Couch Potato
By Angel Callahan

While being unemployed, I think I have found my purpose in life, my passion, my one true love (other than my refrigerator). Most of you would call it the Couch Potato Syndrome. Call it what you will. I call it the always-entertained, always-informed Lair of Angel.

I have all the things I love in my little haven. Digital TV, remote in one hand, laptop in the other. I am entertained and informed in my room. Why leave? Delivery food is the best but now and again, I do venture out to get the foods that best compliment my shows. Gummi Worms for “Meerkat Manor,” bananas for “Orangutan Island,” you get the picture.

My life is great. I’m always the first to know of a national tragedy. If the color goes from orange to red-orange, you can bet I’m the first to know. Two strokes of my laptop and I know if the alert was simply a hoax or to take shelter.

You know that most of the people who fall under this “couch potato” category sit on a couch with a remote control eating a bag of chips (this is my theory of where the “potato” in “couch potato” came from). But not me! I believe that I have taken this lifestyle to a new, more productive, creative level. Call me revolutionary, or a visionary of sorts, but I believe that if the couch potatoes of today follow my example, we could rid society of the stereotype they have fallen victim to. It would be a politically correct ethnic cleansing of sorts.

Now, the CP is notorious for sitting in their mom’s living room or basement. I believe we have to move this trend up a bit. Set higher goals. For example, I moved upstairs in my parents’ house. Believe it or not, this is an important strategy. As an adult living at home with his/her parents, the goal is to be disturbed as little as possible and the parents of adults are less likely to climb stairs. I think this has something to do with arthritis but I also heard rumors that they are deathly afraid of breaking hips. I have not looked into this further.

Once you have your secluded area, the goal is to have everything you need so you need to leave as little as possible. Just to give you a visual here of the type of space you’re going for, think hi-def bachelor pad/loft. More New York loft in size (I’m talking about your first apartment in New York with four roommates, not a Tribeca loft). Anything over 10’ x 12’ is good. Mine is actually 14’ x 18’ but I sleep in my area. Refer back to the principle of leaving as little as a possible.

Now if your bed is comfy enough, you can rid yourself of that couch scenario all together. My bed doubles as a sitting area in an Indian-Guru Style. You know those fluffy mattress toppers that make your bed soft as a cloud? I have three. One on top of the other. A minimum of ten down pillows is a must to convert your sleeping area to sitting. Ten pillows gives you unlimited arranging. Pile them behind you to sit straight up with one under your arm for an armrest. There’s another piling system that allows you to be half-up and half-down, another to prop up on one side on your elbow. As you can see, the variations are endless. I’m considering a coffee table book with pictures of all the different positions.

I chose a Queen-size bed due to space needed for my laptop and office necessities needed for…well, I don’t know really what for but there are scissors (mostly for opening food), pens, highlighters, sticky notes, stationery (doesn’t everybody e-mail?). You get the picture––my miniature office. I actually refer to my laptop as my “partner” mostly because he gets the other half of my bed along with the office supplies.

The absolute most important part of this room/area, as any ex-CP would argue, is the TV. It is imperative that the TV (HD, flat screen) can be seen from all parts of the bed/office area. Technology is important in my Lair. Without it what would it be? A room. So, along with the TV there must also be the DVD player, the VHS just in case, and the all important DVR.

All remotes reside on my side of the bed/office/working area. I keep a small table beside my bed. Some would call it a nightstand but I call it my drafting table. Now here’s where my situation with my partner is different from all the others. My partner gives me complete control of the remote control. Most partners fight over the remote but my partner’s cool about it. I don’t tell most people this but he could (he doesn’t) dial into the network from his server (he doesn’t) and over-ride my channel selection at anytime––but he doesn’t.

So see, these few changes have taken me from a slacker to an almost renter with a working partner and office space. I’m no longer a CP. And with a few small changes, you can be off the couch and into a sleek, modern, information highway cruising pad above your parents. Don’t let anyone call you a Couch Potato again. And who knows, the CP’s of today could be tomorrow’s Silicon Valley. Bill Gates was probably living with his mom when he created Microsoft.

This short story can also be viewed on the website:
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The exact link is below:
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Jack stood up and looked around. He was surrounded on all sides by a pleasant green meadow. The grass was freshly cut but still swayed slightly with the breeze. This was the place he thought. Jack unzipped his pants and began to masturbate ecstatically. He pumped as hard as he could, jerking with passionate fury at his hunk of meat. It was bigger than most dicks in the world a staggering ten inches. But this was not the point. Jack imagined Casey back in his apartment sucking him off. Ever since she had broken his heart he had been searching for the perfect place to finish himself off. Jack seemed to have conqueror his quest as now he was filled with a serene peace in all essences of his mind. He had one objective to complete and that was to spew his load. With his mind on Casey jack beat his meat like he was 14 years old and discovering it for the first time. He had never been engrossed in such ecstasy. Every pump brought him such immense pleasure that Jack wanted to fall to his knees. Somehow he remained on his feet and after what seemed like an eternity of endless ecstasy Jack was overcome with the most pleasure filled experience, for a moment Jack experienced Nirvana. The feeling was so intense that he succumbed to his knees as white hot juice sprayed out onto the fresh cut green grass. The semen tickled the grass and started to weigh a few blades down. Jack was on his ass now in a spread eagle sitting position. He looked down at the semen and was impressed at how much had come out.
“Not once when we fucked had that much come out” he stammered out loud still overcome with the emotions of masturbation.
“fucking bitch” he added.
Jack stood up and pulled up his faded grey slim jeans. He fastened his ornate studded belt with a skull for a buckle.
“Man that felt fucking great” he stated
Jack sauntered through the green grass meadow back towards the path he had ventured off. After about 500 meters he reached it and began to hike back to his Honda Fit. It took 20 minutes to get back to his car and by that time the smile was erased from his face. He unlocked the car and swung his legs in jamming his ITouch into the dock to jam to some Atreyu. Starting the car he twisted the volume dial up to max. The music flooded the car drowning Jack in a sort of anger filled bliss. He began to violently slam onto the steering wheel overcome by the music. He trashed his straight black hair back and forth like a demon. Suddenly he caught himself and put the car into reverse and jammed the acceleration. He pulled back from his parking spot and into the middle of the gravel parking lot. He looked around one more time and back at the path he had come out of.
“fucking bitch” he yelled again. Although he did no t hear his own voice over the music.
He slammed the car into Drive and jolted out of the parking lot and onto the desolate Western Washington road. His eyes feasted on the ornate beauty of the forest around him. Wet and dripping moss sagged from the great brown giants, whose arms reached across the road as if to create an arch. As far as his eyes could see was a dark green beauty on all sides of the road. Speeding down the road Jack could not help at feeling a sense of peace as his Alternative Rock blasted out his ear drums. He was so encapsulated by this feeling that he drifted his eyes closed. He was brought a vision of his ex Casey and her sweet smile. He imagined brushing her platinum blonde hair back behind her ears and staring into her deep blue eyes. Suddenly a flame came over the image and Jack jerked his eyes open. There was a large Deer standing in the middle of the road staring at him. Jack had no time to react and slammed full force into the deer. Unfortunately Jack was not a fan of seat belts and the force of the 500 pound deer flung him through the glass windshield. Fear did not overtake him as he was lifted through the air, not even when the asphalt came up to meet his skull. He accepted the dark foreboding feeling of death without struggle. Jack died on impact on that desolate forest road. The brown giants still reached overhead, now they appeared to be creating the roof to Jack’s tomb.

Edited by author 09-25-2009 03:37 AM
(ELEMENT KING) lee.spencer@yahoo.com Fantasy/Fiction in the works

Rayiko Shima use to be a regular 9th grade student attending Sacratomei junior high, one day Rayiko comes across a peculiar bracelet, planning on giving the bracelet to his mother as a gift, a bunch of mysterious men in black chases after him, but suddenly a young man saves Rayiko, and leaves before Ray could say thank you. To his surprise the bracelet magically has appeared on his wrist, and he can’t take it off. The gift he wanted to give his mother is stuck to his wrist, during that same day he encounters a weird woman that warns him about that bracelet, Rayiko decides to run away from the weird lady and go home. That night he trys to struggle to take off the bracelet, something weird instantly happened he becomes the flame God Burgus burning his sheets. After that he changes back, and decides he should go to bed since he got in so late. But what Rayiko doesn’t know, he has more in store in the future with the bracelet and those men in black.

Rayiko Shima. Age14. SG: Tamaruku the sage frog

 Rayiko is a pretty honest 9th grader living with his widowed mother, Rayiko comes from a poor household but him and his mother are proud people, and appreciate everything they have. One day Rayiko’s gift to his mother gets stuck to his wrist, a odd bracelet that gives Rayiko the ability to become the four elemental gods, this changes everything for Ray, for he is introduce to a new world. Full of weird creatures called soul guides and dark guides, and a shadowy group after that Bracelet that Ray holds.



Soul Guides and Dark Guides: Soul guides are clean souls in shape of certain creatures, Dark guides are like soul guides but evil attacking innocent humans, most of these dark souls are the cause of these so called terrorist attacks. Soul and dark guides are all bounded to their owner which are humans, they simply guide them and protect them, only few around the world are able to see their guide, those who cannot, well you ever heard the term “my conscious must be talking.” The shadowy Group have all harnessed their Dark guide each of them have powerful guides.



FOUR ELEMENTAL GODZ Stats are 1-100

               



These are four of Rayikos elemental forms; they each have their own strength and weaknesses. Also their own soul guides. Burus The Flame, Cura Of Aqua, Ion Of Earth, Evalis The Wind, and a unknown form, but powerful








Gamma ???. Age???(Looks21) SG, Omni The Rabbit General

 Gamma is the weird woman according to Ray who he meets during that bad day of his, who seems to know a lot about Rayikos situation. She works for a secrete group or agency that battle the shadowy group protecting people from dark guides. Right now Gamma has disguised herself as a teacher at Sacratomei middle, she seems to go by the alias Mrs.Santaku. all the horny middle schoolers drool over her. But her true mission is watch over Rayiko and keep the shadow group hands off that bracelet.
===================================

Advent ??? Age,19 SG, Neo The Two wing Nymph

 The young Advent. He’s also part of the same agency as Gamma. Advent at first seems like just your average young careless punk, but he’s actually a strong young careless punk. Advent hates his job, and acts lazy at times, but when it comes to action and fighting the shadow agency it’s a whole different story. Advent has a powerful soul guide. His soul guide and his hair are multi colored like the ying and yang sign. For they had a pretty bad past, advent has once embraced the dark side a long time ago.
===============================================

Keri Sanada. Age, 17

 Keri Sanada is very beautiful and is Rayikos crush, but he is afraid to speak to her since shes a 3rd year in highschool, also she comes from a rich family.
=====================================
Ren Masada, Age14. SG, Tetsumi The Night Wolf, and Li,ith The Dragon

 The new kid at Sacrotomei. Ren is immediately picked on and is called the freak kid. Ren has twoDark soul guides, and every time he comes close to killing a bully with his Guide, he is interrupted, but when he meets Ray he is kind of happy that he isn’t the only one that can see guides. After befriending Ray, Ray influences him to use his guide for good, protecting others from evil . Ren has hidden power and is grandson to one of the Shadow Agents in the counsel who also has two guides to which would explain his power and his two guides as well.
===================================
DT. Yarobi, Age, 42. SG Tetsmonoro the squirrel

 The ace detective Yarobi. Yarobi is interested in Rayikos power, and investigates the boy and his power.

===================================

Roken Ogawa, Age,15 SG, Dark Elf Nimrook


 Roken is captain of the Sacratomei middle school fighting team, also one of the best in all the sports at sacratomei, Roken is a jerk and lead head, but in some sort he’s kind of Rays friend, Roken doesn’t see Guides but he’ll gain the ability to see his. But Roken is actually a little like Ray, Roken comes from a poor house hold as well where he takes care of his mother and little brother, Roken is working hard in school actually he isn’t dim witted on purpose, he’s tryna become stronger to protect his family.
=================================== Tei Hajiko, Age, 14 SG, The light goat
 Tei Hajiko is the most popular student in Sacratomei Middle, he can get any girl he wants. But something weird happens to Tei, he sees these weird goat creatures, eventually after finding out that Ray sees the same thing, Tei is given answers he probably wont be able to handle. Soon enough Tei becomes a friend to Ray, helping him battle evil guides and learning of the shadow group.
==================================

Fuya Oasaya, Age14,
            Fuya pesters Rayiko at times, and is very loud, nosy and obnoxious and she’s actually Rays friend, she was his first friend actually ever since they were young and he was new, She’s probably his closet friend. Fuya can get in a lot of trouble since she takes no crap from no one, also means getting Ray beat up.




 THE SHADOW AGENCY

Admis ??? Age? SG, Mantor The Great Gargoyle

 Once a regular high school student, Admis soon enough became lost in the darkness, along with his once pure soul guide. Admis moved up fast in rank, becoming a shadow general under Seiden, he hopes to make it on the shadow counsel one day
=======================================
                                                  Merlith ??? Age? SG, Impa Of The Neither World She’s under Seiden, and is very loyal to him also Admis, only because she’s fond of Admis, but she knows their love can never be embrace since they’re under this dark faction. Merlith guide seems puny and small, but its transformation is formidable, for it becomes the true Impa Of The Neither World.

======================================
Sake ??? Age? SG Fuma

 : A silent dark type, Sake is queit and quick, he’s part of Seidens group along with Hitada. Hitada is very power, stronger than the other 2, Merlith and Hitada, his true form is devastating, almost close to Admis power.

=======================================

Hitada ??? Age? SG, Devil Henna

  A formidable warrior, who loves a good fight. Hitada only joined the shadows because he was looking for a thrill and someone powerful, Hitada is very powerful hisself, and is legend for killing many soul guides and their owner.
=======================================
Shadow Lord Seiden, Age? SG, Megis The Sun Demon

 One of lords of the shadows. Seiden is very young, but his powers exceeds many, just Rayikos bracelet Seiden carries a ancient artifact of his own, but it’s a necklace. The shadow counsel assigned him and his squad to retrieve that bracelet Ray holds.

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West Colfax by Joseph Haag

----------------------------------------------------------- --------------------

George Eillers walked along the sunset road, brick dust smog mingling with barbecue smoke on the west colfax sidewalk. Two boys called him from across the fence, his mother's kimchi and rice steaming the apartment window, wind drip cello behind the glass. George walked along, back weighed down by his schoolbooks like a wing-clipped dove.
Jessica stopped George when he crossed her stoop, flashing her crooked smile teeth, gold templed gentlemen gleaming through barbed wire braces, her hip loose, strawberry blonde locks, freckled cheeks. Her arm was broken, wrist bound with cloth, too much fun, out with the boys, older boys they were. She was raunchy, grungey, exuding sick fumes like an animal, strawberry blonde locks covering freckled cheeks.
"Do you want to know a secret?"
"What?"
"Come closer"
George ducked his head, sailing through the brick dust smog, swooping like a hawk.
"What?"
"Come closer."
George anticipated her slime drip tongue, her cold barbed wire braces, her honey drip saliva
She pulled his ear
Laughter
George backed away, ready to leave.
"Fine! I'm bored anyway."
George walked along the sunset road, brick dust smog mingling with barbecue smoke on the West Colfax sidewalk, the impaled organ flesh sizzling on the flame, decapitated by 32 gold tempeled smiling gentlemen, the boy next door.
When George arrived home, his mother's kimchi and rice steam frothed the apartment window. She stirred the pot, the bowl, the pan. George nibbled in silence.
When morning dawned and let her long blonde eyes open through the terraced, pendulating slits of George's window, he arose and brushed. He walked along the road, passed Jessica's stoop. Exchange of words, she planted her sticker seed kiss deep on his lips, pierced that fecundated ground, pollinated the tissue. Jessica kissed him
George wandered through the brick dust smog, heart racing. The girl next door, Kristie, eyed him. Tear strewn voice, cries, jumped out of the passanger seat. Warnings, Jessica's dangerous, she'll break your heart, she'll hurt you, I told her today, I said, If you heart George I'll kill you, she always does this, she always plays it sweet and when she gets the guy to fall, she breaks his heart. I told her, if you hurt George, I'll kill you
tears
she cried
George didn't listen. He smiled a little smile, hugged Kristie. Oh yes, I'll stay away from her
George didn't care. When he arrived home, his mother's kimchi and rice steam smogged the apartment, she stirred the pot. The telephone called out. George answered. Jessica spoke, strawberry blonde curls over her freckled cheeks.
"George, I have something to confess."
"I'm listening"
"Well, I know that we're going together. But see, the same day we started, my friend Roger asked me out. And just to be nice, I promise you that's why, I said yes. So technically I am cheating on you"
George didn't care.
"But I really do want to be with you... I'll call him tonight and tell him it's over"
George hung up. Her honey drip saliva tongue, animal in the barbed wire brace cage, called to him over the brick dust smog, the disortotions over the cityscape. George lay down, fell asleep.
When morning came, George woke again. He walked along the road, Kristie cried. Let me guess, she'd love to be with you, but first she needs to break it off with another man. You think he's the only one? I told her, if you hurt George I'll kill you
George walked along the sunset road, hurried to the bus stop, hopped 16.

Creation
 
Seth walked into the forest that surrounds his house."Bandit," he called looking for his dog that had escaped the night before. He turned when he heard a howl. He walked to where he had heard the howl come from. In the clearing stood a wolf with his leg caught in a bear trap.
 The wolf's pelt was pitch black and its eyes were as black and cold as the darkest night. It whimpered and howled in pain trying to lick its wounded leg. It looked at Seth and then looked at its leg and back again. Seth rushed over to help the wolf out of the trap; as he tried to pry it open it cut his hands open and the wolf’s blood entered the cut. Finally it gave way and the wolf was freed.
 The wolf turned around and looked at Seth and dipped its head as if it was saying thank you then it raised its head up high and howled to the heavens. The wolf turned and limped back into the forest.
 Later that night Seth dreamt of the dark wolf.
 "Thank you for saving me Seth", the wolf said.
 "How do you know my name?" Seth asked.
 "We share the same blood now, Seth. I know your name so it is only fair you know mine I am Lyc" The wolf said.
 Seth screamed out in pain. "What’s happening to me?" Seth screamed.
 "You are becoming a Lycan. You humans often refer to them as werewolves.” Lyc said.
“But I wasn’t bit or scratched by a werewolf” Seth said in an agony filled voice.
  “Unlike your myths and legends true, supreme Lycans are created by wolves while the lesser are born or created from other Lycans." Lyc said. "Good bye Seth. May we walk together in the world of dreams again someday", Lyc then vanished in a ball of light.

 Seth continued to scream out in pain. It was as if his skin was being ripped apart from the inside. His muscle grew, bone structure changed, teeth turned to fangs, hands turned to claws and he grew fur. Also his eyes turned as black and cold as Lyc's.
I am a Lycan. He thought. He raised his head and howled to the heaven just as Lyc had done after being freed. Overnight Seth went from being a small, unextrordinary, seven year old boy to a large and powerful Lycan.

"You will meet a girl named Jessica; together you will change the world." an omnioustent voice bellowed.

Bleed by Andariel

                                Bleed

 "Mary!" a voice called. "What do you think your doing?"
 "Leaving; I am tired of all your anger and hate, this is no place to raise our child" Mary yelled. She was 8 months pregnant.
 "Mary, you better get your ass back here you ungrateful bitch" the man yelled.
 Mary got into her car and drove away. She kept driving till night then her car broke down. This is where the beginning of the end started........ She went in to labor, but something was going wrong there was blood and allot of it. She got out of the car and started screaming for help.
 "HELP ME" She screamed. She looked around and noticed that there were no houses that she could see and no cars coming. She was starting to lose hope, and then she saw a group of people dressed in black walking towards her. "Help......." she gasped.
 One of the men in the group walked up to Mary and said. "We can save your child but you will die"
 "I don't care just save my baby." Mary managed to say.
 "She will grow up in a world that is far more different than the one you know." the man said.
 "She........It's a girl........Please just save her... save Jessica...." Mary said hope entering her distraught voice.
 "Very well then." the man said. Vampiric fangs grew from his mouth and he went towards her neck; at the sight of them Mary fainted.
 Mary awoke in the middle of a forest. She noticed a shadowy figure and started to move towards it. "Who are you?" she asked it. "And where am I?"
 "I am Lyc and you are walking with me in the World of Dreams." The figure said still not moving.
 "Your a wolf!" She said as she moved closer to it.
 Yes I am. I am here to tell you that your daughter will be raised as a vampire and one day she will meet a Lycan. Together they will lead a Clan of Lycans and Vampires, to bring peace to this chaotic world." Lyc paused. "Now it is time for you to die."
 Mary's body started to glow and she was lifted into the air, then she vanished.
 In the real world.....
 "Is it done Caine?" a woman from the group asked.
 "Yes. We should leave the smell of her blood will bring unwanted attention" Caine said as he looked down at Mary's bloody body.
 "What will the girls name be?" the woman asked.
 "You heard the woman...... This girl's name will be Jessica"
 
"Seth"

KZ7vQP

Four Letters by Cpk

My philosophy is a simple matter. I believe that pain is a mere affliction pressed upon society to distract one from the true course of events unfolding. No age, no size, no beauty, no gender, no race can elude pain. Pain is always felt, always has been, and always will be; inevitable. It sticks to one like glue would stick to one. Or preferably scotch tape for those liberals.

But there are downs to the beauty of pain. It may be no more than a four letter word, but it’s the most potent four letter word I’ve ever experienced. It has power and majesty. It brings nations to their knees, seeking vendetta. It makes the call for blood ever so ample. It makes me who I am… a cutter.

I cut. People see me as some person would look at some monster, or how some monster would look at some person. One may inquire why I cut… Don’t we all wonder? But all I can supply one with is another four letter word… L. O. V. E.

Its prodigious power could even quarrel pain. That is, if there is certainty that the love that one receives is sinuous and unbroken. But when eradicated and screwed with, the love river is vaporized, leaving endless fields of thorns and graves to rape the soul with depression and agony. Gray skies melt beauty and all rolls down poppy flowers. Drugs become necessities and blades become friends, friends become blades.

My apprehensive self gave me my first cut, my first scar. But the fault was all on Joey, another four letter word. No shocker there. He was the romance to my life, the peanut to my butter; my only long term association.
I met him through band, or technically called regiment. Regiment endowed me with pleasant memories and an escape from life at home; therefore any getaway or easy path out of my home gave me clear and instant satisfaction. Band was chill. I could show up to practice blue bellied and no one would torment me. This was incredibly enjoyable. I could be who I wanted to be without being hindered. However, the downfall to regiment was that obligatory practices were held every Tuesday night from four in the evening to ten at night. These practices were copious and forced me to pick up an instrument and play it well. Although they let me have my instrument of choice, being trumpet, this concept didn’t toot my horn; the stress of it was hard to swallow. But a man changed my mind. This man made all burdens and endeavors worthwhile.

This man’s name was Joey. He was rather average, but one thing set him apart from anything that God blew breath into. His eyes; they were like two brown, circular disks with black dots in the middle. They created a reason for my place in the regiment. They made me insane. My body thirsted for more of his appeal and wit. His charisma was sensed from afar. I was winded at sight of him, making his lust and bod a craving. His eyes guided the blade to my wrist.

But a problem arose from the midst of deep compassion, my gender. A black monster developed rapidly, feeding off of my emotions... I was a guy, and he was a guy. In my city, relationships beyond the touch of a man and woman were forbidden. Those who were open to the public with their affairs were highly regarded as insane. Some figured that their mind had been tampered with by demons, forcing them to love their same gender. There was no respect for gays.

I had no clue what my sexuality was. I mean, after all, I had always wanted to experiment upon a man’s lips. Kiss, hug, and hold hands. But yet I could say the same for girls. My confusion guided the blade to my wrist.

He was straight… (From my knowledge). After all, he dated the other girl I had liked. Two absolutely gorgeous people together left me bare. From their break- up, I saw opportunity. When I asked her out, she replied with words I thought I would never hear. Not only was it a no, but she was also sexually confused. She was focused on women more. From this I made a friend other than my blade, I met Morgan. Although Morgan was nice to me, I could always tell that something lied behind her security blanket: a storm, a fiend, something ugly is for sure.

