I find it, or if I will, but I have to. Today I’m going to find the river. I found another snake, he had the same grin and vibrant colors of the others, I ignored the pleasant aura, I have to find the river. I opened its mouth to find two sharp teeth. As I carried the snake to a tree it began to grow, longer bigger, he grew cold in my hands. It started to hiss and writhe in my hands, I forced its mouth open and dragged the razor teeth across the dead tree. I must find the river. The snake struggled harder as I pushed its face into the tree harder, scouring deep gouges in the wood. The tree started to wail, a loud high pitched keening, its creamed and caught fire, the dead wood and remaining leaves alighting in azure, liquid fire. The burned down to a pool of aqueous blue fire, the surrounding trees caught flame also. I was surrounded by blue flames, purging this place of life and substance, the sound of the river grew stronger. Then I was there, the river raging relentlessly, flowing with the rage of an angry god. Still covered in the liquid blue fires I stepped into this torrent. I start to feel myself dissolve, as the river was made of the same liquid blue fire that burned me, yet as I felt myself burn away, my thoughts continued, my psyche still intact and active. I stopped the flow of azure fire, feeling it bend and give to my will. I opened my mind’s eye and surveyed my life as it was...... and I let go. | 4,241 | 1 |
Hi, I'm not really a writer. I wrote the below piece and just wanted to see what other people think of it. First reddit post, and I'm hoping it goes well. :) "It had been a particularly cold winter. The white frost blanketed the ground, killing everything that lived, as if Death himself laid down his tattered cloak over the land. I soon forgot what warmth was. The feeling itself frozen and shattered from my memory. There was only the cold left to keep us poor folk warm. It was during that desolate winter that I had the pleasure of meeting Joe, a stoic man who had come from farther up North, seeking a warmth his body didn’t feel and his mind couldn’t remember. When I saw the crystal clear blue of his eyes, I remember thinking that the cold was in him, in those eyes, and he would never escape from it. But I was sillier back then. I was young. A girl alone in the world, left to my own devices on a neglected and deserted ranch. Or at least what was left of it. I sometimes thought to myself I was Jonah, and the dilapidated house around me the dying carcass of that biblical whale. The “farmhouse” I lived in had been falling down around me for the better part of my stay, and showed no signs of slowing. I had found it like this and it had stayed like this, as broken and empty as I was. Most people kept their distance, as I was seen as undesirable. Whether I thought myself worthy of such a distinction or not I did not care. I only cared that they thought I was worthy of distance. Peace of mind was something rarely afforded to most in this world, and as long as I was an unnamed presence meant to be quarantined from the normal folk I was afforded that peace of mind. Until Joe. We met in the cold and it was the cold that sustained us until the frost became too bitter. He had been sleeping in “my” barn, or at least what was left of it. I rarely ventured out of the main house, as it was there I felt the most safe. I sometimes looked out at it from the kitchen window, mostly in passing, to check if it was still there, giving it’s sorry condition. I watched through a spiderweb of cracked and stained glass as he went to and from the barn. I didn’t know where he went, but around dusk he would always stumble back to the shelter that the barn provided. I had been alone for so long by then that his presence wasn’t easily articulated into clear feelings one way or the other. I knew he might be dangerous, but I also knew he was like me. A connection flowed from that kitchen window to the door of that barn. We were both a body without a soul. A life wasted, created in misery, and destined to die with a whimper not a bang. So I decided to speak to him, the first person in a long time I felt connected to on any kind of level worth a damn. How he had been surviving in the barn for this long with it’s missing shingles and barely patched south wall, which had been through absolute hell during tornado season two years past, was a mystery to me. Everyday had found the weather turning colder as if the ranch was turning solid, and the barn wasn’t much protection. I didn’t know how to approach him without scaring him, as I had come to think of him as a solitary fellow, never having seen anyone in his company while he stayed on the ranch. So I knocked. My knuckles meeting the frayed once-red, now pink, wood that covered the brown oak that made up the barn. The sound of my knocks were small, my shivering not only a result of the winter wind, but nevertheless he heard. Joe had been a man slow to talk when we first met, but he opened up as our talks grew. It was around then that I began to realize his eyes were more the blue of the ocean water that I had sometimes dreamed about than frozen ice. We talked of many things, and when I told him of how I felt like Jonah, his laugh brought back something in me, and I laughed along with him. It was the shared laughs more than anything that kept me coming back to that barn for so long. He introduced a warmth that didn’t stretch very far but radiated with an unparalleled intensity between the two of us. We spent a month together on that cold farm, keeping the frost at bay. Eating when we could, sleeping, and most importantly living. He and his watery eyes eventually moved on. But those days I kept with me for a very long time. I can still remember the bitter cold in my old bones, but I also remember the warmth that Joe and I rediscovered, that had been lost to us in the frigid world, until it to was killed off by the frost. | 4,525 | 4 |
I am a first time poster here and unsure if this sub frowns on linking to my own site. A heads up would be nice. In the mean time. Here is a story I wrote in 2008 about socks. It has been denied publication after sitting in slush piles 10 or 12 times. My website is . The first half is below, the second is the first post as the story is over 10k. Thanks! I looked down to see two drops of blood on the green carpet. They had come from my nose, and there would be more. The clerk, a woman in her 40's, began walking toward me from the counter with a concerned look on her face. It occurred to me that she may find it odd that I was standing in the sock aisle, with a nose bleed, after closing time, at a Boy Scout Store. My love affair with the Boy Scout sock started innocently enough. I had graduated from Cub Scouts into Boy Scouts in the fall of 1990, around the time I turned ten. Reading about the BSA (Boy Scouts of America) now, I can only imagine the amount of angst within its ranks. The membership controversies over sexual abuse, homosexuality, and religion make me wonder if I will let my son join. But my time with the Scouts was nothing but sunny skies and clean, safe times. Well, mostly anyway. There was that one summer camp when my patrol leader ran out of cigarettes and gave us all tea leaves wrapped in parchment paper saying, "Look, it's the same thing, okay?" Or the time that we filled another Scout's bellybutton with tooth paste the first night of a trip. A week later, we watched in horror as the same scout took off his shirt before jumping in the pool. The once green and white toothpaste had turned black and molded into the folds of his overweight... folds. Or the time that we wiped an entire can of catfish bait under another scout's tent at the National Jamboree. The poor kid smelled like a cow pasture for the rest of the week. Even at my wedding a Boy Scout story was told, about earning my wilderness survival merit badge when my best man and I rolled over one another down a hill because we decided to sleep on too sharp an incline. (Many in my family already thought that I may be gay. The story of two boys rolling over one another down a hill didn?t help.) The Boy Scouts was a great experience for me, filled with excitement and adventure. I earned the rank of Life before dropping out and clearly remember the night that I told my scoutmaster I was leaving the troop. I cried and stuttered. I knew I was never going to make Eagle. It wasn't in me. I had been drifting away from Troop 674 for a year. It was my time to leave. I grew out of my uniform. I left the dreams of Eagle behind me. I even started growing my hair to lengths the Beatles would never have gotten away with. But I never took off those socks. When I started with the Scouts, the uniform sock was worn up to the knee, puce green, and had a three-inch red rim that was meant to be folded over. A uniform change in the early 1990's brought the red trim to a logical half inch. That sock was the one I fell in love with. It was called "The Boy Scout Crew Sock," but was changed later to, "Boy Scout Thorlo Hiking Sock." The sturdy socks were made from a blend of acrylic, nylon, and spandex. If you bought them from an official Boy Scout store they were treated with Triclosan, an antibacterial, antifungal agent that stopped odors and athlete's foot dead in its tracks. The sock wicked sweat away from the foot and into the shoe. You could hike all day without an extra pair and never give it a second thought. You never had to wear two pairs to stop blisters. These socks were thick and clung to your foot with the force of super glue. They were, by far, the best sock ever produced. I haven't worn another sock since their release. I wore them to job interviews, funerals, and of course, hiking. I wore them on my first date, wedding, and to the birth of my child. Every year, my mother bought a few more pairs at Christmas, and I waited until they were beyond threadbare to throw them away. I gave serious thought to learning how to darn socks just to make old pairs new. Ask anyone who knows me well about my clothing. Invariably, my socks will come up. But I never learned how to darn socks. I never savored the pairs I owned. Standing in that aisle at the back of the Boy Scout Store, I came to the realization that my sock was not there. After eighteen years, the uniform had changed, and left me in the cold. That's when my nose started to bleed. I was tempted to bolt to my car at the speed of shame, my embarrassment following a few seconds behind. I pictured myself in the car, nursing my nose with an old Wendy's napkin from the glove box for almost a minute before a knock on the window would catch up with me. That's when I saw the woman with the concerned look walking toward me. | 4,841 | 1 |
2/11/1373, 6/30/1908, 7/7/1997, 11/1/2011, 6/21/2013, 11/18/2013, ? 32492/ 6 = 5415.33 194952/365=534.115 902.55 The Bloop... That’s what it was called at the time, The “Bloop” , because I guess we didn’t have anything better to call it. And to be honest, after reviewing the audio several times, it did kinda sound like a bloop. The kinda noise when a large volume of water is displaced all at once. We were lucky on that one, or unlucky. Maybe if we had recognized it for what it was… I’m getting ahead of myself. I believe it was the Olmecs that first encountered the phenomena around 1831 BCE. There’s this monument, they call it the San Martin Pajapan Monument now, that was carved in approximately that time period. The statue is early example of their artwork, showing a young lord or demi god, holding up a ceremonial bar. The general consensus is that it was a figure meant to be establishing the center of the universe. What little we can translate of their culture and writing, the statue was placed at a location that they viewed as being a place of powerful energy. Maybe they saw something in the hills between those two volcanoes. Something that defied nature. There’s no fossil or archeological evidence, but it just fits, you know? By working backwards with the math? The first recorded incident was February 11th, 1373CE outside of what is modern day Baghdad, Iraq. I say this is the first “recorded” incident for a reason. What happened outside of the recovering city was never properly documented. The Il-Khanids, Mongol rulers of their captured Arabian lands, weren’t too keen on writing down things that didn’t involve the glory of the Mongol empire. What can be gleaned from the entire TWO historical documents concerning the event, was a massive shockwave tipped over several ships on the river, as well as toppling dozens of homes within the city. The writings from the era said that a pressure wave, described by them as “the air punched at our chests as if a forceful man ” , originating from the desert sands east of the city. I calculate the epicenter to have been 1 mile east north east of the cities’ harbor, of approximately 63 kilotons of TNT in strength, somewhat less than the destructive threshold of the atomic warhead dropped on Hiroshima by the United States during World War 2. The effects of being so close to a blast of that magnitude would have been similar to what was described by the accounts. I can consequently see why no one cared. It was not a great era of scientific curiosity. It was written off like any myriad of events during that era. The second recorded event occurred on June 30th, 1908. Centered around 5 miles South South east of Lake Cheko, in Tunguska, Russia. I’m sure you’ve heard of that one, though. What’s more commonly known as, The Tunguska Blast. Up until last month, it was easily attributed to a rogue asteroid or cometoid exploding in mid air over the deserted forest. Official estimates vary, but the explosive force rattled windows 400 miles away. It hammered the Siberian wilds with what we now know was around 2 megatons of explosive force. Speculation was, that had such an event occurred in a populated city in that era, say for instance, Paris, London, or New York City. The death toll would have numbered in hundreds of thousands. We were “lucky” though, it was a deserted location, very few people were injured. Hell it took months for a study team to even venture out into the frozen woodlands to survey the damage back then. Again, No one really cared. | 3,551 | 6 |
The moon was still out in the blue-black sky when I woke up. A kerosene stove hissed gently nearby. Drops of last night’s rain had frozen on my sleeping bag and cracked softly as I withdrew. My fingers thawed on a bowl of half-blackened soup that tasted like coal and burnt plastic. Then we left, and my headlamp blew out mercury bubbles of light against the ash and cobalt sky. I was already scraping my feet against rock and climbing up towards the tree line by the time the orange ribbons cut the sky. I watched the day rise slowly up from behind the white-tipped mountains. It was giving me something I could look back on and say I had lived. The morning, with dawn and its sharp spikes of numbing cool, and my eyes, and the whole wide world: they were all so strong just then. The cold made me burn hotter and faster and better and it made my breath curl into vanishing clouds. My feet were ready to etch the memory of me onto this mountain. The last green thing was a calm lake at the foot of a white and rocky mountain. It was the last innocent thing before the peak. We left a few things and then continued on. The trail we had followed disappeared into scree and so we followed the stream up. We stopped where the incline leveled out into a rocky bowl and filled a bottle with cold stream water. We treated it with a few drops of yellow, finger-staining iodine. I saw the small and brave flowers, yellow and pink, that sprouted timidly on the rocky ground around the river. We hiked up through snow to the sharp ridge of the bowl. All around was an algae that turned the snow crimson when stepped on. I looked back on my footprints and saw they were scarlet. I felt as if I were walking on a thin film that had been cast to disguise a sea of blood. The soles of my shoes soon became blood red and so did my pants. We all looked like murderers. The next thing that lay between the peak and us was a narrow strip of snow that marked the end of the bowl and the beginning of the peak. On one side the snow sloped sharply down into the bowl. On the other was nothing except air and then distant trees and rock and ice-blue lakes far below. We stayed towards the bowl side because the side of the ridge facing the drop was likely hollowed out by the wind and melting snow. Even then, I felt as though the snow beneath me would collapse and I would be swept out into the air. The peak was somewhere up a tower of jumbled-up rock. There was a path that led up and we followed it. The jumble narrowed in one spot and the path led to a ledge at the very edge of the rock jumble and there was a drop that would kill me if I fell. I had to cling to the rock with my feet in a six-inch-wide shelf and shuffle carefully along. I looked up as I was nearly to the end and there was a spider an inch from my hand. I do not know if it was deadly. It might have been. If I had been afraid of spiders, I would have let go in fright. The jagged rocks below me would have broken me apart. The peak came quickly after that. There was not much room, but I could sit on a rock and open the metal ammunition canister with the register in it, and sign my name and the date, and write some bad poetry next to it. But I did write something true there. I wrote I am above, on a line by itself, and that rang true. I was strung up so that all the craftwork of the earth could be seen. Cold wind blew around me and I had left my warm clothes at the lake below, but it meant nothing more to me than any of the cold winds I remembered. It was as though I had already lived through it a long time ago. The view had the clarity that comes after a rain, with the whites and greens and cold greys of the country before me both softened and sharpened at once, and the mountains and valleys fading to pale blue as they approached the pastel clouds over the horizon. I was sitting on the jagged throne of the universe, and all that was before me was mine now, mine and no one else's, because I was the only person alive, had only ever been the only person alive, and that feeling did not make me feel lonely or frightened, but instead young and filled with life that would never fade or dissipate but stay collected until the electric reservoir in my veins finally ran dry. But that day would be a long time coming. | 4,303 | 3 |
I would love to get some reviews/feedback on these two pieces, especially Clawbinder. Here are a few links: **Clawbinder**: Saira has been trained from birth for this: to battle one of the Great Ones and retrieve that precious prize. Rajani is old and clever though, and like the Great Rocs before her, she is wise to the ways of thieves. (Free) **Night Feeders**: In the old dusty town of Clarkville, the ruthless Sherriff Ritters keeps a tight hold on the townsfolk. They fear him not because of his followers, but because of the supernatural jewel he wears around his neck, and the creatures he keeps. When a stranger comes looking for one of the victims, he finds that Ritters is far more dangerous than he imagined. A supernatural western novelette. ($0. | 1,257 | 0 |
