tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14615640337893672112024-02-20T01:44:23.933-08:00The Ambage Write-Off CentralVeloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-34609552072517265142013-06-29T19:11:00.000-07:002013-06-29T19:32:28.240-07:00Bones/The Chronicler<table border="0" cellspacing="0" class="topic" id="topic_viewer" style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr><td class="c_post"><strong>Space Bones</strong><br />
by John/55555<br />
<br />
"Bones," the lookout reported numbly, "Crossed bones on a black flag."<br />
<br />
The captain's face hardened. It was the year 3177 AD, but the flag still meant the same thing. Pirates, in inter-stellar space.<br />
<br />
There had been reports of a rogue vessel trolling the spaceways between Alpha Centauri and Sol. The route was crucial to the war effort, and had implications far beyond the Alpha Centauri system.<br />
<br />
"Sound battle stations."<br />
<br />
The captain rose from his chair and engaged his microphone. "Give me the enemy ship, lieutenant."<br />
<br />
"Yes sir."<br />
<br />
With a hiss of static the green light blinked on.<br />
<br />
"This is Captain Throne of the SLS O'Kane. Unless you power down your weapon systems we will commence our attack."<br />
<br />
"This is Collestus of the free ship Enemiga. It has been awhile, old friend."<br />
<br />
The captain showed no reaction, but within his heart was in turmoil. Collestus was one of his mentors from the Royal Academy, and there wasn't a better ship-to-ship combat strategist in the fleet. There had been rumor that Rear Admiral Collestus had disappeared, but he had never connected them to the appearance of the Enemiga. Collestus a traitor... It was unbelievable.<br />
<br />
"We will power down our weapon systems and surrender our ship to your prize crew. Opening main hatch now to receive your shuttle."<br />
<br />
Throne's eyes narrowed, and he smiled slightly. Treachery was always a safe strategy.<br />
<br />
"Surrender received, Enemiga. Our shuttle will deploy shortly. Over and out."<br />
<br />
The captain gestured the first officer to his side.<br />
<br />
"Load the shuttle craft with all the proton torpedos that it will hold, and a skeleton crew of our lowest grade ship livestock."<br />
<br />
"Yes Captain Thorne."<br />
<br />
The captain thought for a second. What if Collestus fired on the shuttle craft while it was still in the O'Kane's hold? The torpedoes would detonate in the explosion and the ship would be broken in half.<br />
<br />
"Cancel the proton torpedoes and load the shuttle with magnetically activated Gauss bombs."<br />
<br />
"Yes Captain."<br />
<br />
"Game on, mentor." <br />
<br />
---------------<br />
<br />
<strong>Only Words</strong><br />
by Nuile/Harvey<br />
<br />
“Sticks and stones may break my bones . . . but words will never hurt me . . .”<br />
<br />
You wanna bet?<br />
<br />
Night. The moon glows dim and vague behind a looming foreground of smoky clouds. Street lamps lend what light they can, when they don’t flicker off. When they do, some superstitious factory-worker or the little girl who lives next door hasten their pace with a gasp or a squeal.<br />
<br />
That’s when I strike.<br />
<br />
From the shadows behind my window I see them coming around the bend, I watch them come up the street, and then I hit the button. I’ve spent a lot of time wiring these street lamps.<br />
<br />
I hear a muffled scream. I’ve been doing this a long time. I can tell by the voice it’s a girl in her late teens; nineteen was my guess. I smiled to myself, leaping to the sill. Somehow, it was always the most fun to do it to the women. Sometimes the men hit back.<br />
<br />
I crept silently through the lightless dark. I could see her, though I gave her no chance to see me. She had quickened her step, not quite running but getting closer to it. <br />
<br />
I jumped out onto the path in front of her. She must have jumped a foot. She screamed, took a step back, hand over her heart.<br />
<br />
Why was it they were always so frightened? Was it the suddenness of my assault? Was it the darkness of the night? Was it the mask, the cape, the black horns? Yeah, probably it was the horns that did it. I might have been a psycho in a Halloween costume, but on a dark, stormy night, I was a dangerous psycho in a Halloween costume.<br />
<br />
“What—what the—”<br />
<br />
I cut her off. “I’m going to kill you.”<br />
<br />
She fainted right then and there. Words, mere words. But it worked.<br />
<br />
I laughed with sadistic glee as she fell; but then there was a thud, and a sickening crunch. I knelt quickly beside her to look. Something wasn’t right about the angle her arm stuck out at. Probably hitting the fire hydrant like that didn’t help. That had never happened before.<br />
<br />
I felt her shoulder. Oh, there was definitely something wrong here. Was it broken? I hoped not.<br />
<br />
I pulled the cell phone out of her pocket and dialed 911. In a hoarse voice I gave the address, and begged them to be quick about it.<br />
<br />
Helpless, I could only stand there and watch her until the ambulance arrived. Then, under the cover of my dear shadows, I retreated guiltily into the welcoming embrace of my lightless room.<br />
<br />
This had never happened before. It had always just been a game.<br />
<br />
Just words.<br />
<br />
---------------<br />
<br />
<strong>The Chronicler's Ordeal</strong><br />
by Nick/Grantaire<br />
<br />
They say that the life of the chronicler is more esteemed than that of a Turaga, more desired than anything else a Matoran can do.<br /><br />They’re wrong. Dead wrong. Being a chronicler is like being a trophy, with no real purpose. You’re a burden and a nuisance for the mighty heroes you follow.<br /><br />Even worse is what you see. Sure, a chronicler from Metru Nui or some nice and lawful place has it easy. Maybe some vicious Rahi, maybe a criminal or two, but nothing as ghastly as the scene we walked through. Ahead my team leader stood, looking about with a grim expression. The village we traveled to was deserted; bereft of the living that is. <br /><br />I winced as I trod upon a limp hand, picking my way through the corpses.<br /><br />“Who did this, Toa?” My voice annoys me to no end: shaky after the sudden scare. The Toa of Stone glances down at me.<br /><br />“Piraka, chronicler. That’s who did this. Skakdi, Vortixx, who knows. They’re Piraka to the core.” His voice was harsh, and he turned away before I could answer. I was stung by his tone before—glancing at his shaking shoulders—I realized that he too was overcome by the tragedy we stood in the midst of.<br /><br />I turned away instead, hunting out the team healer, a young Lightning Toa. Unlike the rest of us she was at work, lining the still bodies next to each other rather than in the grotesque sprawling they had assumed before. I looked at her, not at the dead Matoran below me.<br /><br />“What are we going to do?” The real questions never come when they’re needed. Most chroniclers must get sick of reality sometimes when they depict the flowery speeches that go one between the Toa. She looked up at me, her soft blue eyes pained.<br /><br />“What we’ve always done these past years, Chronicler. We leave the dead and we move on.”<br /><br />I nodded, unable to look into those deep orbs, stumbling away. <br /><br />I sat down in a deserted building, at an old desk. My tablet was in my hand, but I couldn’t write. A dead Ko-Matoran lay next to the desk, his hands grasping futilely at a bundle of scrolls. No doubt those were more important to him than his own life. I left my tablet on the desk then, bending over him. As I moved him into a more dignified posture I felt the tears coming. I gave in, crouching against a wall and sobbing.<br /><br />These moments were not what they promised you when they handed you the scrolls and the tablets, when they welcomed you with speeches and cheers.<br /><br />These were moments that even Toa could not face. There was no overarching evil to face, no mastermind to bring to justice. It was only another band of scum, of no worth to the world, no worth save for that which they deprived the innocent of. <br /><br />I don’t know how long I crouched there in my grief, but at last I staggered back to the desk.<br /><br />It was then that I began writing this with a vigor I had never known.<br /><br />Life is Karzahni when you really look into it. Recording it just adds another stage to it. Because you see these horrors, and then you relive them by writing them. And you make others live it, even if they can only glimpse it in your text. <br /><br />But for me, right now, it’s the best I can do. I’m not a Toa, I have no powers or weapons or fancy masks. All I have is this tablet, all I can do is write this.<br /><br />I’m a Chronicler. This is my ordeal.<br />
<br />
---------------<br />
<br />
<strong>Happy Hour</strong><br />
by Nate/GSR<br />
<br />
<br />
The bartender drew the glass from the faucet and slid the mug across the hardwood top to Kay. “Here y’go, miss. Enjoy it.”<br /> <br />She took the glass wearily, took a sip, looked up, turned, spat, looked back, turned again, looked back again, looked down at the drink, looked up again. She cleared her throat nervously and leaned forward. “Um, excuse me.”<br /> <br />“Somethin’ the matter with your drink, miss?”<br /> <br />“Er, no. No, it’s just that, um, well…” she coughed. “You’re a skeleton now, and you weren’t fifteen seconds ago.”<br /> <br />He nodded. “That I am, miss. That I am.” His appropriately-bone-white hand plucked a rag off the back shelf and began to wipe down a spare mug with it, <em>click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.</em><br /> <br />She tried again. “So, if I can ask… why are you a skeleton?”<br /> <br />“Don’t much know m’self, miss. Sometimes things just happen.” He tapped a fingerbone on the stark-white china pate that was his forehead. Was that what you would call it now? Maybe it was a fore<em>bone</em>. Kay didn’t know. Kay <em>really, really</em> didn’t know.<br /> <br />Her eyes flicked down to the mug still in front of her. <em>Oh no.</em> “Oh my god, you- you put some kind of drug in here, didn’t you-“<br /> <br />“Miss, it’s <em>water</em>. You saw me fillin’ it with your own two eyes. Plus, ain’t those your friends or coworkers or what have you over at the pool table? ‘Twouldn’t be much use for me to try anything when they’d jump down my throat the minute anything went funny.” He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow that wasn’t there anymore. “Plus – I may be nothin’ but bones, but that just ain’t right.”<br /> <br /> “Okay. Water then. Right.” She took a shuddering breath, closed her eyes, and counted to five. <em>One, two, three, four, don’tbeaskeletondon’tbeaskeletondon’tbea-</em><br /> <br />Still a skeleton. A kind of faint whimpering noise escaped her mouth. The bartender shrugged. “I am sorry about this. It ain’t ever easy seein’ someone get turned into a stack a’ bones right in front of ya, I know. But ‘twasn’t a thing I could do about it. These things happen, y’know?”<br /> <br />“No, no, no, I don’t know,” she said, her voice turning more than a little desperate. “I don’t know that people turn into skeletons sometimes. Are you dead? Oh god, am <em>I </em>dead?”<br /> <br />“Probably and probably not,” he replied. He tilted his head again and clicked his teeth together in thought. “Well, actually, I’m probably not dead either. So probably not on both fronts.”<br /> <br />“If I scream, are people going to look over and see a normal bartender?”<br /> <br />“Wouldn’t surprise me. ‘S how these things work, don’t they? Trouble comes outta nowhere, lands right in your lap, and minute you try to offload it on someone else it slips out the back porch, and you wind up lookin’ like a crazy person. ‘What,’ they ask, ‘is possibly the matter? <em>I</em> don’t see the trouble.’”<br /> <br />She leaned forward. “Mister Skeleton, please don’t start giving me life advice right now, I think I might be about to pass out.”<br /> <br />“Drink some water then. No point in gettin’ all worked up about it. You gotta roll with the punches, right?”<br /> <br />“Look, my boss reassigned my account this morning. My deadbeat brother took my car and didn’t say when he’d be back. My girlfriend’s not answering her texts, my dog’s vet bill is three times more than I thought it would be, and now my bartender’s turned into a skeleton. I think I’m allowed to stop rolling by now.”<br /> <br />He shrugged, his collarbones swinging up and down like a see-saw. “Alright, alright, I follow ya. But this is what I’m sayin’, y’see? Can’t just let it all get ya down. Ya gotta take it head on. Skull on, in my case.”<br /> <br />Kay grabbed the glass of water off the bar and began to chug it. <em>Don’t think about the skeleton don’t think about the skeleton don’t think about it just finish the water, get up, go play pool, give Jen another text, go home, call the vet, send Jim an e-mail, get Mom to call Ted just don’t think about the skeleton.</em><br /> <br />She gasped and slammed the mug back onto the bar. The bartender took it. “Y’want another round?”<br /> <br />Primly, she stood, grabbed her purse, turned 180 degrees on her heel, and walked off towards the pool table. Behind the bar, the skeleton clacked his teeth together a few times. <br /> <br />Sometimes you just got those customers you had to turn into a skeleton to help out.</td></tr>
<tr></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
Caleb Peifferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12695484632520881655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-89120370592829798882013-06-24T18:59:00.000-07:002013-06-28T11:46:32.054-07:00The Ride<span style="font-family: inherit;">By Tyler</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">The last time I went home, I didn’t drive</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was on a flight from JFK to Oakland, only the stars and this fat, bald businessman to share my thoughts</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Round trip.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I hate flying to Oakland because Oakland is where you go</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>When you’re down to get shot, or stabbed, or mugged after taking the wrong turn from Candlestick</em><em></em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">At nighttime.</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here’s the scene</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a pretty, slim white kid in a deep black v, deep black Levi’s 501s</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Super skinny.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">And he’s standing at Baggage, waiting for this slow ass conveyer belt like the one in the Pink Floyd </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">vid</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">To give him his deep black v’s, his deep black Levi’s 501’s, supper skinny</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">At nighttime.</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">The same boys had gotten tougher, started smoking weed and bumping Trinidad James now</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">The same girls had gotten hotter, asses thick as Game of Thrones subplots now</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Same old shit</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">There was the same bowling alley where my parents met, not far from the flat on Lafayette Street</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">My dad, average height and lean but good looking as hell, with perfect hair</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">At nighttime.</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">He aged a lot in the thirty years since that bowling alley</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not like my mom, beautiful as ever, who still hasn’t aged a damn day</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Good genes</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">My dad, on the other hand, gained a shitton of weight, enough that</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, 6’1 and 126 pounds, I still hope “not that much.”</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the mornings.</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had to leave right after that because</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn’t quite have the money for the Cali lifestyle right then</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not after the split.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad bailed, buying Ace of Spades champagne and Kentucky Straight equally with my college fund</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">While Mom brought in obscene amounts of cash working taxes for farmers</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">By daytime.</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">By nighttime I do my thing at Starbucks, at Panera Bread</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Working up culinary talents and winking, smiling, getting numbers of girls I met along the way.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mainly hipsters.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Saving up enough cash so that next time, I don’t have to fly back home to Cali from New York</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Or from the American South, from below the Mason Dixon line.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">But drive.</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe in that ’58 Vette I bought off my uncle a couple years ago</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Old, paintless piece of shit now with a ’76 Firebird’s engine, but it’ll be worth something someday</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">More than it already is.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">God willing, I’ll get her restored and I’ll drive her out to Cali</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Who knows, really, with the price of gas being what it is</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here’s hoping.</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ll drive it out west, back home for real this time</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Along the way I’ll pick up one of the best guys I ever knew and we’ll tear down to the Bay</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">God willing.</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>He’s from the Valley, probably rich as shit, always racing with me to see who’s got more prettyboy </em><em>swag</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kinda like Marty McFly, if McFly was a douche who waxed poetic about himself instead of inventing rock</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">And roll.</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ll see if I can get a loft, or maybe even a flat like my parents</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">See if I can get a real job this go around, instead of some hipster ass café or bartending</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe writing.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ll keep in touch as little as I can with the people I went to school with, start anew</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Or, at least, try and keep them as in the dark as possible so they don’t know</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Where home really is.</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I want to start anew</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a subtle theme for me, in all my writing, that pain and agony that comes with</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Starting anew.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">But when you’ve finally restarted it feels better, pure, like a baby after a diaper change</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ll just focus on the guy, focus on the car, focus on home, focus on what will be instead of what could be</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Focus on the ride.</span></em></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">------------</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Night Drive</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">By Darkon/Adrian</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The thunder rolled in the distance, an angry murmur that seemed to
reverberate within his skull. It accented the endless fall of rain nicely,
acting as a massive resounding impact hidden behind a thousand needling blows.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The windshield was close to useless now; vision was all but impossible. All
he could see wer dim shapes, no clarity and no sharpness, illuminated by the
glowing yellow of his head lights.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The thunder continued to roll in the darkened sky, the bellow of titan
hidden behind the clouds. It was then, as the thunder rolled and the lightning
flashed, that he saw her, standing there, face hidden in shadow, a dim specter
half-visible from behind his rain-soaked window. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The tires squealed in protest as he slammed on his brakes. He was acting
against his will, stopping to speak to this stranger, even though he had this
feeling in the pit of his stomach, this sense of dread that gnawed at his mind.
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">He rolled the window down a bit, ignoring the drops of water
pelting his face. She stood there, on the side of the road, staring at him in
terror, as if he were some demon, crawling from the abyss. She couldn’t have
been older than thirteen; there was still innocence and curiosity in those
gigantic brown eyes of her, though it was hidden well behind a mask of fear. <u1:p></u1:p></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN;">He found himself speaking, though the words sounded foreign in his mouth.
“Do you need a ride?” he asked, as the sense of dread grew at an alarming rate.
He almost had to roar the words, or the thunder would swallow them in its roar.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">She hesitated, slinking inch by inch back into the shadows;
her fear was tangible as she slinked into the protection of the pine forest
behind her.<u1:p></u1:p></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Hey, I’ve got places to go! If you don’t want a ride, just say no!” he
roared, feeling ashamed of himself for yelling at this tween girl, most likely
attempting to run away from her parents after some petty argument.<u1:p></u1:p></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;">She blinked once, the rain on her face mingling with her tears, but she
stepped forward, and nodded carefully. He gestured to the other side of his car
in reply, and rolled up the window.<u1:p></u1:p></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;">She entered with a spray of water, oblivious to her mistake. Her face was
thin, her eyes hidden behind a swoop of black hair, perhaps natural that color,
but most likely dyed. <u1:p></u1:p></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN;">He tried his best to smile. She smiled in return.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As the drove on into the night, ignoring the storms, they
talked on strangely personal things, though she did not notice. Where are you
from? Do your parents know where you are? Where are you going?</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">She barely even noticed when he stopped the car, but she noticed
all too well when he drew the knife.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">* * *</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As he laid her body down in the grass, taking care to pull the
swoop of black hair away from her once-hidden eye, he smiled slightly. She was,
after all, very pretty.<u1:p></u1:p></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN;">As he drove away, letting the winding roads lead them were they would, he
couldn’t help but smile, delighted with his little ride in the night. The
thunder roared in protest, and the lightning flashed in anger, but he ignored
them, he ignored the needling blows of rain, and he smiled happily, the awful
deed done. <u1:p></u1:p></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="background: rgb(247, 247, 247); margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Silently, he drove into the darkness, unable to
contain the giggle of sinister joy.<u1:p></u1:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">------------</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Old Junk</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">By Omar/Onarax</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Alright lads, make sure that
everything’s running smoothly. Where we’re going, there ain’t going to be no
second chances.” The hard set man didn’t even bother to make sure everything
was in order. The moment he said these words he was off, followed shortly by
his comrades.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Only young Johnny was left. He
still wasn’t sure what he was doing here in the first place. His father said
some friend of his could use help, that friend said the same thing, and so on
and so forth, before you knew it, Johnny was here, riding with the infamous
Skull Riders. Cheesy name, deadly people.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Gotta get
moving, can’t afford to hesitate. </span></em><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny
forced into his mind, now all that mattered was driving, the others had already
faded out in the horizon. Even the dust kicked up by their rides was fading,
blending in with the dry, desert sand.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Johnny cranked his accelerator,
and sighed in relief as the engine purred. When he had first visited the Skull
Riders they had thrown him this piece of junk and said that if he got it
working he could not only join them, he could keep the bike. It was old run
down chopper with the words Harley-Davidson printed on the engine casing.