Experiencing all this made my heart quirk and to the point of un-functional. It made me grasp intense thoughts of approaching Joey, leaving him in a twisted love spiral. Peevish fantasies aroused in my brain every day. Not one day would pass that my passion for him was barren dry. I would be the lion and he would surrender to my paw. I also had other fantasies. Once I dreamt a royal bow that had the ability to call forth Cupid. With a dangerous weapon like Cupid, I could aim and fire a golden arrow, targeted at Joey’s ass. My ludicrous ideas were absolutely outrageous and sometimes humorous.

I brainwashed myself…The best thing I could do was to wait; a true trial from the Goddess of Time. Every day I would sit on my perch and wait, delaying any actions of exchange. For three months I waited. Nothing…
No form of social interaction.
Nothing…
We had no conversation, never. It was all fictional and imaginary. I was going crazy.

The obsession with him was unremitting. I would begin to keep track of his scent, his clothing, his friends, his words. I was his stalker. Every day he slowly grew on me more and more, building. It was as if he was like a colony of E. Coli, and I was room-temperature beef.

One night things changed. There was a fire down in the hills of a nearby town. A preposterous wall of flames blazed the countryside. Even with discourse such as this, the strict itinerary of the regiment drove me to practice despite evident health hazards.

This night was unique. The air seemed thinner than usual. It led to many questions, concerns, comments, the whole. Practice rattled all of our heads. Not a soul was prepared for the inexorable maltreatment of the instructors to the regiment. They worked us like the thighs of fat people jiggling in hardcore aerobics. Sweat could drown our stadium. It seemed that every part of my body had been sweating impractical amounts.

For a while, I thought I was going to expire from exhaustion. I was drenched in sweat. I leered across the field during break (our only break) when my eyes met Joey’s. Life replenished in my body, my thirst and hunger were no longer it seemed. From my fatigue I questioned if my vision misled me to see a mirage. ‘It couldn’t have,’ myself repeated over and over.

Adrenaline caressed my veins, constricting and releasing pulses of energy. Joey broke our stare and approached me when I was caught drowned in a daze. With all that in mind, I heard his voice, directed at me for the first time.

“Hey, Daniel. How were you doing that lunge at the eight count halt?”

An angel’s chorus rejoiced. His voice was gentle, and loose; tranquil. It was like heaven flowing endlessly from his vocal chords. His eyes… His eyes fueled me. They gave me pleasure in every second that I looked at him.

Dumbfounded… I was as perplexed as a hacker who gained access to the wrong item. Thoughts of amazement strung through my mind. I was fascinated by his ability to learn my name with such agility. I hadn’t said a word to him prior to that night, but yet he knew my name. He knew what I was called. He knew who I was.

I began to inquire on everything that I’ve even seen him do. Did he ever stare at me when I wasn’t looking at him? How did he know? How long did he know? Why me out of anyone?

My response was even more repulsive than I opted for. In a voice as if I was regurgitating a hairball, fresh from my mouth, I said, “Umm, woa. Well uh… Hey! I’ll show you!” I lunged out exactly how my drill instructors taught me. I formed right angles with my thighs. I questioned my conscience how he got along without knowing how to lunge for so long in this season. But then I realized his intensions. He had wanted to either test me or talk to me. Either or was amazing. He spoke… Not only did he speak, but he spoke to me, to me, to me…

My actions were rudely interrupted by the loud sounding of the microphone, blaring in the distance. It informed us that practice was over. We were free to escape; free.



My reality became blinded. I feared; I feared everything. I feared that another moment such as that night would never occur again. What if he found out that I liked him so much? Would he stop talking to me? Fear was the new threat that shot through my body. Everything shuttered before me. I could see light long enough to assess the dark room that I was trapped in, but as soon as I found a way out, the light dimmed and I had to restart with another dark room; a new beginning.

I blame band. Band was the culprit. Although it nourished me under its wing and provided the happiest point in my life, it was the only four letter word in existence that tormented my pale hands with more agony. From that night on I could only get discouraged. Joey programmed my mind to think about him, only him, always. ‘I would have to approach him again,’ I deliberated.

The blade felt its first skin that night. Nervous of the outcome of the cut, I cut slowly, horizontally, blissfully. The blade glided across my coarse skin, tearing at the flesh upon my arm. Blood oozed out of the cavity, slowly coagulating and crusting on the surface. My body was not prepared for the impact, the indent. As a reaction, it sent a rush of adrenaline; a skyrocketing delight. In that one minute time frame, all pain, all thoughts, all sanity, all existence, diminished. My world was enveloped with blood. My focus was centered only on how the skin on my wrist had been divided by the weapon in my hand, devoured by the blade. This is why I cut; this is why I will continue to cut.

To be continued…..

Perhaps it was the underlying venom that caused their hearts to momentarily remit with such pain, then subsequently harden in an enclosed shell, impenetrable to the unforgiving, harsh cruel world that had spawned and moulded their existence. . Perhaps it was this venom that tipped the scale of their hearts and so turned them. Infecting their brains with paralysis of reason, the same malignant force , that so devoids racists from reality and empathy. The serpent spoke with such audacity and plain conviction that the occupants of the taxi did not know how to react, “ what do you mean WE ? ” , he spoke with the same hatred and blind ignorance that erected the Berlin Wall, that induced genocide , murder , rape and pillage. That had caused so much grief and had fuelled so much hatred, that had been the philosophical inspiration that misery had built upon for as long as man could remember his past. Discrimination , intolerance , oppression. Theese words have contributed nothing to man throughout the vicissitudes of time , bar negativity and loss, leaving him in a worse state than he was found. Try telling that to a Glasgow cabbie as he alienates two young asian youths in the back of his cab. He also expects a tip as he holds out his hand at the of end of what the occupants would understate as an uncomfortable journey to say the least.

The young asian youth, kindley obliges by leaning forward with a strange uncomforting smile on his face, he looks the cabbie right in the eye, then leans forward tilting his head forward slightly, he opens his mouth simultaneously summoning a strange sound and then proceeds to spit in the cabbies hand, a great big dirty one ! “Not bad” He remarks to himself in a modest self critical tone.. “You dirty Paki bastard”, the cabbie exclaims with a look of combined disgust and contempt, his surprise and confusion of emotions and how to react next are exacerbated when the other occupant of the vehicle , slumps back down into his seat. The cabbie’s last glimpse is a picture of himself with a slit throat, a dark and light red mess across his neck and growing ever larger with blood erupting everywhere.

“Well that’s what the rascist Bastard get’s eh”, one of the youth’s says . “Aye that’s what the cunt gets for murdering my brother. , That’s what he gets for abducting him on his way home from school, that’s what he gets for being the fucking skinhead bastard who’s been tormenting my family for the past ten years, and that’s the cunt I’m going to spend the next 20 years for, contemplating and savouring the cold sweet dish of revenge. His speech turns to thoughts. His existence unsuccessfully tries to grasp reason and mortality, the concept of time and the minefield of morality. But true to his words all he can do is record with glee for the next twenty five years, how he got revenge of the person who abducted and killed his little brother …..

By h Mali.k

comment please!!

Your deep breath entrances me, your eyes closed, ignoring the beckoning of the world’s vivacious cries.

A peaceful energy surrounds you; it is in fact your soul, your aura, a passion so large that comprehension is only something to dwell upon for it has almost no chance in happening.

My hands, dry and burned, run across your body, trying to feel something real, something that will make me realize the intentions of life and love and what it is defined as—a purpose perhaps, a calling, or possibly a pursuit.

Inching onto your body, I tug softly at your hair, sliding back your head and whisper for you to arise, a warm breath sweeping past your ears.

I can only hope that you’ll hear me or at the very least feel my pressure upon your mass—is that too much to ask for?

And yet, you give me no sign of recognition, not a mummer nor a blink nor a smile, the same soft upturn of the lips that made me melt all those times before, the only feeling that proved my sanity—the reality of my mind.

Where have you gone? Your shell lays out before me, soaking the rays of the sweet sun and capturing the moon’s glowing shadows, but your inner being has vanished out of mind, out of sight.

I can no longer see; you have taken the ability away, along with the sensitivity of touch, of feel, a simple human sensation that you have stolen from me.

Curse you and your peacefulness—I wished only good things while you were away, but away you have been for too long. Now, resentment has soured my thoughts and I dare say, numbness will soon follow.

Please—I beg you, my love, return to my heart, fill your cocoon, the shell in which you have escaped from.

Edited by author 03-25-2009 01:12 AM
                      
Dark Encounter

I am a cop. I am the law. I am a saviour of human rights. But today, today I feel like I am no one. Listen carefully to what I have to say because, this is the story of Him, of me.

It was a beautiful Wednesday morning; people in the metro were hastily walking towards their destination. I always observe them, wondering what they are thinking about. If you look close enough, you can see that they all have the same look; you know the one that people have in the morning before they get to work. These sad faces that pretend to read the newspaper because of their loneliness and, as time passes, they wake up to wonder how they got there so fast. I can’t reckon a time in my life where people I knew where happy about their accomplishments. Life is a long trip; you are always waiting to get to a better destination, but in the end, it is the journey which is beautiful. Some say the rain doesn’t fall long enough; sadly, I think so myself. I always do a bit of thinking before I begin my routine; it helps me forget why I am here doing this job.

I took a last sip of my coffee and threw it in the green garbage can near me, and then, I made my way through the crowd to get a glimpse at everything and everyone. My job consists of protecting people; usually from themselves. We don’t want any accident today. As I walked near the metro lane, I hear thundering screams echoing beside me.
Officer! said the woman close to me. There He was, standing near the edge ready to jump, my worst nightmare; the one thing that keeps me up at night. This is it I said to myself, time to prove to others that you are still worth something.

-Why are you doing this Mr? said I nervously.

-Oh you know why officer! He said grinning. Can’t you see all around you!

-Wha… What are you talking about?
- I am tired of all this, all these people pretending to be something while they are not, this world is falling apart, don’t you see? What do I have that is different from others? I can’t stand them smiling at each others like hypocrites and talking about there brainless reality shows when millions of people are dying and crying for our help. But no! We, little citizens adore comfort. Whatever the price some have to pay, we don’t care: as long as it’s not me. Now, give me one reason why I shouldn’t ascend to hell right now! What difference does it makes if I jump, other then slowing the stressed life of some dumb frogs.

I noticed he was shaking.

-A big one! Each human has some good inside of himself. See yourself as a flame in the dark, as a light in the horizon that can’t or shouldn’t be put out. It’s hard… I know. You are currently facing troubled times where hope isn’t just necessary, it’s the meaning of your life. I’m not asking you not to jump; I’m begging you.

-Think about it for Christ sake! He shouted. Even if a little hope floats in me, I feel like I can’t grab it. As if my arms where to short to grasp on this magnificent ideal.

-Don’t worry, a new day will dawn where the wind blows in your ear, whispering you what to do. However, you must be patient for that day to appear and you must find that patience in the hope you carry.

-Wrong. I’m tired of being useless!

A strange feeling grew deep within me. Who was He? I began to hear the sound of darkness echoing from the tunnel; it was coming. But then, his words stroke me like God’s voice. It finally made sense. My hands where trembling. Officer! cried the woman desperately. Truth came closer and closer and closer...

           Icem

Ps: Please... oh please comment. Iannacci8@hotmail.com

Battle For The Universe
End Of Times
Religious Short Story
Written By Kevin Gravel
Englehart Ontario, Canada


The year is 12012 and the earth's population and habitat are severely dissappearing. The remaining humans are hiding underground and packed plenty of supplies and were able to survive without no problem for about several years. God decided it was time to end evil and kill lucifer so that all universe will never feel and experience evil and feel bad energy. God sent ten million invulnerable super Humans (ISH) to earth to retreive the remaining humans.

But sadly when they arrived to the mountains they seen that the humans were gone. God told them they were captured by satans army and are now returning to earth to fight them. The date is September Friday the 13th and the Earth's final battle we'll be fought and will end all history of mankind. Lucifer plan's is to stay away from God far beneath from hell's realm in his palace, and send all his evil monstorous demons to earth to fight the ISH and with his evil powers enblocked all the humans in a place no human would want to be. The room is small and there is a thousand scary voices screaming and whispering. Each person is alone and must suffer till God or Jesus rescues them.

Satan also made a very powerful shield that god struggled to get through to see his soul, he was safe for now but eventually God will beat the evil and kill Lucifer. God transported his army to a large desert and told them they need to fight and he said you can kill them all, but it will take all your strength and wisdom, it will be difficult but it will be done, once completed I will crush lucifers head and vanish him into the atmosphere.

While the ISH were waiting the sun was blocked off and the earth was dark and the army of the dead was ready to fight then the earth shook and big monsters seventy feet high were rising and demons were running up from under the ground screaming kill "them all!" in dark screaching voices. God gave the soldiers abilities so they basically can do anything you think of. In the sky everything was approaching the earth and hitting the ground hard all sorts of spaceships and millions of demons running at the soldiers. Energy blasts of compressed bombs are flying and destroying the demons making them fly and explode very far away killing them off one by one but the soliders had to use other tactics to eliminate the demons.

The War went on and on night and day. Lucifer was getting scared because God's soldiers were killing his demons to fast to easily But Satan had an idea he rushed out of his hiding spot and quikly blocked space between earth with all his might so that God cannot contact his army. And without God the soldiers quikly become vulnerable so immediately the army of the dead began to kill the humans, God sent his angels to try and expose of the shield and Lucifer had to use all his strength to keep it in place. Satan remained on earth giving his demons his evil powered energy and the humans were praying while fighting. And God finally broke the shield and then angels then flew in fighting all the big demons were running in stomping on the humans but they would get right back up and kill them with energy cananons. Which are big bombs.

Satan then commanded God to come face to face with him and so he did and Lucifer told him " with all these souls in my veins you cannot dispose of me easily i have so much power i bet i destroy you" and God quickly told him loud and shook the sky he said" I invented you, so i can erase you just as easy as i can end this war." Satan then vanished from God's presense. The war continued and the demons were vanishing and for two more weeks the ISH killed all of satans demons. All the Evil soul's returned to hell's realm and were being re-energized and Satan was planning to do something to his army he was a god of darkness so he put his mind to it and he decided to make his army more stronger taking all the evil souls and turning them into demon energy for his army. All hell has no slaves but they have bigger stronger demons to fight the ISH.

The war was to be faught upon a couple of days the ISH were asked to travel NorthEast in swampy lands. They travelled through valleys all day and watched in the sky all the spaceships shooting eachother Angels and Demons. At the end of the night the ISH slept high up in the mountains. with patrol men watching for any intruders. The soldiers woke up and continued they're way to the destination to finally end the war between good and evil.

They arrived and all the demons were waiting their, hunderds and hundreds of acres they were waiting and bigger and fiercer then ever before. The army of dead were equipped with evil probed energy swords and also they're hands were force fields able to throw evil energy. They were no match for the ISH but it will take longer this time for them to end the far. The reason why Satan decided to risk it all is because he knows that God will win because he's simply God. The fight went forth and all hell broke loose and so did God's troops they were blasting them all way with their good probe energy swords. The earth's view from God's view, were cloudy with many colours. Once the war is terminated God plans to flood the earth and destroy earth once that is completed all humanity will be at peace with God in his kingdom.

The war went on for 2 years, evil will not give up on good and God is patient he is getting in lucifer's mind he's making him feel like he's in a dream he's making lucifer feel like a human and that is making lucifer feeling weak and unable to control his army and command what they need to do. The ISH are still able to fight without any problems and are killing the demons off very rapidly it is a war in which both sides will never forget, well of course the good side because they wont be extinct. Satan comes out of his hole and is fighting on earth with his army God is happy because soon it will be the end of evil.

On earth satan approaches an ISH he quickly munipulates him and is turning him into an evil soul, whisperring in his ear's the ISH member is twitching and falls to the ground. God's prescense comes to the fore and he says" The end is now, and now all evil is gone." all of satan's army is gone. Lucifer looks around and God crushes him. The ISH are all happy and can finally relax and do not half to woory.

God retreived his army and flooded the earth. God asked the soldier who was approached by lucifer if he was ok and God read in his eyes that he was telling the truth. God then created earth two which will now begin in time with humans on it first and no evil will walk the earth making it a world in which no problems will ever occur. But the soldier was lying and was lucifer in disguise as an angel he transported to the possesed soldiers body right before God crushed him.

He planned to sit in God's throne once again but as soon as he thought those thought's God sensed them he banished him from the face of God's kingdom and now all can rest.

Just Started writing this is a short one if anyone has any comments on how to improve this then email me at colm2811@hotmail.com

Hey, would appreciate some opinions on this. Just email comments to Emily_Avian@yahoo.com. Please and Thank you! Oh, and sorry for grammer and spelling errors :)

                         A Forest With No Trees

     A man, an adventurer by occupation, who wandered wherever he pleased and obeyed only the whisper of temptation in his mind, had come to a city, brought by the whisper in search of his next unpaid job. If was a large city, full of people, and was just the sort of place that the man wished to be in at the time. No doubt his idea of the perfect place would change again soon, just as it always did every few weeks, but for now he craved the excitement of a city in which he could do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.
 The man had been traveling all day and it was late when he entered the city limits. Exhaustion pulled at his eyelids as he steered his car down the streets and he decided to find a room at a cheap motel. After parking at a place that boasted low rates he went in, rented a room from the rather strange man behind the counter, and went to sleep in a none-to-comfortable bed still dressed in his clothes.
 Sleep was not a rest for the man though. Dreams accosted his brain in a storm. Confused, jumbled dreams that ran together in a mass. In the end several dreams became one long, ever-changing vision filled with fragmented memories and guilt-born images.
 He was on a lake of glass. The water was completely still around the little row boat he was in, the wooden bow slicing through the water like a hot ice cream scoop digging a sugary treat out of a carton for a waiting child. The air was warm without being hot and the most gentle of breezes stirred the hair on his forehead. It lifted the silky strands away from the face of the woman sitting across from him too.
 Vivian
 Sweet, sweet Vivian. She was a princess, she was a saint, she was an angel. Her red gold hair was precious metal made into soft wire and her hazel eyes were gems beyond worth. Her glowing, satin-skinned hands trailed in the lake, creating the slightest of ripples and she laughed as she watched a fish leap out of the water. He watched her, knowing deep in his heart that every day he didn’t spend with Vivian would be a day of the worst torture imaginable…
 The dream changed and instead of the perfect day on the lake it showed a wedding. It was a small wedding, outside, with just family and friends in front of an alter covered in flowers. The man waited there while Vivian, dressed in white and holding a bouquet of lilies, walked towards him, the dream added a rainbow nimbus of light around her, making her look unreal. Happiness willed up inside of him, so much he felt like he would drown in it and not minding it one bit if he did because, after all, what better time was there to die but at the happiest moment of your life?…
 There was another change and this time Vivian was shouting at him and he was shouting back. He knew that he would regret his words later, but he was so angry that he didn’t care. He watched as Vivian turned and left the room, slamming the door on the way out…
 Then there was Vivian again and there he was again and they were leaving a party. She was drunk and so was he, even though he knew he was supposed to drive. And then they were in the car and he was driving and headlights were shining into the windshield and into his eyes and there was a loud noise…
 He opened his eyes and there was a flurry of activity around him. He was being loaded onto a stretcher. He saw a paramedic kneeling by Vivian stand up, shake his head…
 Then the memories stopped coming and the man saw something new. He saw Vivian, but it wasn’t Vivian. The thing posing as Vivian, his Vivian, had dull, stringy hair and was sickly pale. It was too thin, gaunt, and the clothes it wore were little more than rags. It was turned away from the man so that he couldn’t see its face.
 The man knew that he didn’t want to see the thing’s face. He desperately wanted not to see its face. He tried to run, but there was no where to go. He was on a tower of rock so tall he couldn’t see the ground. He turned back to the Vivian-monster and it turned towards him.
 He screamed and fell back, nearly falling off the rock tower. The thing’s face was a morbid mockery of the face he had loved more than any other thing in the world. The eyes were gone, dark bleeding holes in a face hardly more than skin stretched over bones. The face was ghostly white, void of all color and covered in tiny cuts that were a shock of red. It was a face that belonged in nightmares, and it hardly belonged even there.
 Then it spoke, the words a twisted abomination of the musical tones of Vivian’s voice. It was a dry sound, speaking of the rustling of leaves in a darkened wood and footsteps in an empty house. He cringed at the sound, more at the subtle similarities that the terrible voice held to Vivian’s sweet one than at the differences.
 “You killed me.” It whispered, stepping towards him.
 The man trembled at the accusation, knowing it was true, feeling the guilt cutting into his heart. But he still denied it.
 “I didn’t kill you. You’re not Vivian.” His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears.
 It laughed. “I shouldn’t be Vivian.”
 Tears came to his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”
 “You’ll never hurt another person.” It said, and rushed towards the man. And then he was falling down, down towards the non-existent ground…
 And he woke with a start, feeling as if he was landing after falling from a high place. He was soaked in a cold sweat and his heart was beating as if he had just ran a mile in a sprint. The room was silent. He was used to bad dreams about Vivian, but this one had been the worst. He lay there, waiting to calm down. When his heart beat slowed he got up and left the room. It was predawn, the sky a deep blue. The moment the man stepped out of the room he knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Shaking off the feeling, he went to his car and headed off to get breakfast.
 As he was driving it hit the man what was out of place.
 The city was empty.
 The man started to drive faster, searching for a person driving or jogging, but there were no signs of life, not one. He got out of his car and started to search apartments, breaking into one after another. He ran down the streets, shouted for help, dialed 911 on his cell phone. No one came. He didn’t see a soul.
 Finally, in the early morning, the man sat in the middle of an intersection that once would have been busy. He looked at the empty city, the unnatural, empty city. A city with no people was a forest with no trees. Something that was what it was, but was absolutely wrong in every way.
 The man sat in the intersection and didn’t look up when the cars appeared, moving as fast as they always did. He didn’t look up as they hit him. He didn’t even flinch
***
 “Miss, can you tell us what this man was doing?” a policeman asked a woman in her twenties. She seemed scared and was trying not to look towards the blocked off intersection. Every now and again she would catch a glimpse and would shudder.
 “I don’t know. He was running through the streets and screaming for help, but every time someone came near him he ran away. It was like he couldn’t even see them. And then he just sat in the intersection… I wonder what made the poor guy snap like that.”
 “I don’t know Miss.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

                             Hell on Earth

                                                
“What the hell is this?” officer Peterson said as he gazed around the dimly lit room. He took out his small notebook, and began to jot down several pages of notes. Young girl, probably twenty-something, mutilated, satanic ritual? The room was crowded with throngs of morticians and detectives, all of them equally horrified. For the first time he gazed at the body or what was left of it, and his hands began to tremble, her face was locked in a twisted gaze of pure terror. Her stomach was torn open and her entrails littered the room like uncoiled snakes, and when Peterson kneeled closer to examine the body, he noticed that her eyes had been torn out; the hollow sockets were fairly beautiful in their infinite blackness.