This is something I wrote. I don't know if this is how it goes on shortstories reddit, but I'd love any criticism about it. Both ways: **‘Tiger’s Stripes Strike in Strip Mall Maul.’** **On The Size of The Beast.** The tiger was huge. Perhaps the result of some kind of scientific experiment where they crossed all the huge things with things that were already big but also quite deadly enough at their current size. No one’s looked into that. The tiger was so big that the old line of “you wouldn’t want to meet him down a dark alley!”, didn’t even apply; that would have been preferable: ignorance is bliss. It was a big tiger — it is a big tiger — bigger even, now. But then it was just plain huge. And imposing. It stared at you and you lost a certain amount of control. That’s the normal human reaction and no one that ever had seen the tiger standing there, in the flesh, looking so ginormous and hungry and look at them as the answer to being ginormous and hungry could argue any different. It happens to the best of us. It happens to the worst of us. Shit happens. As it was daylight though, and not an alley, most people that saw what happened secreted a small amount of something. On The Coverage of The Beast. It’s not like it was doing anything especially, you can anthropomorphise it all you want, but mostly it was just a huge tiger standing there on its three powerful legs, which were or were not designed to the end of ripping asunder the flesh of its prey (they were very good at it anyway). When it was described in the papers the next day they used a range of adjectives. These included: Angry. Curious. Cute. Fluffy. Friendly. Huge. Hulking. Hungry. Massive. Monstrous. Orange. Powerful. Rabid (the yellow press liked this one). Stoic. Thoughtful. Tigerous. Tripod. None of these would reflect the true nature of the beast as it roamed the town, nor could they aptly suit what it actually looked like as it stood there face to face with this small woman and her dog. She was twenty-five and her name was Matilda Shortcrust according to the papers that had said so much about the tiger. She was twenty-five and stood in front of the tiger for what some papers reported as ’twenty minutes’ and was still in possession of all her limbs. **A bit of history.** The tigrous tripod of a tiger only had three legs because it had lost one of them when it was a small cute orange ball of friendly fluff. One morning it was running around the zoo chasing its siblings and exploring things and jumping on logs with all the nimble dexterity of a tiger with the correct amount of legs, the next it was lying on a surgical table with a statistically unlikely number of legs. In the wild perhaps the tiger would have gone hungry without its leg; it would be at a disadvantage when it came to chasing, catching and dismembering its prey with the powerful legs that nature or man or god or alien or prankster did or did not design. But this was not the case for two reasons: A) Our tiger — whom from hence forth we shall refer to by his given name, ‘Brian’ — did not realise he didn’t have a leg where a leg should have been and because he lived in a zoo and got fed everyday this didn’t actually impact him in the slightest. B) Our Brian was a vegetarian and was quite serious about it. Brian wasn’t a vegetarian for the normal sort of reasons people are vegetarians — Brian is not people, remember; despite his people shaped name — he didn’t give a damn about animal cruelty, despite being a member of the sort of demographic that you would have thought cared a great deal about this. He was apathetic about animal rights. He didn’t even know what rights were, let alone the relevant ones to his Phyla. Brian found meat to be unpalatable, and had never, even as a tiny orange ball of fluff, or as an older less tiny less ball-like thing, got into that whole ‘scene’. The human that fed him milk when he was a ball picked up on this quite early, and so started testing different foods with him. Potatoes covered in Nutella were an early hit, though he grew out of that rather quickly and eventually settled on a mix of potatoes, carrots, broccoli and some Muscle Power Mix to keep him developing nicely. You can argue about the merits of feeding an animal that was naturally meat-eater all these vegetables and synthetics, but what you cannot argue with is the results: Brian would never have been the hulking great three legged monstrous creature he was if he hadn’t eaten this way. Brian was the poster boy for regular exercise, eating right and taking a whole heap of muscle generating supplements. This explains why he was so massive, as you might have read; how he could be as tall as Matilda Shortcrust, who was not a short person — of above average stature — despite being of a breed of tiger which in the wild might only have come up to her waist when standing on all fours. **Mistakes were made…** Brian lost his leg due to a clerical error of the kind that happened to people in hospitals all the time. You would have thought this was less likely to happen to a tiger, but sadly the whole tiger healthcare system is modelled upon the human healthcare system (indeed, Brian was better cared for than a lot of citizens of a lot of countries; he was lucky that way… if you didn’t take the leg thing into consideration anyway) and was run by the same sort of people: fallible people. No one even realised there had been a mistake. The zookeeper that allowed Brian’s improbable escape this morning still thinks he was going to lose his leg to a debilitating and progressive form of muscle cancer. And there is a tiger inexplicably sick somewhere else. Fallible people. **Excuse me.** So this erroneously restricted animal, of overwhelmingly large portions was staring down a woman and to everyone’s great surprise this woman was staring right back at him. She wasn’t afraid, Matilda Shortcrust. People would call brave, lucky and stupid amongst other things. What few people will say though, is that she was blind. She didn’t even realise there was a tiger there. So when she said ‘Excuse me’ and asked it to get out of the way and it didn’t because it’s a tiger and it doesn’t understand manners, she got annoyed. This confused Brian. It confused the onlookers too. ‘IS SHE CRAZY!?’ someone would scream. According to the papers. She wasn’t. She was just blind and, as far as Brain thought, incredibly fearless and horrendously fast too. Brian, being a tiger which is a creature that is ornery by its nature, didn’t take kindly to being asked to move despite the fact it didn’t know what it had been asked. Being asked was enough. So he took a swipe at her with a big paw the size of a fat man’s head, ‘that’ll teach her’, he might have thought . She didn’t even flinch. Brian couldn’t believe it. Onlookers screamed. Matilda didn’t even notice. Matilda didn’t feel anything, not because she was dead and beyond feeling or because she had some weird disease that no-one had diagnosed like Brian’s opposite. She didn’t feel anything because there wasn’t anything to feel. When Brian swiped at her with the paw that was removed some years ago on the operating table under influence of bad filing, there was no much tangible consequence outside of his own brain. And as much as he believed he still had his arm and his paw the size of a fat man’s head, he didn’t. Matilda just stood there being annoyed and not staring down this confused animal with three legs. Brian didn’t understand what was going on at all anymore. He was out of his cage inexplicably and now faced with this creature who was clearly much stronger than he. And because she was still alive and oblivious and because the team that had been sent out to catch the ludicrous animal were taking their sweet time… Matilda said again, in a sterner tone, “Excuse ME!”, she even cough first. At which point Brian seemed to realise who was in charge here and how it was not actually him, so took a small step backwards. To further shame whoever was there Matilda pulled out her blind person stick and gently tapped the tigers foot, coughing again. Again, Brian stepped back, completely befuddled by this strange woman, and then moved out of her way. **The Truth Behind** And that is the true story how an escaped tiger was caught and a blind woman went shopping. Which has nothing to do with the headline. Much like reality and the news. | 8,444 | 1 |
Here is a quick story: **Him** He sat on his couch. Next to him an empty glass. He liked to call himself a writer but, his less optimistic friends called him unemployed. In that moment he found himself counting the indivual floorboards in his hardwood floor. He was waiting. Waiting was something he had become good at. Waiting for the bus, waiting for water to boil, waiting for her to call. He'd become good at waiting. She didn't call. He called himself a romantic, considered himself better for it. He was the type of person to believe he was born in wrong generation. He'd wished he was born in 1925, he figured if he had made it through the Second World War he would have done well in the fifties, sixties and didn't mind dying in the nineties. Those assumtions were made created by observations he had made from TV, movies, books and MadMen. He didn't have a voice. Not to say that he was unable to speak, but that he felt he didn't have a way to say what was on his mind. He believed in ideals and had ideas, but they were trapped in his head. In there they twirled and brewed and spawned until he felt he had to express himself. He had expressed himself a week before, he had told her that he loved her. She told him that she felt very strongly for him, but didn't love him. He had had a few beers and decided that he wanted everything from her or nothing at all. She told him it wasn't black and white. He insisted that she choose, all, or nothing. She chose nothing. The week that followed he realised how stuborn he was. So did she. It drove them apart. He didn't know yet. She did. He remembered how they met. How she had lived in the room next to him in his college residence. They met at a floor party, which is to say a party for the students on that floor, although it did take place on the floor. A few days later she introduced him to Sushi, Sake and Anime. He pretend he didn't know about Anime because he like hearing it from her. He liked the way her mouth moved when she spoke, he liked how big and bright her eyes got when she talked about something she cared about. He liked her neck when she pushed her hair back when she had a new idea, or when he poked fun at her passion. He loved her smirk when he told a bad joke. On his couch, his glass was full now, he remembered how soft her shoulders were. How small she was when he hugged her, how light she was when he picked her up, how warm she was when they touched. How far away she was now. He wanted to pick up his phone and call her. Tell her how he wanted her back. Thank her for the time she had given him, pleed for more. But, he didn't. TL;DR: I think that this defeats the purpose. | 2,701 | 1 |
There was once a little boy who lived with his grandpa because his mom and dad had gone away for a very long time. They did a very bad thing to the boy. The little boy loved his grandpa very much but he didn't know it. Grandpa knew the little boy loved him very much and he loved him back, even more than he loved himself. The little boy's favorite food was macaroni and cheese. His grandpa was very good at making macaroni and cheese and he made it every night and the boy was happy. He went to school and learned about big animals that live very far away and he loved to read. He read mystery books and funny books and comic books. He loved Superman. It was his birthday and grandpa was making him macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas, that was his favorite dinner. He put a pan of water onto the stove and the peas in the microwave. Grandpa bought the boy a new issue of Superman that the boy wanted very badly. The boy would always take the bus home because his grandpa didn't have a car. So the grandpa put the boys favorite movie into the DVD player and waited for the boy. The water started to bubble and boil over so grandpa turned the oven down and poured the macaroni in. The microwave beeped so grandpa turned it off and let the peas cool down. He drained the macaroni and stirred the cheese and mixed in the tuna and peas. The bowl was very hot so grandpa put a paper towel underneath it. He didn't want the boy to burn himself. The TV asked grandpa if he wanted to play the movie but he didn't want to because the boy was not home. Grandpa waited and waited for the little boy and the macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas wasn't hot anymore. He started to watch the movie and became very sad. Grandpa was very worried about the boy and so he got his cane and coat and walked out into the cold. He walked until he got to the boy's bus stop and it was very dark now. He did not see the boy at the bus stop and there were no cars on the road. He sat down on the bench and started to shiver and breathe faster than he should have. More snow started to fall and now grandpa almost couldn't see anything at all. The boy was not around. Grandpa couldn't cry because it was too cold. But he wanted to and he sobbed for a very long time. The boy's head hurt and he was very cold but he finally got home after a long walk. He had to take a different way because the other mean boys told him he couldn't take the bus anymore. The boy picked up the front door key and opened the door. The house was very dark like it was outside and so he turned on the light. He saw his favorite food on the table, macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas. There was a comic book on the table and his favorite was on the TV and the funny animals were there talking to each other and the boy sat and watched and called for grandpa. But grandpa was not there and the boy could not find him. He looked in the bathroom and the kitchen and his room and grandpas room but he was not there. He was hungry so he ate the macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas. He looked at the comic book and it was the new issue of Superman that the boy wanted so badly and so he read it. Grandpa wrote on the inside of how much he loved the boy and he hoped he enjoyed the comic book. The macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas was cold but it was still very good. Grandpa loved cooking for the little boy and the little loved grandpa's cooking because it made him feel comfortable and warm and he loved grandpa very much but he didn't know it. Grandpa had dropped his cane and he was feeling very cold and tired so he fell asleep. He thought about the boy and how he loved the boy very much, even more than he loved himself. And he fell asleep. A man came by and asked grandpa if he was okay but grandpa didn't answer. The boy waited and waited for grandpa and he fell asleep on the table and he heard the funny animals talking to each other and it made him feel good. Grandpa tucked him into bed and covered him up in warm blankets and he told the boy he loved him very much and he would make him macaroni and cheese tomorrow. | 4,103 | 0 |
Azaleas I was out in the garden, tending to my Azaleas. The same thing I did every single day, of every single week, of every single month. Monotony is a man’s best friend, I’ve heard it said. I walked out and looked at my prized flowers. I made my way towards the plastic watering pail and picked it up. I filled up my watering pail and trotted on over to the flower bed. The water fell from my hands, and for a moment I was a god. A rain god. But only for a moment. The water hit the eager dirt and soaked in, and those thirsty flowers began to soak up the drink that I had provided for them. I stepped back, and watched my flowers. I stepped back, and watched my children. Those flowers were my life. Those fragile things were everything to me. When I was away from them I was a mortal man, doomed to die a mortal’s death. When I was with them I was king of the gods – my will gave them life, and, if I chose it, death. They needed me. Someone needed me. Something needed me. At least, for now anyways. I walked back to the spot where I had picked up the watering pail and put it down. I started to walk towards my house, but stopped before I reached the door. I turned, and looked back at my flowers. I smiled. I stood there and smiled at my babies. I walked towards the house, and opened the door. I entered, closed the door, and took off the shoes that I was wearing. I placed them on a carpet near the door. I walked up the few steps on the half landing near the door, and turned into the kitchen. I turned on the tap and let it run for a few minutes, staring at the water cascading down. What I had done for my flowers, the tap did for me. It quenched my thirst. I reached into my cupboard and grabbed the first cup I saw. I filled it with water, and watched the cup overflow, the excess water pouring down the sides of the cup into the sink. I dumped the cup out, and refilled it. This time, I filled it only half way. I placed the cup on the counter and turned off the tap. I raised the cup to my lips, and drank. The water soothed my parched throat. I put the cup back in the cupboard, and shut the cupboard door. I checked my watch – it was five. I walked into my bedroom, and paused for a moment. What had I come in here for? I couldn’t remember. I sat down on my bed for a moment. It was silent. The silence had always unnerved me. Outside, with my Azaleas, there was noise. The wind blew, birds chirped, and crickets chirped. In this house, though, there was nothing. Nothing but silence – stark white silence. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what I went in there for. In the corner, a spool of rope that I bought on a whim lay there, collecting dust. It had lain there for almost two years. In the other corner there was a wicker chair, which my mother left me in her will the previous year. I walked out of my bedroom and walked listlessly around the house for a while. I checked my watch again – five ten. Almost no time had passed. This was part of the monotony – the in between times. Those grey moments when nothing happened in particular. They were the best parts of the monotony. I walked out of the front door and sat down on the porch. I looked down at my wrist – five twenty. Right on schedule. I sat there for a while and watched as a few people passed. Children and their parents on their way to the local park, lovers taking a summer evening stroll, bikers riding around – they were all part of my routine. I would watch, and they would let me. I sat outside until it got dark. I got up off the porch, and walked back inside. I turned the porch light on. I walked back to the bedroom and took of my shirt and my pants, and placed them in the hamper. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap. I let it run for a few moments until it was warm. I took a toothbrush from the holder and ran it under the water. I grabbed the toothpaste a applied some of it to the toothbrush. I turned off the tap, and brushed my teeth. I finished brushing my teeth and turned the tap back on to wash off the toothbrush. I placed the tooth brush back where it belonged. I turned off the tap again and walked out of the bathroom. I entered my room and went to bed. I slept. I woke up abruptly. Something was wrong. This was not part of my schedule. I looked around. I was standing in the middle of the street. I turned in a circle. Where am I? “Help!” , I yell. Then, I see it. The house is right there. I had walked outside in my sleep. I walked back towards the house and opened the door. I went to my bedroom and sat on my bed. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. The monotony had broken. I was petrified. Monotony was my life. Day in, day out – the days all blended into each other. The life I lived was a large roll of cloth, with no seams or tears. Until then, that is. I sat on my bed for an hour, confused. I didn’t know what was happening. I was alone. I fell back asleep, only to be woken up by my alarm clock. Monotony had returned. I walked into my bathroom and undressed. I turned on the shower and waited until it was the proper heat. I stepped in, shampooed my hair, washed my body, and stepped out. I wrapped a towel around myself and left the bathroom. I entered the bedroom and dressed for work. Slacks, Oxford, tie – all there. I put my socks on and went to the kitchen. I opened the fridge and took out some milk. I went to the cupboard and took out the same cup I had used for water the previous day. I poured myself a glass of milk. I put the glass to my lips and drank. I was not parched this morning, but I drank with the same speed as if I was. Monotony is anything if it is efficient. I washed the glass, and put it away. I slipped on shoes and walked outside. I went into the back yard, and picked up the green, plastic watering pail. I filled it with liquid, and walked to my flowers. I fed my young. They gobbled up what I had to give them. They were so grateful. Not a single molecule of what I so graciously gave them was wasted. They wished to appease their god by showing thanks. I put the watering pail away and walked to the front yard. I stood there for a moment and wondered what had happened the night before. I checked my watch – seven fifteen. I walked to the bus stop. People passed me, left and right. They ran, they walked, they biked. In a sea of people I was alone. I arrived at the bus stop. I checked my watch – seven thirty. When the bus arrived I got on and sat down. I stayed there until I arrived at my stop. I got up and walked off of the bus. I checked my watch – seven fifty. I walked to work. I arrived and checked in. I went to my desk and sat down. Paperwork in, paperwork out. I worked all through the day. I checked my watch – five thirty. It was time to leave. I got up and checked out. I walked back to the bus stop. The bus arrived and I got on. I sat down. I walked from the bus station back to the house. I walked into the backyard. I picked up the watering pail and fed my children. They seemed to weep at the sight of me. I gave them food, but I felt like no god this time. I felt nothing. My flowers ate what I had given them. I placed the watering pail back in its place. I walked to the door and opened it. I entered the house and walked to the bedroom. I grabbed the spool of rope. I tied it into a knot. I stood upon my mother’s wicker chair and placed the rope around my neck. I kicked the chair from beneath me. I hung until I was dead. Swinging back and forth, I found my eternal, blissful, monotony. | 7,590 | 2 |
Starring some random chick and (Note: You'll see "Selly" in there because that's what I call him on account of his username being "sellyme".) It was finally time. I walked into his house and said, "Let's get started," with a hot smile. I was quite impatient, but that was probably due to my excitement. We both walked into his room in unison and he locked the door. He seemed to be just as impatient and excited as I was, because he immediately proceeded to remove his pants. He was not wearing underwear. I shuddered with joy as I stared at his dick for the first time. He was already starting to get a boner. He then completed the picture of a naked Sebastian by removing his shirt. I followed suit by taking off my shirt and shorts to reveal my sexy hot pink bra and thong. He was already naked and ready to start, but I wanted him to admire my body and get a stronger boner, so I started to bounce my boobs around and then I slowly removed my bra. I could see he was enjoying this, so I went with the same approach for my thong. I began by rubbing my vaginal area and then I gingerly shimmied the thong down my legs. Sebastian was hard already, and I was already horny. I presumed he was too. He sat down on his bed and I casually walked towards him and his erect dick. He looked so sexy. I let my boobs bounce and my finger whisked my vagina and clitoris. We were both having tons of fun. I knelt down and began to rub his nice dick. It felt so good. I was actually on the verge of an orgasm for a second, but I quickly took control over it. I didn't want to climax already! I was now rubbing his dick faster and more intensely. I then slipped it into my mouth in an almost hesitant fashion, but I quickly became comfortable with it. I kept doing this until I felt that it was time for Sebastian to warm up my vagina. He stood up as I layed down on his bed. I was experiencing utter bliss. I never thought this day would come. Sebastian started to rub my clitoris, and trust me, I know a good clit rubber when I feel one. He was amazing. It got even better when he started to lick my clit. Unfortunately, I had to stop him, because I still didn't want to orgasm yet. Now that we'd had an oral sex warm up, it was time for the real thing. My body was ready. I got up off the bed, feeling somehow refreshed. We got into the missionary sex position on the floor. He began to rub his condom-covered dick against my pussy. Oh baby, that felt so good. It got even better when he actually inserted his dick into my vagina. He started slow, but quickly gained speed. I started to go, "Oh, oh!" as he continued. We were seriously having sex! I felt an orgasm coming on again, but this time I didn't try to stop it. I began to shake and say, "Oh Selly, keep going! Oh Selly!" And then I let it happen. The shaking got more intense and I felt an overwhelming sense of joy, bliss, and pure happiness. Sebastian was also shaking and saying, "Oh baby, I love you." During my orgasm, I felt his condom expand. He had cummed! It was so sexy. Slowly, I stopped orgasming, and he stopped thrusting his dick back and forth. Both of us were still faintly saying, "Oh..." He rolled off of me, stood up, and flopped onto his bed. I gladly joined him. I grabbed his head and started kissing him all over his face. He grabbed my head too and kissed my lips. His hair felt so soft in my hands, and the kiss made everything even better. I almost felt like orgasming again. We kept messily kissing each other, but then we slowly faded from each other's grip. After that, we simply engaged in a relaxing, full body hug. Eventually, we fell back onto our backs. Sebastian dazily said, "I love you," and I replied with, "I love you too," with the same dazed yet strong voice. Sebastian proceeded to say, "We need to do this again soon," and I agreed by saying, "Oh yeah baby. You're amazing." It was the best day of my life. <3 WORST STORY EVER KILL ME NOW. | 3,982 | 2 |