Johnny could only assume that had been the name of whoever last owned the
vehicle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">If its looks were any indicator
it had to have been from the Old Age, back before the speedy Lightrides were
created, for one thing it still ran using wheels and its engine seemed to use
gasoline of all things to run. Johnny doubted he could even keep up with the
top of the line 40 MPH Lightrides. The max speed allowed by government anything
faster were supposedly ripped the Human body to shreds.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However the moment the old bike
took off dust was immediately thrown into Johnny’s eyes. The sand all around
him being whipped on his face, gashes and cuts began to appear on his cheeks
before Johnny finally wizened up to the fact that he should probably throw down
the visor on his helmet. As soon as he could see again, Johnny decided to
glance down at the meter to see how far off from 40 he was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<em><span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That can’t be
right. I should be dead if it is.</span></em><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Right now the meter read 50, now
60, now 70, the meter kept increasing. Heading towards a 100 located at the end
of the meter. Johnny was in shock, such a thing just shouldn’t be possible,
what was with this ride. What was wrong with the people of the Old Age. However
as soon he began to let go of his preconceptions Johnny noticed he had already
blazed past the other Skull Riders.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<em><span lang="EN" style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This is
actually pretty fun. Who knew such speeds could be this exhilarating. </span></em><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Johnny’s laughter took over the
canyon, this was brilliant to him. Such speed was unheard of him. This ride was
a piece of beauty. Johnny loved it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<em><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span></em></span></span><br />
<em><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">40 is nothing, it’s a
child’s speed. From now on this ride is my ride.</span></span></em><br />
<em></em><br />
------------<br />
<br />
By Eyru:<br />
<br />
<br />
She's laughing.<br /><br />Sun's shining through her long blonde hair flying in the wind as we tear down the coast on a golden afternoon. I've got one hand on the wheel, one in hers, fingers entwined. Thank God I don't drive standard.<br /><br />Sky's blue, the kind of blue that makes you want to take off your shirt and lie on the grass and jump into the ocean and go for frozen yogourt. Not a cloud floating, just us flying and the sky's the limit.<br /><br />I take the next turn fast, hugging the line; she clutches my arm and tells me to slow down. But she's smiling; she wants to fly as much as I do. She doesn't let go.<br /><br />The air feels golden, like the colour of the sun and pineapples and soft tanned skin; it smells of fresh cut grass and salt. The water glimmers in the sun like a thousand mirrors; bluer than her eyes, the eyes I could jump into and never need to come up for air.<br /><br />Brighter than bright, almost painful to look at, the sun bathes the world in warmth and light. It lights up her skin, it turns her hair to spun gold. She's singing along to the radio; her teeth flash in the sun. Her favourite song. I'm sunstruck.<br /><br />It's the kind of day that feels like forever and no time at all, where every second drags by faster than the last. The kind of day that leaves an ache in my chest because it's so, so beautiful and I never want it to end.<br /><br />We'll get to the beach, and after we'll go for ice cream, but for now I don't want to think about the future. Right now is enough for me. The sun in my eyes, the wind in my face, and my girl at my side. Right now, all I need is this ride.<br />
<br />
------------<br />
<br />
By Josh Baltarc:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>In Which</em> Lekua Does Something You Shouldn't Try at Home</div>
I’m running through the jungle, not sprinting, not jogging, somewhere in between. A nice, sustainable pace. I know where I’m going; I know how to get there. Without missing a beat, I spring forward and fly effortlessly over a low-hanging branch. Perfectly calm, collected. In control.<br /><br />Or that’s what it looks like, anyway. Inside, it’s a different story. My heart beats a thousand times faster than my pace warrants. Random bursts of half-coherent thought flash through my mind as I try to sift through everything I know, everything I’ve been taught, in preparation for what’s to come.<br /><br />But none of it helps – that’s the point. You’re not <em>supposed</em> to know what to do. Recruits have <em>died</em> doing this, I realize. How am I supposed to–<br /><br />I come to an abrupt halt; a step more would have sent me off the edge of the cliff. The shrieks of a hundred birds fill my ears as I peer over the edge at the flock of Kahu wheeling below. I pause, my apprehension forgotten in a moment of sheer awe at the sight.<br /><br />But I know if I hesitate a moment longer I’ll never make it. I turn, back up a few steps, and then dash forward, throwing myself off the cliff. No biggie, right? Oh, yeah. Jumping off a cliff. People do this all the time.<br /><br />The wind howls in my ears as I fall, ripping a scream from my throat. Not that anyone’s around to hear. Something feathery smacks against my face and I grab it, my arms nearly ripped from their sockets by the sudden jolt. Within moments, though, I somehow manage to pull myself onto the bird’s back. It clearly isn’t happy about the situation, but no way am I letting go.<br /><br />This is gonna be one karzahni of a ride.<br />
<br />
------------<br />
<br />
By SonicBOOM:<br />
<br />
It was a beautiful day, with the sun shining bright rays over the entire city, not a cloud to ruin the view, the vast blue of the sky making everyone's lives a bit cheerier than usual. The city was dotted with pedestrians walking about their day, greeting each other as usual and off to their office buildings. Children sang and played and danced and watched and laughed and cried only to be consoled into singing and playing and dancing and watching and laughing.<br />
<br />
Jared was one such child, though his cycle was a bit different: he <i>tried </i>to sing and play and dance and watch and laugh but only ended up messing each up. His blunders fueled the other children's laughter, and so Jared was reduced to nothing but crying and crying and crying. Eventually he stopped, so that his cycle included not one but three instances of crying before he could be consoled. And thus he tried again, only to cry thrice more.<br />
<br />
Unlike the other children, Jared was somewhat of an outcast. His family, though well-spoken and respected, was granted a soft-spoken and shy child, a smart child, one who was lacking in nothing but motor control and attention. Oh how he craved that attention. His parents were never around to give it to him, and only his nannies could even try and help him. Of course, his nannies came and went according to his parents' personal roulette, so this Nanny of the Week had no special attachment to him.<br />
<br />
It was on this bright and cheerful day that Jared decided he'd had enough. A six-year old boy deserved better. Especially one who knew how to multiply and divide by the numbers 1 through 10 already. And so he packed his little rucksack with candy, books, and few personal belongings which I will not go into detail here. Lastly, he grabbed his trusted stuffed panda, Jerry, and headed out the door. This Nanny of the Week wasn't particularly cautious, preferring to talk to her friends over take care of him.<br />
<br />
He'd go on a little walk and figure out why no one liked him, maybe find a few people who might appreciate his talents. Something, anything to stop the incessant swelling of sadness inside him.<br />
<br />
He had not gone one block when he found him. Him, who wouldn't laugh at his intellect nor ridicule his klutziness. Him, who would respect him and make him respected among others. Him, who could be his friend.<br />
<br />
The man had a smile on his face, one of those teacher-esque smiles that invite you to come over and listen. He wasn't too old, about his father's age, and was sitting lazily. His eyes were soft and kind, and he looked as if he wouldn't hurt a fly.<br />
<br />
He waved at Jared, beckoning him. Come over, let's talk.<br />
<br />
Jared obeyed. Sure, why not?<br />
<br />
“Hello, mister? Who are you?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, nobody. A good friend of your father's, he invites me over for every party.”<br />
<br />
“So you're not a stranger?”<br />
<br />
“Oh no, heavens no. I meet you every time I come over. Don't you remember me?”<br />
<br />
And suddenly Jared remembered this man, who would hold him and give him candy and ruffle his hair. He loved this man.<br />
“Let's say you come with me for a ride in my van. That OK?”<br />
<br />
And Jared could do nothing but agree. Taking the candy from this man's hand, he followed him into his big white van.<br />
<br />
Oh, what a ride it would be.<br />
<br />
------------<br />
<br />
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">By Nate/GSR:</span><br />
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span><br />
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“I mean, like, do you get it, though? This is it. This is th<span class="_ _0"></span>e <span class="f2"><span class="_ _0"></span>ride</span>,” he said.</span><br />
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B2">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B2">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Do you even listen to yourself?” she asked, inhaling.</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B3">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B3">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“No, I mean, I’m serious. This is the big one, <span class="f2"><em>literally</em></span>.<span class="_ _1"></span> After this there are no more rides. Just sp<span class="_ _0"></span>ace dust<span class="_ _0"></span> </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">and star crap.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B5">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B5">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She laughed, a morbid, stuttering sound. “You have suc<span class="_ _0"></span>h a poetic take on the end of the world.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B6">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B6">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Come on, though. Big old asteroid here tomorrow? All of h<span class="_ _0"></span>umanity, down the drain, save maybe a </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B7">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">couple dozen billionaires and presidents who are begging NAS<span class="_ _0"></span>A to throw everything they’ve got on a </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B8">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">rocket and pray? That means that today, tod<span class="_ _0"></span>ay is <span class="f2"><span class="_ _0"></span>literally</span> the most free day we, as a species, ever could </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">have.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Ba">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Ba">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“We’re going to die, Mark,” she replied. “Probably ver<span class="_ _0"></span>y painfully.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bb">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bb">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Yes, I know, and until then we’re going to <span class="f2">live</span>.<span class="_ _1"></span> Come on. Clock’s ticking. Twenty-four hours, <span class="_ _0"></span>what do </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">you wanna do?”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bd">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bd">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Spend a quiet, reflective few hours with my friends and famil<span class="_ _0"></span>y.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Be">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Be">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">He sucked air in through his teeth. “F<span class="_ _0"></span>antastic. Except your mother’s been dead for t<span class="_ _2"></span>hirteen years, your </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">dad’s doing a life sentence – hey, those are pre<span class="_ _0"></span>tty short now – for causing that state of affairs, a<span class="_ _2"></span>nd I’m </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">the only friend you have in about a thous<span class="_ _0"></span>and miles, because you picked the weekend before the world </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">found out it was going to die to fly out to Austr<span class="_ _0"></span>alia for your research project.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B12">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B12">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Why are you still talking?”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B13">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B13">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“’Cause if I stop you’ll probably start crying or som<span class="_ _0"></span>ething like that.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B14">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B14">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She slugged him for that. “Dick.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B15">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B15">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Am I wrong?”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B16">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B16">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Yes, you are. If I was going to cry I’d have done it w<span class="_ _0"></span>hen I found out I was going to be slag in thirty six </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">hours, not after the only guy I know with a b<span class="_ _0"></span>ag of weed in a thousand miles gave me the fattest blunt </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">I’ve ever had and quite certainly ever will have in my l<span class="_ _0"></span>ife.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B19">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B19">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Okay then, you’re not crying. Cool. I like it. Le<span class="_ _0"></span>t’s go for the ride.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1a">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1a">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She laughed again. “<span class="f2"><em>The ride</em></span>. You want to spend your last day on E<span class="_ _0"></span>arth – the last day <span class="f2"><span class="_ _0"></span>of </span>Ear<span class="_ _0"></span>th – on a </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1b">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">road trip.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1c">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1c">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Wrong!” he said, rolling over and raising a fi<span class="_ _0"></span>nger. “I want to spend it on <span class="f2"><span class="_ _1"></span>the</span> road trip. The last road </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1d">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">trip. One guy, one girl, a Jeep, the outba<span class="_ _0"></span>ck, the stars, and some extremely good drugs. This is the <span class="_ _2"></span>stuff </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">dreams are made of, Annie.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1f">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1f">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“You have shitty dreams.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1f">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"><div class="l t1 L1 h2 B1">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“You have a potty mouth, and no respe<span class="_ _0"></span>ct for Hunter S. Thompson,” he replied. He waved at the Jeep, </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B2">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">sitting a few dozen feet in front of them, abandon<span class="_ _0"></span>ed in the research outpost’s parking lot. “Come on<span class="_ _1"></span>. </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B3">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B3">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">You know why this is going to be <span class="f2">the </span>ride? Because it never ends.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B4">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B4">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“I’m pretty sure it ends when the giant ball of rock <span class="_ _0"></span>falls out of the sky and squishes us.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B5">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B5">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“No, see, you’ve got it all wrong still,” he said, wavin<span class="_ _0"></span>g his arms. “Any other day, <span class="f2"><span class="_ _2"></span><em>any other day</em></span> you </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B6">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">could’ve driven off in the desert, but one day it h<span class="_ _0"></span>ad to end. You’d turn around so you didn’t miss y<span class="_ _1"></span>our </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">flight. You’d hit the other edge of the outback and s<span class="_ _1"></span>tart running into roads and cars. No, not to<span class="_ _0"></span>day. </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">Today we are <span class="f2"><em>free</em></span>. Free, free, free, and I don’t know about you but speeding across <span class="_ _0"></span>the dirt, surrounded<span class="_ _2"></span> </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">by mountains I’d never seen before, wind rushing through m<span class="_ _0"></span>y hair? That sounds like my way to exit.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Ba">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Ba">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“What if we hit a rock and flip over and bre<span class="_ _0"></span>ak our necks or some stupid shit like that?”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bb">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bb">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">He shrugged. “Then we don’t have to worry abo<span class="_ _0"></span>ut hospital bills.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bc">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bc">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She took another drag and exhaled, a long, shak<span class="_ _0"></span>y breath. She glanced upwards at the stars twinkling </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bd">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">overhead. One of them – everyone knew which one – w<span class="_ _0"></span>as moving. Shining bright. Coming to the end </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">of its own little ride.</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bf">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bf">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She stared at it for a long time.</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B10">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B10">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B10">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">Annie flipped on her shades and slammed the door. In <span class="_ _0"></span>the passenger seat, Mark grinned.</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B11">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B11">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Hit it,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B12">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B12">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She hit it.</span></div>
</span><div class="l t1 L1 h2 B12">
</div>
Caleb Peifferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12695484632520881655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-3374807934124508382013-06-23T19:17:00.000-07:002013-06-23T19:39:06.700-07:00Elimination<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><div style="margin: 6pt 24pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Bop</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<u1:p></u1:p>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u2:p></u2:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">By Alex Humva </span></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Another lab rat to the waste bin. He picked up a syringe,
listening briefly as lightning crackled outside, thunder shaking the whole
house for a moment. Then he carried on, oil lamp swinging overhead as the
summer storm blew threw the window. He preferred the fresh air to work in; it
was refreshing, something to keep his mind from becoming too stressed. Stress
meant mistakes. Mistakes meant failure. He certainly had enough of that to go
around right now. He dumped the poor, dead, creature into the trash, its limp
form joining several dozen of its comrades. The process had been repeated a
dozen times now; why wasn't it working?</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">He walked to his desk, sitting down and gazing into the various
test tubes and flasks filled with varying liquids. He had to isolate just the
right mixture, the precious concentrations of a dozen some chemical substances.
Thousands of different combinations; what would work? Would it work at all? He
wasn't so certain, but he had to try. It was his only chance at proving
everyone else wrong, after all. He muttered to himself, some obscenities to
those who had tried to hold his work back. Didn't anyone see the potential in
it? The dead did not care what happened to their bodies, nor would the dying,
soon enough. He was trying to help the world, couldn't anyone see that?<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">He extracted a new mixture, then pulled out another rat. The
pitiful creature squirmed, but it couldn't escape. He pricked it with the
needle, the dose going directly into its system. Then he sat it down, and
waited. Waited for a sign of success. <u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">The creature convulsed, twitching back and forth as its very body
was transformed. A tentacle sprung out of it, then two, then three, then a
whole, writhing mass. It lost its fur as its skin turned a hideous dark gray,
blotchy and oozing with slime.<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Oh, success.<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">-------------<u2:p></u2:p></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">By Josh Baltarc<u2:p></u2:p></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">Quick. Clean. Efficient. That</span></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s how I do things, because that</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s just what works
best. And I do what works best because I <em>am</em> the best. Simple as that.
Bang bang.<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Speaking of bang bang, that</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s the sound my weapon
is making as I pull it away from some guy</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s head. Who is he?
Doesn</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t matter. What matters is that he was supposed
to be dead. And now he is. No mess. Flawlessly executed. Like I said, clean.<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Now comes the quick part. Well, I actually did part of that part
already. You just didn</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t see it, </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">‘</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">cause you</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">re apparently not as
quick as I am. But that doesn</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t really matter now, I
guess. What does matter is where I am. It</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s some skyscraper. Can</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t tell you which one, sorry. But I</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">m on the roof, and so
is the dead guy. But who cares about him. </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">I step back into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time all
the way to the ground floor. Because honestly, who uses elevators? Those things
are like freaking cages, man, steel cages suspended by a bit of metal string
over a thousand-foot drop to your death. Elevators. Bad.</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Anyway, like I said, I</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">m on the ground floor.
I slip out the stairwell door and weave my way through the lobby, fast enough
to get out of there but not so fast to attract attention. Obviously. Who do you
think I am?<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">A bus is pulling up just outside the building as I shove through
the revolving door. I knew it would be there. That</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s kind of the point. I hop on. Another efficient elimination. Ha.
Alliteration. Bang bang.<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">-------------<u2:p></u2:p></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">By Nuile/Harvey Caldwell<u2:p></u2:p></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">Tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock . . .</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">I opened one eye drowsily, peering into the gloom. What was that
noise?<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock . . .</span></i><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">I sat up, rubbed my eyes, scrutinized the clock. Half-past three
A.M. </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock . . .</span></i><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">With a splitting yawn I stumbled to my feet. I reached above my
head to yank the pantleg of my roommate</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s pajamas.<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">“</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Did you leave the
television on again?</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">”<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">“</span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Hunnngh?</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">A head popped up, swiveled around, garbled something about
chessmen, and fell over once more.<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock . . .</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">I stumbled down the hall, lighting lights to banish the shadows as
I went. That was a voice, and a monotonous one, at that. But where could it be
coming from?<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">In the living room, I leaned low over the television with the
attentive examination of an inebriate before deciding it was thoroughly off. I
sought the radio in the kitchen.<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock . . .</span></i><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u3:p></u3:p><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Wearing the radio like an earmuff, I judged it silent. The battery
case broke open as I tossed it back on the counter, ticked. Still the sound.
Where the</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">—<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">The lights flickered<b> </b>like possessed fireflies. I waited for
them to calm down again, but they didn</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t. Whatever capricious
demon had taken control of them wasn</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t going to let go</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">—</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">until they did.<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Pop.</span></i><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock . . .</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Now in the dark, I felt my way back toward the bedroom, muttering
under my breath. Maybe the sound was my roommate talking in his sleep and I
hadn</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t realized it . . .</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock . . .<u3:p></u3:p></span></i><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">What was going on? The logic of this groggy mind was not up to the
task. I could only wish it had been. </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock . . .<u3:p></u3:p></span></i><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">“</span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Your time has come . .
.</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">”<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">A shiver ran up my spine. </span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">“</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tock?</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">I whispered. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">“</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Is that you?</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">”</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">“</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tick</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">—”</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">came a shrill voice from the bedroom.</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">I broke into a run, bashing against walls and unseen furniture as
I rushed back to the room. But when I arrived, it was too late.</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Tick . . . Tock . . . Tick . . . Tock . . .</span></i><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">The room was empty.</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">“</span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Your time has come . .
.</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">”<u2:p></u2:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">-----------<u2:p></u2:p></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">IC-Marfoir<br />
By Ilyusha Brockway<u2:p></u2:p></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">Loking through the scope of his rifle, Marfoir
watched the Matoran he was due to kill go about his business. Short, stocky,
with a black Rau on a tan face; the trader was named Akhmou, and his service
was soon to be over. Marfoir had been watching the Matoran for the last three
days, plotting down his general actions, every day.<em>7:00 AM: Wake up, eat
breakfast</em></span></span></span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">
<br />
</span></span></i><em><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">8:00
AM: Set up stand, commence trade for next eight point five hours.</span></span></em><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">
<br />
<em>4:30 PM: Head to home on outskirts of town, going to small workshop in
back, work for next few hours.</em><br />
<br />
<em>8:30 PM: Call it a day.</em></span></span></span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">
<br />
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">The
Matoran did very little besides this, each day. On Monday, he'd spoken with a
Toa. Marfoir had listened in on the conversation, bouncing the sounds back off
of a hard stone plaque that the Matoran had made. Marfoir had been hoping to
learn something useful from this, though all he'd learned was that the Toa was
broke and would have to pay Akhmou back some other day.<br />
<br />
<em>Getting in debt...what a fool,</em> Marfoir had thought. He'd said he could
come back within the week. That had been two days ago.<br />
<br />
Hopefully he wouldn't come back <em>too</em> soon. Marfoir checked his taskpad,
turning away from the scope. 4:10 PM. Time to move. Marfoir put the scope back
in its case, with the rest of the rifle; he wouldn't need it after this.<br />
<br />
By 4:20, he was at the Matoran's home, hidden near the entrance to the
workshop. Ten minutes until the kill. Marfoir had none of his weapons on him,
now, besides a knife; they were all hidden at his hideout farther out in the
desert. The only other item he carried was a waterskin, a towel, and a special
project that Marfoir had been working on over the last two days, one that would
be necessary for the murder.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes of waiting and Akhmou arrived, unlocking and opening the workshop,
leaving the door open, as he always did. He wanted to hear if anybody was
coming, so he could quickly head out to help them. Soon, he'd be unable to do
that. Marfoir quickly came up behind the Matoran, his knife quickly flashing at
Akhmou's throat, the towel moving quickly to catch the blood that flowed out
from the Matoran's jugular vein.<br />
<br />
"Shh, shh," the Vortixx murmured, while the Matoran he held slowly
died. "Let go, Akhmou, let go. Your time in this world is done, now be
free..."<br />
<br />
He slowly lowered the Po-Matoran to the ground, slipping the item that Marfoir
had been working on into his hands, giving him time to look at it before he
died. An item whose brothers Marfoir had grown familiar with when he first
joined the team he worked for, getting to look over one for his first
assignment.<br />
<br />
A small tablet, with three Matoran letters carved into it, one that had been a
staple at various murders for a while, now.</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">-----------<u2:p></u2:p><u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">The Garbage-Man</span></i><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">By
Nick/Grantaire<u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">Were
there tears in my eyes when I let you fall, you must wonder, or was that just
me rubbing my eyes from weariness? <u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">I
suppose I could ask myself that question every night, but I don</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t. I used
to. When I was no more than a boy and when I had a heart: when seeing the sick
or the suffering made me want to help them. <u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">But
poverty is poverty, and a community just can</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t bear access waste. So they chose
me to remove it. Why? Because I threw both my aging parents over a cliff, one
after another and they too feeble to even run. A year later my brother went as
well: too crippled to work. He had to go. Things like that don</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t go
beneath notice: it</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s against the rules of our community, but who is there to
enforce it and who cares to? Only if there</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s real threat will the men stir. <u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">It
was the aunt of one of my childhood friends this time: I</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">d seen her
growing up, a sweet lady who was always kind to me. I guess her loving nephew
couldn</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t bear to kill her himself, so he had me do it.<u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">I
don</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t mind any more. Now when I peer down into the fog-filled
gulf it</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s more to wonder what happens to all the bodies tossed
down there than to mourn what I</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">ve just done. It</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">s custom for generations: so much
custom that its legality is never even thought of. But no one wants to do it,
no one except for those people who honestly don</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Courier; mso-hansi-font-family: Courier;">’</span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">t give a damn.<u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt;">People
like me. <u1:p></u1:p></span><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 40pt 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe I don’t like it, but I don’t grumble about
it: someone has to rid our community of its dead weight, and it might as well
be me.<o:p></o:p></span><u1:p></u1:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Courier New;">-----------<u2:p></u2:p></span></span><u1:p></u1:p><span style="font-family: Courier; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
By SonicBOOM<br />
<br />
<br />
It's a magical world, ain't it?<br />
<br />
I get a thrill whenever I do this. Of course, I'm not your conventional hitman. Most sane people wouldn't even consider me that, they'd refer to me as a butcher. Except I don't butcher meat. I butcher people.<br />
<br />
It's a thrill, getting my blade into someone's throat. Hacking open their jugular. Slicing open their bodies and shredding every one of their vital organs. Oh, that gives me shivers down my spine. It's so <i>good</i>.<br />
<br />
And right now, I'm about to do it on my biggest target.<br />
<br />
This country's been in a bad position right now, and while I don't particularly like politics, I have enough sense of the stuff to say that much. There's a tumor, growing, growing, just ready to engulf the entire nation and drive it to its knees.<br />
<br />
I was hired to remove that tumor. You might have guessed it was a major politician I had to erase. You'd have guessed right. Don't do that in the future or I may have to gut you too.<br />
<br />
On second thought, do it. I <i>want </i>to gut you.<br />
<br />
I'm walking in, heavy security everywhere. Can't bust out the big guns right now. Or blades. Whatever fits your bill. Point is, I can't. Not in this building.<br />
<br />
It's Washington D.C, 1 AM, pitch black outside but not inside. People are walking everywhere, walking past huge guys with thick sunglasses and bodies straight from a male model magazine. And suits. Don't forget those.<br />
<br />
I honestly wonder why people don't pick more cleaver-resistant uniforms.<br />
<br />
So far, somehow, no one's noticed me. That's good, it means I'm still in my prime. Or rather, that my cloak is. I'm just gonna walk over to this vent over here, pry it open, get in, and chuck the thing around like a ghost's holding it. One or two handmaids faint, thinking it's a ghost. A security guy gets smashed in the head and joins them in dreamland.<br />
<br />
That's when the whole thing blows over. Oh the chaos I love causing.<br />
<br />
I'm in my vent, knowing this wasn't the plan. I was supposed to get a simple kill on my target. But a tumor spreads to other cells. Getting rid of one cell won't get rid of the others. I need to get rid of the whole thing. And by the end of the night, I will.<br />
<br />
Bingo, right door. I kick it open and drop down, taking down a desk as I go. There he is, still half-undressed, his wife right next to him screaming. They were getting ready to leave. I'll make sure they'll stay.<br />
<br />
I take my cloak off. No point killing if I don't let them know who did it, right?<br />
<br />
The guy gets a fear in his eyes, a familiar fear.<br />
<br />
“Don't. Please. I have children and a country to run! Don't do this!”<br />
<br />
But why would I not?<br />
<br />
My cleaver's out, he's looking at it. The wife's crying now, going to get her kids to safety.<br />
<br />
Before I kill him, I say one word.<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
And by then the core, the root, the President knows it's too late.<br />
<br />
I tear into his body, ravaging it, cleaving it open and destroying everything. Think of the most mutilated body you've seen and multiply it by 10 in value. You'll get my handiwork.<br />
<br />
The wife's pulled out a handgun. They haven't banned those yet. Guess what, lady? Cleavers fly too.<br />
<br />
She figures that out after she's dead, her head severed from her body. I leave her, having a strict policy against women. As do most hitmen. Don't ask, or I'll have to murder you. Only kill, don't mutilate.<br />
<br />
By then the whole White House is in panic. I set out to calm everyone down, my cleaver glistening with blood.<br />
<br />
And an hour later, everything's silent. The Red House is in flames too.<br />
<br />
I'm a scientist, and I just found the cure for cancer. I'm a doctor, and I just cured the cancer. I'm a savior, a hero, and I just saved the world.<br />
<br />
I've eliminated the tumor.<br />
<br />
I got my pay.<br />
<br />
I saved the country.<br />
<br />
But more than that, I had fun. So much fun.<br />
<br />
It's a magical world, ain't it?Caleb Peifferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12695484632520881655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-87204264420956871052013-06-22T19:36:00.002-07:002013-06-22T19:53:23.158-07:00Gone FishingBy SonicBOOM XS<br />
<br />
It's a pretty lazy day, just sitting back in my little canoe, letting the sun bathe me in its light, waiting for a bite on my rod.<br />
<br />
Ga-Koro really iss a nice place to be this time of the year. Ko-Koro bites you even harder than usual, Le-Koro has strong gusts of wind, and even Ta-Koro has a bit of a chill. I kid you not, I saw no less than seven Ta-Matoran sneeze right next to a fire. And there was no ash floating in the air.<br />
<br />
It was quite a funny sight, if I'm going to be honest. Don't tell them that, though.<br />
<br />
So there I am, just lying down, waiting for a bite, when I begin to wonder about the possibility of this day being ruined. What if, say, a Takea shark popped out of nowhere and decided to have this little Po-Matoran for lunch? Mind you, I can't swim. But because there's a Ga-Matoran manning this ship of three, I haven't jumped off the boat yet. Next to me is a Onu-Matoran who's clearly not at ease. The glaring sun would pose a problem, obviously.<br />
<br />
I'm just pretending to be lazy because of the Ga-Matoran. I heard they like Matoran who are relaxed, at easy, unable to worry. What better way to woo her than to go on a ship, in the middle of the ocean, scared right out of my wits, all the while masking this by appearing completely unfazed?<br />
<br />
The Onu-Matoran, though, he's making a big fuss. I suppose he's here for the same reason, out in the sun and all, but he's clearly having a tough time masking it. Says something about Turaga Whenua sending him here to learn discipline. Like Karzahni he is, Whenua disciplines you in his own Koro, not elsewhere. Gotta look like a bad boy, huh? It's obviously not working, since the Ga-Matoran is scowling at him. He shuts up and smiles.<br />
<br />
Gotcha.<br />
<br />
And what do you know, there's a bite on my rod. At last.<br />
<br />
And what do you know, it's a Takea shark. Right on time.<br />
<br />
“HEY! I GOT SOMETHING! HERE, TAKE A LOOK AT THIS!”<br />
<br />
They both rush over so fast, the canoe tips over.<br />
<br />
“Where, I can't see anything!” The Onu-Matoran, blind as a Makuta, leans a bit too far.<br />
<br />
Far enough for me.<br />
<br />
“Here it is!” And I yank the rod back with all the strength my Po-Matoran body can afford me.<br />
<br />
I hope I've made it sound like I don't know what I've caught. I think I have.<br />
<br />
“GREAT SPIRIT, WHAT IS THAT?” I scream hard, making it sound like it's something entirely new for me. Except I know it's a Takea. And I know they like Matoran. And I have been preparing for this. For competitors.<br />
<br />
The Takea flies gracefully in the air, arcing perfectly. Its mouth is wide open. And with one wide gulp, it swallows the Onu-Matoran.<br />
That was the last meal it ever ate. I stab it with my dagger, rendering it dead and fresh for dinner.<br />
<br />
All this time, the Ga-Matoran was paralyzed with fear. I wrap my arm around her, comfort her, tell her it'll be alright. She takes to it well, letting me hold her, mourning the Onu-Matoran. She hugs me, tells me I saved her. She's crying.<br />
<br />
And I'm just thinking about how perfectly I made my catch. The best catch I've ever made.<br />
<br />
<br />
---------------------<br />
<br />
Back by Tuesday<br />
<br />
By Nate/GSR<br />
<br />
GONE FISHING - BACK BY TUESDAY<br />
<br />
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Oh, come <span class="f1"><em>on</em></span>,” muttered Tenera. She hit the radio button again. “This is p<span class="_ _0"></span>atrol ship #0F3BA, requesting<span class="_ _3"></span> </span><span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">docking access for suspect processing, <span class="f1"><em>Dave</em></span>, I know you’re up there.”</span><br />
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B4">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B4">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">The screen in front of her refreshed. <span class="f1"><em>STILL GONE FISHING – STILL BAC<span class="_ _0"></span>K B<span class="_ _1"></span>Y TUESD<span class="_ _0"></span>A<span class="_ _2"></span>Y</em></span></span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B5">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B5">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She groaned and looked over her shoulder at the smuggler locked up in t<span class="_ _0"></span>he rear of the cruiser-ship. </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B5">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B5">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“I’ll </span><span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">be back in ten minutes. Don’t even think about <span class="_ _0"></span>trying anything, or computer will give you a neural sho<span class="_ _1"></span>ck<span class="_ _4"> </span></span><span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">so bad you’ll think you’re back on Mars playing g<span class="_ _0"></span>olf.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B5">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B8">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">The smuggler gave her a sneer but made no mo<span class="_ _0"></span>ve to revolt. She turned back to the front and grabbed </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B9">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">her helmet. “Computer, I’m going outside. Activate the j<span class="_ _0"></span>ust-in-case teleportation protocol, would </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 Ba">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">you?”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 Bb">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 Bb">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Gladly, officer Tenera. Have a safe spacewalk.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 Bc">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 Bc">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, and pushed open the h<span class="_ _0"></span>atch above her. A hop later, and she was floating </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 Bd">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">amongst the stars, her cruiser behind her and Dave’s “spa<span class="_ _0"></span>ce station” – if you could call the mangy hunk </span><span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">of metal that – before her. Only damned proc<span class="_ _0"></span>essing location in a hundred thousand miles and he </span><span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">thought it was funny to <span class="f1"><em>go fishing</em>.</span> Still muttering curses under her breath, she pulled out a handheld </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B10">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">rocket propeller and began to skim along the side of t<span class="_ _0"></span>he ship.</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B11">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B11">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She found Dave exactly where she knew she would, sitting o<span class="_ _0"></span>n top of the station’s thousand-times-</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B12">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">tempe</span><span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">red Plexiglas observation deck, resplendent in his plaid-color<span class="_ _0"></span>ed (hand-painted) spacesuit, a fishing<span class="_ _3"></span> </span><span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">line floating in front of him. He waved cheerily to h<span class="_ _0"></span>er as she floated towards him. “Heya, Ten-ten!”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B14">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B14">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Can it, Dave. I’ve got a suspect in custody, and I <span class="_ _0"></span>need to park.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B15">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B15">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">He shrugged. “No can do, Tenners. It’s my day off<span class="_ _0"></span>.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B16">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B16">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“It’s your fifth day off in seven, Dave. F<span class="_ _0"></span>or once, just for a change of <span class="_ _1"></span>pace, could you do your damn job?”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B17">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B17">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“I’d love to, Tensa, but-“ his fishing line jerked for<span class="_ _0"></span>ward, and let out a whoop that made her radio crackle.<span class="_ _3"></span> </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B18">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B18">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Whoo-ee, got one!” Excitedly, he began reeling in the line. </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B19">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B19">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She gritted her teeth. “Docking access, Dave. Now.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B1a">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B1a">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Hold yer horses, I almost got ‘er, I almost got ‘er<span class="_ _0"></span>-“</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B1b">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B1b">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“<em><span class="f1">Dave</span>.</em>”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B1c">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B1c">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">He jerked the rod back and let out a yelp o<span class="_ _0"></span>f triumph. Excitedly, he offered it to her, pointing at t<span class="_ _1"></span>he </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B1d">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">screen. “Would ya look at that, Tenners. Ain’t sh<span class="_ _0"></span>e a beaut?”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B1d">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h3 B1d">
<span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span><span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">The screen showed the view from Dave’s probe, some six hundred <span class="_ _0"></span>miles away. In its metallic claws, a </span><span class="f2 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">shining hunk of ice danced in the light of the st<span class="_ _0"></span>ars around it. The fisherman’s voice was devoid of any </span></div>
<div class="j" data-data="{"ctm":[3.346405,0.000000,0.000000,3.346405,0.000000,0.000000]}">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">modesty. “That, my good woman, is a class t<span class="_ _0"></span>hree comet. Takes a lot of skill to reel in one o<span class="_ _1"></span>f those bad </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">boys, don’t think it doesn’t.”</span><br />
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B3">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B3">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">She smiled. “Very nice, Dave. Very, very nice. Now pl<span class="_ _0"></span>ease, for the last time, could you let me park my </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">shuttle?”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B5">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B5">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">He shrugged. “Ain’t much need for that, Miz Tenera, <span class="_ _0"></span>seein’ as it flew off about thirty seconds after you </span><span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">left.”</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B7">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B7">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">Tenera sputtered and pulled up her wrist computer. On its s<span class="_ _1"></span>creen, the smuggler waved cheerily to her </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B8">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">from behind her ship’s controls, and then the feed cu<span class="_ _0"></span>t out. She swore, and then she swore again, and </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 B9">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">then she swore some more.</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Ba">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Ba">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">Dave stretched out. “Ah, don’t worry. HQ’ll s<span class="_ _0"></span>end a transport around in about a week’s time. ‘<span class="_ _1"></span>Till then” </span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bb">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bb">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">– he offered her the rod.</span></div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bc">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0"></span> </div>
<div class="l t1 L1 h2 Bc">
<span class="f1 s1 c0 C_ l0 w0 r0">“Give it a try?” </span></div>
</div>
<br />
---------------------<br />
<br />
By Harvey Caldwell/Nuile<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><i></i></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I traced a finger over a ring on the grimy table. The chair
clunked, rocking on uneven legs beneath me as I shifted position. Taking a
draft of coffee I surveyed the room.<br />
<br />
Bustling with activity. Men and women of all ages, though chiefly in the teen
range, chattered animatedly at every table. A quick scan confirmed my guess:
There wasn’t an empty seat in the café.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Except across my table.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I shifted again in my seat, swirling the coffee in my mug. I
shifted again, becoming engrossed by the clunking noise; I rocked swiftly back
and forth. Have you ever had one of those moments when you become so focused in
the activity of doing something simple, idle, and quite frankly, absurd, that
you forget about everything else?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Maybe that was exactly what I wanted to do. Forget that I
was alone.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I can’t even explain why I still went there, after she died.