      Now why would he do that he thought, are we dealing with a possible trophy killer? “Doug?” a voice from behind him echoed, and Peterson twirled around and his good friend, Alex Smith stood before his eyes. “Pretty messed up” Smith stated, “No possible motive, maybe the guy just got a sick thrill out of watching her squirm.” Doug and Alex had been friends throughout high school, and had slowly drifted apart after traveling to separate colleges, Alex to Holy Cross, and Peterson to UCLA to study criminal justice. However, they had both decided to join the force together and it had rekindled their relationship, somewhat, the two never really saw things eye to eye. Watching Smith, with his thick-rimmed glasses and the cigarette fumes dancing in the air in front of his face, Peterson realized things between them hadn’t really changed. “Well,” Peterson said “I don’t see how this crime couldn’t have been anything but deliberate, this girl had a lot of enemies, any one of them could have-“ A loud, bloodcurdling scream erupted from the closet, up to that point, the thought hadn’t even dawned upon him to check the closet in the first place. “Somebody open the door!” one of the cops screamed, Peterson bolted across the room, and with all his weight, threw himself against it, it didn’t even budge. “For the love of God SOMEBODY HELP ME!” the voice screamed. It took all of his might to get the door to open, and after he did, Peterson almost wished he had kept the door closed. A young man, whom Peterson correctly assumed was her boyfriend, lay huddled in the corner of the closet, his fingernails were corroded and bloody, and apparently he had tried to gouge out his own eyes, for his facial skin and eyelids were covered in a brilliant scarlet. See no evil, he kept repeating to himself, and then, the man began to shout. “It killed her!” he screamed, “it’s was as pale as a dead man’s and its eyes shone like the very fire’s of hell itself. And the sound, oh God the sound, it ate her.” He screamed again, “have you ever heard the noise of someone’s face getting ripped off, it’s almost like your tearing cardboard. And her scream came from a voice that sounded like it was underwater. And before Peterson could do anything, the man bellowed one final time, pulled out a silver knife from his waist pocket and cut his own throat. The blood that erupted from the open wound reminded Peterson of the taffy factories he used to visit as a child, there was so much brilliant red being pumped from those machines, just like now, Peterson thought to himself. He watched the man release several more ragged gasps, and after a final convulsion, the man’s body shaking with such force the very earth trembled beneath their feet, the man finally lay still.

      Peterson stood in the dimly lit room, sweat pouring profusely down his brow, “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. The policemen and morticians were starting to leave now, their haggard forms exiting through the doorway. Peterson could not move, he could not think, he stood entranced in front of the man’s crumpled body. Blood still poured in raging torrents from the gaping hole where his neck used to be. How could somebody tear out their own throat right in front us? Peterson thought to himself. He finally decided he must leave; he must get away from the smell of cigarette smoke and the stench of decay. Peterson took one final glance towards the unknown female’s body, and recoiled in disgust, an enormous rat, about the size of a cat had embedded itself within the girls torn open chest cavity. There was an audible chewing sound as the rat commenced to devour her insides. “Holy hell” Smith exclaimed, he lunged at the grotesque creature and gave it a solid kick to its side. The rat was catapulted across the room, when the thing recovered its equilibrium, it only hissed at the two men and slowly sauntered off, bits of the women’s entrails still hung from its mouth like ragged strands of rope. “I have to go” Peterson said, Smith was the only one left in the room, he stood solemnly smoking a cigarette, the dim amber flame was the only illumination in the room. “All right, I have to pee, so I’ll see you tomorrow.” “See you” was all Peterson could say, he suddenly felt a wave of nausea passing over him. He opened the door, stumbled into the bathroom, and vomited on himself, his puke was dark in color, and faintly reminded him of the young man’s blood spurting out onto the dark floor. His recollection of that image caused him to puke again; when he was finished he found his car, turned it on and left. He needed to see his family, he thought, Peterson managed to gaze at the night sky and it was raw and dark, no stars illuminated the sky, it looks like I’m gazing into hell, he thought.

      It could clearly smell the man’s flesh, it smelled like fresh meat. The sweat that emanated from his body made him smell all the sweeter. He gazed at the man and decided it wasn’t ready to go for the kill yet, the fear helps marinate the meat, it thought. It would wait; wait until he was reduced to a shriveled husk on the floor, curled up like a fetus inside the mother’s womb, then it would gut him, and make sure he was alive as he was being consumed. It was going to be a great hunt tonight.

      Smith could gaze at the mutilated corpses no longer, he had the sudden urge to piss and he had to make it home soon or his bitch of a wife or she was going to have his head. He stepped out of that Godforsaken room and quickly gazed out the window, Christ its dark out there, he thought to himself. The snow had hit them hard this season and the idiot meteorologist only predicted more. The snow created a white veil across the window, thin strands of ice clung desperately to the window, and Smith could only make out thin outlines of the city, they look miniature from so far a distance. He really had to piss now; he went into the dimly lit bathroom and began to relieve his bladder. When he finished he turned around and saw hell staring him in the face. Its face was rotted and rows of teeth jutted out of its mouth in a grotesque smile. It claws made a metallic clink on the floor and it reached for him. Smith ran, it was the only thing he could do. He sprinted into an adjacent closet and began to pray, our father who art in heaven, the footsteps began to recede to, but he could still hear it breathing. Hallowed be thy name, the door hinge slowly began to turn, thy kingdom come, no one was outside. Smith sighed, got up and drew his .45 for protection. Before he could even think it was on him, ravaging him, taking pleasure in his screams. Its grimy hands closed around his shriveled manhood, and it pulled. Smith did not know how loud he screamed, but no one came to save him. The creature was holding his genitals in one hand and its jaws slowly closed around his head, and as his head were being crushed like an overripe melon, his life was destroyed equally as fast

      It enjoyed his languish, wished it could bathe in it, the gelding was always the most satisfactory part, taking man’s most precious organ and devouring it before his eyes gave him an unyielding satisfaction. Feeling the blood seep from the man’s head onto his jaws, the tart taste that accompanied it, never failed to arouse it. It sat next to this man’s body feasting, the only thing on its mind was the fact that there was more killing to be done, more bodies to maim, and more faces to see paralyzed by terror and desperation.

      Peterson’s car whisked into his driveway silently, the snow continued to fall in abundance, and he could just barely make out the light emanating from the upstairs window, and his wife’s visage staring at the car intently behind a veil of white snow. Peterson turned off his car and proceeded to walk inside, suddenly a thought accrued to him, why the hell is she still up? He thought, its one o’clock in the fucking morning, unless she’s expecting something. This particular thought, which usually aroused much excitement throughout his entire cortex, especially his lower part, only seemed to sicken him tonight. The idea of sex on a night like tonight, after so much death, did not interest him the least bit tonight. When he stepped inside, the house was as silent as a cemetery; the kid’s pictures littered the walls in various different places, their smiling faces and sunny dispositions reminded Peterson of a time and a place that were entirely behind him, he no longer experienced even a fledgling feeling of joy, his once healthy mind, once bountiful with the fruits of happiness, is now a barren landscape where an unrelenting sun casts its rays of light on a barren and decrepit landscape. Peterson was still musing about his lost vitality when he entered his wife’s bedroom, and was slightly shocked to find her scantily clad in tight fitting lingerie underwear. She stood before him erotically, before he could even react she was on him, in between her kisses she said “I missed you so much honey, I was sooooo worried.” Peterson had to squint, for her breath stank of cheap whiskey and Marlboro cigarettes. “I was working” Peterson said, clearly agitated, “That’s beside the point anyway, and how much have you had to drink tonight?” “Oh not that muuuch” she cooed. “I just love you so much” she stated. At this point, she was gently stroking his chest and making her way downwards, his face was now inundated with the stench of the liquor that was cascading from her mouth. She then began to kiss him, with just the type of passion you would expect from a drunken housewife. He submitted, and let her lay on top of him; he drifted off to sleep to the sound of a winter evening, and his wife’s soft hand gently caressing his tired and broken body.

Peterson awoke in the middle of the night, cold sweat tricked down his forehead, and he heard his wife’s heavy breathing at his side. The clock read 3 A.M., and from downstairs he thought he heard a low growl, similar to something a small cat would make only just before it was about to pounce on his prey. Only this sound was much deeper and the metallic scraping on the floor which was slow and heavy, only seemed to increase with each passing second. The ragged breathing drew even closer to the upstairs hallway, and it was then that a terrible thought crawled its way into his head. The kids! He thought, they were still sound asleep in their fucking beds with that thing outside, but his entire body was overcome with a sudden feeling of terror, and he simply lay in his bed, praying. He heard his daughter utter a small sound; this was followed by complete silence. The next thing Peterson knew, he was standing upright, fingers groping for his pistol, which he always kept beside his bed, just in case. He found what he had been searching for, and burst through his bedroom door, his mind filled with the horrid fantasies he was sure he would soon discover. The first thing Peterson noticed was that his kids door was ajar, the nightlight he bought for the two a few years back cast a sickly purple glow inside the room. Peterson burst into their room, revolver in hand, but the only thing that greeted him was Sam and Abby’s terrified faces. “What are you doing?” they asked him, “nothing” he said, “just go back to sleep. Peterson exhaled a long sigh of relief, and turned his back to walk out of the room. As if out of nowhere, a searing flash of bright white light temporally blinded him and the sound that accompanied it were his children’s high pitched screams. Peterson tried desperately to regain his vision, and he saw a large portal that was releasing a deafening sound from it’s opening, similar to standing next to a jet engine at take off. His eyes fell upon his children, and Peterson could only watch in terror as several large creatures, with hair as black as midnight, and a large head with a gaping mouth which dozens upon dozens of razor sharp teeth protruded from. They were clawing at his children, and there was so much blood, it seemed to flood the entire room. Peterson noticed the doll he had bought Abby for her birthday, stained red with her own blood. This isn’t real, it can’t be real he thought to himself. He sprinted away from the atrocious scene and opened the door to his wife’s room, and the creatures were on her as well, blood was pouring out of her every orifice, and her high pitched screaming only added to the cacophony of noise that was already taking place. Suddenly, he felt a tight grip around his neck, and felt excruciating pain as several claws began to dig into the flesh at the nape of his neck. This sudden feeling of pain was followed by darkness, something which Peterson was extremely thankful for.

He awoke chained to a stone table, in a large, dimly lit cavern. The first thing he heard, were dozens, no millions of screams. He then gazed upward and saw millions of emaciated human beings nailed to black crosses. There were old and young men and women, along with what seemed to be children, although their bodies were all to deformed to be given an exact age. They were all wailing, one cross chained to the other, they seemed to cover the entire cavern. It was at this point that the thin reel of film that was Peterson’s sanity began to whither and burn away. He no longer knew what the word reality meant, he had taken up shelter within his now fractured psyche where the endless amount of horrors he had been exposed to no longer affected him. Peterson then noticed the same creatures that had murdered his family were now approaching where he lay, they were clad in black robes, and several of them appeared to be carrying a large slab on their backs, similar to what he was laying on. Oh my God! He thought, because it was at that very moment Peterson noticed that it was his wife who lay on the stone slab, prostrate, and moaning with agony. She appeared to be pregnant, and her stomaching was vibrating rapidly. The demons dropped the stone, and gathered around his wife’s body. The thrashing continued and her stomach seemed to thrash more and more with each passing second. Suddenly, Peterson understood everything, I’m in hell he thought, and Smith is dead, I can see him screaming with the rest of those dammed things hanging from those crosses. Everything is clear now; the young girl was killed because she must have seen those creatures somewhere. Her boyfriend clawed out his own eyes to prevent himself from seeing those things and suffering the same fate as her. They killed Smith because they didn’t want anyone to investigate any further. They must have followed me home and found my wife, knowing she would be able to bear them a new child in order to continue this wretched race. Blood and clear fluid began to seep from his wife’s stomach, it was boiling as if it was being heated and her skin began to stretch with such ferocity, that it began to tear. But what exactly is this place? Peterson thought, calm and collectively. It was at this moment he noticed a thin light trickling down from above, he heard footsteps, human footsteps, and heard the honking of horns and the familiar cursing and yelling that always accompanied heavy traffic. “Heeelp!” he screamed, but no one seemed to hear him, even though a passerby appeared to gaze down at him and smile, it was as if they were outright ignoring his cries for help. Then Peterson noticed that what he had been gazing up at was a storm drain, and it was then he understood the nature of the universe and the meaning of human existence. It’s some sort of conspiracy, these creature feed on humans like cattle, feed off of the people society no longer deems valuable, whores, criminals, beggars, you name it. The government must know about these creatures too, but allowing them to devour the undesirable persons in their country not only keeps the creatures appeased, it keeps the rest of the world happy as well. We exist to be eaten, like cattle, like cattle. Peterson keep turning those words over in his mind as his wife’s stomach finally burst open like an overinflated balloon at a kid’s birthday party. He was still thinking as his wife gave out her last breath, dying covered in her own blood and various other bodily fluids. As the creatures scooped the hellish baby up from its mothers open womb, and laid it on Petersons chest, as the hell child began to tear open his stomach, and it felt the warm gush of blood, and tasted human flesh for the very first time, savoring each mouthful of his entrails, Peterson took great pleasure in the fact that he had finally figured everything thing out, and neither a man made hell such as this one nor demons or rats were ever going to hurt him where he was going, wherever that may turn out to be.

“This is the nature of the beast, to eat and be eaten.”- Clive Barker

please read and respond to tonymad16@gmail.com, thank you

please respond to Lindsey786@talktalk.net, thanks guys x

Edited by author 02-20-2009 06:51 PM
***Hi, I'm new to the site, I've written this from a struggling woman perspective, I'd appreciate any comments/criticisms....***

How do I feel? I really wish I knew, since my best friend told me that he's fallen in love with me, wants to marry me and have my

children I've been confused not to say the least.

Once I would have shrugged it off and never thought about it again and right now I wish to God I could do it, but as I get older and go

out with more and more men who turn out to be unsuitable I am left with the question, is this the man I really SHOULD be with?

I know him inside out, upside down and back to front, I know his temprement, his moods, the way he acts in company and behind closed

doors. I also know that everyday at least once he will moan to me about his dogs jumping around the house manically, but then I also know

about his manic depression and the little things that annoy the hell out of him and also the things that make him laugh and smile.

This really makes me wonder what I should do and where my life should lead, I have a boyfriend, who I love very much but he lives 200

miles away and things are getting a bit stale, because we very rarely get to see each other.

My parents joke that I should be with Paul, but it always makes me wonder if there is some underlying agenda deep down. His parents

like me, even his sister likes me. My own boyfriend's mother can't stand the sight of me let alone start to like me, she poisons Matt's

mind against me and rules his life. I know he wants me to move there to be with him but without some form of commitment first how do I

know that his mother won't convince him just to walk away? I can't and this alone worries me.

As I sit here debating what could potentially be the key to the rest of my life I wonder why I can't I just be one of these people who

can just - go with the flow.

Matt is a fantastic man and I really do love him more than I've ever loved anyone else, but since I've found myself dealing with Paul's

confession I have to admit my head is going around and around. It feels like it's full of bees buzz, buzz, buzz....

There are only two ways I can deal with all my mixed emotions at the moment, the first which is exactly what I've tried to do on a daily

basis is, to ignore them.

The second - try to come to terms with the information I've been given and use it as an advantage.

Are these two things completely impossible? Yes I think that for me they are!

So now I have to decide, do I move 200 miles away and be with my boyfriend, or do I stay here with my best friend and eventually let

myself be drawn to him like a moth to a flame?

I've always been a strong willed, stubborn and passionate woman, the truth is men don't realise it's just with them it's also deep inside of

myself, once I've decided on something I won't back down until the end is in sight and I know I'm going to get what I want!

The problem - I have absolutely no idea what I want.

I love my boyfriend to pieces, literally to pieces it feels/or felt like he was almost a part of me until we started to have our problems,

now I've been told if I don't move then things will never progress which I think is rather mean but there we go...

I also love my best friend, as I thought until recently platonically, but do I really want to move away from him, my other friends and my

family and sacrifice my happiness all for one man who at the moment doesn't seem entirely right, when this could be the one I've been

looking for all along?

Now this wouldn't have been half as hard of a decision to make if it wasn't the fact I've been pretty darn depressed since just after

Christmas, I don't know if it's the credit crunch, the end of the holidays or Matt and I not getting on too well due to bereavement of his

Grandpa (or that's what I've been blaming it on).

I know anyone can say, 'oh yeah I'm a bit down lately' but it's gotten to the stage where I can't hide it anymore, my family and friends

are noticing, and it's making me do crazy things I wouldn't normally do, what you ask?

Had the argument or arguments with said best friend, and threw a pan at him, funny - yes, nice - certainly not, I don't know why I did it

and I probably never well, arguing and throwing things isn't really my style but it seemed to have shocked him into remission in any case,

it seems to have kept him off my back about the whole 'Love' thing for a while.

In any case thoughts and feelings are just that, they can be overcome can't they? If I want to be with Matt I just have to get over the

whole 'buzzing head thing' to do with Paul and move on, that's what I've been trying to do, but I guess thoughts and feelings can't be

overcome as easily as I initially thought.

So for now, it's back to the drawing board!

Please respond to 'Fallout' by e-mailing me at Cptnred@hotmail.com
Thanks in advance!

Fallout

A blurred sky, hazy, ghastly in its attire. A desolate barren landscape, vast and tragic. The site of something terrible. Flashes of panicked people. We are running, roughly and hastily through the horrid landscape, and way over in the distance, i see movement. It comes closer, rapidly it draws in. A raging beast – a mutant. Shrieks of terror, gun fire – Blank.

I lift my head of my desk. The same dream again. Or is it a memory. I can't tell. Nor can I comprehend it. Every time it occurs I must try desperately to hold onto it. I want to examine it further, know where it is, when? However, the thought expands no further.

I clasp the arms of my swivel chair and spin - I am easily distracted. I must study for my history test, yet lack the motivation - My body sways in and out from my changing center of gravity, i thrust my feet off the ground. I go faster. I drag my feet in and the spinning increases. The cold steel walls become a blur. I like it this way, i don't feel so enclosed. I feel as if I am in the air, sky bound - I spread my arms and legs to fly. Bad idea, this throws me way off equilibrium and the chair slide from under me. I fall on the floor.

Ow! God damn! Why is everything in this room so hard? I lift my self off the steel floor, lift the chair back up, then take my history book with me onto my bed. I bet they had the good sense to carpet their floors back in 2075, i think as i read a document for a case study. 'I reckon it should only be a few years until humanity can emerge from the vaults again, until the radiation of World War 3 has cleared off and the 'cleansers' have rid the earth of vile mutants'.- Paul Dermody 2075. More than a few years later 2209...we're still here, the cleansers are have failed and the mutants own the world – Man, this Paul guy got it so wrong. Vault 101 sucks!

Maybe that's what the vision is? Its the future. Perhaps I escape from this fruitless and repetitive life. Explore the outside world. World? The very idea of a world is unfamiliar to me! This place does nothing but frustrate me! I need to be free. How does everybody else put up with this place? Perhaps it's the narcotics they put in our bread. Perhaps I’ll go on a violent rampage - kill all my childhood bullies. Of course I’ll have to save a bullet for my Dr Harnsburger, the fool responsible for the death of the mother I never knew. It was him that caused the last break-in, who allowed the super mutants to run rampant through the vault! Who is on the outside now living the life I have always dreamed of! I swear I’ll find him and feed him to the rancid beasts.

But what about Amanda? I'm almost certain she likes me now... Why else would she have agreed to sacrifice her maths grinds to go to the cinema with me. Well, there were other people in my vision! Maybe she comes with me... we find a place in this ravaged world free from the mutants and live out our lives happily together. Perhaps the Caribbean, what business would a mutant have lying under the sun, enjoying life. No, there all in some place miserable, like Ireland. So the plan is to find a Caribbean Island, build a pirate ship and sail the world. I and Amanda and our 16 pirate babies will be perfectly happy while everybody here suffers there futile lives! I dose off to sleep thinking of how pretty she is, with her soft facial features yet deep , darting blue eyes. She is my only ray of sunshine in this desolate dull vault.

KLAXONS! My eyes snap open and the pulsing red light glares in through the window shutters. The fear provoking alarm is deafening, its immediacy piercing my ear drums. I am dumbfounded, the weight of fear, an immovable obstacle. What do I do? Is this another break in? I calm myself; I remember how my father so persistently outlined how crucial it is to keep a level head in the event of a break-in. Then remembering my father I begin to question, where is he? Why am I the only person in the house? ...Perhaps he had a late shift in the lab.

My plan appears clear to me now. ‘The cargo bay, no matter where anybody else is going, make your way to the cargo bay’. This is what my father always told to do if he wasn’t around. The panic in the corridor, outside my house ensures me of the gravity of the situation. I take a look at the picture of my family, a picture from when I was only two and my mother was still alive, a cherished possession of mine. Placing it in my pocket I step outside to the corridor feeling I’m ready to go.

‘Foreign bodies detected, please make your way to the nearest assembly point,’ I hear the intercom repeat, this time all the more clearly. A man holding his son rushes by me as the pulsing red light illuminates their worried faces. That could have been my father and I 14 years ago I think to myself. I hesitate no further and speed in and out of terrified families making my way to my destination. Swerving around corridors the adrenalin keeps me agile. A blistering pace, I turn another corner – Bang, I slam into a body. We both fall on the ground.
‘Amanda! I’m so sorry’, I cry.

‘Jesus Paul! Where are you going? The assembly point is that way!’ she groans, holding her arm in pain. ‘No it isn’t, my dad said we should go this way’, I insist. She hints my sight to all the other families turning off at a different corner. Bewildered I pause,’ but the cargo bay is this way?’… Suddenly a deep grunting roar bellows down that very corridor. I look back at her with a look a shock and despair, also mimicked on her face. We both run in the only sensible direction, towards the cargo bay, our senses all heightened as we go. Loud terrified shrieks sounding behind as somebody is presumably eaten. ‘Holy shit!’, Amanda bellows, ‘We’re dead!’.

After a long sprint we reach the far end and mostly uninhabited part of the vault. We enter a massive room with a tall ceiling; our vision impeded the stacked crates aligned into long aisles. We are alone with nothing to hear but the distant alarm far off. There mustn’t be any mutants here I figure since the lights and alarm aren’t on.

‘Why is there nobody else here’ she whimpers, ‘we’re obviously not meant to be here’
‘C’mon, I know where to go’, I ensure her, my voice echoing with the vastness of the room. I hold her hand and lead the way through the makeshift hallways to the far left corner of the room where the supplies lift is situated. We step in and close the shutter behind us. I activate the lift which elevates us about ten metres to the ceiling from where we have a bird’s eye view of the entire cargo bay.

‘Right, we’re safe’, I gasp only now recovering my loss of breath.
‘Now what?’ she pants.‘Well I guess we wait’, I say assuredly. We both sit in the corner. Slowly she huddles in close to me. ‘I’m sorry for doubting you’, she confesses. 'Oh, its grand! I wouldn't trust a fool like me either'. 'Your not a fool, your a hero, your my hero!' She grins. We laugh. 'Oh shocks Amanda, your embarrassing me', I mock. 'But yeah, if we do make it through this... Your buying the cinema tickets! I laugh. She slaps me awkwardly with yet playfully with a look of shock on her face, 'oh my god, how can that be the only thing your thinking of?' she returns. 'OK! I'm sorry... but I did save your life!' My dream seems all the more real to me. Somehow all of this madness will lead to our escape. I know it.

Suddenly the Klaxon sound again and a light in the centre of the room blazes into spinning red fury. My heart shoots into my throat. ‘Oh shit, shit… Shit’ Amanda cries backing herself against the edge of the lift. ‘Foreign bodies detected…’ that voice of doom again declares. A grizzly, vile mutant throws himself though the window into the bay from the control room. In a guerrilla like fashion roars so is presence is known. He is soon followed by a multitude of equally horrid creatures with fresh blood dripping from their mouths. They trash through the room smashing over crates on a violent rampage in search humans. I despair in fright knowing we are the only food they will find here! Closing in one of them gets the bright idea to climb the lift cables. The grunts of fury and the banging against the wall on which pivots himself upwards from let us know this is the end. I hug Amanda who his weeping at this stage.

Just then the door we’d hardly noticed was there, slams open from the back of the lift. Natural sunlight bursts in silhouetting a man, wielding a semi-automatic rifle! As is the situation couldn’t become more clichéd he immediately rushes in hangs over the railing, slams a few bullets into the mutants head, turns to us and says ‘pleased to see me’, just before the mutants crashes to the ground! Absolutely dumb founded I cannot muster any words. ‘Should I shoot her too? She seemed to be eating the face of you!’ he laughs! 'Why so serious kid, ha ha, come this way. We better go before the rest find their way up!'