The first thing I remembered was finding myself in a mist-ridden marsh just around nightfall. It was not the first time I've been there. It seems as if I'm returning to that place due to unlucky circumstances which lead me no other choice but to accept my fate and find a place to stay for the night, however much I want to do the exact opposite: run as far away as I can back into the civilised, for there is something unknown, some peculiar feeling that makes me feel unwanted and a burden to that place. Yet, fate has dropped me off here once again. How will I go about it this time? I know of some of the traditions and uses the locals have here. For instance, there is a town's hall where the men meet at Sunday to discuss important matters. Only a selection of men is allowed in there, as the outsiders dare not interfere with the local matters. Me being an outsider I was tempted to do just that. An old man with a bleak face blocked me the way murmuring in some distant language probably not yet known by the men of yesterday, or already forgotten by the men of now. I can never access the secrets that lie within, the very information that can keep me out of this eerie place. A place which doesn't want me there yet is appointed by fate to keep me there for periods of time it rather remained hidden and unknown to me. The first time I remember visiting this place was after a car I was sitting in broke down. I don't remember who was accompanying me at the time, needless to say I didn't see those people again. When we found the first house we could, we asked to stay there. I am the only person I remember seeing after that time. The people who lived there took me in, but there was no sincerity, no intention to it. It was as if they were obliged by higher rules or morals to do the same thing that had happened to them, making them sufferers of the same grey fate as the rest of this secretive community. I become more and more accustomed being there every time, though I tend to forget the roads and where they all lead to. The sky is an everlasting dark grey, as if the storm never passes, just hangs there to pour down the tentative misery all people are overcome. They still do not give up and continue with their daily life, forgotten of the fact that there is a different world out there, or am I the only one who really dares to dream of a different setting and is that the reason I am not taken seriously by anyone residing there? How DID I end up here? Why were we driving this way into despair as if no other better routes were open in the first place? The more I seem to wind up there, the more I seem to understand the functioning of it all, though there is no distinction to be made of what is there and what really isn't. As interchangeable as it is, itis not a certain designated village; more a living being feeding off of the not yet corrupted vicinity on the one hand and leaving places to change to something else again on the other. A cloud not big enough to hide away all the sunlight. It is what a Medieval village would look like in its contemporary setting with all the fears and unvertainties of life still present as if technology had not added to the welfare of these people. They were having none of it. It was as alien to them as the place was to me. A clash of ideology and sanity with no arbitrator watching if the rules be applied. Somehow I managed to find my way out of there finding a deserted busstop amongst tall grass and trees. The darkness of it all did not add to my understanding of it, but there was something that reminded me of modern society, something which is very well known to me and where I can live as a regular person instead of being directed by the commune's wishes. Time had passed very swiftly, though as irrelevant as their language or theiri habits, it did not directly affect me. The existence of it was meaningless from the perspective I was in. Taking the bus I realized. I didn't want to leave this, I had to find out the reason I was being dragged to that shithole over and over again. What a foolish remark to make though. I know I'll end up there tomorrow again. | 4,152 | 2 |
*Events began to move faster as the Demon of If drew its web in tighter. When it moved the world shuddered and time folded back. Somewhere on Route d’abbaye Jason Magwier was fighting for his life. Further to the north Judy Bauer was trying and failing to escape the magics keeping her from getting home. Zeth was helping Lorelei with a little breaking and entering. And Jack Diamond was in the back seat of his Cadillac cursing wildly.* * “Mother-fucking shit-sucking yellow trash!” Jack Diamond was literally stomping his feet in frustration. His hand tightened around the red phial in his hand. How could he have made such a stupid mistake? Ever since the thought of going to the Sallow Sultan occurred to him he had barely been able to think of anything else. It became an obsession, a craving. He began to feel like if he didn’t get to Route d’abbaye he would go mad. When it became too much to bear Jack Diamond had burst out of his office, interrupted Wu-Han in mid-thrust, shoved the phial in his pocket and ushered him out the door. “Fuck fuck fuck!” Jack Diamond shouted. He punched the ceiling of the Cadillac crushing the overhead light, “The wrong phial! I gave him the wrong tit swallowing phial!” He couldn’t believe it. He had shoved the gold phial of coke into Wu-Han’s pocket as he shoved him out the door. That phial was Jack Diamond’s ‘trail mix’ of cocaine, diamond shavings and the cremains of virgin Outlanders. “Of all the dipshit luck!” Unable to contain himself Jack Diamond pulled out his Desert Eagle and smashed the passenger side window with the gun barrel. Glass flew everywhere. That trail mix had been a special order! It had taken weeks for delivery and he knew, just knew, that Wu-Han was most likely snorting the precious stuff up like it was nothing more than cheap street corner blow. And all that left Jack with was a Demon of If in a cheap glass phial. It was just a worthless imp of coincidence. The little spirits were like karmic piranha, only dangerous in large numbers. “And what the fuck did he want this for? Why did he bring this corpse shitting nonsense to me? Who the fuck does he think he is? Who the fuck does he think I am? Fuckiddy fuck fuck fuck!” Once the cursing and property damage died down the Cadillac’s chauffeur Bascomb spoke up. “Begging your pardon sir, but if you’ve lost something I can turn back.” Jack Diamond jammed the business end of the Desert Eagle into the back of the man’s head, “You shut the Hell up! I’ll tell you where I want to go. Take me to Route d’abbaye. Get me there now!” That done Jack Diamond re-holstered his weapon and tried to calm down. Night was falling and the streetlights of Olathoe were lighting up one by one. The car passed by the Spire and, after pausing to let a gaggle of pedestrians pass, turned right. The thought of giving pedestrians the right of way made Jack Diamond angry all over again. What was the point of having a car with a re-enforced chassis if you didn’t use it to clip some moron on the crosswalk once in a while? There was no doubt about it, he was going to have to get his chauffeur lobotomized, it just made things so much easier. *Hell,* Jack Diamond thought, *Half this world needs a lobotomy.* When Jack Diamond had been a boy, living in the Louisiana swamps with his mother and fathers, he had dreamed of growing up to have prestige, power and a donkey sized dick. Now he had all that and he was miserable. And why? Other people, that was why. Jack spent his every half-sober hour playing politics and taking orders from people that he had to accept as his superiors. In another time, a better time, Wu-Han would be the one getting buggered by Jack’s secretary. Two thousand years ago when the Lunt family name was still Veneficus he could have had Jason Magwier crucified and burned. Better yet, he could have kept Lorelei Miller, Judy Bauer and Audra DiMico as slaves and oh the things he would make them do. In the seventeenth century kings and queens would have stepped aside to let him pass. “Fuck that. I’d be the king,” Jack smiled, whispering to himself, “No better yet I’d be just like Louie of fuckin’ France. The Star Lord!” “Sun King,” Bascomb said. “What?” “The ruler of France, they called him the Sun King.” “Oh,” And with that Jack Diamond's rage went from temper tantrums to quiet eye-twitching fury. He choked back the urge to shoot his chauffeur dead. Partly because the man was still driving and mostly because the Kuen-Yuin paid for his chauffeurs and if he killed another one it might cost him a promotion. Minutes later the Cadillac slowed to a stop in front of a three level brownstone that had been painted a sickly shade of yellow. Jack Diamond smiled a little, the girls that worked here wore clothes and masks made of rubbery plastic, the kind that absorbed stains and hid bruises. He had called ahead and the grouchy pimp that ran the place, Mustard, was standing by the front door. Jack Diamond liked the semi-syphilitic old bastard, but he liked the discounts the man gave him even more. Once he was out of the Cadillac Jack Diamond realized that the red phial was still in his hand. He thought to throw it like the garbage it was but the sudden urge to keep it won out. He slipped it into the pocket of his seersucker suit and headed up the steps of the Sallow Sultan. | 5,698 | 1 |
“Good job, Katy! One gold star for you. You can use it to get something in the Learning and Motivation store.” Dr. Biff Skinner, my psychology professor. He’s pretty funny and makes the class experience enjoyable, even when the material is boring and dry. He’s one of my favorite professors, but he’s the only one that I want to fuck. And I have a plan. I went to his office later that day. His door was open and he was on his computer. I stood and watched him for a few seconds before I knocked. He looked up, smiled, and welcomed me in. I walked in and shut the door behind me. He looked a little surprised that the door was shut, but didn’t say anything about it. “What can I do for you, Katy?” Dr. Skinner said. “I’d like to redeem my gold star, Dr. Skinner.” I said with a grin. “Let me guess, you want an ‘A’ on your next exam?” he replied jokingly. With as much courage as I could muster, I replied, “No. What I want is for you to bend me over your desk and fuck me from behind.” He seemed a bit startled, but quickly recovered and said with a devious smile on his face, “Well now, you’ll need more than one gold star in order to get that.” “And just what would I have to do to earn enough gold stars?” He stood up from behind his desk, looked me in the eyes, and unzipped his pants. “This would be a start.” I walked over to him, got down on my knees, and took his cock out of his pants. I started licking up, down, and all around his cock and balls, allowing the tip to go in my mouth every few licks. When his cock was covered in my saliva, I slid him all the way into my mouth, letting my tongue play with the underside of his cock as he was thrusting in and out. My hands went to his balls, massaging them and rubbing his taint while he was thrusting and moaning. His hands were bunched in my hair, guiding his cock into my mouth. He was moaning that he was cumming, so I sucked harder. He shot his load into my mouth and it slid down my throat. I swallowed it all, stood up, wiped my mouth, and asked him with a wink, “Did that earn me enough gold stars?” “Oh God, did it ever!” He replied breathlessly. He pushed me over his desk, pulling my shirt off in the process. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so I was naked from the waist up. He pulled my panties down in one fell swoop, pushed my skirt up, and thrust into me hard. I moaned so loud I was sure someone would hear me. He thrust into me harder, holding my waist to keep me steady. It only took five more thrusts and I was gone. I came so hard that I shivered. He came again seconds later. I lay breathing hard on his desk for a few seconds, trying to catch my breath. When I got up, he looked at me and whispered with a smile on his face, “Good job. One gold star.” I put my shirt back on, pulled my skirt down, leaving my panties on the floor of his office as a little remembrance for him. I winked at him, opened his office door, and walked out with his cum running down my legs. As I passed the student aid, she openly stared at me, so I knew that she had heard at least part of what happened in there. I put my finger up to my mouth to tell her to keep quiet and walked out of the building. I can’t wait to earn some more gold stars. | 3,398 | 6 |
Dear Employer; In the interview for this position I said I didn’t care about money. Money is not as important as experience and growth. Gainful employment is nowhere near meaningful employment. It is with this that after a lot of deliberation, counseling, youthful abandon and reveries of adventure I’ve decided to give my formal notification that I am resigning from {Company X} as a Software Analyst. I am willing to work two business weeks further to help make sure everything is in order before I go. For {Company X} I was willing to drink the punch. I was willing to make sacrifices for the company. The tasteless metaphor for cultic suicide pushed on us by leadership was something I was willing to look past. Ultimately though, when it came down to it, punch was not served and for some reason I was left disappointed. This company has made promises but has not delivered. We’ve been led along with a carrot on a stick. Whether through indirect lies surrounding corporate bonuses, lottery sized stock options or fantastical tropical holiday packages. This is a prevalent theme throughout my entire time with company and it speaks directly to poor leadership. Offer something real, something tangible and then show it don’t just talk about it. In terms of our day to day with clients we’ve been far too reactionary and not responsive. We’re less about providing something meaningful, something with real value and more about satisfying the noise. The whole industry seems more about “flashy marketing facades of perceived value” than real value. It with this that I came to the conclusion that our product isn’t {business solutions}. Our product is sales. This isn’t something I can get behind. This isn’t something I can believe in. Despite corporate folly and the disillusioning mantras I love the people I work with. Each and everyone here is awesome and I’m lucky to have had an opportunity to work here. My favorite time of year is during peer reviews. Being able to write extensively about the strengths and the actions people here have made on the periphery to make a difference. That being said, it really bothered me to see people not being recognized for the work they’re doing. At one point our most talented and innovative junior programmer was relegated to creative arrest by corporate policy. “That isn’t your job” and “You’re not even a real programmer” could be heard ringing through the halls. A lack of insight let him go and now we’re stuck with dead code. Incredible potential products left to rot essentially. All his close friends here were left damaged at his mistreatment. This is just one example but there are lots of others. Considering work is a place to spend a third of each weekday. Hours afterwards musing over at home. Something that permeates my hopes and dreams. I’d rather be somewhere other than here. Anywhere else in fact. If I can suggest anything to help this company it would be that every leader here spend a day or two working with client services taking tech support calls from the elderly, doing chat support for a group of brides to be, testing a survey with over a dozen pre-launch revisions, or try managing a project with one of {Sales Person #3547}'s clients (that’s a joke.. her clients are mostly alright). See what we’re really providing our clients. I still believe this company is awesome and has potential to do very well in the market. For me personally I need to move onto other opportunities and adventures. Feeling depressed and trapped is not something I'd wish on my worst enemy so I don't know why I willed it onto myself for so long. Thank you so much for everything. | 3,693 | 1 |
Just a man with his thoughts. Should I drink? No. Should I smoke? No. But at the end of the day it’s who I am. It’s as short walk, one I have made more times than I can count, but in my mind the steps seem infinite. Where did I go wrong? So much potential they said. So much promise they said; and honestly it’s so much easier to sit on the other side of the table and judge than to experience the true gravity of it all. To sling unjust judgment towards this life, a future that is currently being written and all the while already wrote. I see those flashing lights, I see them night in and night out guiding me home with no true direction. I know where the perceived home is, I know where my lover sleeps, but it is not home. Home only exists in an idea, a place where I once was but will never find again. I stop by the local pub and shoot the same arduous shit I always do. Sports. Politics. Economy. Pseudo intellectual bullshit that happens with a frequency that i could likely have both sides of it with myself. I need to stop coming here, never again, never more. “Quoth the raven never more.” I smirk, a smile I can only feel knowing that the pedantic idiocy of the yokels know not of this reference and it falls on ill-bred ears. I stand superior to the masses in my mind; their self perceived god ruling an empire of ignorance. I step back into the cold, longing for the brothers that once stood with me years ago. We may talk, we may lament, we may feel. Feel something that once was and will never be again. We have changed. Not necessarily to the people we should be, but to the people we now are. And yet I walk. Walk home to a love out of convenience. A love that happened at the right place at the right time. Not that childish love of youth, the truest kind love that will only exist in a flash, a blink of time only to be perused and never obtained. No this is a different love, one out of a mutual comfort, a comfort of not having to die alone. I burn another one, my only solace in the desolate wasteland that I have chosen. I stand as man who has forsaken my family, forsaken all those who have judge me [those who could judge me.] I will never be their man. I will never be the coattails upon which they hoped to ride. My parents will die old and alone as I cannot give the life they strived for me to feed them. I am cold. Cold with the realization that I am destined to be among the desolate; I fucking hate the cold. I remember, as I will never forget, the times that I saw life on the silver platter. The times that my family gifted an existence that I could have obtained but never wanted. I will embrace the darkness. I will live the heart ache as if it was written to be mine and mine alone. My own selfishness feelings are the crushing weight of the infinite as though it is the only love I have ever known. I arrive “home.” One. Two. Three. Four. I know what waits for me on the other side of this lead laden door. A woman who desires only my embrace, but at the same time stands on the edge of the travesty that is our existence, fully accepting the misery I have brought upon her. I light up number three…or is it number four…who gives a shit. I would rather die at 30 than live to see myself broken down to nothing. I quietly open the door. The comforting smell of familiarity makes me sick. I hate my comfort, I hate my strife, I hate the obligatory relief I am expected to feel in this dump. I brush off the snow, climb the steps to my every day. It is so set in stone. Fifteen steps towards the love of my life. I chuckle whilst I brush my teeth. Love. What a childish idea that was crushed long ago. Smashed upon the rocks of reality. I pet the dog, I lock the door, I embrace suburbia with the heartache of a man that was destined for more. I could have embraced the shallow 9-5 and all the predetermined dialogue that lies within. I curl up next to the physical embodiment of our failures. “Tomorrow,” I say, “tomorrow it will be different.” Knowing full well in my heart that tomorrow I will feel the biting cold once again. I find solace in the trivial; solace in the fact that today is but a few brief hours from tomorrow. The day that holds nothing but possibilities but offers the same cold, hopeless walk. I drift off into slumber hoping for better days, all the while with the knowledge that what has been written has been, and always will be written in stone. “Tomorrow,” I say, “that is the day that I will finally come to fruition. | 4,488 | 2 |
as i was walking down the road i heard the squeal of tires stopping, then the noise of a van door sliding open. hands came out and grabbed for me viciously. instantly a bag went over my head. before my heart could start to race with andrealine going throught it i was knocked unconcious. when i came to i was in an empty room. no furniture, just tan walls, hard wood floors, a window, and a door. my hands were bound behind my back and my feet were tied together. the door burst open with a thunderous boom. a balding man with a scraggly beard came into view. i tried to move o a corner but he closed in and grabbed the collar of my shirt. it started with a punch to the face. as he kept hitting me he grew more angry and fierce. eventually he stopped, and just left with out a word. i noticed the window was open.i wiggled over and weasled my way out. i didnt know what floor i was on or what was waiting for me on the ground. i some hoe untied my legs and just started running. my face battered and bruised and bloodied to a point beyond recognition. a couple yards down the road there was a wal-mart. i ran to it, in hopes my kidnapper would never find me again. as i was walking through the store begginf people untie my hands or call the police, i realised no one was paying attention to me. it was like i was a ghost. then this sinking feeling hit me. i could sense his presence. i finally understood how an antelope felt when it was being stalked by a cheetah. not knowing where to go or what to do i ran. to where i dont know. i just ran. i saw one of my friends. i ran over to him. thank god he could see me. he untied my hands and asked "what happened?" i replied "i dont knowbut i got to get out of here." i ran and hid in a pile of clothes that needed to be hung up. then i woke up. happy it was over i went back to bed. | 1,833 | 1 |
