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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 |
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