Dumbfounded, we hastily scurry out through the light filled doorway. At first the powerful brightness seres my eyes with blindness. However they soon adjust. The view is totally epic to me, like nothing I have ever witnessed. The first thing I notice is the vastness, by far it’s the furthest my eyes have had to focus, something that initially I can do. As all the distant details become clear I am further astounded! It is just like in my dream, how can this be? I need answers yet cannot summon the words for questions! He guides us to climb into is strange looking vehicle. I breath in the free air.

'I'm guessing your a little confused Paul. Well listen up cause it gets even more so'
'I'm listening', I respond curiously, trying to put a name on this familiar face.
'First let me introduce myself. He extends a hand Dr Harnsburger's the name'.
I push back against my seat, the name is instantly familiar and everything clicks. 'Dr. Harnsburger? You killed my mother!'
'Oh no! I've got to explain that too. OK, first of all, this was all planned!'
'What, you planned to kill all those innocent people?!' Amanda bellows
'No, oh man, I'm no good at this! He responds. 'Maybe I'll just let your mam and dad explain!
'What they're alive!
'Yes, that's one of the things I was going to explain. They're back at the bunker. OK, I'l explain if you don't interrupt'
'OK, go on' I say enthusiastically.
'You see, 14 years ago, when your mother and I disappeared… She didn’t die… No what happened was, we tried to make an escape. All of us your mother,father me and you. However Things went wrong, we were followed by vault guards! As we ran into the barren wasteland, there gunfire attracted a super mutant, it attacked us and while the guards did managed to kill it, yourself and your father were captured.'

Dr Harnsburger's words invoke my dream, every word fits. Everything makes sense - It's a memory! He goes on to explain some intricate details of how my father and I had to wait in the vault until a new plan could be made to free us. However, all I can think about is freedom. The freedom I have always dreamed of.

Waiting
By
Jessika King


In a world where I am poor, I am rich.
Born into a family that has nothing, no toys, no proper housing, and not enough food to feed their four children. I am one of those four children, the youngest of all.

I am not rich, I own nothing, nothing worth the value of money. My family is my wealth, my toys, my everything. In a world where I have nothing, my family stands before me and therefore I am mistaken. This makes me the richest person in the world.

Each night my mother places me in my old wooden bed, with covers made from old rigid cloth filled with dirt and leaves to keep me warm throughout the night. Each night I lay in that old wooden bed next to my sisters and as I fall asleep, I listen to the sounds of the wind brushing upon our little house made of tin. I listen to the animals crying in the background, crying out of hunger. I cry every day for that same reason. I listen to my mother’s footsteps as she walks around our little house of tin tucking me in. But what I listen to the most, and I know one day I will miss, is the sound of my mother’s beautiful voice as she sings to me right before she kisses me before I fall asleep.


Tonight my mother did the exact same thing she did every night right before we went to sleep. As she sang to us I started to fall asleep to the sound of my her gentle voice and her soft kisses along with the sound of hungry animals and the wind hitting against our house of tin. I finally fall asleep listening to my mother’s beautiful song as she slowly and quietly walked away from me and my sisters.

As I wake from my peaceful sleep, I didn’t find myself lying under the roof of our house of tin, in my old wooden box, with old rigid cloth filled with dirt and leaves covering me to keep me warm. Instead I found myself climbing from beneath that tin I once called my home, moving bits and pieces around trying to break free from its clutches. I found myself scratched and bruised, I found myself alone.

I looked out in the distance studying the surroundings that were once familiar to me. What used to be my world, looked different, looked like someone had smashed every ones tin houses to the ground. I looked at the ground that was covered in rubble, and for some strange reason, covered in broken lakes of water. I had no idea where I was and what had happened, I am just a child. I searched the distance for anyone, anything not destroyed, but after everything, I still found myself alone, confused and afraid. I sat where I had first discovered my new surroundings made of rubble and lakes, on top of the tin that was once my house and cried. I cried for days.


As I cried, I set about looking for anything, anything that could comfort me. My family had gone, disappeared and I did not know why. At night time I find myself falling asleep where my house of tin used to lie and this is where I found myself awaking. Every night I was cold, I was hungry and I was scared.

Each night I fell asleep remembering how rich I was, I was rich as could be. But now I have nothing, I have no-one and everything around me made me unhappy. I fell asleep listening to the sounds of the wind, though this time I did not listen to the sounds of animals in the background crying for hunger. I did not fall asleep listening to the sounds of the wind hitting our house of tin. I did not feel my mother’s soft kisses, nor did I hear her sing that beautiful song she used to sing to me and my sisters right before I dozed off to sleep. Instead I listen to my own tears, I listen to the wind, only this time bare and frightening. This time the wind hit my face, scaring me and making me cold. The wind scraped against the rubble making howling noises that my mother would have once saved me from. This time I fell asleep alone.

I woke in the same place I did the first time I climbed from beneath the rubble. I looked around at the same familiar place that I had a few days ago, wondering why the house’s of tin lay beneath lakes of water and rubble. Though this time I looked out at my world and I was not alone.

A man appeared from beyond the rubble, carefully climbing towards the tin that was once my home. A tall man dressed in the colour’s of the trees. He seemed to be crying and as I watched the man carefully step closer towards me, I watched him pick up my fragile body from beneath the rubble that I thought I had just climbed out from. I looked fragile and empty in the mans arms as he held my body carefully. I looked asleep, I looked carefree and silent but right now I was wide awake and crying. I wondered how this man could pick me up and not see me standing at his feet, I wondered how he could not hear my tears as they ran like a waterfall down my cheeks.

This man looked at my lifeless body and cried, he turned behind him looking at another man dressed in the colours of the trees. He too cried as he looked at my fragile and silent body. I heard the man whimper to the other “she’s dead”, the tsunami hit here hard’.

I did not understand what that man dressed in the colours of the trees had just said to other one. I was a child without anything of value. I was now no longer rich, but poor. I still walk alone amongst the rubble. I stayed a child alone, forever waiting to hear the voice of my mother singing that beautiful song that she once sang to me right before she kissed me to sleep and walked slowly, quietly and forever weightlessly from our house of tin.

Edited by author 02-14-2009 01:09 PM
The Love That Never Died.

A Valentine Love Story

By

Winifred-May Levy


Lorna sat in the front window of the coffee shop, in the same seat in which she had sat in since she began her morning routine three years ago when she had joined the corp de ballet in the national theater just around the corner. She would arrive at the coffee shop at 7:30 just as it was opening and order a small latte and a croissant before leaving for the ballet at least three hours before any other dancers would arrive. She loved the routine of her morning. She would watch the other shops open up and see the old town come to life. The lady in the flower shop would come out with arms full of flowers to place into large green buckets. As it was early spring, today she carried daffodils, yellow buds ready to burst open with the expectancy of the warmth of the sun. The baker would open his door next, and the smell of fresh baked bread would waft into the coffee shop when the next customer entered, who was usually a business man carrying a news paper who would sit at the same table every morning about half way down the coffee shop opposite the counter.

Lorna was always Debbie the coffe shop managers' first customer. Lorna had been a customer of Debbie's for almost a year now. She admired Lorna for her beauty, her grace and the way she always had a kind word for everybody as she sat alone at 'her' table. Lorna looked over the edge of her cup and saw something new in her vista this morning. A young man had parked his bicycle against the window of the coffee shop and was bent over removing his cycling clips. When he stood up his eyes met Lorna's, and Lorna returned his gaze with a welcoming smile. The young man had a broad chest and chiseled features and Lorna hoped he would come into the coffee shop.

Sam cycled around the Roman walls of the ancient city of Chester every morning but that day thought that by way of a change he would cycle down the cobbled roads of the ancient byway through the centre of the town. When he saw the coffee shop he thought that too would be a nice change and decided to get a fresh squeezed orange juice. When he saw Lorna he suddenly and strangely knew he had found the woman he had been looking for all his life. He walked briskly into the shop and want straight to Lorna's table.

“Do you mind if......” said Sam, “Not all” said Lorna indicating Sam to sit down. Sam and Lorna sat together for over three hours talking and laughing and laughing and talking. Suddenly Lorna jumped to her feet, she was going to be late for rehearsal and she had to leave. Sam left with Lorna and before they parted, Debbie noticed them take their first sweet lingering kiss. “Same time same place tomorrow.” said Lorna, “Nothing could stop me'” said Sam. I know we have only just met Lorna but I know that I........”
Ssh, said Lorna, I know, and I do to. After another sweet kiss, Lorna ran off like a school girl to the theater around the corner, she did not even feel the pavement beneath her feet. Sam watched as she disappeared and got back on his bike knowing his life would never be the same.

That was the very last night that Lorna and Sam ever spent apart. In fact that was the last time that they ever seemed to spend even one moment apart. For the very next day Sam moved in with Lorna never to be separated ever again.

Every night when she danced in the corp de ballet he watched her from the wings and always had a fresh red rose for her when she came off stage. When she became the prima ballerina he was the first one to throw a bouquet onto the stage at the end of the show, and when Lorna retired from dancing almost 20 years later to become the Corp de ballet choreographer they would stand together in the wings wrapped in each others arms, a life of shared hopes, dreams and eternal love. All too soon for Lorna, though in reality is was almost twenty five years later, she came to the decision that it was time for her to stand down at choreographer and let someone younger take the position. She had after all stayed on ten years longer than wast would be considered a 'normal' retirement age.

That night as she sat at her dressing table removing her make up and applying moisturizer to her long elegant fingers she looked at Sam. He had hardly changed over the long years he still had the broad chest though his features had softened a little and a few grey hairs, that served to heighten his allure.

She went over to the bed and pulled the comforter up to her chin, as he had done every night Sam tucked it in around her and made sure she was comfortable. Lorna my darling, you know they have been calling me for such a long time and I can stay no longer though its breaking my heart, it has to be tonight, i have to go. “I am not frightened Sam”, said Lorna. It will all be over in a heart beat and then we will be together for ever.” “I know said Lorna,” as Sam kissed her pretty face and watched his beloved settle into a deep sleep.

                       ------------------------------------ ---X---------------------------------------------

Debbie stood in the window of the coffee shop the next morning, her old hips aching as she shuffled from one leg to the other, where was Lorna, she had never been late, perhaps now she had retired she would change her routine. Her eyes caught the flower lady who shrugged her shoulders. Debbie looked down at Lorna's table and saw an old faded newspaper. She was curios and read the date February 15 1952, the day after Valentines day she thought, Lorna and I were both so young then. Where on earth did that paper come from she thought. Suddenly a lump came to her throat as she staggerd and sat heavily on a chair as she remembered the tragic events of that long forgotten day. Her eye's caught the headline, 'Tragic Death of Cyclist Outside Town Coffee Shop.' “Thank God Lorna hadn't seen that she though,t” throwing the paper in the recycling.

Lorna won't want to remember that, she thought.

Women. Why do we do the things we do? Is it really us? Are we the problem? According to a man, yes! But are we all really screaming at the top of our lungs bimbo cunts that men make us out to be? Or is it all a reaction? Do we do what we do because we want to see how men or even the same sex GO LESBOS! Will react to what we say an do? I think so! We do things and expect a man or woman to react a certain way. When they don’t do what we want, we get PISSED!!! Which is ok, don’t get me wrong I’m not dogging on Woman because I is one! But from what I’ve heard from past relationship, and friends, strangers, some redneck pigs (yes there are nice ones!) that I’m a problem. And from the sound of it my psyco ways, and horrible driving is what is wrong with the world today. I don’t think so. This is to all the men out there. COMMON SENSE boys don’t do shit you know will piss us off! Have a thought process. I’m not dogging on men either, because everybody knows I enjoy a nice manly slice of fuck berry pie now an again. And Girls maybe we should take a chill pill every now an again an not jump to conclusions. Because maybe he is telling the truth when he say’s he can’t hang out because he promised grandma Mable that he’d cut her toe nails. That’s reasonable right?
And honestly ladies and gentleman if trust is a serious issue in you an your beefcakes or creampuffs union than maybe its time to cut the cord. A nobody wants to be alone, but masterbation is always good for the moring period(if not your doing it wrong!) Beware of casual sex! Little innocent Suesie May belle Goodie tooshoes can have a nasty case of the herpes or a not so happy round of the clap! And if you don’t think aides is an issue GET A FUCKING CLUE YOU MORON!!!!! I am NOT A CUNT!!! AND Either are you, men get your shit together women chill out!!!

I love Marijuana and LSD.

Truest omen of peace,
I toke through the glowing heat,
With a spark and flame
One sharp breath, but no lasting pain,
No lasting anything,
No path or guidance

No answers provided-
And no questions regardless,
On this green magic carpet
There’s no thinking required,

It’s much more interesting
To just ride the excitement.
Just don’t over-think it,
Use your eyes, not your brain
Don’t try to understand, just rely on instinct

You won’t cease to breathe
Or see pink elephants,
But you might feel a twitch,
When the relief becomes evident,
As all the bullshit separates
And succumbs to severance.

Don’t complicate it,
Just BREATHE,
And let your life float away with it.

In the mind of the lungs,
Every breath is only relevant,
Until the very second,
It gets to the heart and enters it
It doesn’t need to dwell on it,
Just prepare for the exhale.
No need to improve on what’s natural,
JUST FUCKING BREATHE.

Life can be just this simple!
Time to me is a connection of endless thought,
Not a path or a direction to head toward.
60 years from now I will be on my deathbed.
This is an important factor in the equation of life.
(That is: time – life = death).
And once I’m dead,
I become nothing more than a nutritious meal for some opportunistic worms.











Now the way I figure it is,
I’ll just spend as much time being happy as possible,
Everything pretty much works itself out after that.
If that means one day I wake up and don’t like who I am anymore,
I’ll just change,
Whatever happens to interest me at the time,
I’ll be doing,
Nothing will stop me, not a handicap, not kids, not some dirty conniving whore of a wife.

Only death,
And even death will be smiling as he watches me
Laugh my arse off the whole six feet down.

I’ll just leave everything behind and start again,
Who says that relationships have to be for life anyway?
Humans are way too volatile to spend that long together,
And so we fucking should be,
Spontaneous, always changing, growing.
You can’t have all that good shit without some tears somewhere,
But fuck, tears dry up. Life goes on
I’d prefer to have numerous serious partners in my life than just one,
More to learn, more to enjoy, more to laugh about.
I’ll take five years of love and happiness,
And a separation on good terms,
Over a lifetime of duty to a piece of worthless paper anyday.

Fuck marriage,
Not for me.
If you are and that makes you happy, then i'm happy for you
But I’m content with the knowledge that,
In my life, I reserve the right,
At any moment, for any reason
To just walk away.
With life inside me,
A pipe in my hand.
And a cloud of smoke behind me

Walking sideways,
Eyes glazed in amazement,
Proud of the fact;
My mind is sky scraping

Everything alive, with any sense of purpose,
Seeks some sort of relief, from the ride that Earth is.
Searching for release, not planning to escape
Surfing existence, not standing in its way.
Blur the lines between reality and perspective.
Because at the end of it all,
All you are: Is the thoughts you’ve collected


Fuck I need a drink..

(not so much a story.... eh)


I said, “Fuck life”
“No…
Fuck, YOU!” was the reply.

“I am life, the beginning and end equally,
The unknown things that make you step fearfully.
I have no intention; I exist only as an extension of necessity
So please don’t say fuck in any sentence that you mention me.

Fuck me….?
We’ll see who laughs last mate when you get further down this pathway,
What you see becomes untrue; the stars shine with only half feeling,
Facing yourself isn’t easy, especially when you see what you’ve come to.
The seams of reality seem unglued,
Clarity appears, as two parts of a sum I can’t do.
It won’t add up, just part of a half-truth

You can only walk so far, before you’re crawling to the mental ward
And any call for help is merely stalling what you went there for.”

With no passion to start with, and nowhere to run to
I plead for the darkness to consume the sun too,
My pain is constant and sharp, yet honest and selfless
Hard to not feel powerless, hard to not feel helpless.

The only opinion I’ve ever felt, with a firm, gut conviction,
Is the world can get fucked, and burn with the friction.

Fictions universal, this is the only real certainty
Everywhere I turn there’s a hurdle there to burden me
Like the dirty mop you can’t clean up with
Everywhere I go I leave a path of fucked shit

I fantasise about my death,
Through the eyes of an enemy or opposite,
As life was lent to me by someone mentally incompetent,
And every single step simply added debt on top of it.

What words are there, for a writer’s funeral?
If I had it my way no one would say anything.
Just enjoy with a knowing smile, the bittersweet irony,
Of celebrating a poets life, completely silently

Consider the hurt you do faking an interest, but laughing on the inside
They may be just words to you, but to me it’s the path to insight
Introspection is a cunt; I always hate what I see
But at least I’ve got the balls face what I believe
At least no matter what, my thoughts are free,
And any course I plot, is probably not where I’ll head
Because I’ll stop to smell the roses, and get lost instead.

Edited by author 01-03-2009 04:56 PM
I don't know who the name of the author of the followin story. I found it on a computer at Fort Ben Harrison in 1985. However it is a great story.

                                          The New Discipline


   Lilly Carter stopped abruptly before the double steel door, forcing herself to look at the white envelope in her left hand. A few seconds were sufficient to snap off the wandering thoughts, to find comfort in the odds, and to escape the haunting fear that made her two minutes late this morning---the first time in over thirty years.
 She quickly made her entrance and headed towards the sixty-two people standing quietly at the far end of the room. As the door clicked shut behind her, she was aware of puncturing an absolute silence with the clapping rhythm of her heels on the polished wooden floor. coming to rest at the edge of the group, she turned to the center and gave Mr. Matthews a pleasant nod. This was returned with a deep frown and a deliberate long look at the wall clock. Having made this reprimand for her tardiness, Mr. Matthews ran his pencil down the attendance sheets, gave two affirmative shakes of his head and walked back several steps to whisper to the deputy sheriff who was standing by the temporary table set in the center of the basketball court.
 This was the third annual Selection Day, and already the tradition was established at Fremont Junior High that the business was to be transacted in silence. There was none of the restricted chattering and occasional snickering that so often filtered through the regular teacher meetings. Today they were clustered it one end of the large multi-purpouse room, each teacher clutching a white envelope, and each looking significantly solemn.
 Mr. Matthews, whose original administrative experience came as an Army Major in World War II, cleared his throat. This was the recognized signal that he was about to speak--a habit that gave him their attention without the necessity of addressing them with the too formal "Ladies and Gentlemen", or the too informal "teachers".
 "Please arrange yourselves in some kind of alphabetical order", he announced, "and as I call your name give the envelope to Deputy Johnson. Stop at the box until he deposits your envelope."
 At this point Mr. Matthews opened the thick black book he was holding and began to read, "Section 834, Paragraph B, of the California Education Code states:
 'The teacher will give the envelope to the assigned deputy and the deputy will deposit the envelope in the box as the teacher observes.'"


                                                  (1)


     He snapped shut the book, executed a modified about face and walked back to the table. Both he and the deputy inserted keys in the opposite sides of a white metallic box. The lid sprang up and the two men checked the box to make certain it was empty. With this ritual completed, Mr. Mathews picked up his clipboard from the table and began calling the names, slowly, distinctly, "Mr. Adams...Mrs. Barber...Mr. Bisson..."
 Miss Lilly Carter tried desperately to ignore the tightening nerves in her stomach as she watched her white envelope sink into the box. This was the first year that any of her students really deserved to have his name put into the process. "And Steve Jones did deserve it", she told herself as she was walking down the outside corridor to the first period class, "if anyone deserved it,Steve did."
 Her first period English class was busy doing the assignment on the board. Miss Carter slipped into the chair behind her desk and looked around the class. It was an eighth grade group; she had to remind herself that it was so. Forty students, and every one of them reading or jotting down notes in reference to the assignment. Four years ago she would not have hoped for a class to enter a room by itself and get to work; they would have been dancing in the corridors, squirting water and tossing chalk. No more was there giggling, whispering and daily gum chewing. There was very little day-dreaming, and the actual work was twice as difficult. But it was different now from what it used to be, and it was Selection Day that made the great change. In two years, California soared from forty-second to first place in the standings on the National Tests.
 Lilly Carter knew that it was better this way; it was almost too good. None of the students called her "Cartwheel" anymore, nor did they refer to her as "Silly-Lilly" behind her back--and at one time it wasn't too far behind her back. And she smiled as she recalled the olives someone would leave on her desk each year to remind her of her aging virginity. And the old days of exasperation, of exhaustion, of back-talk, they were only a rancid memory. She used to give them busy-work by the week---to shut them up. Yes, if one considered all the good that came from it, then it was worth it. It was better. But...and she shivered slightly as she thought of the cost.
 She stood up behind the desk. "All right, class," she said in her soft, controlled voice, "I want you to finish this two page character analysis for homework. Since we have a few minutes before the bell, would someone care to discus the approach he is taking?"
 
                                                  (2)

 Twenty hands went up. After sweeping across the class with her eyes, she left them rest on a boy in the end row by the windows. "Dave, let's have your ideas."
 David Green stood erectly beside his desk. "Miss Carter," he began in a voice about to acquire the tonal implications of manhood, "as I am developing the character of MacBeth, I recognize two factors. First, I believe he had a real love for Lady MacBeth; this influenced his thinking process, Second, it seems to me his entire philosophical attitude was a sort of existentialist approach to..." Five hands popped into the air, waving frantically; and the bell rang.
 A seventh grade group was next and she became engrossed working with them on their Chaucer vocabulary. She hurried her lunch in the third period and spent part of that and the following period in correcting a play written by the Drama Club. A ninth grade class was in and out before she realized it and it wasn't until the sixth period class was busy reading that she allowed herself to think about Selection Day. She checked the time. It was 2:30; the process was reaching a climax.
 The district had finished selecting its white envelopes by ten o'clock, by eleven the County Superintendent would have picked out the assigned number of envelopes to be sent to Sacramento. One of the men teachers told her only last week that he understood the envelopes from the counties were to be in the Capital by 2:00 p.m. She was aware, suddenly that the selection must be over by now. Could it be her card that now rested on the Governor's desk?
 She concentrated on the book that lay open on her desk, fighting for control of her thoughts. She sensed her stomach contracting again, and felt a growing moisture on her hands. Impossible odds that it was her card! Impossible! Besides, Steve Jones had six teachers, and even if hers won, it didn't have to be her card. But it was impossible! There were two thousand teachers just in this district, and if he won here he would still have to be selected in the County lottery, and finally that one little envelope would have to be picked out by the Governor. Incredulous how weak the human mind can be, how emotional. What odds! The words of the book came into focus and she did not think about Selection Day until the last class began walking into the room.


                                                  (3)


 This was a slow eighth grade class. The last two weeks had been spent on diagraming complex sentences--an impossible task. This was Steve's class, and she watched him from the corner of her eyes as he sat down in the back of the room. No comment from him today, no dirty remarks, no quick jabs into the ribs of Tommy Prada who sat in front. He was sitting quietly, Miss Carter observed, and he was holding a pencil-- the third time this year that he had brought his own pencil. Selection Day certainly had a direct influence on the very bad angles; there was even a slight tension in the extreme reverse that prevailed before the bell. Four or five in this group might be eligible, although in her opinion, Steve Jones was far out in front.
 She was dictating sentences when the sirens were first heard. By the time she was on the third sentence it was evident they had not continued past on the highway; they were turning onto Bridgeport Road. The shrill sirens made it impossible to continue. She expected the fire alarm to burst forth at any moment. A false alarm? Suddenly, the grotesque noise stopped. There was a dying whine and the only sound came from the P.E. classes far across the field.
 She had finished the forth sentence when they paraded past her windows and stopped by the door. Behind Mr. Matthews were two of the deputy superintendents from the Administration Office. They were, in turn followed by four State Policemen.
 "Pardon me, Miss Carter," the principal said, and without waiting for any reply he opened the door wider. For a moment Mr. Matthews looked around the room. He found his object.
  "Steven Jones, will you please come with us." It was not a question. It was not exactly a command. It was more like the voice of doom.
 He got up and shuffled toward the door, wearing a silly grin on his face and rolling his eyes up to the ceiling for the benefit of his special audience. Both hands were in his pockets, like on the day he had taken his elbow and smashed the pencil sharpener. On another day she had caught him cutting dirty words into the formica table top; he strutted then too. But he was four years too late. The world was moving on. When Steven Jones stepped outside the doorway the hushed class was jarred by the cold click of the handcuffs. Steven Jones was walked away between two policemen. From habit, Mr. Matthews eased the door shut that the class might not be disturbed. Lilly Carter finished dictating sentences five to ten.