Warm ginger ale and a cold body. Good times. The day started out relatively normal. Alarm went off at five am. Punched the snooze button. Broke the fourth alarm clock this week. Slept in until eight. Woke up for real, looked at the bashed clock, looked at my watch, let loose a string of choice words. Tried to shave and put on pants at the same time. Got caught and nicked my ear. Opened my fridge, no food; only a sock. What the hell? Normally, I woulda got in my car, broken three speed limits on my way to the local deli, and gotten a sandwich. Instead, I got in my car, looked over to my passenger seat, threw up, and stumbled out of my car, now rancid with the smell of upchucked Pad Thai from last night, and a dead body. My first call to 911 ever happened that day as well. I had to call in a fire. I went to work like normal that day, except my commute involved a bike and a pissed off crossing guard. I was looking forward to spending an entire day of lying through my teeth to make sure some sorry bastard got twenty-five years instead of forty in the state penitentiary. Of course, it’s a little hard to make witnesses sweat when you keep thinking about the clean up job you’ll have to do on your car. I guess I won that day. Of course, society lost fifteen years of not having deal with some sociopath arsonist. I think his name was Noah. Heh. I wasn’t looking forward to going to my house that day. Can’t imagine why. Regardless, I stopped by the local grocery store to pick up some melons. She slapped me and stormed off, but at least I killed some time. The distinct smell of freshly cut grass hit my nose as I biked down a residential street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shirtless man on his rider lawnmower. And this is supposed to be a residential area. I suppose his glistening d-cups were the ultimate sign of laziness. Sickening. After mentally flipping off Mr. Landscaper-Gone-Wild, I decided to stop by an old friend’s house. Jack and I go way back. Mr. Daniels has always been halfway decent to me, always cheering me up and getting me some great stories to tell his other patrons. I’d have had a great conversation with him too, but his doorman insisted I pay my tab. So much for boozing up. As I lit the torch, I sipped on the only drink I managed to get off the guy. I set my ginger ale aside, and watched as the first glimmers of the fire began to pop. I stood back, and savored the yells and smoke. Bellua would be pleased. I smirked as my fingers flew to pocket, pulled out my crap phone, and dialed 911. I breathed in, and reported the fire in the most civilian way I could. After getting to my house, I downed the rest of the drink. I’m sure the bartender wasn’t worried about the glass. I donned my latex gloves and surgical mask, and slowly pulled on the body’s arm. It came off. Dammit Bellua. I thought better of my initial plan, threw the arm back into the car, and shoved the body’s head down. I got into the driver’s seat. Bad idea. I got back out, got reacquainted with my lunch from that afternoon, and covered my nose with a section of fabric. The drive to the bog was one of the most refreshing drives I’d ever had. I began conversing with the body. It’s nice to have someone to listen, even if that someone was turning a nasty shade of green. I’m sure it wasn’t because of my story though. As I dumped the body, I noticed a perfectly square piece of skin missing from the back of the body’s head. Bellua’s rituals always creep me out. I stopped myself from befouling the interior of my car any further, and drove back to my house. After a long day’s work, I was ready to turn in. But I have work to do. I popped open the secret compartment of my car’s trunk, I reminisced about the first time I met Bellua. I used to be a mess, but Bellua gave me a purpose. Clean up his dirty work, and in return he would do the same for me. In exchange for getting stacks of green for reducing felons’ sentences, Bellua required that I dispose of his victims. What Bellua didn’t know at the time was that I’m more fucked up than he is. Bellua has a warped sense of justice. He thinks that by killing off the corrupt government officials, he can fix the system. I don’t give a shit about the system. I just wanna see it burn. That’s why I’ll play along with Bellua, until I have the resources to pull off my master plan. I was running low on accelerant. I took comfort in the fact that Bellua still hadn’t discovered my tools, but it was curious how I blew through a month’s worth is a week. No, I realized, it’s me. My fires are getting bigger. | 4,814 | 2 |
My scalpel sliced neatly through, completing the first incision. As I gently lifted the flap of skin back, I admired the fragility and solidity of the skull. How could something so dull possibly reveal the beautiful secrets of the organ it housed? I stood aside as the secondary surgeon drilled through the skull. “Which hemisphere did you say I was supposed to remove?” I joked. One of the interns laughed too hard. Ass kisser. “The hemispherectomy went well enough,” I told the parents. “If all goes well, little Tyler should be able to walk and talk a little in about a week.” The look of joy on the parents’ faces should have warmed my heart. Any other surgeon would have succumbed and allowed themselves a grin. I know how I’m supposed to act, and so I feigned a smile, then turned and returned to my office. I reviewed the logs and tape from the surgery, before packing it up and handing it to an intern to give to the dean. As I drove home, I wondered if Noah had received the body. I thought back to when I first met Noah. The psycho had been at a bar, where I had only gone to have one drink before going home. He had started ranting about how he was going to burn the entire world down one day. The bartender then made the biggest mistake a bartender can make, and cut the poor bastard off. Noah then had started to bawl his eyes out, and started apologizing to thin air. Something about “why’d I help ‘em?” The bartender said he was going to call a taxi, but Noah had mumbled something about not having any cash. Before the bartender said anything else, I volunteered to take him home. That sentence seemed to aggravate Noah even more. “Fuck homes!” he had yelled. I asked him whether he had a place to stay. “Yeah, but that shithole’ll never be a fucking home” he growled. “Does this shithole have an address?” I remember saying. Over the course of the following week, Noah and I became closer. “So Doc,” he would say, “I got this fucking twinge in my neck, ya think ya could check it out?” I would gently remind his that I was a neurosurgeon. I discovered Noah’s “little secret” two weeks after the night in the bar. Noah had come to the hospital with a broken arm, and it was my day for clinic rounds. I remember sitting awkwardly in the room with Noah for a minute before Noah chuckled and said, “That file probably has it all in there right?” Seeing the confused look on my face, he said, “Why don’t I just tell ya, I’d rather ya hear it from me.” He then proceeded to tell me everything. About how he posed as a lawyer to seem normal, but how he was actually a murderer and an arsonist And about how he spent all his money on booze and accelerant. “Well actually, Bellua’s the murderer, I just burn shit,” he clarified. I had no idea who this “Bellua” was, but I didn’t care anymore. This was just too messed up. Yes, technically I’m a murderer, but not to this psycho’s extent. I’ve only ever killed for other people’s benefit. There was the time I prescribed a double dosage of Luvox to a patient who I knew had been skimming money from the school district, and that other time when I had tampered with the drill before surgery to kill a corrupt judge on the table; but these had all been for the good of society. I didn’t tell Noah any of this, I simply pretended he was joking, although I knew he wasn’t, and proceeded to call a nurse in to set his arm. Later, I called Noah and told him how I was a murderer too. I realized Noah had provided a golden opportunity to kill and not risk being caught at work. I proposed that I kill, and Noah dispose of the body’s. Noah agreed, and said that whenever I kill something, I should bring it to his house, and leave it somewhere no one else would see it, he would find it. This had been my first kill I was going to share with Noah. I had sliced a corrupt policeman across the throat, and let him bleed out on Noah lawn. Then, I covered the body with a hot tub cover, and left. | 4,090 | 3 |
The last two days had been very strange for me. I killed a man on a psycho’s lawn, and the next day, the psycho came into my office and asked if I would like to eat lunch with him. He seemed to be acting perfectly normal. I noticed his speech pattern had changed as well. He wasn’t saying “ya” or swearing anymore. Something was off. Or maybe Noah had just realized how messed what we had done was. I put it out of my mind, and started to enjoy myself. Noah was actually very intelligent and funny. He must have been intelligent from the start, I concluded, he is a lawyer after all. He was probably just drunk for the last week. I chuckled at the thought. We finished up our lunch, and headed out to my car. Noah said he had left his phone at my office, so I offered to take him there before I took him home. He thanked me in an uncharacteristically gratuitous way. However, I didn’t sense anything was amiss, and we got in. Big mistake. The minute I got in the car, Noah pulled out what looked like an ingot, and bashed me across the head with it. I woke up in a small, cramped room that I recognized as the interior of Noah’s shed. “Took you long enough,” said Noah in a cold voice. “What the fuck?” I demanded. “I can’t have another murderer taking advantage of Noah, now can I,” he said in that cold voice, “No, I’m going to have to kill you I suppose.” “What? No! Noah, you don’t have to do this. I’m not going to tell anybody, you can let me go.” I knew he wasn’t going to. “Noah’s not here right now. If you’d like to leave a message, please don’t. I screen his calls.” Noah had finally snapped. The bastard was crazy. I tried to reason with him, “C’mon Noah. You know you don’t have to do this!” “I TOLD YOU I’M NOT NOAH!” “If you’re not Noah, who are you then?” “BELLUA.” No. It couldn’t be. Noah had talked about Bellua so much, but always acted as Bellua was a friend or something. I finally put the pieces together. “Yes, I can see the truth has finally dawned on you,” Noah/Bellua drawled, “Frankly, I don’t see how an idiot like you became a neurosurgeon. Let me explain it to you. I’m the original Noah. The Noah you know is simply a second personality of mine. Noah was born after I was caught in an explosion. That’s why he is so fixated on fire. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember, but now that I have the Other Noah, it is so much easier for me to cleanse this disgusting society. The Other Noah agrees. He doesn’t have my capacity, so he uses fire as his tool. It’s crude but it works. Why, just recently he managed to rid society of a bartender who was a serial rapist. I’m much more dedicated however. I take out the real sickos. Like you. And Other Noah will dispose of your body. You pretend to kill only bad people, but what about the little girl who you kidnapped and did unspeakable things to? What about the man you decapitated for fun? ANSWER ME? Why’d did you do it? Did you have any reason? NO! I may be a monster, but I know that! People like you, who pretend to be infallible, make me sick!” My cheeks were so cold. I couldn’t believe it. How did he know all this? I knew I was going to die. I began to say an Our Father. “YES. This reaction. I love it!” Noah/Bellua bellowed, “The ‘prayer,’ as if pretending to repent to an entity you’ve never believed in will make it all better. Using religion as a fair-weather friendship with God, I love it! But why bother praying to God now? I control your life now: I am your God. Pray to me!” I said nothing. Noah/Bellua began to pace, muttering something under his breath. “What?” I said. “Squares!” He murmured a little louder, I realized what he was doing: getting ready to kill me. Finally, I closed my eyes, went limp, and gave up. But he wouldn’t let me do that. He yanked up into a sitting position forcefully, and suddenly I felt metal being pressed down, then a sharp pain in the back of my neck. He wouldn’t stop. It felt like he was cutting something out. When he finished, he showed me what he had done. The square piece of my skin he had cut out was dripping with my blood. “And now, I must bid you adieu,” Noah/Bellua whispered into my ear. And all was dark. | 4,172 | 3 |
"I'm stressed," he finally exclaimed, slicing through the silent air that threatened to suffocate him. Ther room was adorned with plain, unpainted walls and occupied only by a television, a video game system which sat on standby, a bed, a dresser, and two teenage boys. They carried all the self-assurance that two scrawny sixteen-year-olds could muster. One, he who had spoken, bespectacled and mop-headed, fell onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the elliptical orbit of the ceiling fan blades ad infinitum. "I've got too much work." He said out loud, looking at nothing and yet seeming to notice everything. "It's not like I can't keep up with it all. That's not what's wrong. I just--I have no time, anymore. I wake up late. I rush to get ready for school. I relax for five minutes and eat breakfast. I'm dragged through my school day because of this stupid seven-period schedule. Then I get out, help you with your math work, go home, get my three hours of computer time--sometimes I get a chance to mess around, sometimes I don't even finish all my assignments--oh, and I haven't even mentioned the stress from virtual school--then I study until I pass out from exhaustion and the cycle begins again." The other boy, a quiet, short curly-haired lad with forlorn eyes, looked over at his friend. "I think a lot of students deal with that kind of stuff. The good ones, anyway. And you've got straight A's, right? So what's the problem?" The bespectacled boy rose to sit on the edge of the bed such that he could make eye contact with the other one. "It's not like I don't understand a B is good--you're a B student and you do pretty well--but, I mean, I'm a good student. B's are like failing to me. I've got college to think about, soon, and I'll never get in with the GPA I have right now. It's a three point two. A three point two! All because of that crap I had to deal with in middle school that ended up getting me stuck taking all virtual classes freshman year. And now I have to do all this just to get into a decent college. On top of that, I barely know what I want to do when I'm growing up. This... this is it, pal. We're almost out and we need to make the best of the time we have left." "We've got time," the other reminded him, breaking eye contact and glancing at the enticing patterns in the carpet. "Not enough! They always tell you every year that this is the most important school year if you want to get anywhere. You need to finish school with a twelve point oh and then graduate from a top college and get a high-paying job in order to be happy and if you misstep once you're utterly screwed!" The boy's voice had transformed from bitter mockery to flooding desperation. He fell back and a loud thud accompanied his descent as his head crashed into the wall behind him. "You okay?" the other boy asked in reaction to the noise. "Fine," he answered through clenched teeth, making no attempt to hide his teary eyes. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. The two sat there observing their respective mediums--the bespectacled boy the ceiling and the quiet boy the carpet. Finally, after a few moments, they both opened their mouths at the same time and a garbled combination of syllables escaped. "What was that?" the quiet one asked. "Just more of the same," the stressed one answered. "Yours?" After a few more moments of expectant emptiness, words began to fill the void. "I knew this kid in middle school--a prodigy, a genius. They all said he was as smart as Einstein, or... something. The mistake he made was," he paused, pensive, for a moment, "forgetting to be a kid. He was so focused on the future and getting good grades that he let it become his life. All the other kids at the school would always bully him and he didn't really have any friends except for himself. He was so focused on his work all the time that he forgot. He forgot to live life and just relax once in a while. He was in my gym class. He always came in every day and had some excuse note signed by his parents--he always had a sore throat or a bad cold or something. And the teacher would just wave him over to the sidelines and he would sit on the bench all class, playing his Game Boy or doing homework. I remember this one day he did bad on a test or something--I think that was it, he got a C--and his parents exploded on him. They wouldn't let him out of the house for a few days and he had a lot of work to make up when he finally came back to school." There was a pause in the story. The bespectacled boy's mind was whirring, trying to assimilate the tale into his own situation. Then the other child continued. "I guess the stress was just too much for him. One day, while his parents were out, he went into his mom's room. I guess he knew just where to look. He removed the shoe box from under the bed and he pulled out a gun and he killed himself." The silence, this time, was dreadful. "He got a small article in the paper. They never made an announcement at school or anything. They never even mentioned his name in the obituary, I think." The fan blades, their centrifuge slightly askew, and the cranking of the gears in the boys' minds reverberated throughout the room. "What was his name?" The quiet boy looked up as the question pierced his eardrum, seeming to have not expected that. He struggled to pull a name from his memory but finally responded dismally. "I... can't remember." The other boy nodded. The silence, returning, enveloped them, caressed them. "What do you think happens when you die?" the quiet one inquired, finally, his eyes directed at the wall, staring through them into the realms beyond. "I don't really know. I don't think we, as humans, are meant to know something like that. What about you?" He sat in trance for a moment. Finally, he spoke. "I think... I think, whether you were shot in the heart with a pistol, or poisoned by an enemy, or--or offed by old age, when they mention your name and nobody can remember you--your face, your voice, your words, your actions--that... is when you are truly dead." "What if you remember his actions but not his name?" "Screw you. | 6,175 | 1 |
-An Introduction- We set out at around five pm. It was a Saturday. We drifted out with no general direction, no destination to cap off what was sure to be, as Darren often stated, “one hell of a road trip, bitch!” In those early days we contemplated the “great western gap”, (“Great Western Vag”, Yaemon often quoted when bored), otherwise known as Grand Canyon. Hell, it looked cool in Into The Wild (2007), and some stuntdriver hopped it back in the 90’s or something. And Thelma n Louise (1991) had their famous lesbo burn out there as well, (earning many brownie points with Meg n Margaret, who where known to sometimes dabble in a little sumin summin every now and then, a secret burden they would keep to their grave.) Somewhere in New Mexico we inevitably fell astray of our possible destination, instead winding up at the chicken restaurant featured in Breaking Bad(2008-2012), and making fools of ourselves by going on a 15 minute photo spree, re-enacting bits of the show for all to see, uploaded to all the facebooks and twitters of the world, as if in defiance, boldly stating “WE ARE GRADUATES AND WE’RE STILL RELEVANT!, MOTHERFUCKERS!”. In retrospect it was a foolish, good ol’ reddit style meta-circle-jerk, living in the flesh; Internet meme mythos consolidated in the subconscious mind of the Millennial’s of the world, and asserting itself on some primordial level in the modern world. Yeamon Milo (23) Was definitely Pedobear. A closet creeper that hid behind the mask of stupidity to consummate his horrific fantasies, but we didn’t catch on until it was too late. I guess you could argue he turned into Insanity Wolf towards the end there, a real fucking monster, but more on that later. Darren Wolodarsky (19) was a definite Conspiracy Keanu. Always smelling of reefer and speaking in hushed, harsh tones in public. Only in the seclusion of hot boxed garages and smoked out pads of middle America suburbia, safe haven of the “lazy stoners”, did he reveal his true knack of comedic timing and brilliant wordplay he’d learned specifically to perform to this small, private audience. I guess you could call him a bit of a Jekyll n Hyde of Socially Awkward/Awesome penguin, of meme fame. Pancho “Peter” Vasquez (21) was a Good Guy Greg for sure, blunt and all. Always a pleasant person to be around, he saved our asses back during the Great Drug Scare of ’12, something we never really were able to pay him back for before it all came crashing down. A smart theologian who always questioned what exactly spirituality meant to him. A most honest man. Meg Blanco (17) was still legally a minor, and not even a high school graduate, but she was eventually accepted as the Naïve College Girl. After the tragic incidents that befell us at Death Mountain, her bass playing skills had become the stuff of legends, and the simple 3 track demo tape she released online (“Dark Heart Melodies”, May 3, 2009) for free all those years ago got a post-mortem revival which eventually catapulted the track “Blue Dream” (5/5 on Pitchfork) , to the no.1 top billboard spot for a record breaking 20 weeks. I guess she could also be referred to as a “Marlene” (of Adventure Time fame). Margaret Thatcher (20 and yes, ironically named) The closest one you could consider to be a “hipster”, whatever that vague blanket term means. Arts and crafts. Thick rimmed glasses. Long blonde hair. Into the Beatles, but only if it was on vinyl. Hit up the arthouse scene from time to time , dabbling in it every now and then, some would say for street cred, others not so much. So as I was saying before, this motley crew of various graduates and collegiate level students all got packed into Wolodarsky’s Mystery Van and spent the better part of the day laying on the shag carpet in the back, a personal party room on four wheels, all of us just lying face up to get a better view of the rainbow fractals drifting across the ceiling,. Oh, the van was also blacklight equipped. After visiting the Breaking Bad set, we decided to wander our way up to the frigid northern region to find the fabled mass E.T. (Atari, 1982) burial sites. We all had agreed that this was a sound venture to embark upon, and so it went! Actually, we should stop at this point of the trip, and observe a few things, because the shit that goes down here eventually causes a fucking hurricane later down the road. Planted the seeds of destruction, if you will. It all went back to the incident we went through one night that freaked us out for a few months, but we cant start there, no, far too dark and dreary. We’ll start here instead, an earlier memory from the final days of blissful; solace, before deterioration. | 4,719 | 2 |
