Sunday, January 13, 2013


By Alex Humva:

The innocent suffer, in this world.

My mother taught me that when I was little. I had no father, she told me. Only a man who had taken advantage of an innocent girl. She had once had money, she told me. Enough to buy a real house and real food. Then he came and took it all, and she trusted him. She was innocent, he was not. She suffered, and the law did nothing of it. Legalities, they said. Things that had to do with taxes and government reports and government numbers. Things that no one could ever hope to understand and yet were followed anyways.

So she taught me that if I wanted to be successful, I had to manipulate my innocence. People fool themselves into thinking that they care about it, after all. They fool themselves into thinking that they look at the innocent and smile. Use that against them, and you ruled them. So my mother began teaching me to do that. When I was ten, I stole us dinner from the local gas station. By the time I was thirteen I could pickpocket strangers without them ever suspecting a thing. When I was sixteen I had extorted hundreds out of their money.

It was a risky business of course. We moved constantly, going from one apartment to another. We lived off of TV dinners and stolen alcohol. It usually was the only thing that kept us alive, kept us from taking it out on each other. We loved each other so much, yes, but times were stressful. They got worse when my mother was caught looting a man's room that she had been with the night before. She went to jail for five years thanks to that stunt, and I was left holding a rather nasty bag of implications. The state took custody of me for a little while, and after a review of my case knew that loosing me on the streets was just asking for trouble.

So they cut me a deal. They said I was a product of my environment, that underneath I was a good person. An innocent person. They told me that a charity would let me go to school, go to a small college and make a good little citizen out of me. The alternative they offered was keeping an eye on me until I took the wrong wallet and ended up with my mother. I figured they were bluffing, but I couldn't call it. I didn't fear prison, but it didn't mean I wanted to find myself locked up behind those bars.

So I took their deal, and now my past crimes are repaid. I became a good little innocent. My mother was released, but we never spoke much after that. I was trapped in my own little prison, trapped with a society that valued innocence while simultaneously squashing it. I still exploited others though, it was in my blood. I exploited the innocent, and they were clueless as to what had happened.

Because the innocent suffer in this world.


By Rene/EW:

She was guilty as charged and her lawyers all knew there was no way they could defend her. “Your best bet is a plea bargain,” they told her. “Twenty years is what they’ll give you. If you do anything else, it’s life in prison or death row.” The lawyer said it with no passion, no energy, it was just like that: This or nothing. Life or death. He was so simple in his tone that it just made her imagine he had said the same thing to countless others. Their words reverberated in her mind, numbed to the reality like their tongues.

“... How do you plead?” the judge asked her. The lawyers had rehearsed this line in her head for the last two hours before the hearing. She would say she was guilty “your honour” and that would be it. The rest would be handled behind closed doors.

“Innocent, your honour,” she said with forté. She could almost feel the eyes of her lawyers burn into her spine, fueled by the kinetic energy of their rustling papers and briefcases. She stepped away from the table and sauntered back to her seat with her representatives and ignored their commentary. They didn’t matter to her. She was the only thing that mattered.

The trial went on for a month. All the while her eyes glazed over and she recalling the past, a past that seemed so pretty and distant like the stars in the nighttime sky. Those gems turned to diamonds in her memory, jewels on necklaces given as engagement gifts. A handsome faced man was giving them to her, a present to toast for the future. They were supposed to live their lives together, grow old happy as one. But like the band on the necklace the future can fall apart with just a tug.

When she knew what was going on behind her back, how that fiancee was using her to get to her father and was cheating on her for another woman named Miriam she acted without remorse. She killed Miriam with a pillow and whispered her name into the victim’s ear before she ran her fiancee over with her car just outside Miriam’s house. The evidence was all there, stacked against her, and everyone knew it.

Her lawyers, though not happy with her plea, still defended her. They cited being at the wrong place at the wrong time, though she could never know that it was really her father pulling at the strings. The final day came at last and she sat with her lawyers, unsure what to truly expect, when the news came out.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

“Yes, your honour,” came the reply. She didn’t bother listening to the speaker until the end. All she heard was one word: “Innocent.”

And that was it. She was guilty as charged, but charged no more.