Surely the memories were painful ones. Surely the knot in my chest was a
horrible feeling. But no matter how much easier it would have been to stay
away, I couldn’t. I always came back.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It was where we’d met. It was where we’d kissed. It was
where I’d proposed. It had been here, in this very seat, I’d been sitting alone
when I got the text.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’d ignored the ringing phone. Unless it was her, I never
answered it on our special lunch date. She was my only concern in those
moments. But when it became more and more obvious that she wasn’t coming, I’d
checked.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I still had the text. Not that I needed it to remember it. I
would never forget.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
For some reason, I whipped out my phone and brought it up
anyway. For the seventh time that evening, I read the text all over again.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>Accident. Please call.</i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I tossed the phone down on the table and thought, instead,
of the day I’d first met her. Here, in this little café, in this little town, a
place I never would have heard of and never would have visited if it hadn’t
been for the fishing trip.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Here, in that chair, where I’d first set eyes on her . . .</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Here, where she’d been sitting, when I first said hello . .
.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Here, on this table, where I’d first spilled her coffee . .
.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">With a tearful smile, I put my half-full mug down,
slapped my money down on the waiting bill, and rose. With a final glance at the
empty chair, I walked out of the <i>Café de Poisson.</i></span></div>
<em></em><br />
---------------------<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Gone Fishin'</em><br />
By Tyler St. Francis<br />
<em></em><br />
There was nothing quite as painful as the feeling of water charging headfirst into your lungs, like some sick game of elemental Red Rover. <br />
<br />
Every second more water rushed into him. Crawford could feel it in his mouth, his nose, his ears, even his fucking eyes weren’t safe from the stinging and the burning of the water pouring into him like he was nothing but a big old meaty pitcher. His hair was soaked and matted onto his forehead like the curtains of a shower on a porcelain tub; it clung to his forehead and he could feel the sweat beading and rolling between the skin and the follicles even though the water was about as frigid as yeti piss and had the same feeling as Bobby Flay jamming knives wherever he could see the wrinkles of age in your skin. It sucked.<br />
<br />
He was like bait. Jesus Christ, he was bait. Like there was a catfish at the bottom of this tank, and he was digging for it with his teeth. It was candy apples, except it was the middle of May instead of Halloween, there was nothing consensual about this little game, and every second he sat there screaming into the water, looking for a reward he’d never find, all he’d do was drown a little faster. <br />
<br />
His lungs were swelling up and bubbling as pulmonary edema took—<br />
<br />
BLUUUUUUUUUUGH!<br />
<br />
Two fingers slipped into his mouth like a car cuts through a lane, and something hard and callous bopped into his uvula. He vomited into the water desperately, choking and gagging, and as he wretched his vision brightened from the frightening navy it had been seconds before into something a little bit greyer. The monochrome faded fast, and what little color there was left in the room came back as fast as he could muster it. Every breath, there was peace. Every second, there was serenity. Every time he lived through it, safety came a little closer. If only his hands weren’t tied down, he could reach it. <br />
<br />
But they were tied down. Hard. <br />
<br />
The man who had just forced Crawford to vomit like he was some twat kid at a high school party who’d had too much Bombay and lemonade filled his field of view. There was nothing distinguishing about him. Pallid skin, black hair, cold, dark eyes that reminded him a bit of that one dead Ewok from Return of the Jedi. He was wearing simple clothes, black t-shirt, black jeans. There was some tattoo on his bicep, something Special Forces. The only other clue to his identiy were the three yellow block letters – CIA – on his t-shirt. The guy was used to doing this. Letting people off the hook, and then cramming the hook back up their asses. <br />
<br />
Fuck. Fuck man. Fuck. This guy was nuts.<br />
<br />
But, then again, for a guy who had run guns and equipment for about half a dozen terrorist cells over the course of the last three years, that wasn’t exactly a term he should’ve been throwing around.<br />
<br />
“We’re getting your client list, Crawford, and we're getting it from you. Believe me when I say we can. This hurts you a helluvalot more than it hurts me.”<br />
<br />
Someone would help him, right? Fuck, man, he had rights. Constitutional rights. He’d watched all eight seasons of 24. He knew how this shit worked out. Someone was gonna come for him, right?<br />
<br />
“I want a lawyer,” he spat.<br />
<br />
“And I want a fucking Bugatti. Wanna cry about it?” <br />
<br />
“Go to hell.”<br />
<br />
“Have it your way,” Jack Bauer Lite said coldly, snapping his fingers for his buddy to dunk <br />
<br />
Crawford back into the tank in front of him. The agent, meanwhile, crossed the little cell – which, by the way, totally didn’t exist – in four simple steps and flipped a sign on the doorway, just for anyone who had ideas of butting in.<br />
<br />
Gone fishin’.</div>
Caleb Peifferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12695484632520881655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-71152929681564568842013-05-26T18:30:00.001-07:002013-05-26T18:42:21.963-07:00Infection<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
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<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Theme:
Infection</b></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your
feet pound on and your arm drags on behind it.</i></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>By Grantaire </i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your feet pound
on and your arm drags on behind it.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You run through
the darkening evening and your arm drags along with you. You cannot
look at it: no amount of earthly power can make you.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your feet pound
on and your arm drags on behind it.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You can feel it.
But you dare not lift it with your still healthy arm: that would
involve both feel and touch.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Your heart, still
healthy, vies for attention with its frantic pounding but you ignore
it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your feet pound
on and your arm drags on behind it.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What if there is
nothing behind you? What if the monsters which bit your arm are just
watching you?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What if they know
you’re already done for?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your feet pound
on and your arm drags on behind it.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You must ponder
sometimes if there was a life before this day: a life before the
constant running, the agonizing horror, and the running once more:
unfettered but bound by your own body.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You must wonder if
there was a life before this hell.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your feet pound
on and your arm drags on behind it.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You can’t keep
going like this. Your breath is gone, and your arm begins to jerk.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oh God. Oh God.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your feet pound
on and your arm drags on behind it.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You have to stop.
You have to just lie down; lie down and die. You must surrender. It’s
alive, it’s all over.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
No wonder you were
left alone.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your feet pound
on and your arm slithers on behind it.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This can’t be
happening. You couldn’t stand to cradle your arm, and now it’s
cradling you, slipping up and around your shoulders. You open your
mouth to scream, but you’re too far gone for more than a rasp to
come out.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your feet pound
on and your arm coils on.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Your shoulders are
numbing, and your legs pump even more furiously. You can-</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oh God, you can
see your arm.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The rasping breaks
out again, turning into heaving gasps. The numbness is spreading to
your other arm, to your chest, leaving only your legs to pound on
endlessly, A sound escapes you at last, a man’s desperate last
scream.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Your feet pound
on and your body coils about them.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<b>
By John 55555:</b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I closed the door quietly and hung my hat
on the crooked coat rack. It fell over with a crash and my wife shrieked
upstairs. Today's not my day.</div>
Despite the infection, my
wife Emma tries to keep a neat house. We actually have a second story, a
kind of running water, and some small windows. I handled the
fortifications. it has been a long time since they attacked in any kind
of numbers, but the odd group would still try and get in.</div>
In fact, we're quite safe here. Except for one thing.<br />
<br />
I'm a doctor.</div>
I
can help these people, sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. When caught
quickly enough I could save them by amputating the infected limb
before it spread to the brain. If bitten on the torso, head or upper leg
there was nothing I could do.</div>
I went to the sink and tried
to rinse off my wound. It was quite small, but a nasty one. I had to
twist my head all the way to the left to see it, there on my shoulder.
I'm done for.</div>
Emma came down the stairs in her tattered robe. The kids must be in bed already, though the sun had barely set.</div>
Without thinking, I turned to face her, and she saw the bite on my shoulder. Her face sagged. She knew what it meant.<br />
<br />
<b>Gratoraxe: </b><br />
<br />
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
I ran as fast as I could. The
jungle’s thorns, twigs, and rocks pierced my feet and body numerous
times in my escape from the beach house. I was awakened earlier that
night by screams from my flat mate who had accumulated some odd
symptoms. He had lost all sanity and was now chasing me through the
jungle of horrors as the natives called it. I tripped and fell. My
former friend soon closed in on me. He stood over me with a murderous
look on his face when one of the nearby natives issued a call that
made him stop in his tracks and faint. “The new monster infection
works very well.” He said “I wonder how it would work on you…”
And with that, a puff of incense was blown into my face, and I too,
became a monster.</div>
Five Fiveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02787187651294078468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-40780632156851238282013-05-19T19:33:00.000-07:002013-05-19T19:33:07.564-07:00SpikeBy Josh Baltarc:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
The spike disappeared into the ground, securing yet another plank in place. <em>Great. Only a million more to go.</em> I grabbed another, lining it up.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
I glanced over at George, who was currently reclining against a rock. Typical. Guy never did any work. “Get over here and help me out,” I said. He just grinned and shook his head. “Think you’ll get paid if you don’t do nothin’?” I asked.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
“’Course!” he replied. “Them’s the laws. I get hired; I get paid. Don’t matter if I work or not.” It was true, and it was infuriating. That was the problem with this– This whole– I growled in frustration and returned to my work, pounding spike after spike, venting as much frustration as I could on the simple metal stakes. Every day, every week, every year it was the same.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
But then again.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Did it have to be?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
No.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
CLANG.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
It didn’t.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
///</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
George was deep in unearned slumber when I arose. He would never feel the spike pierce his heart.</div>
Veloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-85525867523037307242013-05-18T18:24:00.001-07:002013-05-18T18:24:04.933-07:00BellsBy Tyler St. Francis:<br />
<br />
<br />
Drake screamed, but no one heard him.<br />
<br />
If anyone was listening, they’d hear clattering and banging and ringing and a dull bong, a cacophony of sounds alternating and resonating through the thin December air. Nobody was listening that closely, though, so nobody could hear the roars or the screams or the weeping and the pain as he bounced aimlessly around inside the brass, hellish bowl he’d been strung up by the feet in. Drake slowly came to a stop, vomiting upside down all over his own face for the fourth time in…however many hours had it been, now? His hands were tied by a length of rope so tight you’d swear to God a sailor somewhere had a bone to pick with you and trussed you up.<br />
<br />
This was no sailor, though. This was a pastor. A fucking crazy ass delusional fucking murderous pastor who happened to have a beautiful wife, who happened to have a wandering eye for cute guys, who happened to have the moral strength of butter and a moral compass that pointed straight up, but didn’t exactly point north, if you catch the drift.<br />
<br />
Drake could feel something warm and sticky and coppery and he knew he must have been bleeding all over the inside of the brass; vomit didn’t get that sticky, vomit didn’t smell like that, vomit didn’t make you even sicker when you swallowed too much of it, vomit didn’t ooze from your teeth and your hands and vomit didn’t fall out of your cheeks when the skin had been scraped dead off, leaving nothing but the muscle and tendon to defend against the elements…<br />
<br />
And why wouldn’t this fucking pastor say anything?<br />
<br />
The bells drowned out into a series of unprocessed, unedited memories, a slow, sad lesson in the existentialist nature of the sound of music. Now that there was nothing to block him out, and now that it was a Friday night and the teenagers and the kids were out partying and drinking and chilling out, Drake could scream. He could get help. Sure, he wouldn’t quite have that handsome look to his face anymore. Sure, his baby blue eyes might be a bit purple with all the blood vessels that had burst in them. Sure, he’d have to deal with the blows to his pride, but fuh-huh-uuuck, it was better than dying in a giant brass coffin, right? Right?<br />
<br />
Why wouldn’t this fucking pastor say anything?<br />
<br />
“Come on, man…come on, this ain’t worth it…just let me go, man, you’re fucking crazy, JUST LET ME GO--!”<br />
<br />
A warning shake: Drake rattled around like a collection of beans in a maraca, and it gave him an idea. As he heard the rope slip from the pastor’s grip he began to swing desperately, began the slow, agonizing attempt to make something happen, to make someone notice—<br />
<br />
Outside the coffin, he heard something slip against a hard, knotted surface, like flesh against sandpaper. It was the sound of a rope being gripped; it was the next tolling.<br />
<br />
“OhnonononononoNONONO—!”<br />
<br />
The pastor said nothing; outside the brass, he heard something yank.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the bells rang on, cheerfully oblivious to the suffering of their power source.<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
By Phantom Terror:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Lewa was strolling through the jungle one day when he heard a new sound. It was unlike any other that he had heard before; it was too high to be a drum, but to metallic to be a flute. He cut down some underbrush and found Tamaru expressing his love for music with a very strange piece of metal. “What happy-fun are we having here?” Lewa asked. “Oh, nothing really.” Tamaru replied. “Just thought what new clang-noise a funny-shape piece of metal would make.” “It sounds nice.” Lewa said. “May I swing-try?” He asked. “Yes, but it was hard to make. Please be careful.” Tamaru said as he handed the new instrument to Lewa. Lewa tapped it lightly with his finger. “It made no sound-noise.” Lewa said. “Did I break it?” He asked in dismay. “No, you swing it like this.” Tamaru said as he brought the piece of metal up and flicked his wrist. The bell responded by making a melodious sound. “That’s a pretty noise-sound.” Lewa said. “May I try again?” He asked. “Sure.” tamaru said as he handed the bell to Lewa. Lewa then flicked his wrist the same way that Tamaru did, only he wasn’t holding on tight enough. “The bell flew out of Lewa’s hands and hit a very scared Tamaru. Tamaru then flopped onto the ground unconscious. “Well, have happy-fun with your new noisemaker!” Lewa said as he hurried away. Hopefully Tamaru wouldn’t remember what happened.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">--------</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="post entry-content" style="color: #282828; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<div style="padding: 0px;">
A Story for a Boy That I Know Of</div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
by Eyru</div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.6;">They were ringing for her.</span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
They pealed and laughed and sang and shouted for joy. They raised a noise to the cloudless sky; they gave forth a mighty hallelujah that surely rang through all of heaven.</div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
She was crying. She couldn't tell why – was it joy or fear? The song of the bells tolled within and without, echoing through her brain, jarring tears from her forget-me-not eyes. They spilled over velvet-soft lids and through sugar-spun lashes, trailing mascara on their journey down her cheeks.</div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
The problem: how do you wipe your eyes when wearing all white?</div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
Her sister saved her, dabbing away the treacherous tears as the music swelled, the bells ringing louder than ever before. They rolled like thunder and thundered like a storm, singing a song that could shake stone. Piercing like silver lightning and warm like golden summer rain, they shouted and screamed and tolled for love.</div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
She blinked back saltwater, blurry figures resolving into the world the bells had made. For they had made it, hadn't they, or had she? Perhaps she had been a part of it all along.</div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
The bells rang either way, ringing for her.</div>
</div>
<br />
Veloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-82829010977414111072013-05-11T19:01:00.000-07:002013-05-11T19:01:06.490-07:00ShadowsBy Eyru Bieber<br />
<br />
<br />
Only a Man<br />
<br />
<br />
Slowly, he walked along the empty street, footsteps echoing between abandoned buildings. A dirty rag of a newspaper blew gently along the ground. The city was empty. Dead.<br />
<br />
He looked up, his eyes scanning each floor of the nearest apartment. The lights were all out. Some windows were open; some shutters were half-closed; one pane of glass was spattered with a dark liquid. He blinked and looked away, swallowed his guilty nausea.<br />
<br />
Always higher, his eyes looked higher. The tops of the buildings were as empty as the streets. Beyond them, the blank sky, grey as slate. No birds. No planes. It was as though everyone had vanished.<br />
<br />
Despite the lack of a population being uncanny and strange, it wasn't the absence of people that unnerved him most: it was the silence. The only noise was his footsteps; his red boots clicked against the asphalt over and over. He was the city's heartbeat; he was its alien metronome, counting the seconds. Keeping time in a city where all time had run out.<br />
<br />
Once again, he looked over his shoulder, hoping against hope to see someone standing there that hadn't been only moments ago. He knew there was no one there, and if there was, he would have heard them. His ears were sharper than most. Still, he couldn't help himself. All he wanted was to see one person, one piece of evidence that he wasn't the last person left in this skeleton of a metropolis.<br />
<br />
Water spilled from between his lids. Hit by a sudden spike of pain in his chest, the man sobbed once, twice. He blinked back tears valiantly, but couldn't dam the flow forever. Saltwater trickled down his cheeks as he struggled and failed to push back the realization that he had failed.<br />
<br />
Sinking to his knees, his cape crumpling to the ground, scarlet as blood, he wept.<br />
<br />
<br />
--------------<br />
<br />
By Nuile:<br />
<br />
<br />
Leaves rustled about me, crunching underfoot, swirling
overhead. A dusky orange saturated the sky, streaked by strata of black clouds.
The light of the sun was fading, plunging the world into ever-lengthening
shadows. A howl hooted in the distance, nearby a bush rustled. I quickened my
pace. Was that wolf howling? It sounded almost human . . . A twig snapped
behind me.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
My heart beat rapidly, protesting my presence here. But what
choice did I have?<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
Footsteps. Were they footsteps? No, that was just a leaf skittering
across the path . . .<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1pt 0in;">
Wasn’t it?</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
The precious light of day was fading quickly. Instinctively I
wanted to run toward the light and follow it, but reason told me that was
impossible. But reason seemed to slip with every sound around me.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
That <i>wasn’t</i> a wolf—and it was close. But what was it?
My breathing was coming in quick gasps. I put a hand over my mouth to conceal
the sound.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
There was something moving nearby. Something big. The
darkening hues of the twilight played tricks with my eyes, blinding me to the
depths of the shadows. Were those eyes gleaming behind that tree? They couldn’t
be. They were—reflectors for bikers—or—shiny rocks—<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
The hair rose along the nape of my neck. I had felt warm air
as if something were breathing on me. I knew I hadn’t imagined it. I couldn’t
have.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
I broke into a run. Half-blind, half-crazed, I blundered away
from the path. Any sense would have told me to run in the opposite direction,
as far away from the <b>umbrageous</b> forest as possible. But something pulled
me into the trees . . . I would be safely hidden there.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
Wouldn’t I?<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
An owl screeched. There was a flap of wings and a rustling of
leaves and—was that the howl again? Was that breathing? No—just the wind . . .
must have been . . .<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
I tripped over a root. I felt rocks and branches and bark
scratch at my hands and knees and face but I stumbled to my feet and hurried
on. I collided with something in the darkness.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
What was it? It was a tree—it must have been. It was too
soft—but it was mossy, that’s all. The claws that ran lightly across my body
were just branches—<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1pt 0in;">
Weren’t they?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1pt 0in;">
My heart beat against my ribs, trying to escape, trying to run
away from the danger I had put myself in. But it could not escape, no more than
I could. I struggled in vain.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 1pt 0in;">
Then someone—or something—laughed from the shadows.</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">“Afraid of the dark?”</span>Caleb Peifferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12695484632520881655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-87902534106682006262013-04-28T21:19:00.001-07:002013-04-28T21:19:18.530-07:00Sunrise<div class="bbc_center">
<b>"Saturday Morning", by Josh/Baltarc</b></div>
<br />
My eyes fluttered open as the first few rays of light broke through the
window. I glanced over at the clock, glowing red letters flashing out
the time: 7:08. It was a Saturday; I couldve slept in if Id wanted to.
Part of me strongly considered doing just that rolling over and falling
back asleep. But I didnt.<br />
<br />
Instead, I rolled the other way, my feet dropping to the cold tile and
barely managing to keep my half-asleep body upright as I forced myself
to stand. My mouth dropped wide into a yawn as I fumbled for my glasses,
swiping them clean on the edge of my shirt and shoving them onto my
face. I twisted the doorknob, quietly opening the door of my bedroom.