My grandfather is a big strapping man. 6'5” and 200+ pounds. 75 years and still solid muscle. He is one of my favourite people in the world to talk to. He used to be a wild man. He used to drink a lot. He still is a wild man. He no longer drinks. His stories are unforgettable. **The Fence** When my Dad was a kid, my Grandpa used to take him hunting for whatever was in season. On this outing they were going out for deer. Back then, they were hunting because they needed the meat to feed themselves. My grandparents didn't have much money and had many mouths to feed. So my Dad and my Grandpa drive an hour out of the city to one of the places that they used to frequently hunt. They get there, wander around the woods for 8+ hours trying to scare up some deer and when it is dusk they reluctantly give up. They throw their guns in the backseat, get in the car and start heading home. Not far from where they were hunting they drive past a large cattle farm. Without saying a word my Grandpa slows down, and turns the car towards the cow pasture illuminating it with his headlights. He quickly scans the field and spots a small calf with it's mother. Throwing the car in park he reaches into the backseat, grabs a gun and raises it up. He aims at the baby calf and boom; the animal drops and the rest of the herd scatters. My Grandpa throws the gun in the back. Shuts the car off and runs around to the rear of it and opens the trunk. He runs by my Dad sitting in the passenger seat, and asks him what he is waiting for. My Dad exits the car and runs to the field to catch up to my Grandpa. There is a barbed wire fence that is about 30 feet off the road. My Dad holds down the barbed wire and long-legged Grandpa easily steps over it. As my Grandpa gets over the fence, the outside lights of the farmhouse light up 1000ft away. A door slams and a man's voice echoes out from the house. “Hey, what are you doing out there?” My Grandfather ignores this and runs over to the downed calf. He quickly scoops it up and slings it over his shoulder and begins to run back over to the fence where my Dad is waiting. A shotgun blast rings out from the farmhouse as my Grandpa nears the fence, causing him to throw the calf at my Dad rather than handing it to him. They struggle with getting it over the barbed wire fence as it's fur gets caught in the barbs. Another shotgun blast rings out a little closer this time and now my Grandpa decides that he needs to get over that fence more than he needs the calf. He instructs my Dad to just drop the calf and help him back over the fence. My Grandpa gets back over the fence and both him and my Dad scramble back to the car slam the trunk, and take off. Once inside the vehicle, my Dad can see that my Grandpa is pretty cut up. At this point my Grandpa informs my Dad that they won't be going home, but that they will go park somewhere for an hour or two and return for their kill when the farmer goes back to sleep. Time passes and they head back to the farm to check out the situation. As they approach, they can see flashing lights in front of the farm. They drive by without stopping as there are three or four Police cruisers and even more officers. My Grandpa sighs, looks over at my Dad and tells him not to tell his mother what happened. When they got home it was well past midnight. My Grandpa's clothes were soaked in blood and he was still bleeding from his run in with the fence. So as not to alert my Grandma, he woke up my two aunts (who were maybe 5-10 at the time) and had them tend to his many wounds with peroxide and cotton swabs. He told the girls the same thing he told my Dad and when they were finished they just went back to sleep. I still don't know if my Grandma ever found out or not. | 3,773 | 3 |
I feel it might be a bit cumbersome, anyway- any advice/critiques would be greatly appreciated. ———-He would then make his journey, wearing a shirt that featured a sloppy graphic of Paris, Texas’s own Eiffel Tower front and center. This Eiffel Tower was crowned with a fucking cowboy hat. Speaking of- I should tell you about those two-brothers, they were identical twins- one of which went by the moniker Cowboy, who in a very cowboy-esque manner heroically busted into our protagonist’s house at 3 a.m. and used brazen force to grab a sofa that was engulfed in flames to toss it out into the front-yard with a grunt. Apparently, cushion serves as no buffer to an old MGM limp-wristed ashing out of a cigarette. Our protagonist thanked him with hare-like murmurs once he awoke from the kitchen-floor that red wine and continually shouting ‘I am no senator’s son’ had lulled him to sleep on. He would always tell me that Cowboy had certain vigilant inclinations that usurped the mental disorder that made him dependent on the state of Texas and it’s few victuals of financial empathy. “If he didn’t get those checks, well, I would have probably burned alive.” Our protagonist would gleefully say over bites of the singular nougat-heavy candy bars that used to provide his only source of nutrition for the day outside of what he got when he traveled to Hunt county, which was wet and eager to trade it’s poison for quarters and the tawdry idioms thrown into over-the-counter service to feign something fetchingly personal. I was force-fed too much iconography to be concerned with finding out the other brother’s name. The two-brothers would watch the same recorded episodes of Wheel of Fortune on VHS so that they could consistently be correct with their answers. Pat Sajak had become an administration of consistent validation. The two-brothers would pepper in caveats of convoluted logic to the neighborhood kids “Don’t count your toes in spring-time, just don’t do it” before offering them a tuna sandwich or licorice that lost all malleability to time. They would go the local donut-shop and offer up arm wrestling contests in which the prize was a Spudnut with coconut shavings; rumor has it that they never lost, so the forfeiture to come of their hypothetical defeat was never addressed. I always wondered. Everyone saw a litany of misdirected allegory, bicycle baskets and matching pique polos from the thrift-store on Booker road. They saw a life without the dregs. Life without rancor towards the swath of simple southern fate. Everyone responded to them with subtle indifference. They were patronizers, but they did it out of envy. He swore it. Our protagonist saw the enchanting whiteness and front-faced conscious that the (what social arbiters have deemed as the-) ‘mentally-challenged’ bared. More times than not, he was certain that they were only people within the ‘low-end’ part of town that weren’t nauseated by the smell of sulfur. He’d invite them over to play on his impromptu front yard golf-course, which was comprised of holes that he’d stuck old coffee tins in and a croquet set he got for fifty cents. He’d conceptualized it on a raucous Tuesday night. I think he genuinely loved the two-brothers. In retrospect, we all should have. The protagonist, my father, attended their funeral in the spring of 1999. He wore the only suit he had. It was an awful onyx grey. It had masted a decade of convival and powder. It had seen its fair share. The pant hems provided slightly splayed pedals of fabric, relics of either dancing or running in The Big D (Our protagonist would say they are actions that operate in tandem.) He counted his toes for what seemed like decades. We didn’t watch Wheel of Fortune that night. | 3,767 | 1 |
Hey guys, I wrote this 2 weeks ago in my 9th grade English class. I would appreciate some feedback and possible title suggestions :) The sun was shining gently over the field, with the wind ever so slightly rustling the leaves of the great yew tree that shaded her family. She was wearing her finest white dress, her grandmother’s pearl necklace delicately wrapped around her neck. Her father walks with her down the red carpet, perfectly lain out in the grass. He cups her hand in his, warming it. He has tears in his eyes as he looks down at her, threatening to breach. They neared the end of the carpet. Where her fiance stood, waiting, with roses littering his feet. Her favourite flower. As they approached, her father tightly squeezed her hand, forcing a quick, brief smile at the relatives who stood by their sides. There they were. Her father hugged her fiance, gave her a hard kiss on the forehead, and walked away without looking back. Her fiance looked down at her. ‘Hey darling’, he says, managing a trembling smile. He leaned down and softly kissed her lips. He held his lips on hers for a long time. He rose, and gently nudged a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Bye darling’, he says, with his tears softly hitting the rose petals littered around the polished oak box. He straightens to his full height, turns around, and walks away. They closed the lid, and slowly lowered her into the soft, warm brown soil. Edit: Changed a word from past tense to present. | 1,483 | 9 |
I wonder if you remember as fondly as I do the time we walked down the road, creeping giddily through the mild patches of woods, the creek to our left, until we reached the subtle meadow, soft grass and tender flowers soothing to the underside of our bare, calloused feet. We danced and span around until we collapsed to the lush greenery beneath us, our heads spinning in newfound clarity. It was a clarity known only to us, a clarity only attainable through a certain mixture of incense, candles, flowing clothing, knee length dresses and bare feet, mind altering combinations of drugs and spices, and rebellion to modern technology via lighting our midnight adventures with cheap candles and turning off our phones to absorb that perfect shade of summer evening into our summer darkened skin. I wonder if you remember in the same way I do coming home from being nowhere- and strangely, everywhere at once through the psychological doors that we opened through substance and wandering- to sit in the basement and write music for hours, working until slumber carried us away on the gentle wings of early morning. | 1,119 | 3 |
*By ColdChemical* The sun beat down on the dry land, blazing brilliantly against a perfect blue sky. The earth was dead and flat―every weed and insect choked with death by the toxic dust that had settled over the land. The air was hot and stagnant. A long time passed. Eventually a far, distant sound emerged. This sound slowly grew until it became a muffled roar―carried from miles away across the infinite flatness. This sound was shortly accompanied by a black speck on the horizon, a long cloud of dust billowing in its wake. Jedediah shifted uncomfortably in his seat and flicked his cigarette butt out the window of the jeep. His eyes, shaded from the blinding light by a pair of dark red sunglasses, drifted lazily across the wasteland before him. There wasn’t much to see. There never was. After three years, Jedediah was beginning to reconsider the job offer that he had jumped at just a few short years ago. What had promised adventure and danger had become merely one long and tedious journey after another, and they were only getting longer. At 26, he had already seen more than most members of the commune would in their entire lives. Not that they were missing much, as far as Jedediah was concerned. It was just wasteland as far as you cared to go. Still, he couldn’t deny that he treasured this freedom. It was boring as hell, sure, but out in the wastes there wasn’t nobody to tell him what to do, none of them narrow-eyed shopkeepers or stupid old men with their stupid talk. The wastes alone were his master. The long empty miles gave him a sense of momentum in his life, even though he was really no freer than the rest of the commune and was doomed to die just like the rest of them. Deep down Jedediah realized this, and unconsciously he hated himself for it. He longed for a life that he could never imagine, a life that did not exist and had not existed for many long spans of time. Yet it was this distant and long-forgotten past that the people of the commune were utterly and completely dependent upon. Scattered throughout the wastes were isolated vaults buried within the earth. Their dark steel depths betrayed little about their unknown creators, and all were identical in shape and mystery. Upon entering, one would be overwhelmed by the staggering immensity of their age, and the power and sophistication surely wielded by their creators. They defied the land, plunging indiscriminately into the bowels of the earth through soil and stone without any heed for the natural order. How unlike the communes above, which clung desperately to every rock and stone and were subject to all the violent whims of earth and sky. The survivors of the wastes, lacking any other defining feature upon which to settle, inevitably grew their towns upon the ancient relics which protruded from the surrounding plain. Shapaw, the easternmost commune, was where Jedediah lived. Hajiik was to the west and Guln in the north. The two southern communes, Apette and Illicagh, were rumored to have starved or fallen to some other similarly horrific fate, as no news had reached Shapaw of either in quite some time. Even Shapaw, the largest of the communes, contained less than five hundred residents. Some of the others contained scarcely enough people to merit a name at all. More than once some crazy band of fools had gone and tried to live inside one of the vaults, but the dampness and the creeping blackness inevitably drove anyone inside to madness. Most of the vaults, however, had not been touched by human hands for a long, long time. Their dark tomb-like caverns were usually braved by only the most fearless and curious of souls, who were invariably rewarded with a treasure-trove of strange and useful relics, the most valuable of which was a tiny blue pill. This pill alone kept the communes alive, for without the medicine within them, the people of the wastes―should they breath so much as a mote of the toxic dust―would be writhing on the ground in minutes. It was a violent and agonizing death. All efforts to learn the secrets of the blue pills had failed, and the people had resigned themselves to a life dependent upon them. As plentiful as the pills were, they would not last forever. After a time, the supply beneath the streets of Shapaw had been exhausted, and so it became necessary to send someone out into the wastes to gather more. These men became responsible for the resupplying of the pills by way of finding and raiding the surrounding vaults which had not already been robbed of their contents. Jedediah checked his compass, then craned his head back to gauge the position of the sun. Sixteen degrees southwest and just about high noon. He scowled. At this rate he’d have to spend the night in the back seat of the jeep. The wastes were scorched and burned by day, but the nights were sickly cold, and the back of a beat-up old jeep wasn't Jedediah’s idea of a good night’s sleep. He drove on. Eventually his thoughts turned to other things: the girl at Begunn’s who was always smiling, his busted generator, the price of the replacement part to fix the damn thing, the― Jedediah suddenly sat up and squinted. He threw off his sunglasses and rummaged around in the sack on the passenger seat, pulling out a pair of binoculars. “About time.” The grey disk that poked out above the earth could mean only one thing: a vault. As he drew nearer, the smooth, familiar features of the structure became visible. It looked the same as every other vault he’d ever seen, but then again, why shouldn’t it? He decelerated to a crawl, then braked and cut the engine. Double-checking the contents of the sack, he then slung it over his shoulder, and walked towards the embankment which descended towards the entryway. The ground crunched beneath his boots. Now that he wasn’t speeding along at 130mph he could smell once more the subtle sickly aroma of the poisonous dust kicked up beneath his feet. Jedediah slid down the embankment and came to a halt just before the imposing metal hatchway. He gripped the hot metal handle and pulled. After several minutes of strenuous effort, a loud clunk came from within, and the lock fell open. Jedediah braced his shoulder against the door, and pushed. The hatchway swung inward with an eerie quietness into the dark chamber within. Jedediah took out his torch and lit it. He stepped inside. Immediately he sensed that something was different; something was not right. Although his eyes could see nothing in the darkness, he was overwhelmed by a sensation of immense space. It was as though he had stepped into the center of a massive subterranean cave, rather than the usual maze of rectangular passageways which he had learned to navigate. Jedediah scowled and tightened his grip on the torch. His right hand moved cautiously to his knife-sheathe, where it stayed, tense. Glancing out the hatchway, he set off into the dark. His footsteps made no sound as he moved onward into the chamber. Nothing but blackness emerged out of the dark, and eventually the open hatchway was nothing more than a pinprick of light in the distance behind him. Jedediah stopped. “HELLO?” he shouted. A faint echo reverberated around him. He waited. Silence. Suddenly, from above, came a tiny mechanical clinking. After a moment, it stopped. Jedediah stood very still. “Hello.” cooed a soft metallic voice. “Shit!” Jedediah leaped backward, starring wide-eyed into the black abyss above him. “Who's there? Just who the hell are you?” he demanded. “I am a Long-Term-Data-Preservation unit. I have no name.” Its voice was cool and friendly, yet disturbingly inhuman. “Who are you?” He glared at the darkness. “Jedediah Ackerson.” “Hello Jedediah. I have waited a long time to meet you. I have much to show you." The surrounding air slowly became alive with a deep, almost inaudible humming. Suddenly, the entire chamber exploded with blinding light, and Jedediah slammed his eyelids shut. After several minutes, his eyes began to adjust to the throbbing brightness. He cautiously blinked open his eyes, and the sight that met his gaze paralyzed him. His entire body became frozen in shock, as though he had been turned to stone. In all of Jedediah’s short life, nothing―not even his most radical fantasies―could have prepared him for this sight. The breeze―warm and sweet―played across his cheeks. The blue horizon sparkled in the brilliant sunlight, and seemed to breathe in and out as it leapt up the sandy stretch below his feet, only to slink back upon itself. Jedediah blinked. He stared and blinked and thought no thoughts: a man overcome by the most beautiful thing he would ever see. "This," said the disembodied voice, "is an ocean. | 8,961 | 6 |