 (4)


 Thirty-two years of experience made her more a teacher than a woman; she stuck with her class. Her pulse was thumping as she talked about adverbial connectives, and from her armpits droplets of sweat slowly trickled down her body. She had one of her boys go to the board to write a sentence,but she actually saw Steve Jones. Steve Jones strutting into the gas chamber! How real was the metal room she had never seen! Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock his body would grow limp. Gas pellets were quick. They were painless! Absolutely! That's what they said. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands, forcing herself to think, to rationalize. It wasn't her envelope! It didn't have to be!
 What about the mother? How does a mother feel when the State reaches down and takes her son to sacrifice for the advancement of society? My God! Can anything wash away that bitter taste? A sacrifice for the gods of science! As the bell ended the last period, Lilly Carter followed the class from the room. Clutching the jade brooch pinned to her blouse, she half ran down to the office. She would make them take it back! Take it back! Call the Governor! Threaten suicide? Why hadn't the parents in the other two years tested the law? Get an injunction from the Federal Court? Stop it!
 "Oh Miss Carter, I'm sorry. Mr. Matthews is tied up just mow. You know we had the Selected One this year:' The secretarie's eyes grew big, her voice vibrant with excitement. "Right here, just now, Steven Jones! Mr. Matthews is talking to the parents. Maybe I shouldn't have said it, but..." The telephone rang.
 "Yes, I know. I'll...I'll wait.", Lilly Carter said and the secretary motioned her to a seat while listening to the voice on the phone.
 She sat on a folding chair directly across the hall from the door marked principal. She heard the secretary saying, "Yes right here, today! Just a few minutes ago. Talk about excitement, you can imagine, why..." The door to the office opened slightly and Miss Carter sat transfixed.
 "That $100,000 helps a lot. Actually what it is is for the betterment of our country, to keep ahead of the Russians. Don,t you think, Mr. Matthews?"
 Mr. Matthews was clearing his throat as the door swung completely open. :Yes it is, Mrs. Jones. We have most certainly raised the level of education in California. We have motivated the young people, made their school experiences more meaningful. We are a stronger nation for it. Only, it's so...so bad when it's here, when, when...", he stopped for lack of words.
 
 (5)

 "Oh, it's our duty," the woman said, stepping out into the hall. Her heavy mascara was very slightly spread and she held a handkerchief between her hands. "That tax free $100,000, that helps. That will be nice. We'll get him a real nice funeral and all. Steve, he'd been a trouble maker anyhow. Nothin's not gonna change a kid when he gets Steve's age, you know? He might of caused a lot of bad trouble before he got caught. Now, he's sorta' servin' a great purpose. He's better off this way, ain't he George?"
 With his head, her husband agreed.
 "Well", Mr. Matthews said, again clearing his throat, "you can pick up the check tomorrow from the Superintendent, and you will have six months to decide
whether or not you want to take the Environmental Change Option and relocate in Australia. If you decide to, the State will pay for your trip and buy you a new home down under." He stopped talking and walked them a few steps toward the main office.
 "I think we'll be a movin'," Mr. Jones said.
 "You bet we'll move Mr. Matthews," the woman said as the two of them reached the end of the short hall. "In fact, we've been a savin' a big scrap book on Australia for the last three years. Ever since Stevie took that rock and busted up the toilet bowl over at Jefferson Elementary School. Sydney's nice, so is Melbourne, and then there's Canberra...and..."
 "Well, good luck, folks, I have some things to look after."
 "Same to you, Mr. Matthews," They said almost in harmony and walked out.
 "Miss Carter?"
 She looked at him with a blank mind. Deep inside her latent sense of duty made her say, "Mr. Matthews, I'll need permission to have two evening rehearsals next week."
 "Fine, fine."

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Hi Folks!
 
Windows vista is also causing lots of boot problems, so I often get questions like this:
 
I have a Dell Dimension, which won’t boot to Windows (Vista), and none the repair variants work:
 
Startup repair: Reports repair fail due to problem with registry
 
System Restore: Reports no restore points available
 
Windows Complete PC Restore: Reports no backups available
 
Windows Memory Diagnostic Tool: No memory problems
 
Command Prompt.
Can’t think of any appropriate command to use here.
 
So I booted with the system DVD (as one would with XP) but the upgrade
option has been greyed don’t want to do a clean setup. I want to repair existing
installation.
 
What should I do?
 
--------------------------------------------------------- --
 
And here is the answer:
 
You can't do a 'repair install' because you need to launch the Vista DVD
from within Windows, not, as you have been doing, booting straight from the
DVD; that is why the 'upgrade' is greyed out.
 
If you cannot launch Vista and none of the repair options will work a clean
install is the only other variant.
 
To save problems in future it is actually a good idea to image the hard
drive, using something like True Image. What I do is install operating system, download all updates, check system I working okay for a day or two, activate system, then image the drive/partition. Any time I get a problem I can re-image the drive/partition quickly and be up and running without much trouble. And minor repairs are done by using any registry fix software, there are plenty of them on the market today.
 
Cheers,
Carl

NoT sUavE At ALL

Anyway, I probably shouldn't tell you this but what the hell..am sure if it hasn't happened to you it will soon or later. Yours trully was as usual feeling really good about himself..for a number of reasons but to name a couple; I was presentable and my music was making me smile. This happened in the subway right after leaving Runnymede station heading east in our beloved RED ROCKET. I was listening to the Artist formerly known as Prince.. Musicology!.. subconsciously moving my body to the beat because the brother can sing! Lifting up my eyes, I found myself hypnotized by a pair of eyes from a heavenly dimension..big, clear and kinda soft..naturally, am a boobs man but these eyes were an exception...So like the law of nature intended, I started tracing her territory downwards..thick full lips, a neck meant for a goddess and YES, she had class. ..I know this because I WAS THERE DAMNIT!..she dressed like she had a purpose in life..crisp white shirt tucked into a pair of nice fitting black pants which almost covered her ankles..Open milkish high heels finished the total package look..My body must have betrayed me because when I looked up, a knowing smile on her face made me feel exposed like a hooker in church. All of a sudden the music in my ears sounds like construction noises..I became acutely aware of my movements..Now, I have never danced to construction noises, so you can understand and appreciate how I felt. Her gaze on me remained steady but friendly until I became completely motionless. Now, should I look away or say something? I have never been this clueless !!! "What are you listening to?" The words rang in my ears for what seemed like eternity. Before my frozen brain could process any possible answers i heard my mouth talking; "Nothing"..What the hell? NOTHING? that's what yours trully said..NOTHING! ..."aah, prince..I am listening to prince"..finally an answer worthy of some respect...but now what?..should I add to that?...She saved me again by mentioning that she loves the singer..All I could do was state the obvious.."I love him too"..what? did I just say "i love prince"?? WTF?? "I mean I love HIS music", I corrected myself much to her pleasure..now she has absolute control on this situation..and the HUGE SMILE on her face is her trophy..I started looking for an exit strategy..THANK GOD for High Park station..yours trully managed a somewhat dignified exit with a quick.."ok cya" then i vanished... NOT SUAVE AT ALL!

Introduction:

It had always seemed strange to him that people acted as they did, but never strange enough for him to take any time out of his day to delve into the situation too deeply.
 This is not to say, however, that he connected with absolutely no one, and, in fact, most who knew him would have pinned him as quite the sociable and likeable fellow. And he was. His friends, although in reality had absolutely no idea who he actually was, were viewed under a more than positive light. They were genuine, funny, and most of all, intelligent.
 At this point in the story, some explaining will be in order, however, it must be stated that our friend did not believe that most people were, by any measure, intelligent. On the contrary, he was fairly convinced that aside from perhaps some unthinkably small percent of the human population, people were largely foolish and slow. But what disturbed him the most was what appeared to be an inability, or a lack of desire, to actually understand.
 He had always felt this way, but unfortunately had never been able to lend any sort of useable definition to what it was that they didn’t understand, and that he did understand. On several occasions, he had even contemplated his own insanity, believing them to be the one’s who understood, and he the lone, confused soldier who still stands proudly armed years after the war has ended.
 But he was not, and he had never even held a gun. All jeers aside, this word, understand, followed him around like an assassin, slowly planning the moment when our friend’s time was up. The assassin’s scope was never far from his temple, and with each person he interacted with, he knew the trigger finger was slowly tightening.
 
 Are we dealing with some metaphysical maniac, here, you may ask? Does this personal truly believe that the essence of an indefinable English word is following him around, ready to snipe and flee? Let us hope not. For if that may be the case, the book to following will be a disturbingly large waste of time, and our new friend a complete and utter dunce. On that note, let us continue.

hi all this is my story for world of wercraft im 10 so bear wiht me ok its not the best splling i got ok so enjoy

                              the wer is on
  
             

                      i did not do much on my durd its lvl 6 going on lvl 7 so win i get to lvl 10 i can chang into a bear and keep up with my lvl 30 friends i want to ironforg to get some stff realy amor and a new weopon so it will do for now till lvl 10 noting to do form ther out
                            PART 2
             
                          ok i went noth of stomwind to goldshier on the battle feld and i was on my alt xkiller hes lvl 4 i went pvp and ther lvl 70 blood elf ther he killed me 3 times the end
   


 I KNOW IT SUCKED I WAS BETER WIRTING IT SO YA LOL IF YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME ABOT IF YOU WANT MY HELP IM NOT REALY LVL 6 MY MAIN IS LVL 21 I JUST NOW PLAY MY DURID SO IF YOU WANT HELP EMAIL ME AT HOLLERATME4@HOTMAIL.COM THANK YOU.

Hiya Everyone..
I write short stories and poems.
This is one of my stories.
Please read it and give me your thoughts.
Send them to brokenhrt101@gmail.com
Thanks a bunch.

***

Losing It…
“Kristen! Are you all right!?” Aunt Rebecca yelled as soon as she entered the hospital room. I just smiled weekly as her reply.
 “I’ve been better.” She ran towards me and threw her arms around my neck.
 “I will be forever grateful for what you did today! You came in front of that truck to save my s-son! “ She broke on the last word and burst into tears on my shoulder. I stroked her hair awkwardly.
 “Hey, you know what? It’s fine. No permanent damage, but my legs did really hurt running towards Aaron. After getting pregnant, I don’t think I ever ran like that.” I laughed at the end, but Aunt Rebecca didn’t join in. In fact, she looked even paler then she did when she first came in the room. Soon, I saw Damien at the door.
 “Damien, what did—“I cut short. I noticed something. Something that made me draw my breath in. He was crying. “Damien, I’m fine! Look, it’s me!” This made him smile ever so slightly and he came towards me. He sat at the edge of my bed, leaned in and kissed my forehead softly. When he got up I took hold of his hand. “Damien, is something bugging you?” I asked, wishing that the answer was no. But his grip on my hand got a little tighter.
 “Kristen…” He trailed off after that. I was growing impatient now.
 “Damien, what is it?” I was hoping I kept my impatience on the down-low, but I could even hear it myself.
 “Kristen, somebody died in the accident.” He looked into my eyes. I was confused now.
 “But there was only me, Aaron, and that truck driver. Aaron was fine, the truck driver didn’t look damaged at all. Who could have died? ” I asked skeptically. But then all of a sudden it dawned on me.
 “Damien…was it…?” I trailed off, feeling the tears gathering in my eyes as it sunk in. He sullenly nodded, keeping his own eyes down.
 “It was our b-baby.” He choked up at the end and he too put his arms around me. I tucked my head in his shoulder and cried. I could feel his tears dropping on my head. I don’t know how long we sat like that, crying. All I kept thinking was God, why? Ever since me and Damien had gotten married last spring, we both really wanted a baby. And when I got pregnant, we were the happiest people in the world. But now…
 “Kristen, your father is here and he wants to see you.” Aunt Rebecca announced at the door. I didn’t realize that she had left the room. Damien got up and I straightened up. My father? Why would he be here?
 “No, don’t let him in.” At the name of even mentioning my father, his evil doings replayed like a movie in my head. Every night, after my mother died, he would get drunk and would beat me up for no apparent reason. He was never happy with me. He would remind me ever day or when ever he got the chance that I was a big screw up. And he wasn’t drunk when he would say that. Once when I was 13 years old, he had hurt me so much, I ran away to go live with Aunt Rebecca. Ever since then she had been my guardian.
 “Kristen, I think you should let him in.” I looked at Aunt Rebecca as if she had 3 heads. But her eyes were very serious.
 “Have you lost it?” I blurted out. But she shook her head.
 “No, I haven’t Kristen, but you have to forgive. Your father looks like he will break down if he doesn’t see you. And the Lord said that you have to love your enemies.” You see? This is what you get for having a Christian aunt: Preaching for little things when ever she got the chance.
 “But Aunt Rebecca, he doesn’t even know that Damien and I are married! What if the doctor talked to him and he knows that the baby died?” I could just imagine his reaction.
 “Tell him now then, no better time like the present.” I just looked at her. She gave Damien a look and he nodded. They both left my room. I gave a huge sigh and fell back in my pillow, awaiting my doom.
 My father came rushing into my room, Damien at his heels. He mouthed the words “I’ll be right here.” I nodded slightly.
 I braced myself but what came to me was shock. My father had his arms around me, not strangling, but hugging. I could tell my shock showed and Damien’s too, but my dad didn’t notice. I guess Damien thought we were having a father-daughter moment so he left the room, but watched us through the window. Oh boy, did I regret him leaving.
 As soon as my dad realized Damien left, he got off me. He whipped out his hand and slapped me across the face, hard. I didn’t even have time to defend myself.
 “You stupid b*tch! The doctor says you lost your baby! I want to know what damn baby?!” He was yelling and Damien ran in the room and grabbed hold of him, but that didn’t stop him from yelling. Of course, Damien spoke up. At least, he tried to.
 “Mr. Harrison—“
 “Your not even f—king married!” He started screaming now. I started crying and put my hand on my stinging cheek.
 “Dad!” I screamed, as soon as he tried to lunge towards me again, but didn’t succeed because of Damien’s grip. “I am married!” This made everything freeze. “Dad, meet my husband, Damien.” Dad slowly turned to face him, then back at me. That was when he lost it.
 “You’re married?! And you didn’t even tell you father?!” He kept on yelling and yelling. “You retarded b*tch! What the f—k is wrong with you?! I knew you were a screw up but this--” By now Uncle Peter, Aunt Rebecca’s husband, came and helped Damien drag him out. I broke down on my pillow and cried and cried. I felt a hand on my shoulder moments later.
 “He won’t be coming back now.” I reached back and grabbed Damien’s hand. I scooted over and made room for him to sit down next to me and he did. I suddenly threw my arms around his neck and buried my head in his shoulder. He out his head on top of mine and kept saying things like “Love, don’t worry, it’ll be okay.” I wanted to ask him how, but resisted.

REVIEWS?

The Bird, No End.

 I’ve never really seen you, though I see you every day. Almost, every day. Your eyes are the only thing that gives you away; they are the only part of you that conveys something deeper inside you, something more then your eccentric exterior. The window to your soul, the window no one ever looks into, because you close the blinds and the shutters, and you make them look away. You make them all look away. Your hair is long and dread locked, dried up, and braided with dark coloured ribbons, of dirty purples and blue. I think it could be nice if you let it down sometime, clean and loose around your face, but that’s not you. Long hair is a shield, as if you’re trying to hide behind it, hide parts of you, but you don’t care do you? You have nothing to hide, nothing that needs to be shielded and hidden behind a long curtain of darkness. But you do. You have lots that you keep hidden. That no one finds. That no one looks for. Because you won’t let people look.
 I notice when your not there. I notice everything. Almost, everything. I noticed your sketch in class one day, you were sitting in front and to the side of me, I could see it over your shoulder, you weren’t trying to hide it, you have nothing to hide. It was a bird in a cage. The cage wasn’t made of metal or wire, the cage was made of marble, of bones, and stone. But the cage was open. The bird was free but it was caged. It didn’t understand it then. You wouldn’t have told me if I asked. I told you I liked it, I said you had talent. You walked away from me and through it in the nearest bin, a rejected crumpled ball, that wasn’t good enough, because someone else thought it was. And it felt as if you through away me, a rejected crumpled ball, that wasn’t good enough, though I never thought I was. I picked it up; I have it on my wall. Is that weird? Do you think it’s weird? Do you think I’m weird? Do you think about me at all? I tore at my head trying to understand. A free bird, in a cage made of bone. A cage made of stone, with no door. I didn’t understand it, I didn’t understand you. I do now. I do now.
 I look at you and see freedom. I see something I can never grasp. Almost never. I think that maybe that’s why I’m drawn to you, and maybe that’s why you’re drawn away from everyone and everyone from you. I am not drawn away. I am pushed. Pushed by your freedom. You represent freedom to me, in a different way then norm though, I don’t see open expression, I don’t see open plains, or wide skies on which you fly. I don’t see endless space. And I don’t see vast spaces of nothing. The doors are always closed on you. No one really directs talk at you, or asks you questions, yet they wouldn’t tease or torment you. They wouldn’t dare. It’s like an unspoken code, that you exist and are to be left that way. I think that’s why your freedom. No one looks your way. You won’t let them look. You won’t let them see. You won’t let me in. And in that you are free. But I don’t think it’s that simple. I think that you in a way aren’t free, you are caged inside the openness of the world. The sky doesn’t cover, it swallows. There is freedom yes, on the outside, the part that you cannot hide. The part that you can hide, that you do, there is the cage. The bird is you.
 I told you that, one day at school. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Almost, didn’t. It came up before I could stop it, and you reacted before you could stop it. The bird is you, I said, quietly, but so you could hear. You looked at me, straight into my eyes, nodded once, and said, no end. And time and place ceased. Everyone, thing and it ceased to exist. The orbit ceased. And I was strangely there. I was more there then I had ever been, and you had already looked away and gone. No end. I didn’t even have to think, I thought I understood, the bird was the key, the bird is you. You are the bird, the world is your cage, and there is no end. Eternity has no idea, therefore stop digging. No end.
 I didn’t want to speak to you again. I didn’t want to approach you. Almost, didn’t. So I wrote a note, an almost letter and next to it I drew the bird, I drew you. I wrote;
 Bird,
No end.
I understand.
Eternity has no end, therefore stop digging.
The cage is open Bird,
Fly away.
I understand.
 And you returned the note, the almost letter, the piece of myself back, you put it by my bag at the end of one class. You wouldn’t do it in person. I would though. You wrote next to my scrawl, you finished the sentence. You wrote;
 Eternity has no end, therefore stop digging. Stop digging. Stop digging. Stop digging.
 I wondered if you were compulsive. I wondered what you meant by that. Then I noticed the bird, I noticed the pencil rendition of you. Your eye was now the symbol of eternity, the snake eating its tail. And so we returned to the dark ages. We sent letters to one another. We wrote down our souls. I drew you, and you edited. You drew meanings that I couldn’t quite grasp; only once did you explain. I tried to understand. Sometimes your words got fewer. Sometimes all you wrote was no end. I called you Bird, you didn’t call me anything. I didn’t have a name, I never signed my name. I was the nothing of us. And then one day, you explained.
 No End,
Black and white is not straightforward. It is a reference used often as a means to simplify things. If I were to write myself in black and white it would take a life time. And yet I drew myself in black and white. And I rid myself of it. And you found it. I gave myself, without meaning it, at all, to you. The cage is inside me. You understand that. The bird is me. You understand that. The cage is not however metal, this you don’t understand. This you won’t understand without this, without me. Marble and bone and stone, represent death and knowledge and lies. Marble is death, because it will always survive. Marble is a strong rock, and in death we survive. The cage will never die, it will never leave. The bird is always caged. Bone, is knowledge, it is the structure and picture of our form, the protector of our brains, and therefore our knowledge, our security, our power. Power is breakable, as are bones; knowledge however is everlasting, as are bones. Stone is a single word resembling the cliché, written in stone, finality and truth, hence also the lies. There is no beginning to this cage, and no end to it. It will always remain.
 No End.
 It was only ever once a quote. All the other times I wrote it down; I wrote it as a name. A symbol of what you are. If I am Bird, then you are No End. I am Freedom, you are Eternity.
 I’ve never really seen you, though I see you every day. Almost, every day. You exposed to much of yourself to me in that letter. And you never wrote back. You let someone in. You opened your window and filled your lungs with clean air. They’ll never look at you again. They’ll never try, they never did. You won’t let them, you wouldn’t let them. There is one difference though. There’s now someone sitting beside you. Someone else who is different, who hides their eyes and doesn’t talk anymore and doesn’t let people look, and they don’t try. By they don’t leave her alone either. They’ll never leave me alone. I’m the girl that will always sit beside you, some days we’ll talk. Some days we’ll draw together. But they’ll always torment, and tease, they’ll throw every ounce of self hate and issue into my being, I’m the easy target now, you even painted a bull’s eye on my forehead one day. I laughed at myself, at them, at you, at the world. And the world laughed at me. I still have your picture, but it’s been edited. The cage around you has a door now. I am your door. You shut your cage, but you shut me in. And now neither of us can get out. But neither of us will let the other in. Bird and No End. Everything and Nothing.
And you said one day, It’s the end, No End.