Soft beams of light were just beginning to illuminate the still silent
house. Almost too late, but not quite.<br />
<br />
I hurried to the door and stepped outside, glancing around the yard
until I spotted the ladder. I dragged it over to the side of the house,
ascending as soon as I was sure it was steady.<br />
From the roof, I could see it perfectly. The sun was just beginning to
creep over the horizon, brilliant purples and oranges and yellows and
reds blossoming in the sky. It was beautiful, amazingly beautiful, and I
wondered how I could never have noticed this before. Yesterday shed
told me that she watched the sunset each morning, and now I understood
why it was almost as beautiful as her.<br />
<br />
-------------------<br />
<br />
<b>"Untitled", by Nicolas Joseph/Nick Silverpen </b><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<span>He clambered out of bed, eyes
still half shut as he picked himself off the floor. He swayed back and
forth as he struggled to peel open his eyelids, leaning against the
doorway of his room as he pushed forward through the darkness. It was
impossible to see, he simply went by memory. Little shapes danced behind
his eyelids as he stumbled forward. His feet clump clumped on the steps
loudly as he staggered forth, and he wasn’t sure if his curses were
mental or whispers. Definitely whispers, he decided, smelling morning
breath escape from his beard. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<span>“You’ve got to wake up,” he
mumbled as he shook someone awake in the room below. They moaned, and
curled up more in the warmth of their pillow. He shook them a little
harder, they moaned in angst a little longer. Shaking his still asleep
head, he backed out of the room, trying not to knock anything over. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<span>He rubbed his eyes as he walked
outside, across the sand and up the bridge. A pole in his hand as he
treaded forward, the rest in his pack that thudded on his waist with
each pace. Eyes open now, he could see the starry sky above, little
pinpricks of light glowing dimmer as the light in his eyes grew
brighter. The skyline was a mix of purple and black, an inky darkness
that robbed the land of all scenery. A faint breeze tickled his neck as
hiked up, and he closed his eyes once more, feeling the spring in the
air. There was nothing out but that breeze, the only sound his feet
scuffing against the inclining pavement. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<span>He dropped his line in at the
top of the bridge, leaning against the barrier that separated here from
the driving lanes on the bridge. Fingers tugged at the line, feeling the
vibrations. A cloud rolled by overhead, navy outlined in silver, just
like him, idly as though it had not a single deadline in its lifetime to
get where it was going. The new moon hung out somewhere up there, he
knew, staring up into the sky, cloaked by its own shadow. The kid was
probably dreaming of this, he supposed. Seeing it was far better than
sleeping, he shrugged as he checked the line.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<span>A scuff similar to his own took
the little attention he had from the line. The kid was coming up, half
dressed in a sweatshirt and overalls. Just in time too, the man mumbled
to himself as he turned back to all that was before him. The sky was
turning from purple to a lighter orange, as somewhere just beyond the
edge, the sun was making its way up. “You made it,” he said to the kid,
once he made it to the spot where the man sat. “Bait up.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<span>They sat in silence for a few
moments, as the sun crept closer and closer toward the horizon. They
watched the glow herald its arrival. As he sat, he wasn’t sure which he
waited for more. The sun or a nibble. He’d been doing this everyday
since he was a kid with his pop, and the tradition continued here. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<span>A crown broke on the horizon,
unexpectedly the same time as the pole began to bend. Sure, the currents
were starting, but... the man tightened his grip on the pole. What was
he doing? He asked himself as he reeled the wrong way. Fixing the pole,
he lightly tugged. Definitely a bite. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<span>Soon it was a small, yet
challenging battle. He had watched the sun every day, never missed it.
Now just as it was riding the waterline, here he was, distracted by some
bite that would probably get away. He yanked. It yanked back. Now he
was reeling in faster, as the horizon grew brighter and brighter with
the shade of a shining dandelion, while the kid sat there, waiting for
his own bite to come. With a final exhale of impatience, the man stepped
forward, and began to aggressively pull in whatever was on the other
line. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<span>The fish was willful, but all
his meager strength could not last decades of reeling in. It popped
out, flying into the air, an image that smacked against the sun as it
broke the waterline. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03794789066535054370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-87811351343247480102013-04-27T18:49:00.003-07:002013-04-27T18:50:48.768-07:00Trapped<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<b>"Trapped", by Eyru </b></div>
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<br /></div>
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The coffee was lukewarm and bland.<br />
<br />
He'd been sitting here for over an hour now, in this coffee shop that
played soft Spanish guitar music over a pair of $30 speakers glued in
the corners. Nice ambiance, but no bass at all.<br />
<br />
Sort of like his life, he thought acridly. Baseless. Ha ha.<br />
<br />
He was handsome in an unattractive way, if that makes any sense. Hair
the colour of dishwater, spiked up in the front. Sharp nose. Gray eyes.
Soft mouth. He got lost in crowds often.<br />
<br />
He licked his lips, lost in thought. He'd ordered a latte, and the girl
behind the counter had even poured a neat little flower in the foam.
Pretty, but unnecessary: you couldn't taste it. It was all aesthetics.<br />
<br />
Too late now, but he should've asked for an extra shot. Pretty art couldn't make up for the lack of body.<br />
<br />
He turned back to the laptop, setting the porcelain cup back in its
saucer, next to a clean spoon and an untouched gingersnap the size of a
coin. His thoughts dodged back and forth as though they were playing
dodgeball with responsibility.<br />
<br />
The screen was full of applications and programs and courses: he was
sitting at a college website. A notepad lay at his left hand, blank
except for a single sentence, written in a tidy scrawl: courses I could
take.<br />
<br />
He was obviously indecisive, because he hadn't written anything else.<br />
<br />
Running a hand through his hair, he sighed and looked out the window.
Beyond the glass lay a quiet, personable main street of sorts. Grocery
store, cafe, bookstore, cafe, bank, clothing store, library, cafe.<br />
<br />
Yeah, there were a lot of cafes. Nice little town, but not particularly
exciting or original. One of those places where it was easy to feel
trapped.<br />
<br />
He turned his gaze back to the laptop, then shut it almost angrily, cutting off his escape. Again.<br />
<br />
He'd be back.
<b><br /></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>------------------- </b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>"Her Property", by Will</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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The wiccern lives at the heart of the orchard:
a grove of twisted, living trees. One does not eat the fruit of those trees,
not even animals. They are Her Property, and she is always jealous...</div>
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<br /></div>
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So when I came upon the man in gray
sitting beneath the shade of the orchard tree with a thoughtful look on his
face and an apple core in his hand, my first thought was that he must be mad.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Are you mad?” I asked, shifting my books
from one hand to the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man glanced
up with eyes like jet and drew his feet together beneath him. He laughed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
“Mad? Maybe. What do you mean?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“This is the wiccern’s orchard. Don’t
you know? You don’t eat from her trees. She’ll get you for it.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Is there a sign?” he asked, and his
mouth twisted up in a smile. His chin was covered in stubble, and his gray
clothing looked much weather-worn. I could see rips and tears in the hem, and
he wore no shoes.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“You must not be from around here.” I
sneered a little.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
“Very perceptive of you, boy,” he
replied. “I’ve come from away to the west. You see this?” He thrust out a fist,
and something dangled, glinting, from the chain that was clenched between his
fingers. It was metal--a medallion. I stepped forward hesitantly. Best not get
too close to this mad stranger. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“What is it?” The shape of a leaping
fish was engraved upon the metal, and an odd symbol. It was a sailor’s charm, I
thought. We’d learned about them in schoolhouse last season.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
“This is something I’ve had for a long time,
boy. But it failed me five days ago. Did the storm come this far inland?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Storm...what are you talking about?”
The weather had been overcast for the past few days, but that was nothing new.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Ah, well maybe I am mad then. Too much
time at sea has made me more fish than man...”</div>
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<br /></div>
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So he was a sailor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
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“You came from the coast?” I asked, “That’s
a long way, I think.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
“I’m a fast walker, boy, when I put my
mind to it.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Well, anyway, you shouldn’t eat from
the orchard trees. It’ll be bad luck for you.”</div>
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“Bad luck...” He fingered the medallion
again, lids half-closed over his jet-black eyes. “Bad luck’s all I’ve ever had,
I think. They say when I siren calls you from the rocks, the call stays with
you all your life, if you manage to resist it. Like a fish in her net,
trapped...”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Sirens?” We’d learned about those in
schoolhouse too, but they were only myths. Fish-women who led sailors to their
deaths on hidden shoals.</div>
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“Aye,” he shrugged and turned away from
me, staring into the darkness under the orchard leaves.</div>
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“Well, I don’t know about all that, but
you’d best not stay around here,” I said, stepping back toward the country
road. The school bells were ringing down in the town by now. I’d be late if I
didn’t get going, and I didn’t much want to exchange more words with this
strange man. His words made me shiver.</div>
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“Mm, you’d best get along to school then,
boy,” the man said. </div>
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He turned back toward me for a moment,
eyes wide, face smiling. </div>
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“I’ll be just fine,” he said, and
winked, tossing the apple core over his shoulder into the dark. Suddenly there
was a noise in the air, like a voice, but without words. It was a song. Someone
singing from a great distance. The man stood up all at once, and I backed away,
shivering. The sun must have gone behind a cloud, because it had grown very dark,
as dark as the shade under the trees. The song rose and fell, and man turned
his back to me. I thought to warn him again...but then I found that I didn’t
want to, because I wanted to follow him. It was a terrible feeling, and my heart
began to pound. </div>
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The song was a call. It was calling him,
and me. Like a web being drawn tight. I saw the medallion flash in the dimness
where it hung from the man’s hand, and suddenly he was not alone beneath the
trees. Another figure stood there with one hand resting against the tree. Her
mouth was open, and the melody came dancing from her throat.</div>
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The man’s voice rang out again, breaking
through the song for a moment as I stood quivering by the road. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“I’ve been too long on the iron sea,” he
said. “Too long running away across the waves.”</div>
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The wiccern inclined her head, and her
long hair fell over one shoulder. I had never seen her before, and she was not
one to be described. Her eyes were very piercing though...that much I know. She
looked at the apple core that lay in the grass. Her Property. He should not
have come here--</div>
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“You called me, all those years ago,”
the man continued abruptly. “I know it was you, even through the mist and the
rain. I’d lashed myself to the mast, you see, and the rudder carried me to
safety, but I was always pulled back. Like a fish on a hook...”</div>
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<br /></div>
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His head whipped around, and jet-black
eyes fixed me.</div>
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“Go, boy,” his arm went back, and he tossed
something at me. I caught it out of instinct, almost dropping my books. It was
the medallion, chain and all. It flashed in the sunlight as I looked at it...</div>
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<br /></div>
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Sunlight.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The song faded, and I looked up to see
an empty orchard. Just a grove of twisted, living trees. Yes...one does not eat
the fruit of those trees, I remembered the saying, not even animals. They are
Her Property, and she is always jealous...</div>
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I continued on down the road, the
medallion clenched in my fist. A slight wind whispered in the tree-leaves
behind me, and for a moment I thought I heard the sound of a voice. </div>
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I didn’t look back.</div>
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<b>"Socialize", by Legolover-361 </b></div>
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<br />
There’s something so enthralling about being caught in a corner and
pummeled till you feel blood dripping down your nose, your head is
throbbing like a dubstep bass drop, and your extremities quiver in pain
and fear.<br />
<br />
Just kidding.<br />
<br />
Not something to joke about, you say? Right. I’d agree with you, but how the heck else am I supposed to deal with it?<br />
<br />
His name is Leon, he’s a linebacker, and he has it out for nerds who
refuse to help him with homework because of his drug problems and
because certain female friends of those nerds have not been regarded
with much respect on his part. Sound corny? That’s because it is. Sound
painful? No? Well, that’s the difference between you and me, then:
You’re reading this narrative, and I’m living it.<br />
<br />
Picture now, if you will, a typical Friday mealtime. Five-foot-two Sarah — auburn hair, freckles, good-looking but <i>just a friend mind you</i>
— is sitting across from five-foot-seven me — buzzcut, a bit of
unshaven facial hair, a few pimples and contacts. We’re eating lunch.
(An aside: There isn’t any “mystery meat” or “mystery vegetables”, but
everyone calls them that anyway because we rarely know ahead of time
what’s being served.)<br />
<br />
The cafeteria’s tables are plastic, circular, and kind of grimy. A
rite of passage among our school’s students is that the new kid will be
dared to place his hand underneath the table and press hard, and once
he’s freed from the table and has washed all the chewing gum off his
palm, we say he’s baptized. It’s a public school, but a slew of us
belong to a few nearby Christian churches. Not that going to church on
Sundays makes half the kids any better. The other half were probably
decent to begin with.<br />
<br />
I’m getting off-tack.<br />
<br />
So Sarah and I are sitting at our own table, eating lunch, and Leon
comes over and asks her quite bluntly why he doesn’t have her phone
number yet because he would <i>call </i>her, and you can tell from his emphasis on <i>call </i>that he means he’s going to do it.<br />
<br />
Sarah smiles and says no thanks, she doesn’t date blockheads.<br />
<br />
I fist-pump under the table. Maybe Leon caught my look of exultation,
because he smiles, too, and says he has girls lining up at his house.<br />
<br />
“To slap you?” I ask.<br />
<br />
He looks like he’s going to slap <i>me</i>, but then he calms down.
“I have a party this Saturday,” he says instead, handing a slip of
paper to each of us. It says, in fourteen-point Times New Roman, <i>PARTY AT LEONS 1:00-MIDNITE — ALL INVITED — 147 ORIENT ST. — TIME OF YOUR LIFE #YOLO</i>. I’m not impressed; Times New Roman is really generic.<br />
<br />
“Everyone’s going,” he says — and, as if to prove his point, calls
out to the cafeteria, “Who’s comin’ to my place one o’clock sharp
tomorrow?”<br />
<br />
A lot of voices cheer. I don’t know how Leon got so popular. Maybe
rebels attract large crowds; there are surely historical precedents for
that, kind of like the American and French revolutions.<br />
<br />
“Guess which squares say they <i>aren’t</i>?” he continues.<br />
<br />
“I’ll go,” says Sarah.<br />
<br />
I turn to face her with a <i>what-the-heck-are-you-thinking </i>look, but she responds with her <i>shut-up-I-know-what-I’m-doing-I’m-old-enough-to-make-my-own-decisions</i> look. Specific, I know, but we’ve known each other since Kindergarten.<br />
<br />
“Excellent,” says Leon, returning to wherever his friends are sitting.<br />
<br />
I look at Sarah when Leon’s out of earshot. She shrugs. “We’re seventeen. We oughta socialize at <i>some </i>point in our school lives, right?”<br />
<br />
“With <i>him</i>?” I ask.<br />
<br />
“Who else is there?” she responds.<br />
<br />
I’m still thinking of an answer to that question.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03794789066535054370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-6594124608337982802013-04-21T22:34:00.000-07:002013-04-21T22:34:22.287-07:00Curse<div class="post entry-content">
<div class="post entry-content">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 24px;">Curse by Naina:</span></b></div>
<br />
I love people. That’s my curse.<br />
Since I was a child, I’ve been able to feel for other people, know
their inner hopes and fears like my own. I wish I didn’t have to.<br />
I try to explain my plight but no one seems to understand.<br />
“Oh, you’re so lucky, you’re a kind person.” I’ve never had a choice in the matter. I <em>have </em> to be kind or my conscience’ll kill me.<br />
“I’d give anything to understand my friends the way you do.” I’d give anything to not.<br />
“Empathy is a gift, use it well.” It’s a gift, sure, but it’s also a curse.<br />
<br />
Imagine that you were carrying a candle in a dark room. You spread
light as you hold up your candle and everyone loves you for it. You’ve
given them what they need: the illumination to find their way along a
dark path.<br />
But here’s the catch: the candle burns you. Every time you hold up
the candle, wax trickles down your skin, scalding and scorching your
flesh. You gasp and try to rub it off, but it sticks like burning oil.<br />
The only way not to get burnt is to extinguish the light. To stay away. Follow your own path for a change.<br />
But you can’t do that. You can’t leave all these people in the dark.
You love them too much for that. The candle burns you if you don’t help
them and burns you if you do. It’s a no-win situation.<br />
<br />
It’s a never-ending duty. I have to help everyone I meet or I’ll feel
so sad I can’t bear it. I’ll probably kill myself one of these days,
trying to help someone.<br />
I love people more than I love myself. Love thy neighbour, the good
book says, and I do. I love everyone I know, for all their flaws and
faults. Even you. I barely know you but yet I feel obliged to whisper a
few words in your ear, reassure you that it’s all right. Just so you can
move on from your fears and insecurities, live a better life.<br />
I love you even though I don’t know you. Yeah, I know, that sounded creepy.<br />
Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Momma’s going to fix the whole sad world.<br />
<br />
Seems weird, walking along the street, talking about this. There’s a
girl crossing the road – she just broke up with her boyfriend, I think.
She looks so sad. Oh, no, she’s not looking where she’s going and the
car–<br />
It’s over for me. I can hear people crying. But at least she’s safe. Goodbye world. The candle is flickering and will soon die.<br />
</div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Ink by John 55555: </b><br />
<br />
<b> </b>The boy sat alone on a high stool before the writing table. His hair was
close cropped, and he wore a red tunic belted at the waist. A warm
breeze blew through the sunny room and ruffled the blank, rough paper
before him. He was focused on his task. He dipped his pen into the ink,
and, with no hesitation began to write.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>The
curse has stood on my family for countless generations. It is something
we must bear, and have borne well. Our spirits have been sharpened, our
determination has been hardened, and truly this evil has brought us
great good.There is little room for greed and vice in our tumultuous
hearts. For we can hear them, I can hear them. The whispers of the dragons.</i><br /></div>
<div>
A look of horror, then one of sorrow flew across his face. Then a a return of his quiet concentration.<br /></div>
<div>
<i>They
lie deep, deep beneath the green fields and black mountains. Some think
them legends, most think them dead. But they live, in the darkness that
is broken only by the flames of their wrath. But always, among
themselves and to themselves, they whisper.</i><br /></div>
<div>
The boy's jaw clenched, and he paused. After a moment he returned to his task, with renewed speed.<br /></div>
<div>
<i>They
speak in secrets, old knowledge long corrupted. They speak of present,
future and distant path in a single breath, and seem not to distinguish
them as such.<br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>It is my task, as it has long
been the task of my ancestors, to record those of these whispers that
might be used for good. The histories they speak of are beyond anything
our takes tell of, and even in the foul wisdom of dragons their lie grains truth and usefulness.<br /></i></div>
<i>But one other duty falls to me. I must listen, listen for the day they try and break free.</i><br />
<b>Depression by Tekulo: </b><br />
<br />
I’m never having children of my own. That is the conclusion I have reached after twenty years of living.<br />
I won’t lie, the dream life sounds quite lovely. Falling in love,
proposing, getting married and celebrating with a wonderful wedding,
having children, going to work every day and coming home to your family
sounds nice. Maybe it’s because it’s the way I was programmed as an
animal, but having children always sounded nice to me. A lot of people
dream of starting a family, and I can feel that part of me itching away
in my brain time after time. But I will ignore it. I have to ignore
it.<br />
<br />
The site before me sealed my determination on the matter. Tiny pairs
of lights were flying across the horizon of my vision. It felt amazing
watching them zoom past. Just imagining those little lights on their
way to a destination far away from where I am now. They didn’t pay me
any mind, but that was fine with me. There were other lights too, and
they illuminated dark pavement in a sickening orange light. As hideous
as it looked, it also seemed calm. Staring into the darkness of the
ground below, I could feel it almost calling to me; dragging me in with
each and every breath I took. I could feel it in my veins; the pulse of
my heart reaching my brain and screaming with every passing moment.<br />
<br />
<em>Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump.</em><br />
<br />
I never felt more alive in that moment than I ever have in my entire
life. The only thing keeping me from falling now was my hand clenching a
nearby pipe on the roof. The rest of my body was standing, leaning out
to the depths below. Looking back now, it was the scariest moment I’ve
experienced. My body was doing this on its own it seemed. My
consciousness was aware of what was going on, just a little. Beyond my
heart and my brain screaming at me, I could hear a tiny little voice.