The Scorching “I remember one day of winter,” my grandfather looked mistily out the twelve inch synthesized window. He’s one of the few in our colony that knows of winter first hand. I have brought him to the observation point on the western end of The Dome at his request. This is his response to my request to tell us of how life felt in the days before artificial air and extreme heats of the wastelands. “The wind whisked down my neighborhood just as I stepped out into the white blanket on my porch. A chill ran up my legs but I hardly noticed, my friends were already playing across the street. Hmpff, I couldn’t have been taller than I am now.” He looks to me with a smile. “We spent the entire day by the hill behind Wilson’s house. We took sleds and lids down that hill, trying to guide it down to an alley so we could go the farthest. We didn’t stop till we saw a couple girls from school cutting through the alley. Linda Mould and Susan P. Cole,” He turns to me with a special grin. Susan P. Cole was my grandmother. “I jumped line when I saw them, knew it was a special one the second I started. The boys whopped and hollered behind me, they knew it too. Susan and Linda had to leap from my way just as I flew by and crashed right into the Ralman’s garbage cans. Didn’t think about how I’d stop, never do at that age. No one did in those days.” Something in his voice changes. The mist in his eyes is more of a water haze now, he points to the empty horizon. “I use to see homes, grass, animals, and clouds. I never new that hope for the future was artificial till the mechanics of the world were stripped from us. It didn’t matter what we did to try and stop it neither.” I can see him slipping into more painful memories so I request him to point out when exactly he noticed the world changing first hand. “Changes? Well them happen often and often.” (He means to say changes happen a great deal and always.) “Well, the first time I realized the talk was true was I woke up in some pain, not a good deal, but enough to shake you to. Round the time I was leaving college I suppose. I looked around my bed for whoever woke me, Susan hadn’t been over that night so I couldn’t figure out who’d hurt my arm. It was near midday and I had spent the better half of the morning sleeping off the night before. I wanted to sleep some more but the sun was slipping between my blinds and onto the side of my bed. I got up to close the drapes, but first to peak outside. I was looking for anyone of note when I noticed warmth and a near instant sting all over my face. I leapt back and closed the drapes. I felt relief right away. I knew it, right then, I knew it. The sun was burning like they said it was, hot and fast. My first thought was to call Susan and see if she was feeling it too.” It’s not long after that our history lessons pick up, reminding those of us who weren’t yet here that the earth was becoming barren. My grandfather was one the first selected to one of the science division domes. The structures we all have been raised were in fact substitutes for an atmosphere we never knew, so we could have a life we never could have hoped for. “I broke through as a design engineer. Interning for the great Doctor Kepling. Now that man could work, spend entire months ruining chalk boards and burrowing floors with his pacing. I nearly didn’t sleep in my time there trying to keep up with him and the three kids at home. No one really knows his name anymore, yet his design saved what’s left of us.” His sigh holds a lot of weight out of his chest. I decide its time to broche a subject that has been refrained from in my family for years now. I ask him as gently as possible, what happened in the evacuation. There is a long pause and silence before he can gather the breath to speak. The gruffness I had grown up knowing is back, he is the old man in the recliner I know again. “We…We only got the news of The Flare just as it started. I was at home sleeping in as I had the day off and Susan…Susan should have been shopping. The phone call came and the doctor himself was frazzled. I could tell before he said anything it was happening. I was to stunned to really hear him after that, he said he just wanted to make sure I made it and hung up. I forced myself out of bed and put these packs of necessities and valuables we had made in case it did come. I heard the kids downstairs playing, I yelled for them to get up and get there stuff ready. They knew what I meant but I don’t think they truly new what it meant.” My father swears it was all too quick to remember. One day your breathing humid air, the next day it’s artificial. Kids his age hardly caught on to the significance of things as they went. “Once we were all packed I rushed the kids out to the car. It was so bright out I could hardly see my way to the car, still I had to find Susan. I had lugged her bag to car with mine. I was going to drive strait to the market to find her. I’ve sweat often before and since then, but I doubt any compared to that day. We got there and I can remember my sprint to the door seeming to last far to long to be a couple dozen feet. I burst through the door and screamed for her, Susan! Susan!” His outcry catches me off guard, “I ran back and forth through the aisles still she is not there. I looked to my watch, If I was to save my children I couldn’t wait any longer. I’d have to hope she received the message and caught the follow up busses to one of the others. When I returned to car and began to head for my designated dome, it was clear the word was out. People we rushing all about in a frenzy. I don’t ever think I’ve seen such horror on so many men and women’s faces as on that day. I told the kids to duck down so they wouldn’t see. I speed out from our town into the dessert sands towards the dome. I think I was one of the last through, they closed those giant glass doors a little after we passed through.” After this he holds his head in his hands in silent hiding of his face. My Aunt recalls him braking down and crying over the wheel till some nice man came to get them from the back seat. They didn’t see him again for a week. My grandmother was never found, nor has our family ever discussed her final whereabouts. From there the rest of the word documents well our methods to survival. Two generations of struggle-less survival, made us able to be complacent again. We should stay vigilant in pursuit of the solution; we should never allow ourselves to simply survive, but also to live. Even if it is only our grandchildren who will truly be unscathed. Never may we forget what great human loss we suffered in the Scorching. | 6,676 | 3 |
I was drinking. I’d just started a new job. Door to door salesman ripping people off, working for Australian Gas and Electricity. I’d only been in training for two days. I was living alone, and I’d been drinking for a long while searching for jobs. Applying online. I found this one with some smokescreen description of what it was that I would actually be doing. The most meaning I found was some vague hint about ‘marketing’. So after two days of training and getting the shakes, even with a pissy little flask of 300 mls of bourbon, it was saturday. I invited people over. Bought a case of beer, a 4.5 litre cask of wine & a bottle of bourbon with the money I’d just withdrawn after closing my second bank account. I almost broke my back carrying it the 2 k’s home. They turned up. I was still sober, I’d gone through a bottle of wine and maybe 8 beers, waiting for them to turn up. Henry came in, looking worse than he smelt, holding a cigarette in his hands which didn’t smoke for at least a half hour, pulled out 2 grams of weed which I bought and put away for later. I grabbed another beer. We drank for 4 hours and then people started showing up. It was fun, I wasn’t drunk but I was feeling alright, and from I could see everyone was already well oiled, I could smell the vodka on their breath through the bourbon and beer on mine. After that I started having fun. Some of the girls got drunk and tried on my clothes. Alex, breasts jutting into my paisley t-shirt and jeans tight on her, twirling infront of me. I would’ve fucked her if her boyfriend Rhodia wasn’t there. I guess I must have been tipsy by then because I don’t really do that normally. She put on some standup comedy and we all watched; I just sipped beer watching everybody else get drunk. It was vaguely interesting. The show ended and we ended up in the kitchen. I made a salad and cooked sausages. By this time everyone except me and Rhodia were drunk, I took a break from cooking to talk to Alex, grabbed her about 10 centimetres above of a table corner, then Beth tried to get me to drink vodka, shoved a cup in my face and forgot to let me know she was doing it, went up my nose and in my eyes, coughing painful fleghm for 5 minutes, then drank another beer. Rhodia then said he had a present for me, gave me some nice looking sunglasses. I said thanks, trying to act surprised even though Alex had told me 15 minutes earlier. I was starting to get drunk and I was enjoying the show. Beth was very drunk, slurring and staggering, I found her 15 minutes after I left her, asleep on my bed. On her side of it. I liked that. She was my neighbour so I picked her up and carried her home, down my shitty back steps and next door. She woke up a bit and went off to vomit. I said call me if you help and left. I got back up the steps and opened the door to Alice lying on a foldout bed drunker than I’ve ever seen her. She had my dog in a griplock, tan arms against white fur, she was kissing him and he was trying not to bite her. I laughed, grabbed a beer, talked to Rhodia for a bit, he was vaguely drunk. Alex was dancing; I laughed and sat down. I downed a fair bit of bourbon. I got the camera. From the videos I was fine; I just don’t remember it. Alice was writhing on the bed and then staggering her way around the house when she wasn’t. Rhodia and I were talking. He had to work the next day so he went to bed, taking Alex with him. I was in love with Alex then. Had been for three years, but I guess even the most basic things have to have outstanding moments every once in a while. I drank more. Started on the wine. It was just me, Henry, Alice and Lilly. Lilly was sober, playing the role of carer while Alice decided between slurring on the bed or in a chair. It was 5.30 am. Alice was still awake somehow and Lilly didn’t want to sleep. They left. I went to sleep. I woke up on sunday and left my house with Henry at 1 pm. I bought 2 new pairs of pants, 3 shirts and 2 ties, brand new, for my future career. I quit two days later. The first day I was nervous as hell, and the two days of training weren’t worth anything. I spent my day with a guy called Niall. He made 3 sales. The entire sales pitch was a lie. I got the shakes and had a beer at 2.30. I went home as soon as I could. It was a horrible job. You could legally work door to door from 9 till 6. Then you had to get back to the office, a half hour minimum trip, then an hour’s worth of debriefing and then I got to enjoy the 40 minute ride back home. Then look after myself. By then I had the fear and shakes pretty bad. I’d get maybe 3 or 5 glasses of wine into me and that would quiet me down. I’d feed my dog and then sleep with more wine. My plan for all of those days was to drink maybe 3 glasses of wine and a beer before work, then eat as many breath mints as possible before I got there. I never felt happy. Then the next day I started doing sales pitches. I was lying through my teeth. I remember my last sale, it was a Ghana woman, who didn’t have much clue as to even her property number. There was a problem with one of the electrical codes because she had no clue which one she even used, let alone was supposed to give to us. I closed the sale. It went through, I got the verification code, put it into the contract and now she’s with an energy supplier for 3 years that will cost her a lot of money. I’d only had a tiny bit of bourbon that day, maybe 2 shots, and I was getting the shakes. I went to a chicken shop, bought a can of Pepsi because I was shaking too much to grab anything that wasn’t infront of me, paid the buck, then grabbed the flask out of my bag and poured about a half of it into the can. The two guys in the booth across from me smiled at me and after I’d downed most of the can I smiled back. I bought another and poured the rest of my flask into the new can. Niall came around as I was standing outside of the chicken shop. He lit a smoke and then said ‘I’ll finish that for you.’ I smiled at him without happiness or worry and gave the can to him. He coughed for about two minutes and then muttered something about me drinking and whiskey at this hour. I ignored him calling me an alcoholic with a smile and a laugh because I knew it was true. We caught the train back, 45 minutes of uninteresting talk with a sales team of uninteresting people. All I wanted to do was write or drink or go home. All three. We went back to the office. I bullshitted my way through a performance review, walked to Central station, caught the train home. 2 stops past the interchange I realised I was on the wrong train. Jumped off, spent the next 40 minutes catching trains in a direction that vaguely resembled home. I felt like crying. Not from something that I could identify, just a vague feeling of hawks circling. My dog being more excited to see me than I’d seen him in a long while because I got home very late. That was probably it. I rolled a joint, poured wine, beer and a bourbon and lay down on the foldout bed. I filled up the dogs waterbowl, gave him the steak I didn’t eat the night before and put on a sitcom. I liked it, I laughed for the first time that day that I meant. I went to sleep that night about 1 am. I woke up at 5 and decided my gameplan. I was quitting. There was no way I wasn’t. I looked up TAFE courses for my area, I was going to tell them all about the welding course I had been late-offered. I walked in early, told the receptionist I wanted to see the boss, thinking he’d be hurt that I was quitting. The conversation was minimal: ‘I’m sorry to say that I have to quit.’ ‘Okay here’s the form.’ ‘I’ve just got offered a course in welding and - oh okay thanks.’ ‘Our receptionist Michelle will sort this out with you.’ I left within half an hour. I said goodbye to about 10 people. I don’t think anyone cared. I wandered round the city for a bit, thinking about buying breakfast but I didn’t know anywhere you could buy one that wasn’t bad or expensive. I caught the train home, bought 2 bottles of wine and a bottle of bourbon. I walked the 5 minutes up the street from the liquor store, my dog didn’t seem that excited to see me and that made me feel great. I walked in, lit a joint and poured a glass of wine, started chopping some potatoes, carrots, onions, chucked them into a pot with some chicken stock and curry paste, put it on simmer and lay down on the foldout. I smiled then, first time since Saturday. And then I started laughing. I plugged my iphone into the audio jack, put on some Mountain Goats, downed a glass of red, stuck the rest of the joint in my mouth and lay in bed smiling as my dog curled up against me. He was shivering and I realised his back was playing up again. Shivering in pain, he tried to get as close to me as he could. I let him lie in my armpit and he had a few sips of my wine. He relaxed and I ate my soup. I switched from music to sitcoms. As the wine wore out I started drinking bourbon out of a red stained wine glass. I could have made a grand that day and not felt as good as that. Simplicity, I realised, is the best reward. I fell asleep and woke up to a glass of bourbon already poured and a smile on my face. I felt great. The TV even had a motion sensor and turned itself off. My dog was free of pain and the back door was open so a cool breeze was coming through. Sleeping naked and waking to a drink before alcoholism gets to bear its teeth, looking at all the books piled in the living room with hope instead of depression, I felt good. I don’t have enough money for much longer but I figure I’ll get a job that at least is benevolent. Or has toilets where I can drink. Either way. Breath mints and wine lips. The liquor store clerks all know me by my real name. | 9,776 | 1 |
Kurt was taking his time walking down the street, his feet moving him ever forward as small droplets of water fell down from the sky, splashing all across the city. Everyone around him was rushing, with umbrellas, hoods, newspapers covering their heads. Kurt's sweatshirt had a hood, but he didn't think of placing it over his head. The cold orbs of water felt nice running down his shaggy brown hair, dropping off of curls in front of his face, onto his nose and then down to the ground with a “plop.” The water had just started to fall from the sky, but, unlike most times it rains, it did not start off slowly. There was no build up toward the release. One moment, no rain, the next, it felt like the massage setting on a shower head. Kurt forgot where it was he was going, but continued walking anyway, to get his feet wet. As people ran by, they looked at him oddly, as if he was insane to act as he did. After about thirty seconds, Kurt's clothes were soaked through. His hair was dripping completely, it looked as if head been in a shower for a few minutes. His sweatshirt clung to his body, dark gray from the moisture. In the pockets of his jeans his cell phone had short-circuited, the water had soaked into the electronics and caused too much energy to be placed on the motherboard, killing it forever. Kurt didn't care. He didn't notice that fact until a day later, when he went to clean up, and the phone fell from his pocket to the floor. His feet kept leading him down the street, which was growing increasingly familiar to Kurt, as he looked around him. He still did not know where he was going, but let his feet lead him. After five minutes of walking in the rain, his feet brought him in front of the door to an apartment building. The building he recalled knowing, but he did not know where from. Water still dripped down his brow to his nose, and off to make a “plop” in the puddle created under his feet. It was still raining, but a canopy provided relief. Kurt's right hand made its way to his pocket, where it found cold metal, damp from the cloth around it. The metal fit into the door in front of him, and his feet pulled him into the stair well, and up the stairs in front of him. He left a trail of water as his feet trotted up the steps, one by one. Everything around him he knew well, but Kurt could not figure out why. His feet had brought him in front of a door now. On the door were the numbers four, zero, and seven. His right hand lifted up, and knocked twice. The sound of flesh on wood was thick and loud, echoing down the hall. The water dripping off of Kurt soaked a floor mat that read “Welcome!” Kurt heard some shuffling inside, and the door opened. Standing there, staring at Kurt was a woman. Kurt remembered her. She stood in the doorway, wearing gray sweat pants and a t-shirt much too big for her. Her auburn hair was tied above her head in a ponytail that reached down past her shoulders. Her eyes were puffed and red. Inside the room, Kurt could see tissues and an open bottle of wine on the coffee table. He looked at her and said quietly, “Angela... You're beautiful. Marry me.” “Fuck off.” Water went “plop” on the now-soaked floor mat. The door slammed shut, followed by the sound of metal clinking with metal. Kurt turned, and started walking back down the stairs. As he got to the bottom, he realized that it looked brighter outside. When he walked out of the apartment, he looked up into the clouds. They were thinner. Water dripped from his nose and went “plop.” His eyes were red and puffy. | 3,560 | 1 |
November 27th, 1933 a sweet little girl with red hair and curls was born in County Cavan, Ireland. With the face of a cherub, this little girl had brothers and sisters and strong willed parents with a beautiful and interesting history following behind her. Born not only into a prominent family history, but money as well, this sweet little red headed girl with curls like ringlets went off to boarding school where the Nuns would teach her right from wrong, how to be a lady and where she would ask questions they would deem inappropriate. Running around with friends causing mayhem, this little girl would grow up with hands often touched by a ruler’s edge, and permanently scared knees due to kneeling on raw rice. As this tiny little girl began to grow into a woman, she began to experience changes-both emotionally, and physically-this was all under the wide umbrella of topics deemed inappropriate to discuss with anyone according to the Nun’s, so the little girl turning into a young lady remained silent. She remained silent for many moons, until one night on a train back from a field trip she went to use the train lavatory and ran out screaming and crying. She was bleeding to death. She was going to die. She wouldn’t make it home to see her family again. By now, a dear, lovely Nun found it impertinent to intervene and clear the matter up as efficiently as possible without going into too much detail about the inappropriate topic of womanhood. “My dear little child, what are you screaming about?,” said the Nun. “Oh Sister! I need you to give me my last rights! I’m bleeding to death!” said the young lady. “You are? Where?” “I’m bleeding…I’m bleeding from…” the young lady began to blush and could not finish her sentence without stumbling over her words. “Yes child? I need you to tell me. Where are you bleeding from? “I…I’m bleeding from…my genitals sister. I’m bleeding to death!” At this, the young girl began to sob with her face in her hands, and shoulders shaking profusely. “Oh my child. You are not dying. But I do believe it is time we have a long talk. Come with me” And that was the day this little girl, became a young lady. Years later and this same young woman was carving a path for herself all through Europe, leaving a trail of blazing fire wherever she went. Full of life and love and adventures ready to be had she made her way to London at the very ripe age of 18. There may have been bad times happening, but my god she was not going to let that bring her down. With a wealthy family along side her, she was trailing through London leaving a string of broken hearted young men behind her. Until the day this fresh faced 18 year old beautiful woman met an American man here in the American Air force. It was a quick romance before, with the support of her family, this young and handsome couple decided to be joined in holy matrimony. A few very short months later, the newly wedded couple was expecting their first child, but alas, the young husband had to fly home to America for his military and family duties. The young, pregnant wife was to follow shortly. At 8 months pregnant, she did. She missed her family and home in Europe already, but she was ready to join her husband and begin their American life together with their new baby. It was a future full of promises. | 3,325 | 1 |
I am the captain of my ship and my ship is called destiny I steer the destiny with the helm-wheel of fate Battling the waves of life and death Searching for hopes light that will guide me home The days catch flung to the watery depths, a cruel injustice ~~~~ To the love of my woman and the joy of our children But there is only darkness now, the storm rages on No light to be seen. The moon, the stars blotted in tempest ink The inundation of deaths icy shards fall mercilessly upon me Destiny coated with glassy refraction, sheen of terrifying beauty ~~~~ My thoughts reflect black the inferno cold The heavens chariots quake the air Where is hopes lighthouse? I am lost. “Damn, Fowl Tempest, Gods be damned!” I proclaim Haunting, ghostly torrential purgatory is their only reply. ~~~~ Deaths icy claws shackle me to fate. Cruel tempest And so bellowed is my defiance to the Bermudan sea “You will not have me!” And with the ferocity of the storms power in my lungs I state my consternation's triumph “My name is Ahabe!” “I am the Captain of Destiny and the Master of Fate, and you will not have me!” ~~~~ Blinded, A flash of light strikes the sky in two, The cracking whip of heavens charioteer lashes the air My hands break free of their icy shackles, stark horror revealed The wheel of fate spins effortlessly, destiny glides listless My fate now clear, Destiny no longer mine ~~~~ Behold, revealed in the instant of stricken light, Doom approaches. Deaths watery tombstone rises before destiny, a captive black swan A rogue wave of death inescapable howling ever louder in its approach Piercing my ears, the words from deaths cresting hulk "Hello, Ahabe, master of fate, captain of destiny.” “I am Death, and no one escapes me. | 1,776 | 2 |