By Nick/Zarayna:


“Good God,” you whisper, staring at the scene in front of you. Even afterwards, the only thing your mind registers is a blur of lights; random accidents, with no forms registering in your mind. One of the blobs of formless matter is looking at you, what much your muddled brain manages to perceive. That look serves to pierce through your daze, and the room becomes suddenly clear. The first thing your mind registers is those eyes. Both of them, staring at you. Then your ears note a scream, and your back feels the wall as you stagger back against it. Then the eyes, and the body around them snap to the front of your attention, and your head moves up as the eyes rise, propelled by their restings. Your hands come to the front of your attention as you claw wildly for a door, for an escape. There’s none. 

The first thing registers again, a form you’d forced out of your memory though it was the one that began your shock. The still and well night shredded body lying at the feet—if feet exist there—of the being possessing the eyes that your attention snaps back to. Your breath sounds ragged and quick, hoarse now as well. Even still your ears are ringing from the screams, your mouth open and emitting them regardless of your will.

The eyes are moving closer, silencing you with their steady gaze. You seek to move to move to one side, only to bang into a wall; that’s why you couldn’t find a door, you’d backed into a corner.

A scream louder than any others sounds as something grips you. Then blackness.

When you’re found, alone and splattered with the blood of ‘your’ victim the next morning, there’s only one phrase that you utter over and over in a crazed chant.

“I’m innocent.”


By Peach 00:


I was awoken by the unexpected sound of a door opening outside of my small bedroom. It was a large, ear-shattering crash, as if somebody had kicked in the door – I heard the screams of men, speaking in thick German accents I didn’t understand due to the voices being muffled through the walls. I knew who they were, however, for that was no secret – my eyes snapped open at the sound of their sharp voices, and I simply shrunk underneath the covers in an effort to hide.

I was always afraid of the soldiers. They always carried rifles, and marched through the streets of our town…they had taken our town over months ago, searching for men and women. I didn’t really know why, and every time I asked, I was hushed by my parents, told that I was to be quiet. I would understand when I was older…that was always what I was told.

Sometimes I wondered, too, why we would take in strangers, feed them, and make them our own family. I didn’t mind it, though, for they were good company when I wasn’t able to go to school. However, one of these people we had made my caretaker, named Annemarie. She was very kind, about the age of twenty, and had lost her parents several months ago. She was unlike the rest of my family – she had dark, brunette hair and hazel eyes, much like our other visitors. She had been my caretaker for several weeks now.

I heard the sounds of soft footsteps approaching my bedroom door. I was nervous at first, but then my door opened up abruptly, revealing it to be caretaker Annemarie. She was dressed in her robe, holding a flickering candle in her shaking hands. She said quietly with worry in her voice, “Quickly, Ellen, out the window!”

I was confused. I whispered in question, “But why, Annemarie?” She hesitated before she answered, but she shook her head sadly.

“We have to go, Ellen,” was her gloomy reply. I saw a tear in her as she said this, and she thereupon she picked me up hastily. We climbed out the window onto the fire escape. I turned my head back towards the bedroom, and I heard the horrifying sounds of my mother crying out in pain, and my father screaming at the German officers.

Somehow, I knew that I would never see them again.


Here I am, thirty years later…I was a child then. I realize now that they were accomplices in helping the Jewish people the freedom. How innocent I was, a simple girl of seven…I did not know. I wish now that I had retained some of the innocence of my youth, but I knew that I had to know of what occurred to my parents some time in my life.

I stood by their supposed graves, my eyes gazing at the crude wooden sticks that marked their graves. Somehow, I knew these were the graves of my parents…I remember being told that they were buried here, at this specific place in the cemetery. They had been shot in the town square – just an hour after my escaping with Annemarie, who died but a year or two ago herself of a heart attack.

I laid the huge bundles of flowers I held in my hands – one a bouquet of bright yellow daisies, in memory of my mother’s favorite flower and color, and another bouquet made up of carnations for my father. The third bouquet I had I put down between their graves…pale pink roses, sweet smelling and beautiful. As I laid the flowers there, I began to shed tears. I had never been able to say goodbye to them.

Some say ignorance is bliss. I prefer to say that innocence is bliss.

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