It was almost like a whisper the way it started.<br />
<br />
<em>Don’t… Don’t… Don’t… Don’t…</em><br />
<br />
My index finger slipped off of the pipe and my body lurched slightly toward the ground.<br />
<br />
<em>D-Jump. Do-ump. Don-mp. Don’-p</em><br />
<br />
I could feel myself fighting with my own body. That’s right, I could
regain my senses. Another finger slipped off of the metal arm which
was keeping me alive.<br />
<br />
<em>Don’t… Jump… Don’t… Jump</em><br />
<br />
The words began to pulse throughout my entire body. My hand, however
slipped completely, and for the first time since what seemed an
everlasting battle, I felt fear flash through my entire existence all at
once.<br />
That was when I felt a hand grasp my own. I was stunned as I was
pulled back up to the top of the roof. I saw a person in front of me,
someone who was very close to me. I saw a pair of lips moving quite
frantically after that, but I just stared at them, my mind unable to
process the noise.<br />
<br />
This was a curse that had been passed down in the blood of my family, and I vowed that night that it would end with me.<br />
</div>
Five Fiveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02787187651294078468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-67163041288625454242013-04-13T18:45:00.001-07:002013-04-13T18:45:05.102-07:00ThresholdBy Eli Brockway/Kal Grochi:<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">At the gates of madness, I saw a very disturbing image. I saw myself, but changed; I saw myself in the eyes of everybody around me, I saw myself in my loved ones’ eyes, I saw myself in my own eyes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">I saw my reflection, gazing back at me, pained, pleading to be set free, to be put out of his misery, hoping for somebody to come and save him, save </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic;">me, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">somebody who could get me out of this world’s mess...or somebody to release me from it all.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">I saw what I wanted most of all, and realized that it wasn’t truly so mad, more as it was truth.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">At the threshold of death I stopped myself, almost knocking on his door. I dropped the knife, staring in shock at what I was about to do. Then I cursed myself, for being like the others, and proving the others right. Weak, weak, I was weak, to weak even to end myself, to get away from all the others, from their anger, their hatred, their pity!</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">I cried. Selfish, foolish me, I cried for myself, unable to even do that which so many others said I should, still unable to please them in the slightest. Oh, what a cruel, cruel breed of people lived around me, only caring for those whose successes could be measured in wealth, and giving no care for those whose successes weren’t, and even less than that for those like me, with no success at all. Oh brave new world that has such people in it, why can’t you be like the days of old, where if one wished not to live they simply had to stop from ploughing their fields, or join their old king’s army? Why must you make that singular solace of death so hard to achieve?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">My music, my writing, my art, my </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic;">life, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">it all comes to naught. I hold no special place in the world’s workings, in the history of the universe, and yet I can’t even let myself go from it, to continue on to a freer world, a world of naught and nothing. So why, then, why can’t I live? What life is one that is barely lived, that the liver does not understand or find himself able to use, to fulfill?</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">What lies are those that are promulgated about the world, that it is happy, that everybody should live harmoniously? That is not the case, nor has it ever been. So why, then, can’t I free myself, or learn to live in it?</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">At the threshold of death I stopped myself, and with a sigh, I turned to another threshold, the threshold of life instead. Life, which I so sorely lack understanding of,love, which I so desperately need, and a home where I don’t have to be afraid of all that which I am in such fear of now.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">Ridicule, rejection, humiliation, failure, hatred and anger, pain and pity, these all have been facts of life for me so far, and yet I still hold so much fear of them, of feeling them, and receiving them, and giving them all. If I could only find myself free of them, if I could only find a key from these chains of mine and receive the happiness I so desperately find myself wanting...</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black;">Others, I know there are others, yet they are just as far away from me as are all those who do not suffer as I do, even if they be but an arm’s reach away, we all so lack understanding of each other, all of us, rich and poor, hurting and healed, whole and broken, loving and unloved. Change, change is so sorely needed in this world, and yet none can provide it, though many can try to start it.<br /><br />Sighing, and steeling myself for what I was about to do, I stepped back through life’s threshold, to try and help others, even though I couldn’t help myself.</span></span></div>
Veloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-83189291955023843922013-04-07T19:11:00.001-07:002013-04-07T19:11:47.853-07:00RebirthBy Kraggh:<br />
<br />
<br />
Getting Shot in the Head<br />
<br />
Ike suffered a blunt trauma to the head. Ivan, a doctor, picked him up.<br />
<br />
"Are you alright?" asked Ike.<br />
<br />
"A brief concussion. Computation skills compromised," said Ike. "I am hypothesizing that I can trust many of my own instincts at a level that the everage individual could trust theirs to carry out regular analysis. However, tomorrow, expect personality changes. The knock was to the back of my head, and the vibrations affected my frontal lobe where rationality and self-control are maintained. I will be agitated, possibly depressed. On a moral level, given that this is merely a blunt trauma as opposed to a spike in my brain, I would assume that I am morally trustworthy. At least we have that."<br />
<br />
"Right," said Ivan. "I will run a few tests. This game of baseball is over."<br />
<br />
Ian ran over from the pitcher's mount and Io ran over from the outfield. It was difficult having a game of baseball with only four people. Ian apologized to Ike for hitting him in the head with the baseball.<br />
<br />
"It's okay," said Ivan. "He said it's going to be okay. And it's nothing that can't be fixed."<br />
<br />
"Great," said Ian. "Suffering consequences for our actions isn't really our thing."<br />
<br />
"Ywis, I concur," said Ike. He rubbed the back of his head, where it hurt the most. He had been distracted and looked behind him when he stood up to bad. Perhaps he would not have been as hard if he had been wearing a helmet. They would have to take that into consideration last time.<br />
<br />
Ivan put the bat away and they left the parking lot. Io walked next to Ivan. "Tough hit," she said. "Who am I kidding? You'll be okay. At least it wasn't a bullet to the head."<br />
<br />
"In that case, I would still be okay, only temporarily incapacitated," said Ike.<br />
<br />
"We have yet to test that," she said.<br />
<br />
A car drove up in front of them and several people jumped out with machine guns. One of them grabbed Ivan.<br />
<br />
"You know I could very well test that. However, there's no point in trying if the risk is death. Proof might as well come about by natural means," said Ivan.<br />
<br />
"Are you tempted to prove it right away?" said Io.<br />
<br />
"Ywis," said Ike. "Your concern is the only thing to hold me back. However, in any event that I am to risk my life for someone else, it makes complete ethical sense to experiment it then."<br />
<br />
"Wait, what's up with Ivan?" asked Io. They finally decided to pay attention to the violence playing out in front of them, and Ivan taking on several individuals with machine guns at once.<br />
<br />
"He looks like he could use some help," said Ian.<br />
<br />
"Why would I want to help him?" asked Io. "He's terrible. I have no idea what he's being doing, but he's got himself into some trouble, as always. If it was <em>real</em> trouble I would understand and I would help, but he can take care of himself."<br />
<br />
Ivan got shot twice in the torso. He fell to the ground.<br />
<br />
"There goes our mad scientist doctor," said Ian.<br />
<br />
One of the thugs lifted Ivan off the ground and began dragging him to the car.<br />
<br />
"He'll be all right," said Io.<br />
<br />
"Just in case," said Ike, "I really think that it should be logical to do something."<br />
<br />
"Wait, Ike, you're being affected by your blunt blow to the head! There's no point in doing anything! Where's the logic to helping Ivan when he doesn't want to be helped? Isn't that right, Ivan?"<br />
<br />
Ivan coughed and responded to Io, "She's right. Stay out of this."<br />
<br />
By now you, the reader, will have figured out that this is a very odd situation. Do not worry, it gets even less ordinary as things progress.<br />
<br />
Ike was overpowered and had his hands tied behind his back as he was forced into the back of the van with Ivan. Not that he put up any fight. The drivers went off without them, ignoring Ian and Io. Ivan looked over at Ike. "It sucks," he said.<br />
<br />
"I would consider this a peculiar situation," said Ike. "You will heal yourself afterward after we get out of it, when they take you wherever it is that they want to take you, because you clearly intend on breaking into their base of operations or meeting their head. Am I interfering?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," said Ivan. "Now I'm going to have to start all over again. Ike, how could you do this?"<br />
<br />
"Blunt trauma," said Ike. "I do not perceive myself as thinking straight."<br />
<br />
"Well, let's change that," said Ivan. "Right now, you're a liability, no offense. If I can't have everything go as according to plan, might as well fulfill an unrelated objective. Help get me out of this van."<br />
<br />
Ike broke out of his restraints with apparent ease and helped Ivan out of his. They then opened the back of the van and dropped out of it while it was going at eighty miles per hour out of town. They hit the shoulder of the road and rolled a ways. Then the drivers of the van seemed to notice and turned around.<br />
<br />
"Now run behind me as a human shield!" said Ivan. "I really can't afford to get shot in the head!"<br />
<br />
Ike did just that, and got shot in the head after fifteen seconds of this formation. He fell down to the ground, dead. Ivan at once dropped to the ground and covered the top of his head with his hands. The van pulled up to him, and people jumped out, and they grabbed him.<br />
<br />
When they were about to drive off when the bullet hole in Ike's head began to glow, and then the droplets of blood that hit the ground also began to glow, and shine a brilliant silver until it blinded everyone. Only Ivan was smart enough to look away.<br />
<br />
Ike's body stood up, then hovered above the ground, and disappeared.<br />
<br />
-------------<br />
<br />
By Nuile:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Deliberately I highlighted the page of text, took a breath,
and hit backspace.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It wasn’t right. None of it was right. They were the wrong
words.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I beat a tattoo on the table beside the laptop and finally
returned my patient hands to the keyboard. There they remained, poised over the
surface, ready to dance across the keys like a pianist’s fingers, bringing
music to the blank whiteness . . .</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But they hovered uncertainly. Where to start? Where to
start? After starting over so many times already . . .</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Something was wrong. The story didn’t feel like what I had
set out to make it. I had already rewritten it thrice over; by now it had
become stale. I had written the life out of it, and there was none left.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I rose and paced, running fingers agitated by an ague of
frustration through my hair. The thought had come into my mind with such vigor,
a bundle of energy waiting to be unleashed . . . </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I had nurtured it and developed it, giving it all the care
and attention it required . . .<br />
<br />
It was fresh! It was full! It was alive! It had romped and frolicked through
the realms of my mind in a state of elation and sublime perfection. It was the
ideal idea . . .</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But somehow, somewhere, on the path from my brain to my
fingertips . . . it died. The beautiful story I sat down to begin was dead.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What it needed now was new life. It needed new breath.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It needed a new thought . . . and a new title.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>Yes!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I lunged into my chair and awakened the computer from the
screensaver. I highlighted the old title and hit backspace. My fingers glided
over the keys. One word appeared at the head of the page:</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i>Rebirth.</i></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">And it didn’t stop there . . .</span>Caleb Peifferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12695484632520881655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-40207725137379575482013-04-06T19:04:00.001-07:002013-04-06T22:22:54.205-07:00GraveBy Russell Johnson:<br />
<br />
<br />
Veneration<br />
<br />
A whispering breeze. Floating petals, carried gently by the soft wind. Fine, course grass underfoot and the bark of trees standing out in sharp contrast to the greenery. Crowns of trees shading the sky like low-hanging clouds. A grey, dreary sky befitting my mood, and yet gently soothing my spirit with a strange beauty of its own.<br />
<br />
Funny how one can take such notice of simple things like these at times like this. The little details of a scene that stand out in sharp clarity to an uneasy mind.<br />
<br />
And in contrast to all the natural beauty? Grey stone sitting before me, and behind me, and everywhere around me. The ground is covered with carven stone sticking up into the air like so many sentinels.<br />
<br />
Black fabric hugs my legs, arms, and torso, while socks and dress shoes comfort my aching feet. My head uncovered, my hat held in my hand in deep respect. A nice white tie catching the corner of my eye and completing my outfit. I sigh escaping my lips, the only oral evidence to any passerby of what I'm feeling or thinking.<br />
<br />
A mind churning with thoughts and memories, of days long, long past. Days of love and life, days of exploring the new and reaching for the impossible, days of blind trust, trusting because I knew naught else. Days of bright colors and fun, happy times, of blocks and bears and spinning in the grass. Days of running and jumping, swinging and flying, singing and sighing.<br />
<br />
Days of happiness. Days when the world is your backyard, or rather your backyard is the world. Days when every day is a new adventure, and every adventure is filled with fun, excitement, and complete lack of fear. Adventures from which you always come home to warm arms, the wiping of dirt, and the comfort of presence.<br />
<br />
Days long gone. Days followed by shock, disbelief, fear, confusion. Days of finally coming to grips with reality, and then the pain sets in. The pain of knowing your world is gone, destroyed. Days of wondering whether there's any light at all left in the world.<br />
<br />
Days of madness following days of perfection.<br />
<br />
Why? Why is that even possible? It doesn't even make sense. It transcends the rationality of reality.<br />
<br />
I sigh, and glance at the two spots of red connected to green staves I hold in my hand.<br />
<br />
I drop the roses on the grave of my parents, whisper a few more words of communication, and turn to leave.<br />
<br />
The words splayed across the stone now behind me:<br />
<br />
George J. Thourne - Emily H. thourne<br />
R.I.P.<br />
<br />
-------------<br />
<br />
By Kraggh:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Ekelest dropped his shovel and collapsed to his knees, his face covered in dirt and his hands covered in splinters. He coughed so hard than he could not feel any mucus in his throat.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
"Help me," he said. Tigrina helped him up. He leaned against her shoulder.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
They were inmuns. They were not glorified like others for their nobility, for their age, for their sincerity, for their heart, for their history, for their humility, for their bravery, or for their heroics. In fact, the inmuns were a people reknowned for their fun and their partying nature.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Tonight was by far not a party night.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
"No, help drag me away," said Ekelest, exhausted. "We need to get away <em>right now</em>!"</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
"What? It's dead!" said Tigrina.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
"That isn't just any 'it'. That thing is an '<em>it</em>'," said Ekelest. "Come on, you're just any other person in the middle of all this. You're just a bystander who got caught up in it all. We're not safe. We have to go."</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Tigrina began dragging Ekelest along. "But it's dead," she whispered to herself, bewildered and afraid.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
As best he could, Ekelest got back to his feet, wincing at the pain. At least he was catching his breath back. He couldn't run away from the grave yet, only walk as fast he could. His adrenalin had run dry.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
"You weren't around during any of the wars we had with the nuadine," said Ekelest. "I'm a veteren. I knew some great people, and I knew <em>of</em> some even<em>greater </em>people. Someone once beheaded one of them and thought it was dead, and then it just came back and hunted down him and his friends a year later. My friends died so that people like you didn't have to fear these feroceous aliens, now run! We need to get more people. We need to make sure that when it digs its way back up, there are enough local law enforcement around to kill it for good."</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
"But - "</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
"<em>Just do it!"</em> shouted Ekelest. He slapped her wrist and pushed her, and she began running.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Ekelest could not catch up with her. He ran as far as he could, and then he hid behind a tree. He looked at what was left in his pistols. he hated that his inmun arms were too weak to hold a Shock Grade 2.0 Rifle. Those things were specifically made for these circumstances. As it happened, he had these laser pistols, and he didn't have much left, so he had to make every shot cont.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
He looked around the tree and located where he had dug the grave. The loose soil was beginning to vibrate like a diaphragm. Something was trying to push its way up. His heart quivered. He licked the blood off his teeth and ran a few trees farther down.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
He heard the muffled explosion of the nuadine breaking free. He closed his eyes shut and grimaced. He could already feel the pain. He thought of all his friends. At least this was the definitive way to die, and they would be proud of him.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Ekelest turned around the tree. There was nothing there, and an empty hole was in the ground. He swore he could hear the nuadine lumping away. It was retreating? On the other hand, it had been beaten half to death. Maybe he actually had the upper hand. Ekelest took a bet, and ran in the direction of the sounds. The hunt was on.</div>
Veloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-87148488511829705602013-03-18T12:15:00.001-07:002013-04-07T19:28:23.988-07:00The CostBy Nick Silverpen:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Receipts here suck, in the fact that you see it drop, the amount of money you have left, </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
crumpled up paper </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
bringing on sweat.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
“You’ve X Dollars Left” </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
or a twenty turns to a ten</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
turns to a five</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
turns to a few cents</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
and then thinking crap</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
where did all of my money go</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Makes me think, </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
that whatever we buy</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
is being frugal really worth it</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
but there are bigger things</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
purchases we <i>have </i>to worry about,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
stuff that looms like an umbrella</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
and limits your sight in the rain.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
I look at my receipt, </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
and think where did my money go,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
why couldn’t I have held out my hunger a little longer,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
why couldn’t I’ve eaten what I already bought?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Soon that X, as big as it may loom,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
is in the end, a definitive number, trickling closer and closer to zero</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
and mooching,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
it works for only so long,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
but why do we have to lose, and have to watch another number gain?<br />
<br />
---------<br />
<br />
By Janus:<br />
<br />
High Price<br />
</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<div class="post_body">
<div class="post entry-content">
I still remember, long before that tragic mistake. God I remember, a happy life, joyous feelings--the world made sense back then. But that was before, and this is now, the price has been paid and that price is my innocence--no longer am I blinded by the veneer of kindness, or entranced by the spell of justice. There's no such thing, mercy, justice, compassion--just meaningless words that we made up to pacify ourselves, make ourselves believe that there's something worth fighting for. But the truth is, there's nothing in this world that can be possibly worth such a high price.<br /><br />I look at the crumpled piece of paper in my hand, but I can barely bear to look at the ink staining the pages. What a momentous joke all of this is. When something can be ripped from you so cavalierly, as though nothing really matters. It kind of puts thing in perspective, honestly. We're nothing--we're less than nothing, mere specks in the cosmic dance, blowing back and forth, dancing for masters we can hardly comprehend. A commander gives an order and a soldier follows--but does the soldier know why? Does he know about the multitude of generals sitting around and discussing how easily his life can be thrown away? I doubt it. Nobody wants to think about that.<br /><br />But this piece of paper in my hand won't let me forget, won't give me peace or understanding. There's no longer any respite from the darkness that lurks in our hearts, it's all played out in the words on that paper.<br /><br />Finally I can bear it no longer, there's no hiding from what can plainly be seen in my hand. I sigh heavily and read the ink-stained paper.<br /><br />Seventy-five dollars--seventy-five dollars on shoes? I thought it was a buy-one get-one off sale. The cost that was far too high has been paid...<br /><br />My kid had better be friggin' happy.</div>
</div>
</div>
Veloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-11009000116608834332013-03-16T18:32:00.000-07:002013-03-16T19:21:31.101-07:00Youth<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</b></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
The woman stood along the
riverbank, her feet crunching along the grasses that were slowly on
their way from the dead brown. The urn was tipped over, ashes pouring
out. With a grim look, she shook out the last of them into the water,
and turned away, a dark expression over her face as she walked through
the spring grasses to her village. At last, the bird was dealt with, and
soon enough, it would barely be a memory.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
Forms may be changed, but
ultimately nothing can be destroyed. The ashes followed the stream as it
wound along, yet the ashes stuck together, somehow unable to drift
apart. The current carried them in silence, flying through the water and
away from the dumping site. The ashes of the phoenix mixed with the
springtime waters, and in the trickle that could be heard, its fire was
still there. Water did not dampen its spirit. </div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px;">
The woman though she had done
the impossible, a most atrocious deed- but one cannot fight fire with
fire. But the spirit of the flying flame held the ashes together, as it
coursed down the river. Its caws came in the trickles, and the animals
emerging cocked their heads as they eyed the pollution. There was
definitely something different about it; the fear for the wellbeing of
their homes they knew it would not affect, but there was a sense of
energy that the animals could feel.</div>
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The river eventually wound to a
marsh, where the low tide pulled the water from the stream. The damp
ashes collected in a mudbank. Despite the season just beginning, it was
surprisingly warm, the sun spilling down into the reed grasses that
lined the marshes. A breeze still pushed, cool and reminding that there
was still a ways to go. It dipped into the mud, and touched upon the
ashes. With the slightest tickle, the water began to separate from them,
and one by one the ashes picked up as the phoenix began to fly once
more.</div>
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<b>---------- </b></div>
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<b>"<span style="font-family: inherit;">Young Again", by Will: </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The forest was dim, even in broad daylight. A few
bright rays slanted down through the thick roof of leaves, but the band of
monks paid no mind to their surroundings. The path stretched on through the
tree trunks, wide enough for four men to walk side by side. There were eight of
them altogether, all robed in gray. Hoods covered their faces. They had no need
for sight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the midst of the group rolled an ox-drawn cart topped
by an iron cage. It was not a large cage--only the height of a man, and half
that across--but it was very dark within. The bars were thick, criss-crossed
with many symbols. A lock was set in one side, but it was rusted shut with age
and disuse. The monks trudged along in their thick cloaks and paid the cart no
mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For a moment, the ox stopped and sniffed, its dull
eyes widening. The monks stopped as well, and one of them near the front lowered
his hood. White eyes peered into the gloom, and then suddenly he raised a hand.
There was a flicker of light, and the trees on either side leapt into sharp
relief as power flashed forth—</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">--But then it stopped abruptly. The monk let his arm
fall, his face pale as his eyes dropped to stare at the arrow that stood
quivering in his chest. A long moment passed, and then he fell forward. At once
the other monks leapt into action, but it was too late. Another volley of
arrows hurtled from the brush, and four more fell pierced. There was a thunder
of hooves on the path behind, and riders came into view. One of the monks flew
toward the cage, hood flapping back as he raised both hands in a sign. But then
an arrow buried itself in his shoulder, and he collapsed against the bars as
the horsemen came up alongside the cart. One of the riders grabbed the ox’s
halter, holding the terrified beast steady. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another flash leapt up, and an archer came flying out
of the underbrush, pierced through with light as the two remaining monks stood
back to back, white eyes blazing. But they were not fast enough. Another
horseman came pounding down the path behind them, and a sword gleamed in his hand.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was over quickly. The soldiers filed out of the
woods and formed up around the cart. They parted as the last horseman finished
cleaning his sword and rode closer. The rider dismounted, pulling off his
helmet. His hair was gray, his face hard, but there was mirth in his eyes. He
carried himself casually. One of the soldiers approached.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“They were Old, my lord. Just as we expected. None
escaped.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Good. The hard part is over then, I think,” the
gray-haired man replied. He dismissed the soldier, turning his attention to the
iron cage. Two strides brought him up to the cart. The body of the monk who had
tried to seal the thing away lay motionless on the wooden side-board. The man
heaved it off, away from the bars. Something stirred within the confines of the
prison, and a shape like a hand drew back where it had been touching the
blood-stained body. The gray-haired man peered into the darkness, and a voice
spoke:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You needn’t fear,” it said. “I am grateful, in fact.
That sealing would have been...painful.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Painful, yes,” the man replied. “I’m glad we could be
of service to you, but I could not have you taking another man’s body like
that.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You are wise, I think. As wise as the Old here
perhaps, though somewhat...sharper.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I regret that they had to die, but time is short.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh? Time is nothing to me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The man smiled, “Maybe. But I think you are weary of
that cage.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There was a sound like sniffing, and the shape shifted
in the dark, moving closer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Will you...let me out, woodsman?” Two points shone
behind the bars. Two points like eyes, but the gray-haired man knew that they
were not eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Of course not. An Old god has not been let loose for
centuries. What mischief you would cause!” He laughed to himself, and there
were answering chuckles from the group of soldiers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“True enough.” The voice sounded resigned. “Well then,
what will you do? Not take me back to that dreadful sanctum again, I hope.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“No, no. Nothing like that,” the man answered. “We
shall make a pact with you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“A pact? Ah, I have not made a pact for many, many
years. Tell me, what sort of pact?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“That you shall aid us once, in our time of need.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Aid you? That would require a great offering indeed.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Indeed, and so I offer blood.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“What blood?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The gray-haired man gestured to the robed corpses upon
the ground. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Theirs,” he said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh, no. There is no power in Old blood. Not anymore.
It is useless to me. But in Young blood, hmm...” the shape inside the cage
moved closer still. The points of light widened, and there was the sniffing
sound again. “Yes, there is power in the blood of the Young race. I shall have
that. Not much. Only a drop. A drop for my aid.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The man chuckled, considering for a moment. Then he
raised one gloved hand, clenched a finger in his teeth and pulled off the leather
riding glove. A knife slid from its sheath and ran along his finger. One
droplet shone red upon the metal tip. He held it up in front of the cage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“One drop for the god of fire and stone, and we shall
have your aid.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You shall have it, when the time comes. I am bound by
my word, woodsman.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“You are.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The blade flicked out, and the droplet flew off into
the darkness behind the bars. The gray-haired man stepped back, a grim smile
upon his face as he watched. All of a sudden, a sound like a mighty wind rose
up, and there was a crowing noise, as of many birds. Fire flashed dimly behind
the cage-bars, and then a hundred, hundred flaming shapes flashed to life and
sprang upward, flapping, out of the cage, up through the smoking canopy of
leaves. Up, up, and vanished in the sunlight far above.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed. The
forest hung still as the light faded away. Finally the gray-haired man stirred.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Leave the cage,” he said, turning away. “The bodies
too. We have what we came for. The fire and stone are our allies today. Now...let
the war begin.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He smiled, sucking on his cut finger as he returned to
his horse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“And I almost feel young again.”</span></div>
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<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Letting Go", by Rob/Janus</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He couldn't really say he was sad to see it go. I mean it was just a stupid ratty old teddy bear--something he hadn't played with or even thought of in absolute years. I mean sure he remembered back when it was the the best thing that ever happened to him--back when it was his only friend...but that time was long since past.<br /><br />Jack looked at the sad little thing in his hands, the matted and dirty fur, the single remaining button eye. He remembered, he remembered back when this silly little bear was the only thing that mattered in life, back when this bear made sure he got to sleep every night. Heck, he even remembered the thing's name.<br /><br />"Bunsen burner" he found himself whispering. He never really knew why he named it that, it just seemed like a funny name and a funny word in general. I mean it wasn't like he went on to become a great scientist--honestly, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he probably just named it that because when you're a kid the word "buns" is funnier than just about anything.<br /><br />Jack paused for a moment, sighing deeply as he held the bear. It had kept him company through some of his best and worst moments in life. Flashes of rain, of darkness, of fear, of heartbreak all flitted through his head as he held the bear. This silly little object literally had been his life for so long--but it was also a life he hadn't lived for a very long time.<br /><br />An arm touched his shoulder and he turned and looked into the loving eyes of his wife, Emily.<br />"You okay?" she asked with a sad smile. He genuinely wasn't sure how to respond, opening and closing his mouth a few times before simply shaking his head and indicating the bear.<br />"She kept it." was all he managed to get out.<br />"Of course she kept it, Jack." she said softly "you were her only son."<br /><br />As she spoke he remembered, remembered when he had first woken up and seen the bear on his pillow. The same bear that he had been asking for--the same bear that he'd been begging his parents to get for months. He remembered a sensation of utter joy and glee as he'd run down the hallway to his parents room.<br /><br />But that was then, and this was now. The boy of yesterday had given way to the man today, and that man had a duty.<br />With another heavy sigh and a gentle peck to Emily's cheek he walked from the small room and into the now empty main hall.<br /><br />"Hey mom" he whispered softly, holding the bear tightly to his chest. "I just wanted to say...I just wanted to say thanks." he paused, collecting himself. "Thanks for everything. Thanks for Bunsen Burner--thanks for being there for me--thanks for making my life worth living. You were the best mom I could ask for...and even though I might not have always told you that....well, I always knew it."<br /><br />Speaking his piece, he left the ratty little thing on top of the closed coffin and walked from the room. The boy of yesterday was gone, and with it his childhood things. But soon the man would have children, and with them would come new youth. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">----------</span><br />
<br />
<strong>"Arrhythmic", by Legolover-361</strong><br />
<br />
“And these are supposed to <em>work</em>?”<br />
<br />
The questioner, Rodney Garfunkel, was somewhat taken aback by the
street dealer’s assuring laugh. “Believe me,” said the dealer, flashing a
perfect smile and delivering his best impersonation of an infomercial
announcer, “with the rate at which these things are flying off the
shelves, there’s no question. We’ve received no complaints yet! It
works, or your money will be returned — guaranteed.”<br />
<br />
Rodney closed his fingers around the capsule of pills, burying it in
his palm as if hiding it from the passing New York City crowd, and
removed his elbows from the wooden counter of the dealer’s stand.
“Right,” he said. “So, uh... how much will this cost?”<br />
<br />
“For the veritable Fountain of Youth in pill form? Seven hundred
eighty-five dollars.” The dealer paused. “And ninety-nine cents.” Rodney
inhaled sharply. “You aren’t getting a better deal anywhere else, I
assure you!” insisted the dealer. “There’s a reason these things are
only possessed by the rich. Consider this my little piece of assistance
to a middle class man.”<br />
<br />
He was good: Rodney was digging in his pocket for his debit card before the dealer had finished speaking. “You take debit?”<br />
<br />
“We take <em>payment</em>,” said the dealer, whipping out a card reader. “The manner of said payment can vary greatly.”<br />
<br />
“...So you take debit.”<br />
<br />
With a sigh: “Yes. We take debit.”<br />
<br />
Rodney swiped the card, waited for the transaction to clear, and bid
farewell. The capsule of pills slipped into his pocket, and he swore he
felt his heart skip a beat. His doctor had diagnosed him with heart
trouble on this day, June 14, one year ago.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
When no one in the office seemed to be paying attention to Rodney’s
cubicle, he retrieved the capsule from his dress pants, still unwrinkled
as if newly ironed, and examined it. The container was a dull gray that
muddled the pills’ true colors, but Rodney could ascertain through his
glasses the pills were white. Oh, how he despised needing glasses to
read.<br />
<br />
He licked his lips and placed the capsule back in his pocket. Not
now, he told himself. Later, when he got home, and his wife was
inevitably taking her pre-bedtime shower, he would take a pill. His
research indicated the medicine’s effects would take several days and
half as many pills to appear, but when they did...<br />
<br />
Rodney was only sixty-seven, but he <em>felt </em>old. His dad had
died from lung complications at sixty, his mom from heart failure at
eighty-nine just two years ago. The memory of her funeral and his
halfhearted eulogy still rang clear in his mind like the tolling of the
church bells that day. His parents were returned to the Earth, but he
would prolong his reunion with them a little more.<br />
<br />
<em>No, not now!</em> Rodney shoved the capsule deeper into his
pocket and sighed, then returned to the presentation he had to write for
the PR department’s meeting in a half-hour.<br />
</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03794789066535054370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-7681244211103981422013-03-10T18:39:00.001-07:002013-03-10T18:44:18.889-07:00Temple<div class="post entry-content">
<b>An Isolated Branch <i>by <span class="author vcard"><span itemprop="name">Tekulo the WindWriter</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
I am the most important person in my life. Well, that is to
say, I suppose that’s true. It’s not that I completely love myself or
anything, it’s just that I can’t think of too many other people that
are, well, in my life. I would probably give a generic answer like “My
mom” or “My dad” but I know that’s just not true. Don’t get me wrong,
it’s not that I <i>dislike</i> my folks or anything, but I hardly see
them nowadays. My childhood to me seemed pretty standard: Two parents,
a house and a family pet. That was really it.<br />
<br />
I never really had a group of friends to call my own. Back when I
was in school I normally ate lunch alone every day. My mind was
preoccupied with the next assignment set in front of me by my
professors. Sometimes it would be about Shakespeare or Pavlov or maybe
Wilheim Wundt. Most of them are blurs nowadays. Still, it’s not that I
never had fun. I love things like jigsaw puzzles, Sudoku, the
occasional video game here and there or some show on TV like Doctor
Who. I also read a bit here and there. It’s not the greatest reading
list in the world to be honest. They’re mostly just mystery novels that
I find here and there in the library.<br />
<br />
Well, truth be told I’m out of school now. I’m working at a factory
down in the city. It’s not the best of jobs, and certainly not the most
impressive paycheck, but it gets me through to the next day. I live
alone, by the way. It’s a small apartment downtown. The rent isn’t too
bad, so I never needed a roommate or anything. Actually, the place
would be pretty cramped with one. I’d love to get a dog, but the
building doesn’t allow animals, not even with an additional fee. Too
much noise travelling to the neighbors, I guess.<br />
<br />
So, that’s my life. It’s not too much, but I can’t just up and die
now, can I? Right now I just live day by day without anything too
eventful going on. Sure, if you watch the news, then the world seems
anything but uneventful. Still, I’m not one of those victims cursed
with a disease or a missing limb or anything like that. My health is
generally regular. I’m certainly not a body builder, nor am I a
weakling.<br />
<br />
I guess it is funny to think about, but it’s really just me. That’s
it; alone in an apartment with a job that pays rent. I guess I should
be lonely or something, but to be honest… I’m content living the way I
am. I wonder if that makes me selfish or cold or something like that?