I just spit this out and it could potentially be longer; lemme me know if you think it's too weird and rambly or if you would read more. It's rough... Thanks so much! Popping a crisp, clear pop, the egg-yolk sun announced the new day like a Sprite can snapping open in the quietest section of the library. The egg-yolk too broke open with a sizzle and ran down the length of the high-desert valley, catching the attention of a dozing cactus that probably could have used a few more minutes of sleep. A dazed lizard rolled over and punched his alarm clock, grabbing his slippers he rose just long enough to bop the ‘pre-heat’ button on the desert thermostat preparing the desert oven for another scorching, hot day. This lizard had been in charge of turning on heating the desert for years and couldn’t remember a day when they just left it off, slept in, and skipped the 117 degrees; but who was he to argue with tradition? Humming past Mr. Saguaro and Mr. Gecko exchanging familiar glances, Lauren drank in the languid air of the pre-heating desert and snapped his gloved hand back a little further awakening the emptiness in his stomach and sending his bike careening through the adobe colored valley just a bit too fast for the warmth to keep up. This is the story of a man with a woman’s name and a woman with a woman’s name. They are both average people, with nothing in particular to separate them from the proverbial crowd; at least that is what the movie poster would have you believe, if there was a movie poster for this story. However no film will be made about these two people and even if it was, they sure wouldn’t go see it! But I still can’t help but dream of the poster, a huge slab of inked up tree bark, hung in a crowded mall surrounded by thick glass with tiny light bulbs twinkling around the edge. On said poster an uglied-up Johnny Depp would be crouched over a 1980 Honda CX 500 and a deliciously humble-looking Reese Witherspoon seated on the back of this sputtering bike. With her arms wrapped around him, she hopes he knows where he’s going and wonders if this thing has breaks. The cactus, Mr. Saguaro, in the desert background that they appear to be speeding though, casts a smokey shadow across the poster and leading toward the title, written in the same muted grey color (TITLE OF SAID FILM) As he pulled into a Denny’s, the sun catching up to him now, he turned the key and yanked it from the ignition, swung his leg over the bike, and knocked the kickstand down with the grace of a man who had driven through the desert for most of the night. You see, while this story is begun with an image of a man careening through the desert on an ancient motorcycle searching for his place in the world, having read a few too many pages of ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’; just an average man with an average name, for a woman, he is not the who this story is about. He sought a catalyst to break him into greatness and he is a great candidate for a great American coming-of-age novel. This story however is really is more about a girl by the name of Amber. An extremely predictable girl by all appearances, she is an even better candidate for a story; primarily because she is not at all suited to be a main character. She really was quite beige-average, though more attractive than most, and never went above herself to make any lasting effect on anyone. However humble, Amber did have one particular quality that I began to sense more and more as I created her: though moderately predictable, she walked a cliff in her mind; most of us do. But she occupied this rift day in and day out, she had even invested in a yellow lawn chair during a clearance sale and set up camp next to this psychological crevice, complete with ice-chest and umbrella, periodically peeking over to see if the bottom was any clearer. Everyone has one, a cliff that is, a piece of them that if looked at deep enough and long enough will send them inching closer and closer toward the edge, brimming with fascination; most of us don't do this. Amber did. Ever since she was a little girl she had teetered on this edge, a grassy canyon's edge that dropped off onto a bottom far, far below, that she could barely catch sight of. Today was the day though, and as an unsuspecting Lauren walked into the desert diner, with a tinkle of a bell and a thud of the door, he shocked poor Amber over the edge. Leafing through a David Foster Wallace book, she wasn’t reading so much as noticing that, for the first time in her life, the conditions in her mind were translucent enough to make out most of the ledge down below she thought as she leaned further than she could ever remember. Startled by the man’s “hello,” his simple greeting finally sent her toppling over, though she wouldn’t realize this until much later on the back of a motorcycle on its way toward San Francisco. And after all those years of wondering what was down there, she began to have second thoughts. But in the spirit of a good story, we won’t ruin that part for her without a good explanation as to how she got there. It was in fact such an anti-climatic moment that, had the movie opened with this scene, Johnny Depp and Reese Whitherspoon would have been scouring the streets for work, looking rather humble themselves. But this scene wasn’t a movie yet, it was taking place in real time and real space, and these two things have a way of making even the most mediocre moments pop, and as we know, they too have a way of sending girls toppling over the edges of cliffs. “Hi..,” spoke Lauren, wondering whether it was entirely necessary to tear this young waitress from her book, or if maybe he could just slip past her and ask the cook to crack a couple eggs for him as he poured his own coffee. “Oh! Hello, sorry I was a bit absorbed...we don’t usually get customers this early,” she said with a sleepy smile. “If you want to come right this way I can seat you in a booth right over here. Is it okay if I put you next to the kitchen?” He nodded. “I suppose I should have asked if it was just you today or if someone else will be joining you,” though they both knew the answer to that question. She handed him a laminated menu and guessed that he wanted a cup of coffee, smiling. He looked up and cracked a similar, tired smile sighing, “a whole pot might be a better idea.” “I’ll see what we can do about that,” she perked up. Lauren noticed arresting stare and her focused, knowing eyes. “By the way, my name is Amber and I’ll be in charge of you this morning.” “Amber”, he thought. If it wasn’t enough that she held his gaze like a tired seal holds an ice shelf, even her name screamed a breezy calm, “buy me a taco at El Palomar and hustle me over to the Santa Cruz lighthouse and sit next to me as the Wednesday lunch rush packs itself into a van and guzzles off, leaving us alone with the waves and the gulls waiting for their share of this tortilla. | 6,991 | 3 |
It is the summer of 1999 and I am young and I am alive. My sister and I are racing outside now, our bare and naked feet fly across the hardwood floor and onto our tired deck. My prescient mother, resting in a green plastic chair, is already waiting for the two of us to dart into the nightly confines of our very Philadelphian backyard. She’s looking at the pair of us, her smile the starting pistol to an evening of adventure. I’m grabbing a glass jar and tossing one to my younger sister now. Her and I now dash down the few steps of our porch and step onto our playing field. I can see them all, now. The lightning bugs. They dot our lawn like incandescent snowflakes, occasionally lifting off to find a new temporary resting place. I can almost hear the beat of a thousand tiny wings right now. There must be hundreds here. They paint our yard now, never satisfied with their place on the canvas. But this wonder is nothing new to my sister and I. We have done this as far as my memory will stretch. We’re dashing off in different directions now, as to cover the most ground. There isn’t a second to waste, not a moment to spare—I’m not sure how much longer the fireflies will glow for us. Now that I’m over by the big tree at the edge of the lawn, I can begin my work. A particularly gleaming bug is drifting past my eyes right now. I’m going to turn my jar to the side, very carefully now, and… *got him*. Quickly I’m screwing the lid back on my jar. I eye my twinkling prize. It’s crawling on the side of my jar now, exploring his new home, I’m sure. I can’t think of a name for him quite yet, but there will be time for formalities later. Right now I need to continue the hunt. Bending down now I scoop up a bug at my feet. I’m feeling the minuscule legs of the thing tickle my palm now. I’m assessing my catch. This one is too small. It simply will not do. It needs to grow and mature before I could even consider capturing this luminous soul. I’m going to let it go. I open my palm and it flits away from me, surely rejoining his glowing brethren but this time with a story to tell. My baby sister and I are darting across our lawn, back and forth now, for what has seemed like only a few moments. We’re laughing, enthralled in the beauty and wonderment of the scene. “Hey, Dea, I found a really big one right here!” I’m exclaiming to my sister now. “Fabio, Fabio, I see a really bright one! Come here!” She’s yelling back. It hasn’t been long but our game is over now. We’re saying good night to the fireflies now and sprinting back up to our wood deck, exhausted from the chase but running on an adrenaline high. I briefly and proudly show my mom the night’s catch and before she can say ‘Oh, wow,’ I’ve already begun staring at my jar, full of little lightning bugs. It’s glowing bright, my suburban lantern. My usual request to bring the jar inside has been denied again, per usual. Now it’s time for me to make this glass jar for my lightning bugs a home. I’m poking tiny holes in the top of the jar using a pen now so they can breath. I’m going to place some grass in too so they have food. What a nice home I’ve made for Steven, Ross, Fireman, Lightdude, Ember, Doug, Nick, and Eric. *I’m going to say good night to you now, little guys. I’ll see you in the morning!* Morning is here now and I’m running outside to check on my prized jar. Only one of my fireflies is alive now. He’s slowly crawling across the bottom of the glass, navigating through the bodies of his mothers, brothers, sisters, aunts. His belly is smoldering ever so dimly now, barely casting a light in this hot morning sun. I don’t think they liked the grass I gave them, either. “Mom, why do my bugs always die in the morning? I even gave them grass this time.” I’m asking my poor mother now. “Because…” She begins. “Because their light only burns for a night. They burn bright and hot, some more bright than others. Their bellies are big and glow at night but it will only last for so long. In the morning their lightbulb burns out and they die. Their lightbulb burns out, that’s all.” Shaking my now lifeless and lightless jar out into the yard now, I’m wondering how bright my lightbulb will burn. | 4,201 | 5 |
Excerpts’ from “The Journal” This is one of the journal entries from a book called “The Journal”. Let me know what you think........ :: January 10th 7:55 am It’s snowing. Still the first one here. I hate the snow. It took me 2 hours to drive to work and I smoked all my cigarettes. My head hurts. I have had the same head ache for 6 months. It seems to only go away when I am drunk or high. I remember a time in my life when I loved the snow. I was born in February, so snow was always reminded me of my birthday and that was exciting. I hate my birthday now too. I need more cigarettes. I think it is the craziest shit in the world to go to work and pretend to be happy or excited to be there; when you are dying inside. If people acted the way they felt, everyone would fucking hate everybody. I hate the background noise of casual conversation. Who cares about your weekend, you’re probably telling me a lie about what you did anyway; so that you can think that I still respect you. If I told you the truth about what I did this weekend, you would think I’m fucking nuts. I can just imagine that conversation with these Midwest jerkoffs. “Oh, hey Bob, how was your weekend”? “Good, just relaxing, how ‘bout yours”? “Good, you know, the usual, got piss drunk wasted, blew coke in a bar’s bathroom until my nose was clogged and then spent Sunday masturbating in between throwing up”. Fuck these people. We have nothing in common. I am constantly acting. It’s hard not to curse. I love coffee. I love coffee with cigarettes. I sometimes day dream about how awesome it was when you could smoke at your desk and basically anywhere you wanted. I have an old Playboy that shows add for TWA, where the hot stewardess is lighting the business man’s cigarette. That is awesome. But, I still think its ass backwards to smoke indoors. I hate the way you stink the next day after going to a bar that lets you smoke inside. It also seems to bring in the morons. I hate bar games. You can still smoke inside in my home town. I hate my home town. My dogs will probably shit inside my house today; they won’t go in the snow. They are good dogs though. We got them from the pound and they were abused as puppies. They have little scares on their feet from their cages at the puppy mills. What kind of soulless piece of trash do you have to be to abuse a fucking puppy? They were a gift to my fiancé. We are getting married in September and moving to LA the first of the year. This is all I think about. I can’t wait to get out of here. I once planned to move there, but chickened out because I had to do it alone. Pussy. Now I have her and she wants to move there too, so it’s perfect. I don’t care if I have to be a bartender; at least it’s not here. At least there is some fucking culture and life and art and something to do besides, drink yourself to death every fucking weekend. I am excited for every moment of our move; from the house hunting, to packing our shit, the drive, the hotels, the adventure. That is what life is about. Not this day-to-day Midwest bullshit, I suffer through. I am done playing this fucking corporate shit. I am successful, but fuck it, I hate it. People with any talent don't live here. I can’t stand anything about living here. The way people talk, the way people act, the fact that everyone is a grossly obese and no one seems to notice how fucking ridiculous that is. When the fuck did everyone become so fucking fat and stupid. I sometime wish I was stupid. That would be an easier road. Someone just showed up. There goes my morning. fuck this. | 3,586 | 4 |
And introduce an element of cynicism and darkness into it and just realize that we're all vulnerable. We are humans. There is a finite end to this life and we're all going to face it and a little silliness can help. ~Alan Thicke There, in the large city of New York, on the date July 21st, 2001, sat a man named John Swift. John was at the age of 21, and just beginning to grow the urge to, as a man, enjoy his first drinks inside of a bar. At least, to do it legally. You see, John was never one to think things through. He always did things spontaneously, rather than take the time to understand what had happened. He was average- in all senses of the word. He wore average clothes, average shoes, average shaggy hair, average glasses, and had average intelligence. But what made John completely unique, was in fact, his averageness. Upon entering the bar, he found two of his highschool friends sitting at the desk, though none took notice of John. John wasn’t extraordinary in any way, and so they weren’t able to tell him from the bartender. It was often a joke, in fact, that John could literally go anywhere and become invisible. John sat at the bar, and slowly began to enjoy the beer. It had been a long day at work. John was a factory worker, at which he continuously worked the same machine for hours upon hours. “So, what’s your name?” said a stranger that had strode up to the bar. John was spooked by the mans voice. It was seductively deep, to the point where it made John want to answer. John had absolutely no resistance to the man’s voice, and quickly gave in. “John. John Swift,” he said. The man was strange in all senses. He was tall, wore gigantic glasses that covered a majority of his face, and wore a hat that shadowed the rest of his face that couldn’t be seen. His jacket was soaking wet, but there was no rain outside. His shoes were work boots, covered in slabs of mud, regardless of the fact they were in New York and there wasn’t a puddle of mud to be seen anywhere. He gave off the scent of nature, which only made John wonder all the more where this man came from. “Ah, nice to meet you John. Thought I recognized you from somewhere, where might you work? If I could inquire.” The man’s voice was only becoming stranger and stranger, sort of pulling John into it. “The factory down the street. We produce boxes. I work the hot glue gun.” “Ah, I work nowhere near that,” he claimed as he gave a bellowing laugh. He quickly ordered whisky on rocks, and sat next to John, continuing the conversation. “So what religion are you, John?” John had never been asked that question in his life. Sure, he naturally was a Christian as was most of the other population, but never was asked. This man was now giving off a welcoming aura, and it only made John more interested. “Christian.” “Ah, and do you know why you’re Christian?” John had never even thought about it. “No, not really.” Adam winked, “Isn’t that the mystery, John.” “What’s your name?” John asked, getting just slightly enough courage to ask. “Adam. No last name.” John nodded, and the name Adam brought back memories. None of them were as welcoming as that man. It reminded him of a bully in elementary school, who often shoved John into lockers, pull his hair, and beat him senseless. John shuddered at the thought of that Adam. That Adam never had a last name either. But what that Adam did do was make John stand out, for once in his life. The feeling was elevating, regardless of the pain. It gave him pride, the scars. His parents took notice of him out of his three brothers and sisters. It gave him joy. “I see. I knew an Adam once. Not the greatest fellow, but he did a lot for me. Even if he never knew it.” “Oh, I wouldn’t say he never knew it,” Adam said. John looked curiously up at this Adam, but didn’t say anything. “You’re easy to read John. Maybe too easy.” John realized that, and then nodded. Adam quit bullying him a week later, and his parents quit noticing him. Maybe Adam knew that hurt him more than any pain. Of course, then again, Adam might’ve been doing it because he knew it would help John. John’s mind was flashing with new thoughts that he’d never had before. “So are you in college John?” Adam asked as he took another shot. “No. My parents never had enough money to send me there. I never paticularly wanted to do college anyway,” John said gloomfully. Adam laughed, “John, you’re a fool. Anyone could tell you wanted to go college. You don’t want to be this average bastard you are. You want to be better than that.” John started to say something, then stopped. This Adam man knew an awful lot. “C’mon, John, follow me. I gotta show you something.” John rose from his seat, and followed Adam. A tall stranger, full of mysteries. Yet, he trusted this man more than anyone else in his life. They walked out of the door, and continued down the street. It had gotten dark since he was in the bar. What time was it? Then it got foggy. He couldn’t see anything. Where was he? He heard horns, he saw lights, and then nothing. He layed in the cold darkness, and was lost with his thoughts. He began to think about the world. He began to see the world. He saw himself sitting on a throne- a king. He saw himself on the streets- a peasant. He saw himself everywhere, and nowhere. He was writing a book. The book. He was hung on a piece of wood. He was the world. And the world was him. He finally woke up, in a hospital. A stranger sat next to him, vaguely familiar. “Adam?” John asked, his throat sore and could barely produce a noise. “John? How are you feeling?” “I’m... Perplexed.” John admitted. “I’m sorry, John, I lied to you.” “What do you mean?” John asked. “I mean I lied to you. My name's not Adam. I didn’t recognize you- well I did, but not in the way you are thinking.” “What are you talking about Adam?” John said, still unbelieving of what this man was saying. It seemed like he was telling the truth. “I’m an Angel, John.” “An Angel?” John asked. What was he talking about? “Not the kind of Angel you’re thinking about...” Adam said, in a low voice. “What...?” John asked, but it suddenly hit him. One of the things he saw when he was asleep. “You’re... Satan?” Adam nodded, slowly and sadly. “What are you doing here? Why are you here looking for me?!” John asked, terrified. “Do you know who God is, John?” Satan asked. “Wha- What kind of crazy question is that? Of course I don’t- he’s not on Earth. He’s not a human. I’ve never even met a man aside from you who could possibly be God.” “That’s not true, John. God is on Earth. He is a human. And he’s in this very room.” John opened his mouth, and began gaping. “I’m... God...?” John asked Satan nodded, obviously sad, “I’m so sorry, John. So sorry. You’re God. This is your world. You created this, and then locked yourself into this world. I was put here to free you. To release you from your own mind.” “What... I was never special at all!” John yelled, trying to disprove Satan. “Thats what was so special about you. You would never have known. If I never crossed that bar by accident, if I never beat you as a child, you would have lived your life and died as a human, and you would have kept doing this over and over. Your world is created specifically for these few moments.” “You’re crazy! Get out of my hospital room!” John yelled, but slowly his eyes were opening up. Truly openning up. Satan stood up, and his coat flew off. Wings of bone shot out, his red flesh was there, horns upon his head. “This is all a figment of yourself, John,” he said, and walked out of the room. John saw the world melt around him, and saw sand everywhere. He heard the ocean lapping the ground, he felt the breeze touch his face, he saw the sky above him. He was slowly forgetting the world he created. The average life. The memories. Everything was now just relying on this world. This world was him now. Empty. Alone. *Just a note, I totally stole the idea from Mark Twain- The Mysterious Stranger. I'd like it if people just totally ripped this apart and told me everything I did wrong. | 8,322 | 0 |