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You wake in the morning and go through your daily routine... grip some towels, jump in the shower... you get out you do your stuff and then you maybe grab some stuff to eat... you walk out your front door and stand there... you pause... you think to your self... why am I here, no why am I really here you don’t know where your off to.. Maybe school, work, or just to chill with some people... so why do all this, why live every day is there a meaning is there some purpose to the whole human fucking race??.. What the fuck.
You go to school to learn “skills” that you “need”, and they say you got to know all that shit for what??.. To get a fucking job... why get a job?? To make money to live off of... and it goes in the circle... and you stuck right back to where you first started. Now what?
 Some people say life is all you need... now be more pacific... right this very second stop and think to your self... what do I live for? Now right this very second picture that in your mind... go deep... what do you thrive for... maybe money? No… fame and power? No fuck that...
 I’ve gone over t it many times... and it’s simple... Love... and the search for hopefully one day finding that One person that means everything to you... the person man or woman that makes you feel like nothing ells matters and that you would give up anything and or everything for them.. Unfortunately the search for that one person is where it ends... keep looking...
now when I say love its not just love for that one person... its what you have for your friends... never ever loose a good friend.. A true friend is all ways there for you... and not at all because of what you an offer them... and love for what you have a passion for... anything from skateboarding, art, dodo I could name a million,
 So I'm not trying to get all emo or what ever on you but if you really think... your just living in a cycle that you need to break... go after what you really want at all costs.. Enjoy living by knowing that your getting closer to that one thing... don’t have short term goals... reach for what you really want... something that’s so far ahead of you it almost seems impossible not matter what and one day you will get there.. Live life one day at a time and see where it takes you... Its one huge adventure that can take you anywhere

Last time around, I got into a bad way. I was caught red handed leaving a store I just robbed. The money was needed; partly for a fix, partly for food. Now I wasn't new to this and could usually talk my way out of these situations . However, on this occasion, when confronted by three officers with their weapons drawn, I had nothing to say .I always thought running out of words would be the end of the line. I could have tried to communicate in tones and expressions, but the police would never of understood. They would have seen me as a threat, an insult to their stasis. I could have thrown my hands up but they may of just capped me in the knee. So I decided that if I charged them, I would get in too close for them to use firearms. I balled up my fist with rage and fury of all those dead without meaning. I knocked the deputy off his feet, slipped past his backup and took off toward the woods. They fired their sidearms, but God's plan would not have me die with my back turned. Run and run, pant, sweat, lungs bursting with blood vessels. I soldiered on, toward the east, where the land would shortly run out. It takes time to organize a search. They call in the dogs and the department from the next town. By then I led by at least a mile. I stopped to regain my bearings, placed my back against an oak and looked up. I was too tired for poetics, but thought to myself that the stars would make a great hiding place. There I would have the higher ground, and always be looking down. I came to a pool of water reflecting the sky; the result of a creek that lost it's flow. I splashed my face, knowing not to drink. My t-shirt had gotten wet and I figured it is only dead weight any. When the dogs found it they likely caught my scent. Having been a bloodhound, I know their minds. Domestication, food, if not then bark. Showing guts only to sway the bitch to breed. I did well but it didn't suit me. Behind me, I saw flashlights, broken up by trees. They were faint but spread out, scowering the brush. I thought they were hoping to find me like a rabbit, and claim my hide for their mantles. If I thought less, I'd of cooperated. Honesty would be virtue. I would be released in 25; my withered hands and creased face trophies of my defiant younger days. Where would a felon turn after years confined to four walls; to his trade to make ends meet, or to the broken verse of the King James Bible (dictated from the One but edited at will). There is no end to the cycle, and I decided that this would be my last stand. I rubbed my stinging thighs, and used my forearm to clear my brow. Again I started running, dodging bushes and brush; the hunted in a game only the prey takes to heart. A fox with all his wisdom still gets pulled from his hole by a cavalry with muskets and high spirits. For what crime? Theft of a chicken among many, from a farmer with a surplus. With yelping mouths to feed and territory to defend, he is put to death without trial. Without defense or reason. If they caught me I would surely be dead. The flora changed from ancient trees extending skyward, to saplings; new growth. I charged through these , bending the branches, snapping those that wouldn't. If the forest had only known I wasn't with the machines. That I was just a fleeing animal, a passerby meaning no harm I couldn't repay. With each crunch of a leaf and snap of a twig, I learned she could not differentiate between cold steel and my soft flesh. I was as guilty as the anxious woodsman sharpening their axes. Metal aiding metal. The land began to slope downward. Brush became pasture; pasture became bog. Praying for the shoreline , I continued on. With no other choice, I waded into stagnant water; first to my knees and then to my waist. My pace slowed but never faltered. The waters were thick; filled with the essence of dead or dying things. Or the living ones I could never have hoped to understand. With each step I feared being sucked under, and dissolved by natural forces. And my soul would have to linger in this place of little beauty. Maybe I would have grown accustomed. It may be a different place under sunlight. Far back the hounds howled, the beams from the flashlights were dim, but still headed toward me. I imagined the law officials being led by lesser beasts. With their itchy fingers and big bellies, performing their duties to the chirps of walkie-talkies. I still had my pursuers by a mile. But distance between them and I was the only shelter that could have given me any solace. I thought perhaps they would stop where the water stagnants. The dogs would lose the scents amidst the decay and waste. The men could have clocked out and returned to their apartments. Patted each other on the backs and left their safeties off. Exhausted from the chase, and unsure how far the bog ran, I decided to find a place to rest. I pulled myself up onto a wobbly mound of earth and moss. I dripped the murky water back down to its source. It was nearly dawn. The birdsong were all for me. About being hungry. About being alive. As the the sun rose the sky became purple then pink. Steam lingered around the dark water and rotting branches, but daylight changed everything. The expanse of mud, still water and wood shined in a way only that time of day can reveal. Like earth when it was new, untouched and eager to foster life. A sanctuary among the dead and dying essence of it all. And there I sat on a throne of moss and mud, presiding over a kingdom only I was fit to rule. My reverie was broken by the pounding of chopper blades. It moved quick, cutting the air as it searched for a target. They passed too far north but continued to circle back until they had their blood. I was on the move again. A king in exile. The water was no longer a hindrance, it moved me toward my escape. I didn't know how then, but didn't have time to question it. Putting miles behind me, I could see a change in terrain not very far ahead. Quickening my pace, I rushed toward dry land and deliverance from the spiteful sights of the lawmen. My heart pumped fast; my breath had left me unable to hear the chopper returning. It peeked over the tree line, and flew directly toward me. I was exposed. Upon spotting me the aircraft decreased speed and headed back from where it came. Staying on course, I eventually reached the end of the bog. I stepped out of the water directly onto pavement. The sounds of sirens and freeways replaced my heavy breaths. The police were waiting, ready to deal with me in whatever way was most convenient. Squad cars flashed their lights; officers cocked their rifles and handguns. They were no longer aiming at my knees, these shots would be for the kill. Extending my arms and palms forward, I walked the pavement slowly toward them. I tried to take it all in. Looking at the cops faces I saw through the bravado, these men weren't killers. I was sure these men had on occasion stayed up into the night feeling small next to the universe. They were just doing their duty- what they have always been told is right. They were no more at fault then a child reared by an abusive father. "Get down on the ground, Hands behind your head" I continued to slowly approach the waiting police. I thought about the cops children, and their children's children. I thought about my father and his father, and his father's father. "GET DOWN ON THE GROUND, HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD" And it all seemed so simple and so complex. The uncertainty of life is the reason it is worth living. Answering the big questions takes something away from it. "This is your final warning, do as we say or we will be forced to engage you" The crimes I had committed were minor in regard to the grand scheme. It is just circumstance that placed me on that side of the loaded guns. I wondered if there was really any definitive 'right' or 'wrong'. I wondered what the pavement covered over... BANG BANG The first shot put me down, the second is the one that took my life. Picture perfect too, right between the eyes. It happened so fast I didn't feel a thing. I've been returned to my kingdom- in the moss creeping over mud. And in mist hovering lazily above it. And in the murky water, pulling down the dead so they can be used again.

this is part of a short story ive written, its a bit on the strange side but i worked hard on it. id really like to hear some feedback wether it be good or bad.

 A vast plain stretched out under a searing sun and pure blue sky. Small tufts of shrubbery and scraggly trees poked their way out of the parched soil. Wisps of smoke drifted steadily into the darkening sky from a secluded camp. It was hard living out on the plains but some hardy people had managed to find a decent life out here. Not too far away from the camp, a young woman ran steadily and determinedly towards the smoke, pursued by dark and nameless terrors. She was a stunningly beautiful woman. Slim, even in pregnancy, she had delicately sculpted features and wavy black hair that fell to her knees. Intense green eyes were filled with fear at capture and her soft lips were parted in a wordless prayer. She ran a hand over her swollen belly and realized she had not long to go. She knew she would be safe at the camp; her pursuers wouldn’t dare reveal themselves to mortal eyes. After what seemed an eternity of running, she made it to the edge of the camp and her pursuers hissed and swore at her but did not come near the camp. She looked back at them and sighed in relief as they turned around and went back the way they came. Exhaustion overcame her as she was found by two of the plainspeople and carried to a tent and she passed happily into a deep sleep.
 As the morning sun rose in the sky, the young woman awoke and quickly looked around to make sure she was safe. An elderly woman smiled at her kindly and handed her a cup of hot tea. She took it and nodded in thanks to the old woman. She got up and wandered around the camp, speaking to no one, telling them neither her name nor how she came to be here. She accepted their food and hospitality but said not a word. After about a week, the pains started and the elderly woman who stayed with her in the tent rushed to help her deliver her baby. Soon, a baby girl had entered the world. The old woman looked at the child and gasped with fear for the baby was in no way human. Its eyes were yellow and slit-pupiled and its ears were pointed. But the strangest thing about it was that it was covered in a coat of soft silvery white fur. The young woman spoke for the first time.
 “Her name shall be Sabriel and you must guard her with your life for as you can see she is a very special child. Do not ever leave her side and let not the terrors of darkness come near her for she is all of humanity’s hope.” After this strange speech, the woman lay down and died. The old woman looked at the girl and wondered if she should simply throw the abomination in a sack and leave it for the buzzards. But the young woman’s words had disturbed her and she wondered how this freak of nature could save all of humanity. This speculation led to even more questions. What was threatening humanity anyways? Why did the young woman just die? Who could have been the child’s father? The old woman sighed and carried the infant out to see what the rest of the camp had to say about it and see if there might be someone willing to take in the child for she was too old to be playing nurse for a strange furry child. As she walked to the center of the camp, many people stared incredulously at the small bundle in her hands. They had never seen anything like it.
 “The silent one who has been with us this week has died after bearing her child. As you can see, it is no normal child but it still needs care. Do we leave it to join its mother or is there one here that will care for it?”
 “I will care for it”, called a man in the crowd. His name was Leland and he had just lost his wife and daughter to a horrible sickness. He strode up to the old woman and took the child into his arms. The terrible blow to his heart at the loss of his beautiful wife and daughter was partly healed by the baby girl in his arms. He immediately felt a rush of love for the poor motherless child and told himself he would never let anyone or anything ever harm her. He would protect her with his life and do everything to make her happy.
 “Did her mother give her a name?” he asked
 “Yes, her name is Sabriel, replied the old woman.
 “Sabriel…. a strange name for a strange child”, Leland said. “But no matter how strange I shall care for her and try and be a mother as well as a father to her.”
 “Before her mother died, she imparted some very strange words upon me that think you must hear as the guardian of this child. Come into the tent with me for they are for your ears alone,” said the old woman.
Leland sat outside his tent and pondered the words the old woman had told him. The child had curled up at his feet like a dog and had fallen asleep. He wondered what could happen to humanity and what the terrors of the darkness were. These thoughts unsettled him and he went back inside the tent, taking the girl with him. Gently, he put her in the bed that his daughter had used. He wiped away a tear and silently said a last goodbye. This strange infant was his daughter and his life now.
 Eight years had passed since the strange child came into their camp. By this time the plainspeople had become accustomed to her odd habits and bizarre way of talking. Often times she was found talking to the dogs in the camp and she spoke with a peculiar growling voice that was hard to understand. Another thing was her odd eating habits. She ate mostly red meat and insisted on going on hunting trips with her father and the rest of the men. She used no weapons to hunt with but instead hunted with her unusually sharp teeth and the long claws that had developed when she was about five. The only thing that really unsettled Sabriel’s adopted father was that she constantly wanted to wander. She had heard tales of lands where tall trees grew and water flowed through grass covered hills where strange animals roamed such as things called squirrels. Mostly animals here were just jackrabbits, vultures, and some wild boars. She had never even seen a squirrel and idly wondered what they would taste like. She resolved that one day she would travel to these strange lands. She had a good life and her father was a good man but she felt like she just didn’t belong. She did not like the harsh sun and landscape and mostly stayed inside which was quite boring. She felt the urge to travel and planned for the day she would leave the camp.
 Eight more years later, a circus came to the camp. This was a new experience to Sabriel and almost everyone else. The last time the circus came around, she was too young to even remember. The circus only came around once in many years. She was overwhelmed by it all. She passed by the caged animals and saw a large gray wolf in one. It looked at Sabriel and immediately gave a bark of surprise.
 “What is wrong, wolf-brother?” asked Sabriel
 “He promised he would sire no children,” muttered the wolf.
 “Excuse me, but what do you mean wolf-brother?” she asked politely.
 “I am called Sameth and I know your father, young wolf-sister.”
 “Can you take me to him?” she asked excitedly.
 “If you would set me free, I would gladly take you to him. But choose wisely, wolf-sister, for many perils would you face along the way. There are those that would love to have you for their dark plans but fear being seen by mortal eyes. I would do my best to protect you, but I may not be enough. You are safe here but I sense a yearning to travel in you.”
 “Oh yes, wolf-brother, I will set you free and we shall travel to the lands of trees and squirrels!”
 “Squirrels”, Sameth growled, “are the most annoying and impudent creatures I have ever met. You would like them.”
 Sabriel was overcome with joy. Now was her chance to get out of this wasteland! She would feel sorry at leaving her father but she had to find her true father and this wolf could take her! She checked to see that no one was looking as she quickly stole the keys and set the wolf free.
 “Quickly, wolf-sister! We must make haste!”
 Sabriel nodded and got on all fours, signaling to the wolf that she was ready. They ran off, the large wolf leading and Sabriel not far behind. The wind streamed past her, ruffling her fur and she let out a feral howl of joy. They ran on for hours until Sabriel thought she would drop from exhaustion. Finally Sameth stopped and told her that they would rest here that night. She sighed with relief and lay beneath a small bush thinking of the freedom she now had. She felt very sad at leaving Leland but promised herself that she would come back to see him again. Sleep overcame her and she welcomed it, reveling in the sweet night air.

Crow’s chicks,
                                       A true story.


                    The crow’s caw caw were always harsh to my ears as I never liked the tone of it’s dull sound, reminding me the occurrence when I was bang pecked by a crow on my head twice, while too eager to come near to it’s nest to watch the hatching of chicks from a roof top. The unusual curiosity to watch that bird’s nest, its eggs, and the coming out of chicks came from reading of the text in my school days, lesson describing; how a cuckoo deceives the crow by laying her egg in the crow’s nest.
                       When I shifted to reside in a flat near Safari park, Karachi, that inquisitiveness suddenly became a reality. As one day, I saw the he-crow and she- crow difficult to distinguish, picking twig by twig from nearby areas, and making a nest on a triangular niche of a tree at the front of my lounge’s large steel bar grilled window.
                          My interest grew day by day as I watched the birds lay the eggs under the safety of my protected window at same elevation as that of crow’s nest on a bough. The craftiness of crows thrilled me as one crow protected the nest; the other sat on the eggs, turning it occasionally by its beak, sometimes by talons to incubate it uniformly. In addition, how the husband was feeding the hungry wife on eggs with food from it mouth or vise versa, some times stashing the breadcrumbs into the small berries closely knit bunches for urgent situation nourishment needs.
                    Suddenly one day, rare to the area, a whistling cyclone hit the town with winds roaring like howling hyenas. I went to window, was sad to see the trees swinging like a pendulum in blinding storm, many fell down and some branches of the tree on which crow’s nest positioned also fell, making me certain that eggs and nest were gone to the wind.
                     Next day it rained heavily and I was unable to spot the crow’s nest, as the visibility was poor, birds were hiding away somewhere for their refuge from harsh weather. I was unable to spot the crows for three days, but the nest was safely perched as if the clever birds were aware of incoming of cyclone and chosen the strongest branch to make the nest. My disillusionment at the loss of crows hatching eggs turned into delight on a sunny day, when I saw fledglings were chirping in the nest, crows were feeding them through their beaks and my observation that only two chicks were hatched proved incorrect later.
                I watched that while one crow was guarding the chicks from predators such as kites, other was out to procure food. The chicks were growing day-by-day and always famished showing their empty stomach through their open beaks, but their parents fed them well, enduring their own hunger for the sake of their young ones.
                 A loud caw caw from many crows in unison compelled my to rush to my watch as I saw many crows protesting for some swindle they saw and the father crow engaged in a fight with dark black looking fledgling, it was a murder of crows as some literati say o flock of that bird. Soon I realized that it was cuckoo’s chick and crows had realized that reality when it grew large enough to be distinguished between their own chick and an alien’s hatchling. From somewhere cuckoo by its melodic coo called and its chick prevailed upon the crows, warded them off through its sharp talons, and fell from the clutches of foster crows to go to her real mother in the nearby bush.
                After few days, the chicks had grown enough to hop out of nest with their parents watching them always, but had no wings to fly. They jumped from one bough to another, and then were able to take short flights to nearby trees only never the less protected by their parents from falling over.
                         Another incident happened as I saw many kites hovering over the crow’s nest and as many crows, crowing at their level best clamor, that drew me to window to know what had happened. I assumed that as kites were zooming over the crow’s nest, birds of prey might took away one or two chicks of crow by swooping on the nest with talons full open for an easy grab of fledgling. However, the next morning I was happy to note that all the chicks were roosting well in their nest, after some days, they flew away to some distance places and nest became desolate.
                  The close of crow’s chick watching came one day, when I saw the mother crow fuming, her feathers looking like hedge hog’s fluff as her still young crows sitting on the same bough where nest was standing, wanted food from their parents by opening their beaks towards her, and it seemed to me that she was saying,
                   “Go; search your own food now.”
           Bird watching is a great fun as procreation goes on, in a case, when a crow does not peck at you on the head at your bird observation.

         Written by M. R Rambler.

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hi........i'm mallory and my friend was recently killed and i am kinda a dancer so i guess this makes my story sort of auto-biographical.............it's called Cherry's Life.
Tell me what u guys think



Cherry Heart headed towards the club’s stage. She was a five foot four go-go dancer. She had teasing full red lips. She had dark wavy hair that was full and luscious. She had icy blue eyes that pierced the audience when she looked at them. She had muscular legs and arms and a flat tummy. She slowly began to rock back and forth. “Oh great,” she thought, “That old horny rich guy is center stage again.” She loathed having to dance for an old fruit cake like him. He came in to watch her shake her tiny little butt and to watch her do her thirtieth useless talent….Go-go dancing. It was the only thing that could bring her completely to tears in front of everyone she hated. She hated the people in her audience. Those old losers that snuck out of their houses after their decrepit wives had fallen asleep. Or the young kids that probably snuck in the back way. But most of all she hated the drunken assholes that came in and expected all the girls to shag him after they were done on stage. They were always the attractive guys that girls sit on street corners and think, “I wonder why a hottie like that is single?” “Well ladies,” thought Cherry, “I can tell you why. They are those jerks who get drunk every night, and if they are too sober, well that’s when the problems begin. You see, they are the guys who are jerks when they are sober and jerks when they are drunk. In fact the only time they weren’t complete and total asses is when they are asleep.”
 Cherry began to dance to the familiar Planet Terror music that the creator of the club she worked for loved so much. She was always told that she could have been someone great if she had tried. “Well this is about as great as I have ever been.” she thought. It wasn’t exactly true and she knew it. Maybe that’s why after she danced, and on a very rare occasion, when she danced she cried her little blue eyes out. It was always a known fact that she was one of the most beautiful girls ever to live in her small town in Oklahoma. In fact it could be argued that she was one of the sexiest women ever to dance in the entire south. But of course, there is a reason why dance clubs like this one are next to a bar.
 As she was shaking her hair, turning around and then dancing towards her pole, she began to tear up, again. Her friend had just been brutally murdered and she wanted answers she knew she would never get. She wanted to know why on earth Destiny had ever gone to that crazy boyfriend’s house. She knew why he had killed her. Destiny, no matter what anyone said, was not a whore. She didn’t want to sleep with that jerk and he strangled her to death, and then took what he had wanted so badly he had killed her for it. It made Cherry sick, and she wanted to do some pretty serious damage to that jerks face and all his other “precious” parts. She hadn’t been allowed to do any of those things and she was currently being charged with battery, she hit his whore of a mother when she dared to show her wrinkled chubby face at Destiny’s funeral. Like she cared, she would pay a fine and be given a higher dose of Lithium. All the wrath she felt came from knowing that there was nothing she could have done to save Destiny. Oh well…like any of it mattered anymore. She worked a crappy job as a go-go dancer and she was never happy. “Why should I be happy? My job sucks and a bunch of middle aged alcoholics stare at my ass all day.” she thought when she came down from the pole and began to swing her hips and hands in time with the music. She loved moving her body like that. It always made her feel extremely free. The shitty pay and creeps was not very good benefits and she threatened to quit her job at least four times a week. Of course she was the clubs jewel, so she could never quit. Not only would all of her friends be put on the streets, but she would no longer have a source of income. As shitty as it was, she needed it to survive. “What would I do without my $500 a week? I wouldn’t be able to pay rent.” It was these agonizingly true statements that made her feel even more miserable. The song ended and she stroked her famous ending pose. Hands above the head, back arched and one foot up. The small, drunk crowd cheered lazily and then waited for the next song to start. Cherry looked over to the other dancers that were on stage. “They’re all hopeless losers. Not one of them is ever going to get out of this place. Not alive, at least. Everyone knows what happens to dancers after a while,” she thought to herself angrily. She rehashed in her mind the last girl who thought she was getting out. She was found beaten to death in her apartment by a guy who tried to rape her. The girls who “got out” weren’t protected anymore from the creeps who would otherwise own most of the girls at the club. There was no way to escape and that frightened Cherry just as much as it infuriated her. “I was going places. I would have been one of those women who would be writing about the horrors of places like these, not living them. Oh well, nothing is going to change the fact that rent is due and I don’t have it. Nothing is going to change the fact that I have a shitty job, live in a crappy apartment, and I can barely pay for food,” she muttered to herself. There was only a couple hours left till she could go back to her house. But of course home wasn’t really home anymore, was it? She couldn’t think of the last time she had gotten home and the shit hadn’t really hit the fan. “Cherry, get a hold of yourself! You only have to finish a few more songs and then you can leave and go to sleep.” She pondered the probability of her actually getting a good night’s sleep and then decided to take a lot of NyQuil before she went to sleep. As she swung her hair she saw the man in the first row spill his whiskey and soda water. It was dark amber with the strength of the whiskey. She knew that this wasn’t his first, explaining why he spilled it in the first place. He often left money at the counter for her. It was odd. He left $50 or $60 a week and just left. In fact, Cherry couldn’t remember the last meal she had eaten without his money paying for some of it. “Cherry, you’ve been so rude,” she thought, “This man has paid for half of the food that goes in your stomach and you haven’t even thanked him!” It was a known fact that not only was he a drunk, he was a married drunk. The girls had a name for people like him. Sexually inept. When the song finally ended and Cherry had swung down from the top of her pole, she rushed off the stage.
 “Stew, god damn it! I can’t dance anymore! I’m too tired and I’m feeling woozy! Maybe it’s because I don’t get paid enough to buy food! I should quit!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. Stew gave her one of those looks that said “Try me.” Those were the looks that made Cherry even more pissed. “Don’t give me that look, Stew! I can’t do this… I need to eat! No one likes a pissy dancer,” she said hoping that his inner business man would make it past his manhood.
 “Fine. Get some food and a good nights rest and then get back here tomorrow. I’m not letting you get away with this shit tomorrow. Do you understand me?” he said like he was talking to a three year old. Cherry bit her tongue and changed into her tube top and leather mini skirt. She then zipped up her boots and bolted out of the building faster than lightning. She made a right turn and ran into her crappy VW. She unlocked the door and started the fussy engine. She slammed on the gas and left as quickly as she could. She really was feeling woozy and she needed to eat. She hadn’t eaten in two days. It was starting to get to her, again. She made a quick left at the light and went straight for about a mile. She looked for a place to eat that would be cheap. She saw a McDonald’s. “Well it’s not fillet minion but it’s definitely cheap,” she said aloud to herself. She fiddled with the radio dial and found a hip-hop station that she could listen to. She loved singing along with songs, as long as no one else heard her. She decided to pull into the McDonald’s and see what they had. “Not much, probably some shitty burgers and some stale fries,” she decided. She made a hard left turn into the parking lot and stopped at the menu. She ordered a diet coke, a Big Mac, and some fries. She pulled up at the window to get her food and realized this was one of those places. The lady at the window eyed her up and down like she was supposed to be in the dumpster at the back of the building. “Is there a problem, miss?” Cherry asked as politely as she could. “Yes actually there is, you see, no shirt and no clothes, well no service,” she said. “Oh, really? Well what’s this? Huh? What do you think I wear this for my health? These are clothes and I think I’m wearing them so give me the food I paid for,” she said. “Um, well we don’t serve whores either. You know there’s a whole building down the road for people like you,” the girl behind the counter exclaimed. She was a pizza faced, frizzy hair teenager. “Oh, really? Well I work there and if you don’t have anything else to say, I have something to say. First, some Proactiv will clear that face right up. Second, if you use shampoo when you take a shower your hair won’t look so shitty. Oh, and while you’re trying to fix your little teenaged ego, get my food,” Cherry said. She put her sweetest smile on her face and after about five minutes of just sitting there she finally got her food. “Oh and if you ever need a job, don’t worry, the club hires ugly dancers too!” Cherry yelled as she drove away. “That was more of an experience that it really needed to be. I know I don’t exactly dress like a nun but, come on, if you work at a fast food place just give me my food!” Cherry thought. She kept driving through the brightly lit streets and saw the big homes with happy families inside it pass by her.
 “You would be so surprised,” Cherry thought, “The rich and poor parts of this town look like two different worlds.” She came around a corner and you could see the cracked windows and one bedroom shacks that dotted the area. There was metal piled everywhere. You could see young couples starting to come back from their dates, and all the dealers who tried to trap people like Cherry. “Been there, done that!” Cherry thought as she passed one of the younger dealers on the street selling to a girl she worked with. She slowly pulled up to the apartment complexes where she lived. She used her key to get her through the front doors and then quickly climbed the stairs two at a time. She turned left when she got to the top of the stairs and unlocked her door fast. As soon as she was inside her apartment she locked and bolted the doors. She sat down her food and her purse and went to make sure no one had broken in again. Nothing seemed to be missing, she didn’t have much to steal anyway, but the picture frame with Destiny’s picture was grafitied on. “Damn kids,” she thought, “Why can’t they respect the dead?” Cherry’s house was often hit by the brats of her neighborhood because her locks were easy to pick and she was the person with the least shit any way. She walked into her kitchen and sat down at her table. It was a plastic folding table and her chairs were neon blue lawn chairs. She remembered that Destiny used to say that the place was so classy it looked shitty. Cherry began to cry at the memory of Destiny. She had been so alive; it was hard to believe she was really gone. Destiny hadn’t taken shit from anyone and Cherry didn’t either. “We are so twins separated at birth!” Destiny had always said. Cherry tried to get Destiny to be a stand up comedian, but she was killed two days before her first show. “Stop doing this to yourself! It’s not your fault! There was nothing you could have done to stop any of this!” Cherry yelled in her mind.
 After half an hour of just staring at her food, Cherry drank the diet coke and ate the fries. She threw the rest in a Ziploc bag and saved it for if she got hungry later. “I need a shower and some freaking sleep!” Cherry said. She walked into her bathroom and started the hot water for a shower. Her bathroom was supposedly a full bathroom, but it was the size of a half bathroom. She didn’t care though because that’s all she could afford. “When I get a degree I’ll move into a nice apartment that has a real bathroom. Yeah, and I’ll go to the moon too!” Cherry thought. Her bedroom was big enough to fit her grandma’s old king sized bed, but it left about two feet of room on each side of the bed for her to move around in her room. She had to keep her dresser full of clothes in the living room next to her thirteen inch screen television. Her living room had a couch and a television, and of course her dresser, along with an old Nintendo that she liked to play sometimes when there was nothing else on TV.
 Cherry saw that steam was beginning to pour out of the bathroom so she went in and turned down the water. She took of her clothes and jumped into the shower. The hot water began to unknot her back and shoulder muscles. This was Cherry’s version of a sauna and a massage. It was the only thing that kept her from losing it half the time. When she was done with her shower she grabbed a green fuzzy towel from the rack and wiped off the mirror. Her pale skin seemed dull and her hair looked limp. “I need something to change. I can’t let myself go just because of what’s happened. It was a month ago now and I think that I owe it to myself and Destiny to move on with my life,” Cherry said to the mirror. She always gave herself pep talks and usually they worked, but not this time. She felt like the world was closing in on her. “I want out…my life and my job suck! I can’t shake my ass for perverts for the rest of my life. I won’t! I can’t believe I thought I could live without Destiny here!” Cherry shouted. She grabbed the metal hand mirror and threw it against her mirror. The mirror smashed in to pieces and went everywhere. “What a god damn shame,” she said as she left to go take her nightly meds. That night she swallowed a whole bottle of Lithium and went to sleep. Cherry Heart never woke up again.
 The locals honored her death by writing this in the paper:
Local go-go dancer, Cherry Heart, committed suicide by taking an entire bottle of Lithium last Tuesday. The dancer was a very unhappy girl. She was known to cry while dancing on stage. Fellow dancer Brandy had this to say about the tragedy: “We all knew it was a matter of time before she knocked her self off. She was always unhappy even though people left her money all the time. I think she killed herself ‘cause she was ungrateful. Of course, I would kill myself too if I was that ugly!” Well, Cherry was anything but ugly. She was the jewel of the Happy Times Go-Go men’s club. We know she will be missed.
What a lovely way to be remembered, right?