Well, if I am, then I’ve never taken any notice of it before. Well,
that’s just life, I guess. It’s not as grand as everyone being a hero
or a villain or a sidekick. I’ve never seen myself as any of those.
I’m just me.<br />
<br />
<b>Temple <i>by John 55555</i></b><br />
<br />
A glimmer of light pierced the shattered dome. It was broad daylight outside, but one would never guess that from within. The darkness was nearly absolute.<br />
<br />
There was still gold and silver leaf on the various adornments. Somehow it had never been stolen. The lure of gold was less than the fear of this place. To step over the threshold meant death, or worse. So the stories go.<br />
<br />
This place is evil, and even though it's time of corruption is long past, it's book is not yet ended. It must be cleansed. And what must be cleansed is structural, so it will fall with it's cleansing.<br />
<br />
High on the mountain, it was quite a journey to reach here. Once it had been thought a pilgrimage, though it was more like the blind leading the blind. Into greater darkness.<br />
<br />
I gripped my staff more tightly, and struck the ground with it once. twice. A third time. A light shone from the stone embedded in its head.<br />
<br />
The light was dim at first, and flickering, like a candle on a windy day. Then it suddenly steadied and grew strong.<br />
<br />
The edge of the circle of light was a hard white against the blackness. It spread, slowly but surely, crawling over the seats one by one, and the walls.<br />
<br />
And as it rolled across the floor, the blackness was purged, and with it the stain of evil that filled this place. The chairs nearly crumbled under it, some did. As it began to light the walls, and the began to fall too pieces, I stood my ground. The dome above me leant to one side, and cracked anew.<br />
<br />
The light was brilliant now, and the blackness was weak, now it was the candle in the wind.<br />
<br />
All at once the dome fell down, the walls too damaged to support it. As it fell, the light shone upon it, and it crumpled to nothingness, and a mere grayish dust fell upon me.<br />
<br />
The sunlight streamed upon the wreckage. I dusted myself off, and slung my staff over my shoulder for the journey down.<br />
<br />
A days work done. A stain cleaned off the world.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Temple <i>by Alex Humva</i></b><br />
<br />
It was perhaps the most frightening moment of her life.<br />
<br />
She stood in the middle of the forest, possessing nothing but the
clothes on her back. In front of her rested an impossibly large stone
structure, years of growth having covered it in grass and leaves. It had
taken her five days to make her way through the woods to this spot,
where the elders had said the Great Spirit would reveal to her, her
purpose in life. Now she was here, and she wasn't sure if she truly
wanted to be here anymore. While nothing about the temple was
exceptionally frightening in and of itself, the atmosphere that
surrounded it was... dark. The environment sounded threatening, the
simple chirping of birds now sounding like raven caws.<br />
<br />
Maybe her family was right. Maybe she should simply do what she was told; fishing wasn't such a terrible job, was it?<br />
<br />
No. She had to continue. She had to know what she was truly meant to do.
With a bold breath she entered the temple, noticing a torch positioned
near the door. Picking it up she lit it with a deft motion, looking
around at the interior. There were no rooms to speak of, instead, simply
a vast and open chamber. Hesitantly she prod softly across the stone
floor, wondering who could of created this structure. Never before had
she seen stones cut so large; how could one transport them, nor less
build with them? Perhaps witches of another time?<br />
<br />
She reached the center, looking down at the floor, then up at the
ceiling. Magnificently carved memorials rested there; pictures of
ancestors long since gone, scenes of war so elegantly depicted. It all
had that look of freshness, though. No grass grew here, no weeds
sprouted through the rocks nor leaves blew in. How could that be?<br />
<br />
She knelt on the floor, pressing her face down into the direct center of
the chamber. And she waited. Waited for hours, until the sun had set
and the stars had come to greet her. Silence fell over her world as she
remained motionless, waiting. She knew it could be some time. She knew
that others had spent weeks here.<br />
<br />
Finally, it came to her. It was an... odd sensation. A sort of knowing,
like she had learned for the first time what a color looked like. It was
clear to her, now, what her task in life was. She would never see her
family again, for now, it was her duty to tend to this temple. To keep
it clean, to watch over it, and to become one with the Great Spirit. It
was not an easy life, but it was not a hard life. It was existence in
the spiritual sense. She would continue to tend to the temple until her
days were used up, and then, the cycle would continue. Another from her
tribe would come, and they too would tend to the temple.<br />
<br />
And that was fine<br />
<br />
<b>Temple <i>by Harvey Nuile</i></b><br />
<br />
<i>Think . . . think . . . think . . .</i><br />
<br />
I drummed a tattoo against my temple with one finger, eyelids tight
shut, lips taut. I was deep in concentration . . . and deep beneath the
planet’s surface.<br />
<br />
You expect that thinking would be easy in pitch darkness, but it’s
not when you’re surrounded by such an unnatural stench and when you know
that you’re running out of air. Instead of open and limitless, the
darkness was stifling. And then there was that constant susurration to
suggest that I wasn’t alone.<br />
<br />
<i>Think . . . think . . . think . . .</i><br />
<br />
There had to be some way to escape. I had felt my way along all the
walls, which were more than I could count. The room was shaped like a
polygon the sides of which I could not determine in the darkness. And
they were all bare.<br />
<br />
The floor was dusted with sand, which I had sifted fruitlessly. There
was no way of telling how far away the ceiling was, for I could not
reach it and I had nothing upon which to stand but the floor.<br />
<br />
<i>Think . . . think . . . think . . .</i><br />
<br />
Secret door? I’d searched extensively.<br />
<br />
Explosives? If I had any. . . .<br />
<br />
Smash through a wall? With what?<br />
<br />
<i>Think . . . think . . . think . . .</i><br />
<br />
There had to be escape. There had to be a way out. There had to be an answer.<br />
<br />
I just had to think!<br />
<br />
<i>Think . . . think . . . think . . .</i><br />
<br />
And then I had it. I realized there were only two ways out: up . . . or down.<br />
<br />
I folded my legs beneath myself and drew a long, deep breath. I
brought my hands together before my face in the darkness. A smile played
across my lips.<br />
<br />
All I needed was to think.<br />
<br />
<b>God's Face <i>by Eli Otter</i></b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">“O
God, you give strength to to the weak, riches to the poor, and bring
faith to the sinner’s heart,” a voice intoned, repeated by others as I
walked ever nearer. The complex before me was huge, and yet it was
enclosed even farther by an outer wall, gates placed among it facing to
the North, the South, and the East and West.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">“Your
love is all-encompassing, your word guides our lives, and your spirit
watches us always,” I heard the voice call out again, even as I entered
the gate of the inner court, seeing the altar before the temple, looking
upon the lavers nearby. Even as I stepped within I knew I was not
supposed to be here, and yet I knew I must carry on.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">“Your mercy gives us life, your grace knows no bounds.”</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">I
stepped past the altar, continuing yet further, each step telling me to
go faster, and the space between each step telling me to turn and run
out of here, to hide what I had done from all others. Past the porch,
past Jachin and Boaz, I could see the gold-plated interior of the
temple, and the barest fringe of the veil at the bottom.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">“You are all powerful.”</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">Up
the first steps, I have given into the first compulsion, to go faster. I
fly past the pillars, bursting into the Holy Place, all those still
within turning to look upon me with seeming horror. Oh, the light, the
light, how it burns my eyes, yet what visions I see! Angels stand among
men, smiling upon me, gesturing me on further.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">“You are the one true God, and we can do naught but worship you, our most holy fa--”</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">Too
late they try to stop me, the men, the angels having held seemed to
hold them back. I burst into the Tabernacle, looking upon the Ark
within, even as the High Priest rushes in behind me. I see a fire above
the Ark, resolved into the shape of a man, and I see approval in his
posture.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">I
can not stand, I am rendered to my knees, and pulled back out. They
drag me out, far past the outer courts, where I cannot soil the Temple’s
holiness, yet ever before me I see a face of smiling flame, a cleansing
fire that has rendered me pure within, if not without, dirtied from
being pulled on my knees through the sand.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">“What
did you see?” one of them asks me, forcing me to look at him. I compose
myself, smiling, even, as I feel the touch of steel upon my throat.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">“I
saw God’s face,” I told him. “And he smiled upon me, for I have
succeeded in his task.” I feel steel’s cold touch fade into warmth as it
draws away my blood, as they drop me on the sands.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">And even then, I can see God welcoming me into the highest of heavens.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
</div>
Five Fiveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02787187651294078468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-64986342757505072962013-03-09T19:07:00.003-08:002013-03-09T19:10:43.434-08:00Challenge<b>Terminal <i>by Legolover-361</i></b><br />
<br />
It was easy to comprehend the news, even while floating at an odd
angle above the computer terminal Evan had accessed. The hardest part
was looking away again.<br />
<br />
<i>Evan Dole:</i><br />
<br />
<i>The San Antonio branch of Jefferson Health regrets to inform you
that your wife, Renee Patricia Dole, died soon after childbirth. We
offer our deepest condolences for your loss.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Your baby son is healthy and is being monitored at the hospital
for the next week, at which point he will be given to your wife’s
parents. Your wife informed us that you had agreed with her on the name
“Daniel”.</i><br />
<br />
<i>We suggest contacting your parents and hers as soon as possible
to arrange a funeral for Mrs. Dole. Again, we offer our condolences.</i><br />
<br />
<i>-Dr. James Smith, on behalf of Jefferson Health</i><br />
<br />
“Dole?” A knock on his bedroom door: Gordon Lightfoot, Evan’s
bunkmate. “Dole, I don’t know if you heard, but your monitoring shift is
on — I’m off on lunch break—”<br />
<br />
Gone. Like a candle extinguished. Like Evan’s hope of returning to Earth to see Renee’s eyes once more.<br />
<br />
He inhaled.<br />
<br />
“Coming,” he said.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Monitoring aboard the ISS <i>Kepler</i> was, though imperative due
to the space station’s location in the asteroid belt, mostly dull work.
Evan’s shifts were mostly in the aft monitoring room, but in his travels
around the <i>Kepler</i>, all the monitoring rooms were dim and
cramped. His tasks were as follows: Keep his eyes on the computer
screens, make sure no red lights are flashing, and be prepared to
activate the emergency klaxons should a red light start to flash.<br />
<br />
The only thing worse for Evan than losing his wife would be to get killed by an unnoticed asteroid puncturing the <i>Kepler </i>and never seeing his son.<br />
<br />
He suddenly realized he was imagining scenarios for his death.
Goodness, he was thinking too much. But how was one supposed to stop
thinking?<br />
<br />
The blinking lights remained stubbornly green.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
“You haven’t eaten.”<br />
<br />
Evan shrugged from his position about a meter above the floor and
sideways. Rico Gonzales gazed at him a second longer before turning back
to the heater and popping out his food tray. “Mm,” he said. “Astronaut
mashed potatoes. They’re better than real potatoes because they’re in
space.”<br />
<br />
“‘Better’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe it,” Gordon interjected.<br />
<br />
“‘Better’ is how you ought to describe it if you want to survive on
it.” Rico munched and tried to look satisfied at the same time; his
attempt failed. He swallowed quickly and asked, “But, Evan, seriously,
are you all right?”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
Evan thought his glare would be enough to dissuade the other crew
members from speaking more on the matter. He was wrong. “Suck it up and
eat,” said Gordon. “I know you’re homesick, but your wife isn’t going to
appreciate you coming home skin and bones.”<br />
<br />
“My wife is dead.”<br />
<br />
Evan only realized what he said after he said it. Gordon stopped. Rico looked uneasy.<br />
<br />
Gordon was the first to break the silence. “Oh. I’m... sorry, mate.”<br />
<br />
“Your kid?” asked Rico.<br />
<br />
Evan’s throat was dry. “Alive. Fine.” Suddenly, socializing made him
feel sick. He floated to the doorway, saying, “Excuse me,” on his way
out of the break room. Gordon and Rico, to their credit, said nothing
more.<br />
<br />
Hopefully they didn’t hear Evan’s sobs before he shut the door to his bedroom.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
The next twenty-four-hour period — it was hard to call such periods
“days” when, in space, there were no sunrises or sunsets — passed with
agonizing sluggishness. Evan could have counted each second if he so
desired. Gordon and Rico said nothing to Evan, though he could hear them
muttering to each other in the hallways.<br />
<br />
The other two crew members of the ISS <i>Kepler</i>, Irena
Markovich and Sally Rhodes, must have heard the news from Gordon and /
or Rico; they offered their condolences around the approximate time of
midday, though the sunlight didn’t comfort Evan now any more than it
would have at midnight on Earth, and the words felt hollow as though the
emotion that ought to have been there was absent. At least the two
women tried to sound sorry, which in itself was a challenge.<br />
<br />
Evan didn’t cry again — what use were tears against death? — but he
did spend a lot of time in his room, reading poetry. He normally didn’t
read poetry, but he felt he needed something beautiful in his life. Yes,
space was beautiful, but after so long in a thin capsule in the middle
of it, it had become the norm. Besides, space was what had kept him from
Renee’s side.<br />
<br />
<b>Challenge <i>by John 55555</i>: </b><br />
<br />
The man looked around the walls of his prison yet again. Left wall, front wall, right wall, back wall. He did not neglect the floor and the ceiling either. The marks etched on the wall indicated that he had not lain here long. Two weeks, a little more. At first he had hewn his marks carefully, spending time and making them rather pleasing to the eye. as he suspected his eye would dwell upon them long and often. But the time spent quickly peaked and fell to the absolute minimum.<br />
<br />
I wonder." he said to himself, "if those marks represent me as a man? have a dwindled to the bare minimum, in a mere sixteen days?"<br />
<br />
His head fell to his hands, and he ran his fingers through his dirty hair. The light that fell upon it was just as scattered and unwashed.<br />
<br />
"Four walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage." fell from his lips.<br />
<br />
"Stone walls" The words came back to him, in a corrective tone.<br />
<br />
He rose to his feet in an instant. "Who is this? Who comes bearing the first human words I have heard in this place?"<br />
<br />
"Human? There I disappoint you. But I cannot help my nature and cannot justly be condemned for it."<br />
<br />
The man gestured ineffectively, his gestures, once strong, might too have fallen to the bare minimum. "Who in this dungeon is not unjustly condemned?"<br />
<br />
A low, somehow bluish laugh flowed through the chamber, its source impossible to distinguish. "Do you now change the golden rule? Do unto others as has been done unto me? That is a poor maxim indeed, it has ruined much and will ruin much more."<br />
<br />
The man slumped back to his bench, ceasing to look for the origin o the voice. "No, no. that was never my motto and I resolve that it never shall be. May these stones gall me and this light the that reminds me bear witness."<br />
<br />
"Good. Perhaps all is not lost for you, Sir Knight, the title you once merited. For even words without meaning have their ripples."<br />
<br />
"What are you, that speaks to me as one speaks to a child? A ghost, a legend that has gained substance, a priest who walks among the hopeless, if in spirit only?"<br />
<br />
No laugh greeted this, almost to the surprise of the knight. "I am all of these in part. That is my challenge. And this is yours. To stay a man and a true knight in the deepest dungeons of the world. For your time here."<br />
<br />
"My time? Is that not a prophecy? Am I to leave this place that saps my soul?"<br />
<br />
"No, no. That hope is not yours to have. Perhaps you will be rescued in life and body, or perhaps the heavy hand will merely take your soul, when the time comes."<br />
<br />
"This is your challenge. No true knight is permitted to deny any just challenge. And this is just."<br />
<br />
The knight rose slowly. Then knelt in the mud.<br />
<br />
"I accept this challenge."Five Fiveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02787187651294078468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-75352187422519043062013-03-02T18:36:00.001-08:002013-03-02T20:00:46.287-08:00Scientific ExperimentsBy Eyru:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">The air was still.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">One might have even said, John reflected, that time had ceased to exist. Everything was as still as stone; every timer and fluid-filled vial and computer screen refused to change, even as the seconds changed.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">He knew the seconds were changing because the watch on his wrist still ticked relentlessly. It had been his father's; it was gold with an ivory face. It had to be wound. That was why it still worked.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">It was ironic, John supposed, in a detached way that would have surprised him in its audacity had he not felt so detached, that all of his advanced equipment and machinery, despite being cutting-edge technology, had been felled in an instant, while the gadgets of yesteryear still moved, still kept perfect time.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">His brown eyes flickered from the empty glass incubator -the one shattered half to pieces- to the far wall. The row of computers were just so much trash now, scattered around the hole in the wall, but they wouldn't have worked had they not been destroyed. Nothing worked.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Except -he glanced at his watch. Time still moved. And where there was time, there would be consequences.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">How could he have known? he wondered in a bemused way. Of course, he had expected success, but this wasn't the particular success he had dreamed of, really.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Seventeen ripped IV's dripped chemical solutions into the floor, millions of dollars' worth of biological engineering going to waste on the polished metal.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">John put a hand over his eyes -and pulled it away, dark with blood. He'd been cut. By what? No matter, really. There had been a lot of things that could have cut him up as his prized creation escaped, ripping the tubes from its body and shattering its glass prison with a bestial roar before making an exit through a foot-thick wall of metal and concrete.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">And don't forget the EMP blast. That had been unexpected, but very interesting to watch. It hadn't affected him, of course -though Jensen, he belatedly thought, and his pacemaker were probably both dead now.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">And the computers. The machines. The instruments. All dead.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">His watch ticked, counting off the seconds, measuring the progress of time. And as the march of time went on, humanity was sure to progress, wasn't it? Scientific advancement and all that. It was how the world worked. Until your own genius backfired, of course. That couldn't be helped.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">He could vaguely hear sirens now. That was good. The monster could be tracked, and brought back. The opportunities he would have to study, to measure, to count and to predict. It was a scientist's dream, to be sure. What more could he wish for?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Jensen would be disappointed though. Or, at least, he would be if time hadn't stopped counting for him. But that was how science worked. John chuckled. You had to stay at the forefront, or risk getting left behind.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">------------------</span><br />
<br />
By Nick Silverpen:<br />
<br />
<br />
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Dume jerked his hand back from the circuitry board, swearing something from before even his time. His words showed his infuriation at this panel. It wouldn’t go, it wouldn’t progress... this machine refused to work. Everything else went smoothly but this. With a glum expression he cracked his tired knuckles and stared infuriatingly at the problem once more.</div>
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<br />
He snagged the wire with a finger, and paused. It was all this just to get back to normal... all this work just to restore Metru Nui. If they had put all of this work into progressing the city... but there was some desperation he had always felt, to meet need’s ends, a burst of panic that only came when one was trying to show their competence. Somehow, when everything was running smoothly, like it had in his era, there was never that motivation, never such a desperate need to go the extra mile. The Matoran simply had to make a quota, and if the Vahki did not come after them, they were happy.</div>
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“Have some confidence, Dume,” came a voice. The Turaga of Fire whirled to see Norik in the doorway, a small smile on his face. </div>
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“I’m just not used to it like this,” he replied, massaging his temples through his mask. “This one panel has been plaguing me for weeks. I’ve gone through every tablet I can find here, but nobody left any answers to this malfunction!”</div>
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“What was the point of being a Turaga?” the mutant asked the elder. With only the response of a confused Kanohi, he chuckled. “Let me rephrase- Why did you become the leader of Metru Nui then?” </div>
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“There were situations,” the Turaga answered slowly, not understanding how this related to a circuitboard. “And the previous Turaga was not likely to last much longer.” </div>
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“But you wanted to solve things on your own,” the Rahaga said. “You didn’t want to relive the past. You wanted to shape the future with your own ideals.” He paused in thought, and wandered over to the panel. “Just have some faith. You can’t rebuild Metru Nui in a day. It takes time, and progress comes naturally- even though it’s not at the pace that we want, it happens eventually. In fact, I bet one day you will miss this blasted panel, in the face of something larger.” </div>
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The Turaga slouched, something very unheard of from him. He supposed the Rahaga was right. This may be a minor snag, nothing in comparison to the Dark Hunters that once pestered the city. Why should a wire weigh more importance and cause more aggravation than them? Sighing, Dume closed his eyes and felt the power of his Kanohi Kiril guide him. There was more to it than that, he supposed, looking at the canister that was nestled above the circuit board.</div>
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--------------------</div>
<br />
<br />
By Hubert:<br />
<br />
<br />
Smoke fills the room. Heat washes over you. The air is stale. Everything is burning. It has disappeared, and soon the entire world will be covered in ashes.<br />
And you are responsible for this.<br />
<br />
You should never have agreed to test the thing. Conducting experiments on the more stable ones had been fine, but you should have drawn the line at the chaotic object, no matter how valuable the experimental data had been. You had been a fool – you let the dreams of scientific revolution take hold of you; you let your ambitions blind you. Now, everything would die in the flames.<br />
<br />
It had appeared to be stable when it was first tested. Nothing drastic had occurred. So you had continued on with the experiment. Even when it began emitting strange signs, you ignored them; even when your instincts told you to just stop, you ignored them.<br />
<br />
Everything burned because you JUST. DIDN’T. LISTEN.<br />
<br />
The world would pay for your mistake.<br />
<br />
---------------<br />
<br />
By Dual Matrix:<br />
<br />
<br />
Proven wrong.<br />
<br />
Something had went seriousely wrong, green slime filled the whole room, and shards of glass and strange liquids laid all over the place.<br />
<br />
What would've normally been a normal educational experiment had now become a disaster.<br />
<br />
A disaster which could hower win the nobelprize.<br />
<br />
A feature which was considered inpossible by worlds most smartest persons was now done in a classroom, by a teacher who didn't even knew his formulas.<br />
<br />
Life, one of worlds most complicated things was created, and on what scale...<br />
<br />
Out of nothing it came but it stood now bedore them, in reallity and in their dreams, astonished they looked while the being moved around the room, searching for food.<br />
<br />
A slime, a living slime, it sounded to good to be true.<br />
<br />
If it was even true, and not a daydream dreamed by an ordinary student.<br />
<br />
Which of course ended out to be the right theory, the smart guys in their white suits were not proven wrong.<br />
<br />
The world was happy.<br />
<br />
----------------<br />
<br />
By Legolover-361:<br />
<br />
<br />
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<strong>Dissection</strong></div>
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Chemistry: the study of matter, its various forms, and how all interact with each other. Chemistry is the backbone of reality. Chemistry is in everything.</div>
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Chemistry was somewhere in the fate of Michael Rondo, probably. Maybe he could blame everything on that noble tenet of science.</div>
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Michael’s home desk was covered with a mess that apparently hoped that it could lessen itself by spreading across the entire wooden surface. The halo that a dingy lamp cast on the table was centered over a slip of paper: a phone number, then <em>call me ;D</em> — the winky face still caught Michael’s eye, even under the cover of dust it had amassed during Michael’s absence.</div>
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His mom and younger brother were out shopping, and his dad was at work. Michael was glad: He didn’t want to feel the tangible aura of pity his parents exuded, and his younger brother’s cluelessness about the issue was almost worse.</div>
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It all started with the chemistry behind the operations of the human body. (Or was that biology?) Hormones were the primary suspect in Michael’s attraction to Leslie Williams, one of his fellow students in high school. Michael hadn’t dated much, so when she became the one to start flirting, he decided to test the waters.</div>
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They were warm. The resulting relationship was just as warm.</div>
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Leslie. Her dark, shoulder-length hair and aquamarine irises couldn’t compete with her radiant smile and matching personality.</div>
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In Michael’s mind, “Leslie” and “love” were pure synonyms.</div>
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He picked up the slip of paper with Leslie’s phone number and, pinching it, crumpled it into a ball and grimaced.</div>
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They’d applied to the same university: He majored in Engineering and she in English. They’d dated, naturally. Michael could still feel her eyes on him as if from afar.</div>
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Michael had told his parents over the phone that she might be the one before getting a call waiting signal and answering it.</div>
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Dead. Cause: car crash. The doctors had tried to save her, they really had, but she had suffered from internal bleeding. This wasn’t as simple as a dissection in high school biology; this was the real world, human biology, life and death.</div>
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Yet Michael still couldn’t justify Leslie’s death.</div>
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When he thought about it, what was Leslie but a collection of different sorts of matter, woven together in an intricate fashion as to attract another sack of carbon and H<sub>2</sub>O? Was there anything more to her than that?</div>
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Yes, he decided. So he took off from college to make time for her funeral. Tomorrow he would deliver a short speech to a gaggle of mourners in black clothes and tears. Public speaking had never been his forte, but he would try for Leslie’s sake. She would say, <em>What’s the big deal? It’s just talking, only to more people.</em></div>
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He had been suggested by his college roommate a psychiatrist to visit but had declined the recommendation. He was fine. He was fine, right?</div>
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Another slip of paper was still in Michael’s pocket: the phone number of the psychiatrist. He fingered it absently, still staring at Leslie’s number and wondering how long he would last before exploding from the force of all the tears held within his body.</div>
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Maybe he would visit. Just an experiment.</div>
<br />
------------<br />
<br />
By Eli/Kal Grochi:<br />
<br />
<br />
“Yes, yes, that’s all very interesting, but what is it?” one scientist asked the other beside him, as they observed a pod filled with an odd substance, similar to amniotic fluid. Occasionally a couple bubbles floated to the open air at the top of the pod, where one long tube led off into a series of other, smaller tubes.<br />
<br />
“I’m not...entirely...sure,” the other conceded, rubbing anxiously at one hand. “It’s a mass of nervous and muscle tissue. That’s all I can really say.”<br />
<br />
The second nodded, looking into the pod. Floating within was some form of gelatinous creature, with a weight reading of nearly three hundred kilograms. Tubes were branching off of it, weaving together and connecting to become the one larger tube up above, which, upon exiting the pod, branched apart again.<br />
<br />
The flesh appeared to be nearly perfectly clear, perhaps a little translucent instead. And it seemed, oddly, to be suffering no ill effects from having the aforementioned tubes being stuck within it. It merely continued to...exist. A large mass of muscle and nervous tissue, sitting on the floor of a pod filled with faux amniotic fluid.<br />
<br />
Bored...no, that wasn’t right. The entity hadn’t even proved sentient.<br />
<br />
Hungry...no, it wasn’t. It was supplied with all that it needed via the fluid. There was no reason for him to be thinking this...<br />
<br />
“James, James, did you hear what I was saying?” the scientist in charge of the experiment growled, snapping a hand in front of the other, who snapped out of his reverie.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I was just thinking. Please, continue. Just what did you do to make this?” The other scientist seemed slightly surprised, though he just shrugged before continuing along.<br />
<br />
“I extracted pure nervous tissue and muscle tissue from various animals, until such point as I had sufficient amount as to conduct a study. Later, I was able to synthesize them, and combine them into one large amount. Think of how this could revolutionize the medical industry, James!...James?”<br />
<br />
The second scientist had already lost focus on the experiment lead, his gaze drawn again towards the mass of tissue in front of him. He’d noticed that the tubes were pumping backwards, but the entity didn’t seem to be losing any mass. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, wondering what was happening, but thoroughly unable to voice his suspicions; this was much too interesting to ruin it with sound.<br />
<br />
So hungry...<br />
<br />
Wait, what? No, he wasn’t hungry, this wasn’t right...<br />
<br />
So bored...<br />
<br />
Some of the tubes were moving violently, the other scientist was trying to pull him away, yelling something.<br />
<br />
Free...<br />