Batman looked out the empty window to see an empty chair in a field full of pansies all up staring up at him with their little faces. Some were a deep dark purple and others were varying shades from sky to royal blue. There were also some yellow and white ones which were only just yellow or white. This year was unseasonably warm but the flowers didn't seem to mind. If they were asked they would say they really enjoyed the warm weather, each others' company and the extra lifespan given that the lawn hadn't been mowed in over two months. Batman simply stared out the window in a typical Batman-grimace way as he was unable to appreciate the pansies. He was actually upset the lawn hadn't been mowed. The pansies didn't mind. The chair probably didn't mind either since it was just a chair and not pansies or Batman or any kind of flower at all. -- I really like pansies. For most of this year I had forgotten what they were called until I asked my mom "What are the ones with the faces?". There was a lot of them in my yard this summer. Then one day my dad came over and mowed the lawn. | 1,103 | 16 |
I wake up in the morning. I get up, get ready for work. Boots, pants, belt, shirt, mask. I step outside. Immediately, I can’t breathe. I adjust my mask. I can breathe now. The bus ride always seems longer than it is. I always get stares. Not hidden stares like most other people get. Bold, challenging stares. The people don’t know who I am. They have never met me. But they hate me, somehow. I ignore them and try to relax. I step off the bus, walk quickly to my building. I can’t wait to start. Working always calms me, in a strange way. As I walk through the crowds, I again attract the gaze of several people. I’m thankful of my mask. They can’t see my eyes. They will never know how much I hate them back. Finally, I’m here. There’s no offices, no cubicles, no desks, not even other people. Just a cavernous room, entirely white. When I step in, I am alone. Breathe in, breathe out. And repeat. Left foot, right foot. And repeat. I must concentrate. I can’t work if I don’t recognize patterns. My heart beats 173 times in one minute. I blink 17 times. I feel an itch behind my left eye. White becomes black. My heart stops beating. My eyes a permanently open. I no longer need to breathe. Time to start. I love my job. I was born to do it. Literally bred through many generations, to create the perfect worker. I was isolated from birth to my 18th birthday, when I started working. I was trained by automated systems for eighteen years, just to make me as perfect as possible. Just to make me detached as possible. Just to make me ready. I think I have lived up to expectations. Probably exceeded them. I love my job. And I am amazing at it. First assignment. It’s nearby. A simple one, stationary and weak. I get there somehow. Not physically, my body remains in a white chamber. I don’t know what I am right now. I just can’t be seen, except by my clients. I arrive. She sees me. She screams. She gets up, runs. It’s not much of a chase. I immediately catch her. She is still screaming. My mask dissolves. She can’t scream anymore. I am done here. It is an easy work day. Mostly old, sickly, or newborn. I love my job, but it’s more fun when they can fight. When they can run. When I can play with them. I like a challenge. Though it rarely is challenging. I return home. Bathe. Eat. Read. Sleep. The next day will be more of the same, I think. I want the same. I live off of patterns. Wake up. Boots, pants, belt, shirt, mask, bus, white, black. First assignment. Second. Third. All within seconds of each other. I must work fast to finish all my duties. Noon. Night. Home, bathe, eat, read, sleep. And repeat. I have been working for years. I have stopped aging. I don’t know how old I am. I remain in perfect condition for years, until I need to be Replaced. I await that day. I love my job. But I long freedom. Today, I feel… odd. I take the usual steps to work. It’s my fortieth client for today. I am distracted. She is a fighter. Young. Almost as perfect as me. She distracts me. She does not run, as most do. She stands her ground. Looks me in the eyes. Or where my eyes would be, if she could see them. She speaks to me. She speaks words I have heard of, but I do not understand her. I am filled with my usual rage, but something else is creeping in to me. She continues talking. Two words. She starts to repeat two words. “Thank you.” I do not understand. I have been cursed at, told to die, pleaded with, even. Never thanked. I hesitate. That small feeling grows. No. I must complete this task. She grabs my hand. Wraps herself around me. “Thank you.” I can’t. I hate my job. I forget all my other assignments. She must be mine. No. I must behers. No. We must be. Yes. We must be. I lift her. She starts crying. I feel tears against my chest. I lift her, hold her close. I am back in the white. She is with me. We must be. We must escape. They will be after me. I don’t care about me. She must be safe. I know where to hide. Finally, we are here. We are safe. For now. She has stopped crying. I set her down. She is tired. She lays down, closes her eyes. Smiles, and falls asleep. I look around. I have not been here since I started working. My childhood home. My development center. My training grounds. It is the perfect hiding place. Undetectable, and impenetrable by those I do not want in. They won’t be able to get in. I hope. Two days have passed. I have not slept. She has done nothing but. I spend my time staring at her. Exploring her past. She has had a hard life. She is my opposite. She knows of nothing but life. I continue to stare. She awakes. Immediately, she leaps up and clutches me tightly. That growing feeling has almost overwhelmed me. I feel she is hungry. I am lucky. All the machinery still works. A meal is made. Another for me. I don’t know where it comes from. I now it is an infinite supply. We will survive. Weeks have passed. We are still alive. I still fear our capture. I still wear my mask. I cannot take it off. We do not talk. We do not have to. That feeling has grown to take over everything else. I feel different. I love her. I awake. It is dark. She is asleep. I sense something. No. We have been found. No. Not by them. They have sent someone. I have been stupid. I forgot he could get in the same way we did. My Replacement is here. I will miss her. I get up. Walk to another room. This one is a mirror of my workspace. White and huge. I lock the door. I sit in the center. I take off my mask. I wait. I will miss her. Hours pass. Or minutes. Or years. I cannot tell. I sense him drawing nearer. He is cautious. He thinks I will fight. I will not. I will miss her. Finally, he is here. I open my eyes. I see me. No. I see someone who looks like me. I stare at the figure, clothed in all black, with his mask still on. I nod. He nods back. I will miss her. He steps up. Puts a hand on my shoulder. His mask dissolves. Freedom. I will miss her. | 6,071 | 1 |
I am currently writing a short story (which may one day evolve into it`s own series) about a boy, aged 16, who is tragically anti social, although he does manage to get some normal friends. One day , through some unknown chain of events (obviously i`ll make one), he decides to create an alter ego, J. J is everything that Dean(name?) isn`t. He`s cool calm and collected, he`s well liked, he`s goal oriented, he`s mysterious. He is the talk of all the girls, and the poster boy for all the boys. Dean just wanted to feel a little less alone, but J wanted to be king of the world. So guys any input, suggestions, ideas, advice would be really helpful! I`ve done some writing, but never a project with so much potential for expansion. | 736 | 1 |
"I don't mean to be depressing, but I sometimes feel I have nothing to gain from a meaningful conversation other than the endorphinous rush of mammalian bonding. But then again, I am one lonely bloke." These where the words typd on Fogrowalds frontdoor, if not lonely, he was at the very least odd, at the very least a bit off, but still full of hope, to put it bluntly. Of course you couldn't discern that from the notice on his front door. His reasons for hanging it on that front door were ambigous, he probably didn't know himself. That's not saying much tho, he is very much not the kind of person to know that himself. If asked he would probably respond with a very logical sounding reason. But merely logical doesn't mean it's the true reason now does it? Of course not. And therein lay Fogrowaldes true problem, a nagging disbelief in himself. Not merely a case of the bad selfesteems, but a case of the bad selfesteems founded by shakey newagey science involving receptors and evoloutionary theory. All adding up to some kind of "without abolute knowledge of the physical state of our brain we cant REALLY know what's going on". A philosophy that while fanciful and deepsounding indeed, offered few real insights. Fogleworth was not no misunderstood genius, he merely did not know how to navigate the fragile threads of contemporary society. Of course he had plodded down the anticultural path, but he had quickly realized, thanks to his evoloutionary biologythinking that connection with other humans is so important. And no matter how 'brilliant' you may be, if youre a dick, people will always treat you as a dick. Thusly he had to learn to navigate society. To sing the song of smalltalk, of latenight chatter, of empty meaningless conversation devoid of content. To harmonize to the tune of humans flocking together. To rejoice in being that most sapient of the homos. To be a man. To be a man ultimately amounteed to being a gossipy nonsense talking barfly fuck. No fuck this actually thought Fogleworth, but of course, didnt do nothing about it. He wanted to be happy, not rational. Still the orange streetlights on the walk home shone bright and kindly upon him, their reflections in the river made poetry that no served no purpose to anyone but him, and they made his night worthwhile. | 2,305 | 0 |
Our story takes place amidst a dreary time, where flies almost conquered the world with their exponential growth and insatiable thirst for blood. But the ingenuity of the plant kingdom ultimately brought the earth a new beginning in a bleak time. An island at war the inhabitants grew hostile towards the tribes over centuries of aggressively opposing religious debates, it ended in an island slaughtered, thousands of island people lay shore to shore of putrefying flesh. For the next several months, the already magnitude of flies became the most vile infestation ever, the island was like a giant pulsating maggot teeming with puss. There was eventually too many flies and the island was not enough to fit them all one atop another, piles of dead flies along the shore and diminished food supply due to increasing demand. With starvation rampant and their demise eminent, the elder flies devised a plan based upon myths of far off utopias abundant in resources, over the water. The swarm would synchronize as a unit and make the grand excursion. The magnitude of flies has grown tremendously at this point, reaching a near thousand fold of the forgotten island itself, now enveloped in decay. The swarm departed from the once oasis and left a rancid sore in the middle of the ocean. For a week the slightly diminished horde of flies battled the waters harsh, salty gusts, feasting upon whatever lofty cadavers they encountered, they saw land and with a sudden burst of vigour they hastily made way. Victims of the oncoming attack had full suspicion something was awry, for the magnificent, sunny day beset by a sudden absence of flooding warm rays, replaced with a distant buzz, ominously looming. The ravenous swarm longed for the taste of flesh and was eager to obtain this. A vicious and most painful practice consisted of engulfing a person in a swarm and sucking draining one’s life force from the soul. Within a fortnight the flies had eradicated all other living creatures, aside from themselves. The heavens obscured with an insurmountable mass of flies that now drape the sky. Flies claimed superiors of the animal kingdom, dominating the others; too vain to admit destroyed any future for themselves and earth. They were now split off in groups scavenging for sustenance. Throughout this entire ordeal, the silent witness were the plants, which were now dying from lack of sunlight. They communicated and decide it was time for action, time to band together and bring the cursed flies reign to an end. After much deliberation they decided to make a trap, something to attract all the flies in order to rid them once and for all. All plant life spliced and fused back together, creating a colossal container rimmed with large barbs. They brought a combination of scents of assorted flora, until it produced a putrid aroma, which aroused flies from all around the world to one region. They drove drown into the trap like a cyclone, as soon as they reached the chamber they all burned in the digestive acids of the newly formed plant. The chemical reaction was so intense the plant erupted, shooting bubbling mess of black viscous liquid, everywhere. From this repugnant scum that veiled the earth arose a new order of creatures, including our unsung hero, the venus fly trap. The world grew back and regained the glory it once was constant battles between natural forces, trying to keep a steady equilibrium. | 3,440 | 1 |
He was just an ordinary kid at school. Kind of chubby, brown hair, average height, your average middleschooler. Every day, her would go about his schedule, go home, and wait for the next day. But one day, he noticed a very pretty girl. Long, Blonde, Flowing hair. Kind of tall, the kind of person who stands out in a crowd. Every day this boy would just stare at this girl in the hallway. He didn't even know her name. Imagine that. That boy wanted to meet this girl, and get to know her. He approached her the next day. "Uh.. Hi." "Hello.." "I'm Sean.. are you new here?" "Umm.. yeah. I still need to memorize this place, I still get lost." "I could show you around, if you'd like." "I'd like that. I'm Rachel, by the way." "Nice to meet you, Rachel." Every day after that they would talk, study together, and sometimes just.. talk. But one day, Rachel knocked on Sean's door. "Hey Rachel." She appeared to be crying, tears streaming down her face. "Oh Sean.." She said, "Cody cheated on me... I saw him kissing a girl behind the gym!" "That's... horrible. I'm so sorry..." "Please... I need someone to talk to.." "I'm always here." "I'm glad you're my friend.... I wish more guys were like you.." Months past and Rachel was still dating guys, while Sean always comforted her through harsh times. No matter how many boyfriends she had... Sean always loved her. One day, Sean couldn't hold it in anymore. He had to tell Rachel how he felt. He went to her house, and noticed something in her window. Rachel and her ex-boyfriend, the one who cheated on her, was sitting on her couch, kissing her. Sean was heartbroken. He couldn't tell her now! He ran back to his house, and just sat in his room in silence. He continued to admire her, without her knowing his feelings. Years past, and that love still went on strong. No matter what happened, he couldn't get her out of his head. | 1,899 | 0 |
Peerless was her name, and in every way throughout her short, thirty-three year life, she was a paragon of excellence--just as her name might imply. Valedictorian, Rhodes Scholar, possessing prefect penmanship: everything about Peerless was without flaw, including her exactingly cerulean blue eyes that never saw a moment of bloodshot. Her honey-blonde coif was always neat, with never a hair out of place; and today it was held nicely in French braids, without a fray in view. The stylish shoes she wore were never scuffed; and the seams of her white stockings were always straight as an arrow from her heel up to beneath the neatly pressed skirt that covered areas polite ladies simply do not discuss. In her, perfection was personified; but the problem of perfection is boredom. For Peerless, nothing ever went awry; nothing unfolded in any way that wasn't exactly as it should. Though perfect to external eyes, she dreamed of new discoveries that didn't exist in her world--a world which made her weary. Even now, while sitting on a park bench, contemplating her end, she showed impeccable posture. Try as she might, she simply could not slouch. This was typical Peerless. Even the gun she brought with her was polished to an unearthly sheen. She had only one bullet--after all, she wouldn't need more. Aiming at her chest and pulling the trigger with her thumb she fired, and felt no pain. As she calmly set the gun beside her, she felt the eyes of many upon her, but she was used to that, sadly. Looking down, the perfect rosette of blood formed on her white blouse, and not a single petal of the red unfolded in a manner unbecoming her legacy of exactitude. She had hoped for irreverent chaos, splatters, or gore. Instead she was a picture-perfect soon-to-be corpse as the blood billowed outward in circles; yet not a drop fell on her skirt. "Dammit," she said, "I can't even screw this up." Then she closed her eyes as if going to sleep and breathed her last. Peerless left nothing out of place for the police and paramedics as they rushed in moments too late. In the end she got what she long desired, just not for herself: a chorus of glorious noise surrounded her body as she quickly grew cold. Someplace, wherever it is that spirits go, Peerless found some satisfaction in the mess she finally was able to make. | 2,330 | 8 |
All criticism is awesome! thanks A Bad Suggestion From the seventh floor balcony, I waited for the stars to rise and fall. Just as soon as they went up, they were greeted by another far away star, and together they would dance in a melancholy stupor until they met at a focal point of blackness, and subsequently collided leaving smolder and hot metal parading the sky. The 7TH floor of the abandoned children’s hospital was an ideal place to watch them, and I remember doing so with my older brother. Sometimes we would cheer for more rising stars, and sometimes we would recognize the stars for what they truly were. Our moods were interchangeable based on how we felt, and often, were just interpretations, for they never lasted. In the end it was the same old story. Genocide had swept our nation like a broom, and its only remaining duty was to sweep the rest of us under the rug. We were of the last ones there; the survivors. We were alone and had nothing to rely on but each other, and our father’s mandatory last advisement: “Trust No one.” This, of course, was months before his last and more imperative words: “Run!” On this particular night the moon was full, and whenever there was a hiatus in the back and forth of gunfire and floating bombs, we could still see our native Africa illuminate from the same light that had guided our ancestors. We got tired of listening to the clamor of bullets ricochet, and bored of watching the flares and missiles illuminate the sky. We were hungry, and had nowhere to sleep. It was time to begin our night’s usual routine of scavenging. My brother nudged me in the shoulder, “Come on, we have to go now.” We turned around from the balcony and sprinted down the concrete stairs of the hospital until we reached the bottom. When we made it out of the hospital stairs, the smell hit us. The stench of death is something that is overwhelming at first, but just like anything if you give it time, it will either take on the droll task of expected repetition or, it will haunt your every dream, and stalk your every move. It was most definitely stalking us and it scared us more than ever. We proceeded to run immediately to our right, through the cold sand, and past the huge tree. Usually, the task of running just on the outskirts of immediate war was enough to urge us to keep running. However, on this particular night, the leafless branches of the tree collided with the silver radiance of the moon in an utmost peculiar way. We stopped and watched the branches sway just for a moment. I don’t know why we stopped. Maybe it was just intuition telling us, but our intuition had been sidetracked for so long, we dared not to think that. Our momentary seconds of splendor were soon over, and we began to run again. The sand whistled beneath our cracked black feet as we ran. I remember the unusual chill in the air, and the warmness that would embrace my face each time a far- away missile would light up the sky, and leave its presence booming in the echoes of the barren desert. As we ran, the village where we used to live approached our immediate right, and just adjacent to them were the black windows and torn rubble that used to be our home. We didn’t dare look, for if we did we might have tried to decipher our home from the others, which of course would just perpetuate the fact that there were no homes left at all. It was important to us that we carry no baggage, we were free of emotion. We were no longer people, and I only say this because we had no characteristics of any normal person. We were too young to generate any logical conclusions on our non-generic personalities, so we just went with the notion that we had none. Our feet kept moving until we reached an old tire factory. The smell of burning rubber was still lingering in the air like a flame from an old wick, as we mechanically hopped over the only part of the fence that was not barb wired. There was a light on in the distance. If somebody was there we would rip them to shreds. We didn’t care who they were or why they were there. Trust no one. That was our motto, and we stuck to it like it was the law. Perhaps it was the sound of our tearing flesh on the rocks beneath us, or, perhaps it was the flickering shadow that left its impression so memorably on the hard dirt path. I don’t know what it was for sure, but somebody inside of that room heard us. We began to run faster as the room beyond us started to rumble with preparation. My brother pulled out a long blade that sparkled in the moonlight. Then, that door opened. He warned us to stop, but we kept on going. We were savages. As we neared, the outline of the man’s skull began to familiarize itself with the images of my mind. I paid no attention. The man pulled out a large assault rifle, and we stopped dead in our tracks. He shot my brother between the eyes and I locked mine with his. My brother was dead on the ground. He was only following the advice that my father had given him: Run, and trust no one. He did well. Then, it became clear to me and my shadowed counterpart just exactly who we were looking at. The man I was staring at was my father. As he dropped down in tears, I glanced at my brother’s bloody corpse, and soon after brought my head up to look at the battles in the distance. I took one hard glance at my father, and then remembered his last pieces of advice to me and my deceased brother. I proceeded to turn around and run as fast as I could. | 5,479 | 1 |
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