Well, I wrote this, my brother died recently and I was sick, litersally, with grief, so I wrote this as sort of a wish, like I wished this would happen...


Neemah lay on her couch. She didn't care anymore, she wanted to end it. I wish Matt was here, she thought. Then the idea struck her. She scrambled for a piece of paper and a pen. She sat weriting for a few minutes. Neemah folded the paper into three and slipped it into an envelope. She prowled her house for some helium and balloons of two certain colours, seven red and black. She found the balloons a few moments after beginning her search. She found the helium in the garage. She pumped up the balloons and tied them together. Neemah then taped the bundle of balloons to the envelope and wandered out to Lake Singepoure. She and Matt had spent countless afternoons there, just talking, brother to sister. They were considerably closer than most siblings, in fact, they were the best of friends.
When she reached the edge of the glistening water, she looked up. Neemah took a deep breath and let go of the balloons. They floated up slowly and softly, almost dreamily. She watched them rise up in the sky until she could no longer see the red and black balloons. She smiled, feeling some of her grief drift away with the rising bundle. Some of the horrible events had finally got off her chest.
Up in heaven, a young man glided through the neverending happiness. He looked around and saw odd colour, red and black. This was odd in heaven. It made him curious because these were his two favourite colours. He bent down and lifted the balloons up. They couldn't float in heaven, even he, who had just got here a few days ago knew this. It was because there was a boundry for everything, even the departed. The only object that had no boundry was a prayer.
What really intrigued him was seeing his name on the front of the envelope in beautiful handwriting he thought her recognized. He detached the envelope with difficulty, there was so much tape, but he eagerly did it. If there was any chance, even the slightest chance it was from her.....
Matt ripped it open. He read it through quickly the first time. The tears were fighting to get out of him, but he fought back. He read it through the second time and couldn't contain himself. The tears had beaten his defences, and they wouldn't stop coming. He dropped the letter out of his trembling hands.


Dearest Brother,

If you are reading this, I just want you to know I love you and miss you terribly. I'll keep you up to date, promise.

Love,

Neemah



Teardrops had spattered the page, they never quite went away, not even when she arrived herself.

STEVE MARTINEZ _ THE GOOD SAMARITAN

I've been trying to track you down FOR EVER. If you read this email Agunshymartyr@aol.com PLEASE!!!

Edited by author 02-01-2008 11:09 PM
I just wrote this and would like it if you would critique it. Ironyisjust@hotmail.com is my email. Thank you for reading.

"Keep on looking, Michael, if you search hard enough I promise you'll find what it is your looking for!" Allen hollered from the other room.

Yea right, Michael thought, I've been looking day after day, for the past year, and I still haven't fucking found it. Hell I don't even know what I'm supposed to be looking for. "Alright Allen, I'll try harder, but I'm absolutely sure that it's not there."

Michael gazed aimlessly through the stained glass window. Something outside moved and caught the corner of his eye. What the hell is that? Michael wondered. He stared more intently now curious as too what was out there. Hrmm, Maybe I should check it out. He turned around and headed for the door. Slowly he cracked it open and peered outside. Again out of the corner of his eye he saw the same thing. Dammit I don't want to go out there. It's too damn cold out, and besides it was probably just my imagination. A cool breeze suddenly picked up out of the west began too blow the snow into the doorway. Thinking he didn't want to bother with moping up the mess from the snow later he quickly stepped outside, feet crunching in the snow, and slammed the door shut behind him. What the hell am I doing? This is absurd, we are alone out here too far out for anyone to be hiking, besides in this blizzard you would freeze to death within a few minutes out here. He wrapped his coat firmly around himself and he walked over to where he had first seen the movement. Nothing. I'm wasting my damn time. He continued looking from spot too spot around the house eventually arriving back at the front door. Well...that was a complete waste of time.

"Hey Michael what are you looking for?" He heard Allen yell from inside.

"I already told you I DON'T KNOW!" He screamed back in response, but again Allen egged him on.

"Hey Michael what are you looking for?"

"Dammit Allen I DON'T KNOW, I DON'T KNOW, I DON'T KNOW, FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME I DON'T KNOW!"

He was becoming very irritated now, and the cold was too much to bear. He turned the knob on the door, but much to his avail it was locked.

Ugh I locked myself out. Al is gonna have a laugh about this.

"Hey Al I accidentally locked myself out can you come and get the door for me?"

"Only you can open that door Michael, this is what I've been telling you for so long."

"What? I'm not kidding man, It's cold out here. PLEASE open the door."

"How long will it be before you recognize my voice, Michael, I've been teaching you this same lesson for so very long, but it seems that you are hard at hearing. If you would listen, just for a moment, to my words you would know me, and when find me you will find yourself."

I'm too damn cold to be playing these games. Fed up with Allens shit Michael turned and went too the garage. I'll just take the car out for a drive. He opened the key pad and typed in his code, *****, the door slid open. What the...?? The car wasn't there, and they only had one car. Michael heard a soft crunching on the snow, and the sound of an engine coming up the long driveway. He turned around and saw the Legacy, Subaru, pulling up the driveway. Allen pulled the car up and asked,"What are you doing out here Michael? Isn't it a little cold too be playing in the snow?"

"Yea I suppose it is. How did you get out here so fast?" he asked

"What do you mean? Allen responded, "I've been gone for the last 2 hours. Didn't you know?"

"No, I guess I didn't realize you had left."

Allen walked up to the front door and tuned the knob. It opened and he went inside, Michael on his heels.

"Hey wasn't that door locked?" Michael asked

"Nope, are you alright? Your acting kind of odd?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, just fine."

> Date: Sat, 12 Jan 2008 12:33:38 +0000> Subject: Post a Short Story for Review> From: qtopic-31-PctTXbNuxJh@quicktopic.com> To: qtopic-subs@quicktopic.com
 
 
 
 
 
Yes seeng it I have to say that the setting without knowing the backroung of this story is very dificult to elect it's good or not. There seems be great dela of practucale writing yet I couls see the writer being rather young. On the good road to go. cheerio.
I a back when i soper up.> > --QT-------------------------------------------------------------> Reply by email or visit> http://www.quicktopic.com/31/H/PctTXbNuxJh/m69>; -------------------------------------------------------------- --> > Joey Vee> > It all began on a typical monday night over at Caldwell Avenue.> The guys would sit outside the club talking amongst one another,> throwing a joke into almost every line they said.> It was the year 1972, the streets of the Bronx belonged to> Ettorisanto's.> Adriano Ettorisanto was the Boss, he would sit in the backroom> with a few of his most trusty men, talking about business.> Sonny Mancini was a Caporegime in the family, Caldwell Avenue> was where most of his crew would hang out.> > Over on the left was Joey Vitelli, Sonny's right hand man,> people called him Joey Vee because of his surname, if you asked> the guy to do you a favour, he'd attend to that favour with> great effort.> Joey was originally from a small neighbourhood in Brooklyn, his> mother and father were Sicilians that had moved to New York due> to trouble that had been caused in their home town, they never> returned.> Joey's father was named Enrico, his friends called him Rico, he> died when Joey was twelve years old, shot down in the streets.> > The man who had killed Enrico was aventually found out in 1962> when a certain rumour passed through the streets.> A man named John Lazzero had strolled into the neighbourhood> with a pistol tucked into his trousers, pulling up at the side> of the road.> The men outside the club watched as John walks into the club,> looking from one side to the other.> Sitting down a few seats away from where Joey was sitting, he> watched his every move, waiting for the right moment to strike.> Joey had noticed him at last, everything went silent around the> table, everyone had noticed that out of every person in the room> that was talking, John was the only one sat on his own, no smile> to be seen.> > Sonny whispered into Joey's ear, he could tell that this was> something serious, something that shouldnt be happening.> Sonny stood up from his seat, making his way to the entrance.> The table was one person short, with Sonny out of the way, Joey> had become an easy target.> Sonny reappeared by the entrance of the door, staring over at> John who was still waiting for the right time.> Joey stands up, walking to the entrance to meet Sonny.> Walking out from the club, the both of them head down the> street, making their way to Sonny's bakery.> Standing outside the bakery, Sonny begins to speak.> "Right, as soon as that cock sucker appears round the corner,> get the fuck in the bakery, I'm gonna make this quick".> "That guy killed your pap, you dont wanna let him get away with> a thing like that, not in this day and age".> > John had appeared at the corner, a gun weilded to his hand, this> was his only chance to finish the job.> Joey walks into the bakery, leaving Sonny to do the dirty work.> Two of Sonny's men had appeared a few metres behind John, guns> in their hands, waiting for the sound of a gunshot.> Sonny points his gun in John's direction and begins to speak,> his eyes focused on John's every move.> "Right, put the gun down".> "You've got two guys behind you, you've got no way to run, what> the fuck do you expect to do now?"> "Put it down".> John throws his gun to one side, giving himself up to the two> men standing behind him.> Being thrown into the bakery, John knew that he wouldnt get out> of the place alive, these were the last minutes of his life.> > Tied to a chair, John sit there, his face beaten by the savage> men stood before him.> The time had come, Sonny stand there, a gun aimed at John from> his waste.> A few gunshots had shut him up for life, Joey's head was clear> from all problems, his father's killer was dead.> _________________________________________________________________> To unsubscribe: http://www.quicktopic.com/31/X/PctTXbNuxJh>; Start your own topic in 20 seconds: http://www.quicktopic.com |QT _________________________________________________________________ Express yourself instantly with MSN Messenger! Download today it's FREE! http://messenger.msn.click-url.com/go/onm0...STRIPMIME_JOINLINES

Joey Vee

It all began on a typical monday night over at Caldwell Avenue.
The guys would sit outside the club talking amongst one another, throwing a joke into almost every line they said.
It was the year 1972, the streets of the Bronx belonged to Ettorisanto's.
Adriano Ettorisanto was the Boss, he would sit in the backroom with a few of his most trusty men, talking about business.
Sonny Mancini was a Caporegime in the family, Caldwell Avenue was where most of his crew would hang out.

Over on the left was Joey Vitelli, Sonny's right hand man, people called him Joey Vee because of his surname, if you asked the guy to do you a favour, he'd attend to that favour with great effort.
Joey was originally from a small neighbourhood in Brooklyn, his mother and father were Sicilians that had moved to New York due to trouble that had been caused in their home town, they never returned.
Joey's father was named Enrico, his friends called him Rico, he died when Joey was twelve years old, shot down in the streets.

The man who had killed Enrico was aventually found out in 1962 when a certain rumour passed through the streets.
A man named John Lazzero had strolled into the neighbourhood with a pistol tucked into his trousers, pulling up at the side of the road.
The men outside the club watched as John walks into the club, looking from one side to the other.
Sitting down a few seats away from where Joey was sitting, he watched his every move, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Joey had noticed him at last, everything went silent around the table, everyone had noticed that out of every person in the room that was talking, John was the only one sat on his own, no smile to be seen.

Sonny whispered into Joey's ear, he could tell that this was something serious, something that shouldnt be happening.
Sonny stood up from his seat, making his way to the entrance.
The table was one person short, with Sonny out of the way, Joey had become an easy target.
Sonny reappeared by the entrance of the door, staring over at John who was still waiting for the right time.
Joey stands up, walking to the entrance to meet Sonny.
Walking out from the club, the both of them head down the street, making their way to Sonny's bakery.
Standing outside the bakery, Sonny begins to speak.
"Right, as soon as that cock sucker appears round the corner, get the fuck in the bakery, I'm gonna make this quick".
"That guy killed your pap, you dont wanna let him get away with a thing like that, not in this day and age".

John had appeared at the corner, a gun weilded to his hand, this was his only chance to finish the job.
Joey walks into the bakery, leaving Sonny to do the dirty work.
Two of Sonny's men had appeared a few metres behind John, guns in their hands, waiting for the sound of a gunshot.
Sonny points his gun in John's direction and begins to speak, his eyes focused on John's every move.
"Right, put the gun down".
"You've got two guys behind you, you've got no way to run, what the fuck do you expect to do now?"
"Put it down".
John throws his gun to one side, giving himself up to the two men standing behind him.
Being thrown into the bakery, John knew that he wouldnt get out of the place alive, these were the last minutes of his life.

Tied to a chair, John sit there, his face beaten by the savage men stood before him.
The time had come, Sonny stand there, a gun aimed at John from his waste.
A few gunshots had shut him up for life, Joey's head was clear from all problems, his father's killer was dead.

Assailant

 I still remember when things where peaceful. No war, no death, just people trying to get along in life. The universe just trying to survive. I was born on Mongoth, the most advanced civilization in the universe.
 The Mongothains were at war with the Androids. The Androids started out as mere servants, but decided to rebel. The war had started just when I was turning nine-teen, and I was just about old enough to join in the military. A few years of working with computer screens and galactic maps, I was promoted captain of all the Mongothain army.
 I had a clever idea to disguise a war ship filled with explosives as a Universal Transport. I was on the ship with about two hundred-fifty or so men. We slowly crept beside the Androids’ mechanized planet. If the ship explodes right now it wouldn’t reach the planet, so we had to move in a bit closer before abandoning the ship to let it explode right by the mechanized planet.
 We were closing in, trying not to stir up any suspicion. Then we saw green lasers coming from above our ship. Only one force in the entire universe uses green lasers; Kornans. My only conclusion was that the Kornans and Androids were working together.
 Green lasers kept hitting us with full blast. Then suddenly an alarm was triggered, it took me a while to figure it out but one of the lasers had hit the room where all of the explosives were being stored. Out from the hallway into the bridge, came a burst of flame. The pain was so intense that I blacked out.
 I woke up and my eye and lungs felt like they were on fire. I looked around and saw that I was in space. I couldn’t breathe; I felt my right arm was missing along with my right leg; my left hand was missing, my torso had been blown open and worst of all my head had been partly blown open. My left eye was missing along with my nose. My internal organs were badly burned. What a crappy way to die I said to myself.
 I started to fade when I saw out of the corner of my eye, there was a man. I turned my head to look expecting it to be a piece of debris. It actually was a man; he was in a space-suit and put a tank of oxygen to my mouth. I faded and thought I really had died.
 I woke up in a bed and doctors of some sort were sitting all around me. I pushed myself up with my right arm. Wait. Right arm? That was blown away in the explosion. I swung my arm in front of me and saw that the robotic arm. Then I realized I was seeing with two eyes. I felt my torso and noticed that my lungs weren’t burning anymore. I sat up on the edge of the bed and saw my new right leg and new left hand. By now I was pretty scared but relived.
 I asked one of the doctors to come to me. One of them came to me and I asked him “Were there any survivors?” He looked down. Getting angry by him not answering my question I grabbed his shirt with my robotic arm and pulled him closer to me “WERE THERE ANY SURVIVORS?!” He shook his head. I let go of him and he sat back down. I held my head in my hands.
 They said they wanted to do some tests to make sure every piece of metal was working properly. They put me into a tank that looked like a scanning room. Suddenly a burst of electricity shot into my torso. It lasted for about fifteen seconds.
 I felt like lashing out, so I did. I realized that I was levitating to the ends of the tank. This made me think and forget all about lashing out. I tried to go up and I did. They put a block of steel inside the tank. “What do you want me to do with this?” I asked.
“Levitate it.” I shrugged and tried to make the steel cube soar. I got it about five feet off the ground and decided to have a little fun so I crushed it.
They told me to think of fire. I thought they couldn’t be anymore blunt so I did, I thought of a burning fire. When I opened my eyes I saw that I had fire style armor around me. Fire helmet, shoulder pads, chest armor, everything. Then they told me to think of other elements; water, air, rock, lightness, darkness. I got through water, air, and rock pretty easily, but lightness was a bit more challenging. They told me this form would be very difficult to transform into. I tried my hardest but got nowhere. The told me to go onto the last one, darkness. I thought of black an then I felt a sharp pain in all of my joints. I felt my teeth getting sharper, my eyes became black, horns started to grow from my forehead.
I tried to fight this form but it equally matched my will power. Purple lightning was being thrown everywhere. I gathered up enough will power and the symptoms resided. I sat down and I touched the top of my head and there were no horns. I sighed
Suddenly the doctors came rushing in and put a gas mask around my mouth and where my nose use to be. I tried to resist but the gas that was coming into my lungs was over powering and I fell asleep.
I woke up and felt that I had a helmet on. I looked in the mirror that was on the wall. I did have a helmet on but one side had a kind of eye that was like a scope. I could zoom-in on objects. On my right hand, there was a claw. It was like a finger claw, each finger being ten inches long. I had new shoulder plates, forearm and shin armor, and torso armor. And I had a cape. The inside was red and the outside was white.
I still had sharp pains in my joints but they weren’t as sharp as before. I asked the doctors why they had put the suit on me. They said that the darkness power that they put into me was trying to take control of my body, mind, and soul.
I was surrounded by doctors when the sharp pain came back. Purple lightning poured from under my suit. I could feel my teeth becoming sharper again. I actually fainted, and don’t remember much after that.
I woke up and I was in the dead of space, there was no debris. I could survive now because the suit had special filters that take in any gas, and turn it into oxygen. My bionic eye predicted Mongoth’s orbit around the sun and told me where to fly to get there. I know most of the space-way from knowledge, and from training. I started to fly using my supernatural powers. I was going home.
I flew for a few hours and finally I got to where my bionic eye had told me to go. There was nothing there, except a few asteroids. I checked and rechecked, but my eye told me that this is the spot where Mongoth was supposed to be.
Then I took a closer look at the asteroids that were floating around. These asteroids weren’t formed by clashing into another, they were cut apart. Some sides of the asteroids were perfectly cut. Then I realized that this was debris, this was Mongoth.
I sat there on a piece of Mongoth for about a hour, moaning. The Androids had obliterated my home planet, I had no where to go, nothing to live for. They say an enemy with nothing to lose is the most dangerous enemy of all.
I went to the planet of Rugh (Roo-sh), the “scum” planet of the universe and posted an add for an army. After a while many people joined in just the first few months, I still had to wait for much more people if I wanted to defeat the Androids. Soon after, I had enough men. I scrounged up enough money to make weapons and armor for all of my troops.
Ships, bases on other planets, and combat training followed soon after. After months of physical and mental training, my troops and I were ready to take revenge.
Three ships approached the Androids mechanized planet. I was in the lead ship. The turrets started to shoot at us but we destroyed them easily. I still can’t believe that we were able to actually land in the loading zone. Apparently my men were better than I thought. They had already captured the Android leader and brought it to me unharmed.
“Android Leader.” It looked up at me. “You are here by arrested for the destruction of Mongoth.”
It chuckled.
“So you’re the avenger of the Mongothains? I hope you know there are none left. They’re extinct!” I removed part of my armor on my left arm very close to my shoulder, and showed it my tattoo. All Mongothain soldiers are required to get it. The tattoo consists of a red X and an iron fist where the lines of the X intersect.
 She looked at my tattoo and gasped. “You are here by sentenced to death.” I raised my laser-pistol at it’s head. It smiled, and then I pulled the trigger.
 I went to the loading dock and got into my ship. When we were about five-hundred yards away, I asked the pilot to stop. When he did I flew from the ship out into space. I faced toward the mechanized planet opened my arms really wide and then closed them at about one-hundred miles an hour. Five seconds later the mechanized planet started to fall apart and then exploded.
 I came back to the ship and praised my men a job well done. We had to set our next course and I had avenged my people.

Alert for all travellers to North America: Abuse of Human Rights and Privacy Violations:

Racially intolerant white canadian cops and security and their henchmen claim to be despots; following parasitically in the footsteps of their american counterparts, and wilfully engage in their racial profiling of non-whites, in racial harassment of non-whites, and in racially dehumanizing attempts to racially harass non-whites through intimidating physically, mentally, and spiritually; portraying their racial hatred of non-whites through causing wilfull and dehumanizing disturbance to non-whites through using illegal wall-see-through technologies and audio-bugs on non-whites' homes; through listening and watching through the walls of non-whites' rented and owned homes, and through their internet and private telephones. The perpetuators of these evil deeds do this from their cars using illegal equipment slyly given to them by the unworthy cops, and then
accelerating their cars loudly and intimidatingly near non-whites' homes and driving intimidatingly in presence of non-whites on streets, making threatening u-turns, driving intimidatingly right up and over sidewalks when a non-white is on the sidewalk, and throwing their ugly bullying weight around, in their shameless acts of cowardice. It is all done slyly, supposedly smartly, however, they cannot fool all the people all the time. The cops also participate themselves to wail their sirens abusively everytime non-whites move and talk inside their rented and owned homes in daily routine living, in addition to having their henchmen, and often, using their non-white gutless henchmen in cars, transport, shopping centers, neighborhoods, etc, to commit these ugly harassing racially profiling
deeds at all times day and night. Using non-whites to engage in racial harassment of other non-whites is an obnoxiously evil sinister humanely disgraceful intelligent move of the whites well-known for their ugly divide and rule tactics through their non-white henchmen.