<br />
The tubes burst open along their seams, more of the entity seeming to drip out like long tentacles. It had been replicating itself...<br />
<br />
Suddenly sanity was brought back to him, his fully lucid mind screaming at him to run, run, the other scientist doing the same. He didn’t have time, though, before they were grabbed by the seeming tentacles, one thought blaring through their minds.<br />
<br />
Feed...<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
“We can never let something like this happen again,” one man said, looking upon the bloody spectacle of the two scientists, ripped apart, and the mass of that they lay within.<br />
<br />
“The next time some scientist wishes to try this, fire him. Kill him, if you have to. I want all records of this expunged. Understood?” The one assistant nearby nodded, moving off to comply with the orders.<br />
<br />
But not before dropping a small amount of the substance into a jar for holding a sample. Pulsing like a beating heart.Veloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-30599461307038829102013-02-24T18:36:00.000-08:002013-02-25T12:55:14.351-08:00Laughter<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">By Alex Humva:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“It worked!” My assistant burst through the door, laughing like a maniac while he did. “It finally worked! The computer simulations are a success! We're rich!”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“The gene therapy is working?” I gripped the table to keep from falling over. “The test subjects?”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“All healthy! We're bloody geniuses!” The young man laughed and cheered, dashing about the room to a nearby refrigerator. A bottle of vintage wine was promptly taken out, the man popping the cork even as I moved off to the test room. I took a step in, looking at the computer displays that surrounded me. My assistant was right; the simulations <i>were</i> a success. The vitals of the animals were normal, and the prepared antitoxins were working one hundred percent. Years of work, years of getting funding via tooth and nail... it had all worked out.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I sat down in the computer chair, taking it in. A glass was handed to me, taking a sip absent-mindedly as I considered the ramifications of this. Our corporate sponsors had brought us in on an idea that they had thought of after seeing my work on real-time genetic engineering. They wanted something that could replace plastic surgery, cosmetic surgery in general. Science fiction to must, but I had seen a possible route. Years of perseverance, years of doubting if I could actually do it... all for it to come down to this.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I pulled a test tube out of cabinet, looking at the clear fluid inside of it. I held in my hand a paradigm shift. The ability to actively rewrite the genetic code and, in the process, change the human body via its own natural processes. The commercial aspects were clear, but the betterment of man kind... Cancer would be a thing of the past. Genetic disease that had once plagued so many would be eliminated. Humanity could hardwire itself to be stronger, better, immune to a plethora of viruses and microbes.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And it dawned on me the consequences of this. Anyone could be anyone else now. How many clones of popular actors would there be, now? What would the government say? What would the church say? What would the people say? Would the ignorant destroy this in an effort to preserve their old world, would corruption reign as anyone could impersonate anyone else? Would society grow closer, when anyone could experience life as anyone else? Or would it split down the middle?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I took a large, hard gulp of the wine. Such was the pursuit of advancement.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">-----------------</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">By Robert/Janus:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's Not Very Funny</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Laughter is a funny thing, huh? Sometimes it's feels so good--y'know, just to let loose with a full belly laugh. One of those great laughs that can just change your day around. Make the sun seem a little brighter and the clouds so much puffier. Then there's that other kind of laughter.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">You know the type of talking about. The one that tears right through you, that bitter harsh laugh that tells you everything you've ever aspired to, everything you've ever been--everything has just been a mockery. That cruel sound that reveals that you're nothing but a cosmic joke.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's funny, you know? How we're always told laughter is the best medicine. Heck, even science has proven that people who laugh more live longer--but have they studied why? Or even determined if any laugh will help stave off the reaper? I mean do people who exist only to shame others get to reap the fruits of a longer life?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've always wondered these things--never consciously, mind you, but these thoughts have always been there. Just beneath the surface of my mind, almost daring me to start thinking about them.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">So now I am--heh, I wonder if I could have avoided this if I thought about this earlier? I doubt it. After all, life has a funny way of just sneaking up on you. I mean I guess this all started the right way. Just a few hours ago I was living life large--I had picked up my friend and we were setting off for fame and fortune--well, that's what we called it. In truth we were just going to dick around on vacation. Y'know, just shoot the breeze and hang around. We loaded our stuff into the car and blasted the stereo--just a couple of college kids on our way to make some memories.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I still remember the deep throaty laugh he made--though I sure as hell can't remember the joke I made. I remember the way his eyes sparkled just before the laugh burst from him--and before his face burst apart.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The car came out of nowhere, swerving into our lane and pulverizing the entire passenger side of the car. Cutting off my friend mid-laugh. Or that's what I wish had happened--in truth the laugh continued, just not as it had before. There was kind of a hissing gurgle as what was left of my friend's head lolled to the side.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'd like to say that I responded in the smart way, that I controlled the car and managed to get us to safety and call some help for my friend. I'd like to, but then I wouldn't be scrawling this tripe on a friggin' notepad while my dead friend sits beside me, would I?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">So yeah, laughter is a funny thing. One moment a laugh can be so full of joy, and the next moment it's nothing but bitterness. I wonder if those laughs help extend your life. Because even though I'm ashamed to admit it, that's what happened to me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yeah, I wasn't totally honest with you before--kind of stupid given that our car went off a ledge and the chances of rescue or of seeing anyone again are basically nil--but hey, that's humanity for you. A screwed up bundle of neuroses. Pretty damn funny, isn't it?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">In truth, after my friend's face erupted in a shower of blood, after that horrible hissing gurgle of a laugh escaped his lips--I laughed too. I laughed for I don't know how long. Long enough to lose control of the car--which is what brings me to my current situation.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wonder if that laugh will help extend my life?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">God I hope not.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">-----------------</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">By Nick/Zarayna:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
I really don’t know what I’m writing. I suppose it’s because I’m laughing too hard. How am I typing right? Is there some miracle?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Anyways, there once was a forest. It was not a dark forest (because how could I write gloomy stuff right now?) but it was not a dazzling forest. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Or maybe it was. Let me explain. It was pink. Is that dazzling? I found it mellow to the eyes and relaxing. But if you like:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> There once was a forest, but not a dark forest. Some sources claim it was relaxing, others think it was dazzling. The author sides with the first view. Anyways, it was not a big forest. Really. It fit into this one backyard. A backyard that seemed to make the house big. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a forest. More like a random group of trees and bushes made to look like a forest. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Why am I telling you this? Well, let me just blow the secret because I can’t build up the suspense any further. The trees were pink because they were plastic, and they were plastic because they belonged to this weird toy house that somehow found itself in my room. It’s right in front of me, and I just had to describe it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> No, I swear I’m not drunk.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Anyways, pink forests aside, there was once a ma. Well, maybe not a man. But he looked like a man, at least. I still don’t get how his feet were hinged. I would stare at them, wondering what on earth it was. Then the ‘man’ would fall over and I’d have to help him up, balance him, and then wait for the inevitable fall.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I guess I shouldn’t keep action figures on my desk while I write. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I forgot where I was. Who leaves notebooks lying on desks I the middle of parties anyways? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Right. Crazy writers like me. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Why am I still laughing? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Oh yes. Victory. Not everyone can escape the way I just did.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Let me tell you, escape was a bit of a strong word. I was really having a goo time with my friends. Then I got this idea for a story. I tried to blurt it out, but even now I don’t know what I said; it wasn’t legible. Anyways, we went back to whatever we were doing, my friends a little less convinced of my sanity. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> But that idea burned. Man did it burn.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> So I began to run. I don’t think I really had a plan other than ‘get to paper ASAP’ but it turned out quite clever. I ran around our house and set up a ladder, climbed it, and shoved it off. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Maybe I am a bit drunk, or at least our of my mind, ‘cause a friend of mine came around the corner, just in time to get clipped. I didn’t look to see what happened to him, but it was right there that I started to laugh. I locked my window, locked my door, laughing. By the time I barricaded them I think I was shrieking my merriment. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> But that didn’t matter. Because then I found my notebook and sat down.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> What happened?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Someone slipped one of my little sister’s toys into my room, and I just had to write about it. Then the action figure, and then a recap.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Only I just realized. The whole reason for my escape and my current imprisonment is still not written down.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Dammit. I lost my idea.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Was that why I randomly wrote this down? All that I know is that I just got writer’s block and lost at least one friend. Bye.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">-----------------</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">By Lin:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Black, white and grey; these are the three basic colors that make up the world. Rain falls down on the sidewalk, drowning ants that try to forage for food and lightning strikes, white and hot with rage, at a tree, knocking it over in a fiery explosion. That, of course, is the fate of anything that is “lucky” enough to be brought into this world. Ultimately, once a spark ignites a flame, it has no choice but to be extinguished. Sure, it could last for weeks, maybe months if it manages to expand, but that will never last forever. No, the fate of the fire is only ash. Cold, grey, lifeless ash; scattered and forgotten by the wind.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every day I find myself asking “what’s the point” or “why bother with such a wretched existence?” I’m no different from that flame. It could be fifty more years; ten, a month, or I could find myself dead tomorrow before sunset. Why should I live if all I have left is my own demise? I find myself asking, far too often, “why?” </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s miserable in the world today. Turn on the news, and another school shooting appears. This time it was an elementary school. A fourteen year old walked down an alley and was shot, dead. People addicted to god-knows-what murder their wife, their husband, their boyfriend, girlfriend, child… It never stops. It’s a wide spectrum without any color from end to end. Of course it would be wonderful if someone actually did anything to try and help the situation. No, humans always point the finger at someone or something else. “Video games are too violent” or “Movies are too extreme.” Next thing you know a lawsuit pops up and drags out the misery further.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">This world is wretched, disgusting filth and I’ve found myself a part of it. I’ve passed the point of caring for my fellow man. A woman had her purse grabbed not twenty feet from me, and yet I looked the other way, feeling nothing. A child cries, and I assume it’s because it’s rotten. A man gets screamed at by a woman, and I automatically believe he deserved it. A human dies in the news, and all I do is watch, unfeeling, unmoved as I continue my day like nothing significant happened. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes I think I actually see some color in the world of red, blue and green. I realize I don’t even remember which color it is and I laugh. I laugh until my ribs hurt, until I’m curled on the floor in the pain of my own ignorance; the world’s ignorance. I often ask myself “Why am I laughing?” I suppose it’s the only thing I can do before the reaper draws me in.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">-----------</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">By Jonathan:</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He could still hear it. Why did it haunt him so? In his dreams, in his
nightmares. Everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the thing
that held the world together, and yet it was the thing that was tearing his
world apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The laughter of his
children, the laughter of the neighbors, the laughter of his friends. It all
reminded him of her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had the perfect
laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the daisies swaying gaily in
the wind seemed to taunt him, laughing at him, at his hatred of laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He slumped into his big armchair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one where he read her bedtime stories
every night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had become used to his
nighttime routine, linking to this very armchair where he tormented himself
every night with the memories of her sweet laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The vivid pictures of her dancing under the
moonlight, running in the sunlight, swinging on the swings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever she was doing she always brought joy
to the world, and she was always laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He would sit in his chair drinking his bourbon to numb his mind, numb
his pain, until he became absolutely wasted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The pain drove him mad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Empty of
everything but his grief he would scream until the tears came no more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet his pain did not go away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He cursed up a storm, cursing life, cursing
fate, cursing himself for his oblivion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yet his pain did not go away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
could only think of that perfect laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That taunting laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It grew
until he had a hatred of all laughter, except for hers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed, the proverbial bluebird of happiness
had left him many year ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had
turned his perfect world upside down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
day at the campground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Daddy, can we please go play at the
lake?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to go out in a kayak with
you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“NO!!” he would shout at his
dreams, cursing the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Say no,” he
pleaded with himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he smiled down
at her as he always did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She laughed
knowingly, understanding that look to mean yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yippee!” she cried, as she raced off to
the lake. His dream continued, no matter how much he begged it to stop.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Follow her!” he demanded to no avail. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wait
for me, Katie,” he called, but she was too far gone. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Follow
her,” he moaned softly as the energy leaving him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His body was succumbing to the pain and the
alcohol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grabbing
the life vests and the sun tan lotion he slowly followed her to the lake. His
phone rang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was his wife.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t
answer it. Please don’t answer,” he wailed. “Please.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
meandered down the trail as he dealt with his wife’s problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he got the clearing and the line of the
shore, she was no where to be found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
anger, he yelled, “Katie, come on.” His anger slowly began to turn to panic
when she did not answer him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His panic
got worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He quickly dialed 911, but by
the time they got there he feared the worst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The search that ensued turned up nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laying
on the floor now, he convulsed in pain at the memory. It had been 17 years
since the incident, and his daughter was never found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sweet Katie, was never found.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And her laughter haunted him to this day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thing that made the world go ‘round,
turned his, upside down.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">By Aimee/Aderia:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Hahaha Halfhearted Write Off”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man on the screen had blood dripping
down his temple. He pressed himself to the tunnel wall, trying desperately to
calm his panicked, heavy breathing. They were after him. The echoing footsteps
- it was impossible to tell if they were his own, or theirs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dramatic music shook the theatre, and shadows
slid through more shadows, here, there, moving to surround him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The music melted away to nothing but a tangible
skeleton of suspense for the ears of the audience. You could hear them holding
their breath. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“HA!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>HAHAha!! Hahahahehe…”</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every head turned to glare at the eruption
of obnoxious laughter in the fragile theater, whatever atmosphere there had
been was shattered. Everyone learned that taking a nervous laugher to a horror
film was a really, really bad idea.<br />
<br />
------------ <br />
<br />
By Will:<br />
<br />
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Flesh
and Blood</div>
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<br /></div>
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A
flock of flying creatures burst into the air as the shot rang out. Bat-like,
they fluttered in the half light, and the sound of their tiny shrieks filled
the gathering night with fear. Click. A round sprang free and fell sizzling to
the dirt. Another round into the casing, and the indicator winked green again.
The long barrel of the weapon wavered slightly amongst the spines of the tree,
and the sights lined up again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Got
you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Far
below, where the jumble of ledges leveled out into a gravelly shoreline, a shape
was dragging itself from the waters of the lake. Arms clawed at the rocky
ground, seeking some handhold in the sand. The sound of ragged breathing broke
the air, and two narrow eyes winked on in a dark face as the thing raised its
head again, searching for its enemy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There.
The flash of the muzzle preceded a second shot, and the figure suddenly coiled
its limbs together, flinging itself to the side. The shot vaporized some of the
nearby lakewater and seared the sand into glass, but the hunter had missed his
chance...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There
was a curse far above, and the wispy spines of the tree shuddered as its
occupant slid to earth again, weapon in hand. Another white-hot round spun off
into the gloom, and the hunter sprang away. Jagged rocks whizzed past on either
side, but the hunter did not notice. He had only one goal now--one quarry. It
would not escape this time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Behind
him in the hills, the piping cries of the carrion-beasts were rising. They knew
what the thunder of the hunt meant, and they would revel in it. Tonight they
would feed on what was left behind. The hunter ignored them. Mirthless eyes
peered from a hardened face, tracking the shape that still struggled on the
shore below. The darkness would soon be complete, but that wasn’t a problem. It
would be over soon...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another
rasping breath, and air bubbled from the wound in the thing’s side as it slid
back into the water. Its systems were failing. The enemy would be on its way
down from the cliffs by now. There were only precious moments to act. A range of
scenarios played out behind the glimmering eyes. There were no avenues of
escape this time, even after all the planning, all the anticipation. The hunter
had used up his last two rounds. He was forced to finish the job by hand now. That
had been a part of the plan, but now...What was this feeling? Was it anger? No.
Regret? It had felt regret before, or an approximation of it, at least. Regret
was the feeling that resulted when some necessary action had not been
accomplished. This scenario certainly fit the description.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Again
the figure heaved itself up, trembling on its multiple limbs as it finally
extricated itself from the water. One appendage hung limp where the first shot
had met its mark. That had not been a part of the plan. Not at all. The damage
was severe, but not fatal. Not yet. But even so...The eyes winked off and on
again, and another set of scenarios played out. Yes, that was it. It was the
only constructive outcome now. Not optimal, but it would have to suffice. The
sound of footfalls in the gravel reached its ears. Fifty meters up the slope.
Not much time. Not much time at all...The figure rolled over, and one of the
undamaged limbs unfolded, still clutching the small object. Had the water
compromised the mechanism? Hopefully not. Either way, it would have to be
enough...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hiss.
Pop. A shower of sparks sprang from the end of the flare, and the shoreline lit
up red as the hunter heaved it in an arc, out across the distance. It thudded
into the sand next to the motionless black shape. No eyes visible now. The
hunter crept out from amongst the desert brush, tensed and ready. His prey was
very clever. He had underestimated it at the start, and that had been a
mistake--a mistake that had cost him four days of pursuit through the alien
desert and the rest of his ammunition too. He should have put the shot through
its head when he’d had the chance, back before the thing was aware of him. It
had even been able to disarm his traps. Clever indeed, but now the game was
over, and flesh and blood would win.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another
few steps forward. No movement. The flare cast the beach into strange relief,
every tuft of thorny grass etched with a shadow, as a beacon of smoke wafted
upward. Again the piping of the beasts intruded on the scene, and again the
hunter dismissed them. He’d been facing something far more dangerous the past
few days. A few toothy razorbacks weren’t much to worry about at this point.
The knife slid from the sheathe at his hip, and he held it straight out. Only
another couple meters. Still no sign of life. Surely it hadn’t expired yet. It
couldn’t be that easy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Step.
Step. The flare guttered at the hunter’s feet, and he scanned the still form.
There was the wound--a ragged gash through the torso. It had almost severed one
of the rear limbs. The head lolled to one side, eyes dark. Not even a glimmer.
No matter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
knife went up and flashed back down, and the carapace separated where the blade
bit into it. Not even a spark. Not even a spasm. He took the head off in
another couple of blows. No movement at all. It really was over. The machine
was dead. In the end, it had only taken one shot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
hunter stepped back. It was almost sad. After the thrill of the chase, he had
been anticipating something more...dramatic. Then again, it was a machine.
Maybe it had simply evaluated its options, found them lacking, and decided no
further action was possible. Machines weren’t dramatic, especially the ones
that were designed to kill people quickly and efficiently. The blades that tipped
the creature’s appendages were a testament to that. Ah well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
hunter plucked a tiny device from his belt, attached it to the lifeless shell. A
recovery team would be there in a day to pick up the body. He activated his own
tracker, and turned away. He’d have to pick up his rifle from the bushes. Might
as well start back now. He had enough rations to survive another few days. The
recovery team would likely drop in to get him on the way back. He sighed and
ran a hand across his brow. The desert air was sweltering, even down here by
the water. The flare sparked and sputtered as it began to die, and just like
that, it was over.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Click.
The sound of metal against metal shrieked out in the night, and a scream tore
itself from his throat as the steel jaws of the trap closed around his ankle.
He fell forward, pain lancing from shin to thigh as he twisted and cursed. A
trap. A trap. The blasted thing had disarmed his traps before. You stupid fool.
You didn’t retrieve them all! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At
last he gained control again, turning over, teeth clenched. Another wave of
pain washed over him, and then he forced himself to sit up, trembling hands
searching for the source of the pain. It was a basic jaw-trap, of course. Spring-loaded.
The thing had hidden it in the sand. Right here. Right under him. It had all
been over, and still the gears had been working behind those worthless glowing
eyes. You wanted drama? Well, now you’ve had it, you blasted fool.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
light from the flare was falling fast. Did he have another one? He wasn’t sure.
He’d left his pack with the rifle. Don’t panic. It’s just a matter of
willpower. Get to the bushes, and you’ll have a weapon and first-aid. The
tracker will lead the team to you. Just lie low and you’ll be--</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He
froze. A familiar sound came wafting down the cliff-side toward him, and this
time he paid attention. The piping cry of the carrion beasts. They would be on
top of him soon, and he was out of ammo. Out of ammo. Out of time. He had a
knife, but they had a hundred teeth on their side, and without his rifle, he
was just meat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Long
moments passed, and he his heart sank. He stared at the dead husk of his former
prey, feeling light-headed and tired and very sick. Was this a part of your
plan, machine? Did flesh and blood really win today? He shook his head as the darkness
fell once more and the real hunters closed in. Closer, closer, till he could
see the flicker of their beady eyes. And for a moment, he thought how funny it
was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For
a moment, he laughed.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">------------</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">By Dual Matrix:</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Laughter<br /><br />Laughter sounds all around me, here there, everywere.<br /><br />It can mean two things, or someone did something stupid or he did something funny.<br /><br />I hope for him the latter.<br /><br />Who was it, I didn't notice, I look around and everyone laughs, everyone.<br /><br />No-one with a face glowing red of shame, and no one ever laughs at his own joke.<br /><br />Who could it be?, I wonder, who could it be?<br /><br />What went wrong? I did what I was teached to do but yet it didn'y work. Yet they still laugh.<br /><br />The world around me seems dizzy, all thing seems to turn around. <br /><br />The feeling of fealure went trough my body.<br /><br />How can it be, everyone laughs exept me, what happend.<br /><br />"Guys, what's going on, what's so funny?" I ask.<br /><br />And yet then I notice, then I see, the board sustaining my lesson, the board next to my own head, filled with words, filled with words not mine.<br /><br />How come these words to be, and how did I not notice?<br /><br />I became angry, terrible angry, not noticing the keyboard linked to the sceen was no longer in my possesion.<br /><br />A bell rings...<br /><br />"Today, I was saved by the bell, but Tomorrow no-one will laugh, no-one will laugh, tomorrow, I'll succeed." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>Caleb Peifferhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12695484632520881655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-33744901376988969892013-02-23T18:56:00.002-08:002013-02-23T19:05:40.839-08:00Game Over & FearFear:<br />
<br />
<br /> <br />
By Nick Zarayna:<br /> <br />
<br /> Some fear is good, some is not. Some fear is purgative, some so pollutive. I don’t know which one my current emotion.
<br /> Let me explain. Do you ever have that feeling that there’s something really big and really terrifying just out of your eye-range? Yeah. Let’s add a twist. You don’t know what it is. You don’t know if it will hurt you or help you, love you or hate you.
<br /> It’s going to hurt you! That’s what everything says. Everything, that is, except for something deep inside you that tells you maybe things aren’t so bad. Maybe this thing is really here to give you a hand. It’s just big because, well, that’s how it is. I’m not big, that’s just the way I am: a scrawny kid in a torn aketon, the gashes in my only armor colored with blood. My spear? Broke a while back. My shield didn’t exist. All I have is a knife. Against something that big, I don’t know what it is.
<br /> It’s not my fault, maybe. Who drafts a stableboy into battle and then expects him to die like a knight? Maybe a knight would be lying in this fright, hiding around a corner of the keep, too scared to look at the thing. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could see it. But I can only hear it. Are the sounds familiar or alien? The jingle of equipment could be anyone’s.
<br /> Maybe it’ll just go away. There are plenty of other corpses for it to loot. The castle has fallen. There really isn’t any hope left. I just want to die, but my wounds aren’t that bad.
<br /> Should I move? Maybe, maybe not. It’s deathly quiet, and my legs are covered by a corpse. I shudder a little, glad its face isn’t looking at me. I don’t need another reminder of my probable future. Maybe, maybe I can inch out slow enough. The noise around the corner is louder; is the thing looting bodies now? I wish it would pick a better place.
<br /> I pull my legs towards me and stand up.
<br /> Bad move. I didn’t realize I was dealing with a leg wound. Or that the corpse that pinned me had a loose helmet. The iron cap clatters away even as I bend over with a suppressed gasp, clutching at my leg. The thing is silent.
<br /> Oh God. He’s seen me. Oh St Micheal he’s heard me!
<br /> Footsteps approach. The thing I only heard for so long is looking at me. I stumble back into a wall, looking at it with my frightened eyes.
<br /> Him rather. The old, battlesoiled knight is definitely not an it. My eyes are fixated on his chest, where my master’s coat of arms is blazon.
<br /> One fear less for me.
<br /><br />---<br />
<br />
By Lin: <br />
<br />
What is it about the dark that gives me chills throughout my skin? My
breathing increases and I become more sensitive to sounds. I hear them
all bouncing off of the walls. A twig breaks, the wind howls, my
footsteps sound like lead with a “thump, scrit, scratch.” I never
noticed anything like that before. The pale moonlight makes it so
difficult to navigate. Is that a snake or a branch down the path?
Perhaps it’s just a crack in the walkway? That’s when the explosion
happened.<br />
<br />
Well, that is to say it sounded like an explosion. It’s true that
there was no fantastic display of light and fire. No, that would have
been much too calming for me. Instead there was this loud booming going
about. It was like thunder without lightning. Instead of a brilliant,
illuminating flash to lull my curiosity and suspicion, instead I am left
totally in the dark, forever guessing as to what it was I had heard.
Perhaps it was a gunshot? Was it slab of marble hitting the sidewalk two
blocks down? Maybe it was a monster. Perhaps it was just my imagination
or maybe it was something strange and unnatural that could never be
explained. All of these thoughts ran through my head as I continued to
walk, looking over my shoulder from time to time to be sure I wasn’t
followed.<br />
<br />
It’s not that I’m a member of the mafia; dropping some money in an
isolated spot in return for the services of another organization.
Heavens, no! I could never handle that kind of stress. I simply hate to
be followed when I’m on a quest for solitude. Unwanted companions are
the only thing that could ruin my journey this night. That’s why I’m
wearing black. Black pants, shoes, a long onyx coat and a fedora over my
head and black gloves. It’s cold outside in January, so I have reason
to bundle myself up without looking too suspicious. Actually, I’d prefer
not to be seen at all if it could be helped.<br />
<br />
The fear of my own mortality calls out to me in so many ways now. I
suppose that’s to be expected, though. The trees are all barren here
looking beyond comatose. The smell of the decay of leaves wafts through
the air along with a light fog that looms past the pail light of the
moon. It seems almost peaceful in a way, really. Ah, here’s my
destination!<br />
<br />
That night, a man in black laid a bouquet of flowers down on a grave that read;<br />
“Sophie Smith<br />
1926-2009<br />
Caring Wife, Devoted Friend, Loving mother”<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
<br />
BONUS Theme: Game Over<br />
<br />
By Lin: <br />
<br />
“The true culprit… is you!”<br />
<br />
The man pointed his index finger at the culprit. Why was the man pointing the finger at the culprit?<br />
<br />
It was because of the picture on the floor. Shards of broken glass
lay scattered around a golden frame that was now facing down. The
picture, which was slightly torn here and there, depicted a lovely
elderly woman smiling at the camera.<br />
<br />
Why was the picture on the floor? It was because it had been knocked
down from the mantle. The mantle had a few knickknacks such as
decorative china and family group shots.<br />
<br />
Why was it knocked down on the mantle? It was because that was where
the murder weapon had been taken. The shining, golden sword was taken
from its perch above the mantle and was stabbed through the back of the
victim.<br />
<br />
Who was murdered? That would be the butler of the manor; one Gerald
Moris. He’d worked for the family for some forty years now. His hair was
grey and he kept himself well. Even his fallen position on the floor
looked dignified and proper.<br />
<br />
Why was Gerald Moris killed? It was because of the small trinket that
had been around his neck. It is true that such a thing was not there
now, however it was clear there was the mark of a chain that had been
pulled until it had broken. Small, beaded marks could be seen. It was
likely the chain put up a valiant fight before it had been removed.<br />
<br />
Where was the trinket now? It was in the hands of the daughter of the
late Lady Lavender. She had been an heiress to a great fortune left by
her ancestors long passed. The entire family seemed high-brow, and the
middle-aged woman who was Lady Lavender’s daughter resembled that fact.
Her hair was dyed to a perfect hue of chocolate brown and she wore a
brooch as green as emerald. A diamond ring lay upon her finger.<br />
<br />
Who had given her the ring? That would be the culprit. Yes, the
culprit who had wanted justice. The estate was to be handed over to the
late Gerald Moris; the witness to the late Lady Lavender’s will. The
culprit believed that she had been threatened, had been tricked. Such a
thing would not; could not be tolerated.<br />
<br />
With a sigh, the culprit fought hard, but he had been caught. In the
end, he handed over a small bottle on a silver chain. What had been in
the bottle? It was the poison that had killed the late Lady Lavender.Five Fiveshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02787187651294078468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-52367366681525299442013-02-18T13:21:00.004-08:002013-02-18T13:21:42.116-08:00Mob RuleBy Nick Joseph:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Pulling the heavy shovel from the hole, I threw the dirt into the pile, which sagged a few yards away. The spade crunched through the dirt once more as I thrusted into the cool earth again, and pushed deeper. The hole was waist deep by now. Waist deep, chest deep, I couldn’t tell by the darkness. The headlights on the car were off, I thought this would be a quicker job than it actually was turning out to be. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
Forget reminiscence about the stars, and the beauty of the desert. I was creeped out by the silence. I let the spade be as loud as possible without a ringing blow on the rock that would alert anyone or anything of my presence, just so I wouldn’t feel the chill of the wispy, empty air in the openness. Following more digging, I grabbed a pair of limp ankles and pulled, my arms flexing as the corpse tumbled into the hole alongside me. Kicking the sack like body, and with a silent “good riddance”, began to repack the dirt. An easy job, and just like that, the sand was level again. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
I flicked the sand off with an audible tug on the collar. Looking around, I threw the shovel back in the trunk. Somewhere a wolf’s howl could be heard, and I shuddered; I would hate to run into one of those out here. Run over, maybe, I thought as I opened the car door. But I needed to get back to town, report to the boss. Those creeps would be paying extra for making me come out here alone. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
A soft sound played comfortingly on the radio as I drove away. </div>
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<br /></div>
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-----------------</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
By Dual Matrix:</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px; padding: 0px;">
"Tonight, my fellows, the day has come, our reign can finally begin, we plotted and schemed for years, all focussed on that moment our rulership would start. And that moment, is now. My friends, we finally eliminated all the obstacles standing in our way for total victory. All those obstactels, one by one, little by little , downed by the growing power of darkness, all of them have now at last fallen. The pillars on whitch the civilasation rested are reduced to dust, and are now others are being able to take their place, and those others will be Us! Yes, the day has come to stop begging, collecting and hiding in the dark, the time has come to take our place, our rightfull place, on top of this miserable civilasation. The world will be filled with such a massive darkness that no little light can survive, no good will be left after we strike, not even the tinyest shard. No, the endless void will consume them all leaving the world with only misery and pain.<br /><br />Gentlemen, the day has come, to strike...</div>
Veloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-90280760888321572712013-02-17T12:55:00.000-08:002013-02-17T12:55:07.505-08:00Spiral 2Dual Matrix:<br />
<br />
Spiral<br /><br />
I sit on my bed thinking about a subject to write, way past bed-time,
no light, just me and my brain. "Spiral" A sudden flash of insparation.
"A spiral, what do I know about spirals." I started browsing my mind
definate to produce the best story ever written about those things.
"Spirals, well, they're veey swirly, oh and neverending, always going
down and down and down..." I write down the first words: "Down Down,
Down we go a neverending story about sadness and pain". "Yes" I tought,
"lets involve those things called emotions in it, thats always nice." I
continued writing about the spiral using the sudden shards of
inspiration coming up in my mind. "Sadness and pain, once those start
it'll always get worse, for you're trapped inside a spiral." I tought I
was writing well, I could be in time, I could make it... Till...
Everithing went quiet, my brain stopped thinking and the flow of awesome
inspiration stopped, my empty mind couldn't find the strenght to write
another word. "Spirals, why did I start writing about spirals" I
wondered, I would never make it in time, I trew my story into the trash
can and went to sleep, knowing the time to write, the time to enter, was
over.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03794789066535054370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-53096871898010717582013-02-16T18:30:00.001-08:002013-02-16T18:30:24.978-08:00SpiralBy Lin/Tekulo:<br />
<br />
Spiral of Despair<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">The ship spiraled downward towards oblivion. Women and children were leaving first. There were wives crying tears for their husbands, widows praying to their dearly departed, singles dressed fabulously in their gowns shaking from excitement, young boys and girls, some of which were crying, teenaged students who looked lost from their world, the list went on. The lifeboats were lowered slowly, faces disappearing from sight of those who were left to their cruel fates of not being chosen. Men were busy trying to help others get to safety along with few companions. Meanwhile others were cowards trying to steal salvation for themselves. They could not be blamed, for what lied below was dark, cold and eternal. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">The poor and unfortunate were locked away below deck, grasping for any scrap of hope they wished to get their hands on. They wanted to leave, to be free. They ultimately would not have their desires granted. Those who were unable to leave their rooms were attacking the doors and when they came down they would squash any who would dare linger before their presence. Trampling, stomping, shouting they all disregarded their fellow man, woman and child. Some were already doomed before any water had entered their presence, and still they fell deeper and deeper.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">This chaos would be ended, rest assured. Time slipped by, and the ship broke in two. Slowly the pieces danced in the waves and sank deeper. The lifeboats were gone now, leaving many to their doom. Rich, poor, simple and complex; each of these erupted in their own chaos as the waves embraced their bodies. The cold seeped its way into their souls one by one by one. Those who were safe on the ocean’s surface saw many faces, many bodies fall into the spiral below. Their tomb was forever sealed in a dark spiral never to be seen again.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">By iBrow:</span><br />
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The stairs seemed to go on forever. It felt as if he had been walking down them for eternity, the dull white slabs blending into each other so that they appeared as a white spiral against the black walls. There wasn’t a guardrail to be found, and at this point he thought it must only be the divine intervention of God stopping him from slipping off the spiral and tumbling down to the bottom.</div>
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Always assuming there was a bottom, of course. He couldn’t even remember when he’d started going down, or indeed if he’d ever done anything else. Maybe this spiral staircase was all that existed. Black and white, in a design that drilled into his brain with alarming ferocity.</div>
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He felt as if there ought to be other colors, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember if there were other colors. What was a color, anyway? What was black? Maybe the stairs were. Or did black describe the size of his foot?</div>
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Come to think of it, he didn’t even know what a foot was, either.</div>
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The appendage at the end of his leg (although to be quite honest he wasn’t quite sure whether it was called a leg or an arm) slipped on the edge of the next step and he fell flat on his bum. By the time he was standing again, he’d forgotten about the incident entirely and couldn’t recall what a bum was.</div>
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The spiral staircase ended suddenly, though his eyes had not seen it. He now stood on a black floor, although if asked he couldn’t say what was black, or whether the floor was even called a floor. For all he could remember, it might’ve been a tree.</div>
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Spotting no means of escape (although he couldn’t be sure if he knew what a means of escape would look like), he shrugged and glanced up at the stretching spiral above him before taking the first of countless steps back up.</div>
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Ten seconds later he’d forgotten that the bottom even existed, and was wondering if the stairway up ever ended. In fact, aside from the basic motor functions, the only thing he could remember was that he was a male of some species. He couldn’t say what a species was exactly, he just knew he was a male. Maybe that meant he walked up stuff. Whatever walking was, that is.</div>
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He didn’t even remember that by the time he reached the top, and even his motor functions were beginning to fail. Halfway back down his dead brain forgot even those, and he toppled to his death four miles below.</div>
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By Legolover-361:</div>
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<strong>Descending</strong></div>
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There is a certain beauty in descent. A paper as it falls spirals through the air like a ballerina mid-pirouette before gently kissing the ground, its miniscule weight leaving nary a sound. A leaf, too, will ride the air like a wave before landing on the grassy down, itself its own parachute. The sun as it sets casts the sky alight with fiery orange, gold, and crimson, a last hurrah before it tucks itself away for the night.</div>
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And then there was Danielle. Homeless. Jobless. Hapless. Sometimes she wondered if even a depressing poem could make her descent seem attractive.</div>
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Her only possessions were the clothes on her back, worn sneakers, a coat for which she thanked the Lord every day, a shopping cart, a hat, and a cardboard sign reading “HELP THE HOMELESS — PLEASE DONATE”. Not many people donated, but even a few dollars went a long way. Eating a soft pretzel at Wawa was far better than digging through a dumpster.</div>
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The life of the homeless is far from glamorous; pride has no place among the stark rocks of misfortune.</div>
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Sometimes people muttered as they passed Danielle like she was either an ugly insect or an intriguing display in a store window. She could only catch snippets of their conversations, but more than half of the time she would hear, “Oh, I wish we could help her.” If only they would!</div>
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Whenever she could, she would find a temporary “home” near a populous area. She lived in perpetual fear of someone coming upon her in the night: she alone, the stranger malicious. Her only weapons were her fists, and what crude weapons they were.</div>
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Concrete was not a comfortable bed, but neither did such a humbling situation condone pickiness. Danielle had left her dignity with her home and her debt: in the past, far behind her.</div>
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The city towered above and around her, silver extensions of humanity jutting toward the sky in a desperate plea for greater heights. Sometimes she wondered if the implied thoughts of those who saw her were right, and she was only an insect beneath the shoes of giants.</div>
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Danielle never succumbed to drugs; she suspected they would make the skyscrapers seem to come alive.</div>
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“Ma’am?”</div>
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Danielle perked up, drawing her coat from her eyes and looking into the sunrise-softened face of a middle-aged man who slouched above her. She rearranged her features into an expression hopefully resembling polite attention and swallowed her annoyance at being woken — a comfortable position on concrete was hard to find.</div>
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“Hi,” she replied.</div>
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The man drew back a little but stayed near. “Are you okay? I mean, uh, I saw you just lying there...”</div>
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“Yeah” — the response was pure reflex, and Danielle’s suddenly disturbed gaze was a clear signal of that — “I mean, no, because I’m sleeping on the street, but what else am I supposed to do?”</div>
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The man paused, then dug in his pocket. His right hand emerged with a ten dollar bill. “Here,” he said. “You don’t — pardon me — look like a drug addict, and even if you are, I don’t want to, y’know, take the risk you actually need help.” His voice sounded stiff as if he were reciting a speech from memory.</div>
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Danielle nodded. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”</div>
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“Uh... welcome.” The man began to retreat. “And by the way, there’s a church around here. I think they’re serving food to homeless people today. Maybe you could stop by?”</div>
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“Yeah... I, uh, really appreciate your help.”</div>
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“Okay.” He paused as if wanting to say something more, but then turned away and was pulled more than directed around the corner.</div>
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Sometimes Danielle wondered if good people were like cars in the street, here one moment, gone an intersection later.</div>
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Veloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1461564033789367211.post-48898040092944036762013-02-09T18:40:00.001-08:002013-02-09T18:42:19.709-08:00PrioritiesBy Collin/Tekulo:<br />
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The First Winter</div>
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Winter was arriving, and soon. The sun, which had been out for a long, long time had been warming the planet, had grown weary. Every inch of land was radiating its heat and was lush with green as far as the eye could see. Many animals thrived on the surface, their numbers great and their cities prosperous. However, as wonderful as the world was, they’d complained that it was too hot. </div>
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“We need too cool off!” they desperately pleaded to the heavens. “Please, send us a breath of cold air!”</div>
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Now, the winds heard their plea, and they carried the message to the sun.</div>
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“It appears those on the surface have become just as tired as I.” The sun spoke solemnly. “Very well, gather water and ice in the sky, and send them down to the surface. Send winds from the North and South to chill the droplets as they fall.”</div>
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The winds had begun to do as the sun had commanded and gathered many storm clouds filled with water to the heavens. The clouds grew so abundant in the sky that they began to drip and drop all the way down to the earth. The winds began to rejoice with their success as they had more than enough water to help cool the earth. They began to dance and twirl, and they put on a brilliant show of light and sound. </div>
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“Help us! Help us!” the animals cried to the heavens, “The water is too high! We cannot breathe for much longer!”</div>
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The winds could not hear these pleas as they were howling up a storm. Finally, when the winds grew tired of their celebration, they began to keep still, and a fierce chill fell over the dark, silent ocean which was once green with vegetation. Ice slowly began to form and it covered the entire world! It remained that way for some time until, finally, the sun returned from its restful slumber. </div>
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“Wake up! Wake up!” it called to the dead winds, groggy from their festivities. </div>
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The winds did look around, and when they saw few animals who had managed to survive in the ice, they realized their mistake. The sun, now angry, released his fire and warmed the world once more.</div>
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To this day, the sun has never again left its world and so winter and summer began to dance around each other creating spring, autumn and balance to the world.</div>
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By Alex/TWA:</div>
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Priorities<br />
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Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Without the chicken there would be no egg, yet without the egg there would be no chicken. What an odd world we live in where such a question is still debated today. Surely, if answers had been presented, we should no longer need the question. Yet here it is. I’m using it right now, as pretentiously as I possibly can.<br />
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As I mull the question over in my head, a brief smack to my ear drags me back to reality, kicking and screaming. I look up and blink out of my daydream to see my housemate, Dave, looking down at me with a frown on his face and a bin full of rubbish in his hands. I stare perplexed at this odd scene and wonder why he drew me out of my incredibly essential thought processes just to show me the produce of a week’s worth of wastage.<br />
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He must have seen the realisation hit my face like a speeding train because he swiftly rolled his eyes as soon as I remembered what I had been asked to do. “Sam…You forgot to empty the bins out last night,” he sighed.<br />
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“I forgot to empty the bins out last night,” I admitted. And I’m quite proud of myself for doing so. Admitting things shows courage and if I had denied it, that wouldn’t have been courageous at all. In fact, that makes me a good person and completely balances out the fact that I had forgotten to take the bins out. One wrong and one right make a neutral or something along those lines.<br />
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“This is the third time in a row. The binmen have been and gone and our bins aren’t getting any emptier. You know I can’t do it because I work the nightshift on Wednesdays. What, were you spending all your time playing video games again?”<br />
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“I was spending all my time playing video games again,” I confessed. There! I had done it again! Twice in a row I had told the plain truth as it was, without any hint of a lie. Clearly I was the one with the moral highground in this situation. Should Dave criticise me any further, he would be the one in the wrong. I was an honest saint here. An honest saint who had forgotten to take the bins out because he was very busy trophy hunting.<br />
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“You know, you could at least try to make an effort to clean up around here. It’s like you don’t even care about the state of this place,” he growled. Typical Dave, he doesn’t appreciate any signs of honesty, no matter what the source.<br />
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“I cleaned up the other day!”<br />
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“You broke a plate.”<br />
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“It was cluttering up the dishwasher.”<br />
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Dave pinched his nose and took a step back, clearly a few seconds away from striking something. Or someone. I didn’t care to find out, so I simply did what any good, kind-hearted human being would do. I got up and I left him to calm down the rubbish I had forgotten to take out. Maybe I’ll do it next week…</div>
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by Alex Humva:</div>
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We all have our priorities in life. Some people make money their priority, others, love, still more self-fulfillment. Ultimately the sun sets at the end of the day and we're all back where we started, trying to feel good about ourselves without actually succeeding. We feel good about it for a while, sure, but eventually that wears off, and we need to do something bigger. A millionaire wants to be a billionaire. One lover isn't enough. The largest rollercoaster in the world didn't have the right thrills. We all strive for the greatest possible, but if we actually achieve that greatness... we find that it's simply not enough.</div>
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I had my own priorities, once upon a time. I never set my goals high because I came to terms with the fact that I wasn't going make it big in life. I lived in the Reykjavik suburbs, raising a family and making a few hundred krona a day to get by with. There wasn't much in the way of chaos or hardship, so my priorities ended up being simple. To live another day, to shovel another pile of snow, to make sure my children grew up and had a chance to reach for better things then I had.</div>
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So when that day came when I received a promotion in the small company I worked at, I was surprised to say the least. They even game me a complimentary vacation with the promotion, it was so special. So I spent the next month touring around Europe, looking at the sites and the people going about their lives. It made me want to do something with myself, oddly enough. To set my priority from simply living to actually doing something of my own.</div>
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After the vacation, I did try to advance in the world. With my new position I made improvements in the company, expanding us into a small but reputable business. My children later grew up and moved out, my success enough to get them attendance in a good college. Ultimately though, I found that I had been better off keeping my priorities simple. I simply wasn't made for this sort of thing. Others might seek thrills or money, but I didn't want either. Maybe I'm just a dull person like that. I retired with my wife after years with a decent amount of cash in the bank and we lived a decent life.</div>
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So, moral of the story? Decent people live decent lives with decent priorities.</div>
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By Legolover:</div>
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<strong>Consequences</strong></div>
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Headlong flight, it felt like, screaming down the highway at almost eighty miles per hour into another vehicle. There <em>was </em>literal flight in the rush somewhere; James Doolittle just didn’t remember where, exactly.</div>
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Application of the brake was the first, oh so belated priority. Brakes? Applied. No dice.</div>
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Next was the abrupt disappearance of gravity. The event was beautiful, in a way, how it unfolded with such bloody precision like a scene in a play. Lights, camera, action: Doolittle, drunk and unbuckled as he was, smashed through the windshield.</div>
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That was where everything went wonky. A series of short memories, like animated GIFs, replayed in Doolittle’s mind after he struck the ground: a flood of fresh air; lightheadedness far more affecting than any caused by alcohol; the other vehicle, light blue, must’ve been a pretty little thing before it got totaled; and, finally, the rough embrace of asphalt, hot even in July’s evenings.</div>
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Liquid trickled down Doolittle’s cheek and into his mouth. It washed across his tongue, carrying the familiar metallic taste of blood. More of the substance was welling inside his mouth, but he couldn’t cough it out: His lungs had turned to lead somewhere in the crash, another beautiful tenet of the physics-defying event that is a car crash.</div>
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Beeps. Screeches. Those motorists couldn’t keep it down, could they? Blasted kids.</div>
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Kids...</div>
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The Doolittle family, gathered in a living room. Mary and Amanda smiling their gap-toothed smiles. Beautiful Mrs. Lucy Doolittle, huddling in her husband’s warm embrace. Two years past that photo had been taken by a visiting cousin; two years past, the Doolittles had been as functional a family as any on Earth.</div>
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To the mind of a human male nearly drowning in beer, an attractive lady is worth the cost of breaking apart a family.</div>
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Accusations after he came home late. Increased tension in the relationship with his wife. His beautiful little girls, just a few months ago, asking if they would ever have a baby brother. <em>No, </em>he had told them; <em>your mommy and daddy are too old for that sort of thing, okay?</em></div>
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Except, he hadn’t really thought that. He just said it because there was no way Lucy would have another kid with him.</div>
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When he was drunk, though, he could pretend other ladies would.</div>
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Mr. Doolittle announcing one day he was leaving on a business trip. Mrs. Doolittle eyeing him with suspicion even as she hugged him, kissed him, and said goodbye. It was all for the kids’ benefit, she told him later on the phone when he called; she knew what he was doing and planned to file for a divorce.</div>
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Screaming and shouting. The <em>click </em>of a phone hanging up, cutting free a dead limb from the Doolittle family tree.</div>
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(Blasted kids; who did they think they were fooling with that siren?)</div>
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More alcohol. Not enough women, though, and Doolittle grumbled about it. He left the bar early.</div>
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He had been driving a little fast, come to think of it. Road rage wasn’t smart. Maybe he could...</div>
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...what?</div>
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Well, die.</div>
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Oh well. Dying wasn’t that bad. He’d set his priorities in order afterward if he got the chance.</div>
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By Nick/Zarayna:</div>
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<span style="color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">To serve the King</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">His mace smashed onto the shoulder of yet another enemy, and he smashed his shield into the shocked warrior’s face. The killing blow from his mace came a second later. Raymond paused his fighting, breathing hard. His mail was heavy on his shoulders, and his helm was cast back from his head, exposing shoulder length grey hair. The scene of battle was one of many defiles in the rocky field, a little battlefield in itself, hidden from the rest of the fighting in view, though not in sound. The few remaining foes were retreating, leaving his company to regroup and assess their hurts. His eyes flicked across the ground, noting the mixture of bodies: many were Saracens, but among them were all too common the forms of his own men. Looking at his remaining soldiers, he knew that he could hardly withstand another attack. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">He frowned as he tried to set his mind on a course of action. Defending this area had not been his plan, but had been forced on him. He should not be here. His men might be, but the king had use of him elsewhere, and he knew that a king’s uses for a man went far above the man’s own. When the king wished, you obeyed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">A shout from a hastily appointed lookout alerted him, forcing his hand: battle would soon be joined. He looked around at his men: the eight remaining knights, ranging from freshfaced knights hardly out of the bath to grizzled warriors he had known most his life. The men at arms were not ignored either: he knew some, but not others. Crusaders of varying sorts: perhaps this crossbowman who looked askance at him was only a humble farmer, or maybe he was a wealthy merchant setting everything aside to take up the cross. His soldiers were people, and to recall this made him squirm with what he was about to do.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">“We hold here. Defend this until our last breath.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">His men were heartened by his command, but he could not even look them in the eye. Not when battle was joined. Not when he broke away, catching a stray horse and galloping off towards the king’s position. Not when, long after the battle, he saw their bodies lined up in the place they had fallen defending, to their last breath has he had commanded.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #282828; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">The king came first, everything else was second.</span></span></div>
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Veloxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13941627512446797578noreply@blogger.com0