It's a shameful disgrace when the so called protectors of law turn into abusers of law themselves and throw the weight of their uniforms and law around as cowards. So, they and their henchmen, appear to be very law respecting on the outside; however, they network cowardly to commit sly acts of provocation to non-whites all the time, which is supposed to
be legally acceptable. Is watching through walls of non-whites homes, bugging their homes, working in networking syndicates against them, committing human rights and privacy violations against them, supposedly lawful for the whites? Who makes those laws that favor
only the whites? The law itself has racism in its clauses. The ugly inner dirt of the perpetuators of these evil deeds of racism do not deserve to step into religious institutions for their ugly deeds - such as, if you ain't white, you ain't right? Oh! Really? Nicely dressed, beautiful people, magnificient concrete jungles, clean roads and lawns, sweet polite talkers on the outside, full of ugly stench in their souls, that is the
cause of these racist policies that are outrightly biased against non-whites. What a shame!

Most of these ugly acts of dehumanizing racial profiling depict the cowardice of the doers of these deeds in the real sense, and are done at the behind the scenes insistence of the racially intolerant white cops through their frontline stooges. However, without physical evidence, the white cops, security, societies, and their henchmen are laughing sinisterly
at their heinous deeds and the legal system seems to support this evil through its inability to take action without physical evidence. Their racial profiling penetrates public transport systems, shops and stores to do all they can to make the non-whites feel unwelcome in their dehumanizing acts of racial profiling against non-whites and those who don't conform to their nonsense. The white cops, security, and white communities use their
henchmen who do just as they are told and from behind the safety cushion of their oil-guzzling, pollution creating, often dark-glassed vehicles to intimidate and harass non-whites in obnoxious racial profiling that reflects the immoral, despotic, and cowardly behaviour of racially intolerant white cops, security, communities and their dumb henchmen
who do just as they are told, fuelled as they are in their racial frenzy, thanks to the racially manipulative corporate controlled media.

For more information, visit:

http://www.yourluckytoday.blogspot.com

Volunteers are welcome to circulate this information to all they know to put an end to this abuse and violations of human rights committed by immorally misbehaved white cops, security, white communities, public transports, shops, stores, etc, and their dumb henchmen who do just as they are told in their racial frenzy.

Save this information on your computers before any cowards remove it from the websites.

Racism is immoral and dehumanizing behaviour that reflects the "incapable to perform humanely" quality of those who are racist and are being watched from God's court above in ways they cannot be expected to be capable to perceive yet.

It's a shame when obnoxious stench of racism comes from people in so called rich countries. It's even more of a shame when words are twisted by media to influence young minds with lies. It's even more of a shame when so called authorities perpetuate racism and behave racistly and enforce racist policies and behaviour through intimidating means amidst outer sweet and polite talks. Racism seems to be prominent among so called white people in rich countries who cannot bear non-whites from other countries of origin. Planet Earth belongs to people of Earth. Highly educated people of high intellectual calibres, rich bosses and CEOs, etc, of rich countries are a blotch on humanity and their material levels when they
haven't yet evolved to basic human concepts of all humans have red blood irrespective of race.

Racism stems from social attitudes that are perpetuated by racist societies, the media, the authoritarians, and the peers. It's time to say, shame on all those who perpetuate racism and racist attitudes.

Thank you.

BRAVEHEARTS CHILDRENS' TRUST APPEAL

Dear Readers, I NEED YOUR HELP!

The user known as 'hypnotoad' on the eBid online auctions has thrown down his gauntlet and challenged me. I have accepted his challenge and the deadline is dawn on 23rd November 2007.

Should I succeed in this challenge, an extra £30 will be donated to Bravehearts Childrens Trust, who grant wishes for sick and dying children.

All that I need of you for my challenge to succeed is to follow this link and VOTE. If you cannot click the link, copy it and paste it into your browser and then go vote, please.

 http://helpdesk.ebid.net/showthread.php?t=98218

It will cost you nothing, I only need to raise a minimum of 80 votes in order to succeed and raise this cash, which I will personally make up to £50. I already have 34 votes - I need at least another 47. Voting is completely anonymous and it is a simple one click polling system. I ask you as friends, as neighbours, as associates, as fellow eBid members and as supporters of all that Cyberdosh stands for - the freedom to earn, and spend, as we like.

Thank you.

If you are not a member of eBid, you can join at http://www.cyberdosh.co.uk and then go to the forums, look for the KT (Kitchen Table) and then click on the link that says Poll, Polls, Polls...

Thank you, in advance, to anyone who chooses to support this cause.

I'm going through this phase where I kind of judge myself by other people's opinions (of my writing, of all things! What's next?). So I'd really appreciate it if you would send all your comments to nathan.caldwell@sstx.org. Thanks!

Two old men sat on a bench somewhere. It doesn’t matter much where. Canes held in wrinkled hands and little hats on their balding heads. When they spoke, you could hear the age in their voices – it rattled around like coins in a cup, squeaking and growling way down at the bottom. Their faces folded in on themselves, rippling a black entity in the loneliness of an insignificant candle of life on the ocean of the world. They sit and watch birds on the lonesome pavement before them, occasionally grunting at the monotonous lives of the birds. All they do is eat, what’s the point, they would say. All they do is flap their wings around like they’re so hot; they’re nothing but a bunch of feathered pansies. Other than these sporadic complaints against the nature of birds, they sat in silence for most of the day. Sometimes when the sun set, they would grunt a forlorn approval.
 One day there were no birds. One day the clouds obscured the sun. “Where’re those damn birds?” One remarked.
 And so they sat in silence for a long, long time. Without the sunset to tell them when to go home (“the history of mankind is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations”), they stared down at the friendless pavement until the rain began to speckle the grass and the moon opened up its arms to the stars.
 By the time the drizzle had progressed to a steady downpour, they had reached the end of their patience. “Where’re those goddamned birds?” They cried, their voices raspy and hoarse. “Where’re those goddamned birds?” And they shouted and shook their fists until they lost their voices and ran out of energy. And, after hours of sitting there without accepting their defeat, they began to speak.
 “Nice weather.” A laugh. “Yeah.” A gauche silence. “You know, Bush got elected.” “Oh, did he? This country’s going to hell.” Another laugh. “Yeah.”
 Silence.
 Then, “I love you.”
 A pained sigh, but not without a sense of ambivalent poignancy. “I know. And I love you, too, you old fart. Wrinkles and all.”
 And they nodded their heads at the clouds, the rain dripping under their trembling eyelids. Bottom lips jutted out and their hands tapping their legs complacently.
 And so they passed the hours, thinking about nothing and talking about less. And when the birds came the next morning, having enjoyed their day off, the old men, wet and discolored, shook their fists and cried, “Where were you, you goddamned birds?”
 And the sun shone and the birds chirped and the old men sat fuming on their bench somewhere about the monotonous lives of birds. So began another day.

Edited by author 11-14-2007 07:57 PM
Please send all comments, criticisms, or rebukes to neutronnate@mac.com ... much obliged!
 
Pacing around the floor, hands behind his back. It’s snowing outside, maybe. Who knows. He’s sweating, it seems he’s nervous about something. He sighs. Again. Light bulbs are burning out somewhere on the other side of the world and he doesn’t know anything about it.
 His friend enters the room through the door leading out into a long hall. They’re in the first friend’s room. Are they friends? I think they must be. Yes, that’s the only logical solution. And they’re in his room. They’re both boys that look to be about seventeen. One has straight hair and the other one has a hat on. But I think he’d have to have curly orange hair, just because I said so and I’m the narrator and whatever I say goes. No creative liberty for you.
 The first one looks up when his friend enters. To make this less confusing, we’ll call him (the one who looked up from his feet) Prologue. His friend’s name is Epilogue. Maybe there’s a Dialogue or a Storyline somewhere, but not here. No, no story for you. Maybe some dialogue, though. Presently, in fact.
 Prologue: “You came.”
 Epilogue: “Why wouldn’t I?”
 A gauche silence. Weird. They both seem kind of uneasy. Perhaps they each have uncovered some horrible secret about the other. Perhaps one is an ax-murderer and the other a cannibal. Maybe one ate his friends. Or maybe he just did drugs or something. Maybe one of them liked guys. Maybe the other one did, too. That’s unlikely though. It was snowing too hard for that. Sweaters could be nice and all, but hot chocolate seemed much more appealing to all parties involved, even at seventeen and God knows how old I am.
 Epilogue approaches Prologue and takes him into his arms. “Prologue, I’ve been really worried about you. You haven’t been yourself lately. You know I love you, you’re my best friend. Tell me what’s wrong.” Maybe he’s stroking his hair or something comfortingly platonic. Maybe they both plan to murder the other one, and that’s why they’re uneasy. Maybe by taking Prologue into his arms, he has sealed his fate. Perhaps Prologue has a knife and is just waiting to stab in the back.
 (Yes, I can see it now. He does, Prologue does have a knife. He raises it up, and the fluorescent light from the ceiling glints off the blade as he brings it down into his friend’s back with all his weight behind it. His friend cries out in agony, and Prologue chuckles deviously to himself. “One for the vaults,” he says. The audience laughs.) Wait, no. That didn’t happen because there is no audience. They were going to come, but they got snowed in and didn’t want to risk walking out to their cars.
No, they’re just two good friends and one of them is trying to comfort the other one because he’s been acting a bit peculiar lately. He seems depressed, perhaps.
 Prologue: “Epilogue, we’d still be friends, no matter what, right?”
 Epilogue: “Of course, dude. I love you too much to just toss you off because of some emotional conflict. You can tell me anything.”
 Perhaps Prologue makes him promise not to freak out. I prefer that, actually. I mean “Perhaps Prologue” to “Prologue.” That will be his name from now on.
 Perhaps Prologue whispers in a fragile voice, “You know I love you, and I don’t want anything to come between us. So if I tell you, I want you to understand it and not freak out.” *Perhaps Prologue makes him promise not to freak out.* I was correct, it seems. But that’s irrelevant. Let’s continue:
 Epilogue: “Perhaps Prologue,” (I’ve stopped liking that now. Perhaps Prologue. He’s plain old Prologue again.) “I swear to you that I will not freak out. You’ve been my best friend since grade school. What--”
 But he doesn’t have time to finish. (Prologue raises the knife and stabs him right between the eyes. A horrible, satisfied scream erupts from him: “I got you, you goddamned motherfucker! You’re dead now, ain’t you? Nothing you can do! Nothing, nothing, nothing!” He stabs him again and again, over and over, but he misses his spot between the eyes and gets his whole face until it’s nothing but shredded meat and hanging eyeballs. His laugh become uncontrollable when Epilogue stops shrieking – he)
 Prologue kisses Epilogue full on the mouth. *Maybe one of them liked guys.* Maybe, but maybe he was just faking, too. No, this seems real to me. It’s here, right before my eyes, and I’m absolutely sure this time. I think. *Maybe the other one did, too.* Now, that’s a little hasty, don’t you think? Why would you assume such a thing of them, reader? I must admit, I’m VERY DISAPPOINTED. (?he had seen that word before. Those two words: very disappointed. Perhaps someone he knew had said them, or perhaps he had seen them on a billboard somewhere?)
 Prologue (not Perhaps Prologue)’s perspective: Oh god oh god I’m on top of the moon oh god nothing can stop me hahahaha see me now feel me I’m invincible I’m really doing it he’s not pulling away he loves me oh god oh god oh god
 (KILL HIM)
 oh god oh god I love him so much I’ve never felt this happy before oh god it’s not snow it’s
 (DIE)
 flowers falling down and it’s gold all around and everyone’s happy and this was meant to be like this and oh god oh god
 Epilogue (he doesn’t have a nickname, but this should be here anyway; it’s not complete without it)’s perspective: what the fuck is he doing oh god why is he doing this he thought I loved him like that jesus I meant that platonically what the fuck is he doing oh god he’s gonna kill me oh god why can’t we just be friends what’s WRONG with him
 And then Epilogue pulls apart, maybe. Prologue’s eyes go wide and he starts to mouth, “No, no…” Epilogue slaps him cold across the face, and it makes a flat hollow sound like when a train going full speed hits a body on the tracks. The mark starts to redden in the shape of a hand:
 (why not Foreword and Afterword?)
 Epilogue’s hand.
 Prologue’s eyes are full of terror now, and, after a petrified silence (both bereft of speech – Prologue raised the knife and reached into Epilogue’s mouth, pulling out his tongue tears rolled down Epilogue’s face and he tried to beg him to stop lord how he tried but its hard when you can’t move your tongue and it’s being held out of your mouth and IF I CAN’T HAVE IT NEITHER CAN YOU the knife comes down lord knows he can’t talk no more they’ll say mute and dumb poor bugger got his tongue cut out oh god oh god poor baby my poor baby your poor sweet mouth bloody and full of grace oh god oh god what to do what to do what to say can you say anything my poor sweet baby oh god), Epilogue said in a shaky voice: “What the hell was that?”
 Prologue looks at him. The pain he feels is beyond description, maybe. I don’t really care, I’m just the narrator. You’re just a fourth party, so you don’t need to care or worry about him, either. Just read the story, if you’d like. It may be interesting to you. Is it? Isn’t it odd that words on a page can convey an emotion?
 Then, in an even shakier voice than Epilogue’s, he tries to explain himself. "Oh god I’m sorry I swear I didn’t know you kept saying you really cared you really did and I thought I just thought I don’t know what I thought I don’t know what I was thinking please don’t go I love you! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I love you so goddamn much! Please!" He found himself on his knees before his friend, begging forgiveness. He’s crying, maybe. It’s starting to snow harder and the snow is making a kind of whooshing sound. No, that’s the wind, silly. It says, “Whoosh!” and it goes by the window and around the house and picks up speed and rattles the window, banging on the glass, screaming in a loud angry voice, “Let me in, you little shit! Let me in so I can tear you limb from limb ‘cause it’s a big mean world out there! Let me in or I’ll let myself in!” But sometimes the wind just sat out there forlorn and ugly-looking, tapping on the window like a tree branch, maybe, never saying anything. And that made it more all the more fearsome, when it did that. You didn’t know what to expect.
But it’s warm inside, and we’ve somehow drifted outside with the wind now. It’s too late to go back in, maybe the doors of the house are locked. Maybe the phone lines are dead, maybe the killer’s in the attic just waiting for all the lights to go off so he can LET THE GAMES BEGIN and have his fun. We can’t hear their dialogue out here, reader. It seems to have totally escaped us. Horror films aren’t any good without the volume. Let’s go back inside. Forget what I said earlier, I was just being the narrator then. Now I’m the NARRATOR and it’s very different – I can bend space and time, warp the story itself. Let’s go back inside. It’s warm in here, I think. Yes, I’d have to agree with myself. But whatever it is they’re saying is more interesting.
Epilogue: “I didn’t mean it like that, Jesus! I meant it in a platonic way, Prologue! What’s wrong with you?”
Prologue’s laying sprawled out before him, crying like a little kid, whining like a hungry dog you’ve tantalized with steak never to be given. Or maybe you’ve kicked it. It’s not important. You see the point. Maybe part of Epilogue feels awful (he is his best friend, after all). Maybe part of him wants to kneel down and pull his friend close and say, “Shh. Shh. It’s okay, I know. I know it hurts. So goddamned much.” But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe he doesn’t want to give his friend the wrong idea. He’s already said too much, it would seem.
(Oh, but it would be so easy. Prologue lying on the ground like that, the very back of his neck facing up. He had the knife in his pocket, all he’d have to do would be to draw it and shove it right in there, right through the brain stem. Maybe he could wiggle it up in there and get some of the medulla, too. Ho ho, that would be sweet. Prologue had put him through so much hell, he should know better than to stretch out like that.)
“I don’t want to lead you on, Prologue.”
“I don’t care! I don’t care! Just please! I love you so much!”
Epilogue darted out of the room, tears forming in his eyes. He couldn’t have stayed any longer, he would have had to comfort him, which was something he was afraid to do, now. Perhaps they were both afraid of each other – they had disturbed some slumbering quiescent monster. As the door slammed shut, Prologue howled on the ground, the cruel wind bellowed in response (it played around Epilogue’s shoulders as he stole away from the house, pushing him this way and that, saying, “You asshole! Look at what you’ve done to him! Some good friend you are!” While saying to Prologue from the other side of its mouth, “Boy, you scored on that one, didn’t you, you stupid ass? Just let me in your window so I can gobble you up; you’re better off dead anyway!”), and perhaps there was a chuckle up in the attic.
LET THE GAMES BEGIN.

Somewhere, on the other side of the world, a light bulb burned out.

The night was bitter cold and the snow was falling; it seemed as if the light of the lamps made the snow shine yellow on the wharf. A man with an unshaven gaunt face, bare headed and wearing a snappy gabardine was climbing up the gangway. Junky took his guard stance toward the embarking stranger, blocking the way.
“What do you want?” I heard him enquiring.
“Looking for the friends of mine,” was the reply.
“What’s the name?”
“Legion Kane is the name of the stoker I am seeking. I am also a stoker you know; now no job - it’s winter, you know. The winter is theirs, the summer is ours,” the man said, nodding with his head toward the bridge.
“No man like that onboard here,” said Junky.
“Should be.”
“No one.”
“Let me come onboard for a bit to have some drink and warm my feet.’
“No way.” Junky held his mind and the man turned around and started for shore. I bent to look down over the rail and saw as this freeze-dried Lazarus descended to shore and then crossed the quay and disappeared behind a storage hut on the quay. For a moment I had feeling of being advantaged; the familiar shipboard behind me with its warm interiors and all that food and driks that made me feel cosy and I felt belonging to the ship’s company.

The whites are small stone cowards full of narrow-minded jealousy, hatred, and unwarranted obstacle and disturbance creation in the name of competitiveness; incapability in the name of innocence,ignorance, and arrogance; immaturity in the name of white christianity; privilege in the name of bias; trespassing, infiltration, colonialism, and wars, in the name of business, technology, education, and job creation; weaklingness in the name of networking; financial freedom in the name of loan-dependence; Bravo the immature predatory white military oriented race!

http://www.topix.com/forum/world/TANLIDS431DC05FGF

    The Cut-Off Man

Getting a hair cut can be a scary task for a 12 year old boy. Girls are fresh on your radar, your peers are harsh, and what 12 year old wants to sit still for 20 minutes? And of course the backlash of a bad hair cut is quite daunting. Every trip to the barbershop is potentially a one way trip to a month worth of merciless abuse and ridicule. Nobody wants to be the dork with the bowl cut, and absolutely no one wants to be the kid taunted into the bathroom crying.
 Unfortunately, everyone eventually needs a hair cut and there isn’t much wiggle room in that regard. And no one hated getting a trim more then me. That and the dentist. Basically anything where I had to sit in a chair with man holding sharp objects having his way with me. I was content to look like Austin Powers, terrible hair and bad teeth, that was fine with me. Yet somehow my mom was able to drag me to the barber once a month, much to my chagrin. Over the years I had a few bad cuts, but nothing earth shattering. That was about to change.
 In my small neighborhood in Brooklyn a new barber shop had opened, The Cut-Off Man. It was everything a young sports fanatic could dream. It was a baseball themed shop (hence the clever name) and the walls were adorned with all kinds of cool stuff. Memorabilia and baseball cards, autographed posters, arcade games, this place had everything. They even gave free hot dogs with every hair cut. Besides cutting hair they also sold all kinds of sports jerseys and hats. With a necessary hair cut looming, I agreed to give this place a try without my usual huffing and puffing. I remember walking in and thinking that this was the coolest place on earth, I walked out with my first full-fledged suicidal contemplation of my adolescence.
 Things went well at first, I waited for my turn and browsed the various Sports Illustrateds and even played NBA Jam for a while. When my turn finally came to have my locks sheared, I saw a bevy of intriguing hair stylist options. There was a hot twenty-something chick that would have at least kept me in a giggling trance even if she cut my hair with a blowtorch, and then there was a cool looking guy with a badass gelled coif that could definitely hook me up. I casually strolled towards their chairs when the owner pointed towards the back of the store, right to a burly hairy man that definitely wasn’t smiling. The guy looked more like a Turkish sumo wrestler then someone who was going to give me the new look to blow away the 7th grade. I had my mind set on a very specific look: Brad Pitt in the movie Seven. (For my money that is still the coolest cut of all time. Come on, remember the scene when he just rolls out of bed and shakes his hair and it falls into a perfect edgy flip?) Nervously I looked at my mother and motioned her to follow me to the chair. As I sat down in the chair my mother began to describe the masterpiece I had envisioned, he brutally replied “Da!” and mumbled something what I now believe to be a combination of street Ukranian and American curse words.
 As he raised up the chair my stomach immediately sunk. My mind quickly entered a state of paranoid chaos as I envisioned him slicing my throat with the straight edge in a horrible barber shop accident. As he began ferociously lopping off my curly mane, I began thinking of some worst case scenarios. How bad could it get? Hair grows back quick I told myself, but as more and more of it fell to the floor I realized I was screwed. He turned on the buzzer and it sounded like a chainsaw. In retrospect he probably could have used a chainsaw with similar results. He shaved away hair like my father cutting the Thanksgiving turkey with an electric knife. As I watched more and more of my hair fall to the floor I wondered if I should just cut my losses and run directly out the door. I looked at mother hoping to get a sympathetic smile; instead her face looked like someone told her I was wanted for murder. The haircut was so bad that my mother actually told him to stop. I looked more like 12 Monkeys Brad Pitt then Seven Brad Pitt. The haircut was so bad that the owner of the Cut Off Man actually had to come over and get another barber to fix my haircut. To keep with the sports theme, the manager had someone pinch-cut my hair.
 It was too late. What was once a cute untamed mop was now an uneven Mohawk that started half way up my skull. I looked over at my Mom and she was now crying. Do you know how a bad a 12 year olds hair has to be for his Mother to cry? All the customers were now watching the new barber frantically and ineffectively try to save me from a month of non-stop torment. I tried my best to choke back my tears but I couldn’t. I was now sitting in a barber shop filled with boys crying. Mercifully the disaster came to an end, and my mom gave me a handful of quarters and told me to wait by the arcade games. After talking to the owner for a while he agreed to let me pick out any fitted hat I wanted. (On the house of course.) A gray Baltimore Orioles hat, I’ll never forget.
 We left the store, jumped into our navy blue Dodge Caravan and headed home. I wished we lived in Florida because I never wanted to get out of that car and face my friends. When the car pulled into my driveway I ran into my room amidst the yells for a two hand touch football game. I vowed never to play another sport besides hockey, because at least there I could wear a goalie mask. I locked myself in my room and began to write my suicide note. I could hear my sister asking my mom if she could see my new do, “LEAVE HIM ALONE!!!” yelled my mother.
 After an hour or so of sulking I heard the door opening and the distinct entry noises of no one else but my father. I vowed never to let him see my head, I was going to wear that baseball hat until I turned 21. Eventually I was called down for dinner, and with the no-hats at the dinner table law in my house, I was ready to beg for a pardon. As I walked into the living room I saw my father sitting on the couch, “Hey James, that’s a cool hat.” I figured my mother told him about the horrors of our trip to the Cut-Off Man, “Come on let me see your hair.” I looked at my mother for support, but she nodded motioning for me to take off my hair mask. I tentatively removed my hat, trembling. I will never forget that half smile smirk he had on his face. He took one look at me and said, “James let me give you a little piece of advice. Never get your hair cut at a place that sells hats.”

The house in Pleasantville was finally finished and furnished. Now it was time to move in.
 Gil Calentina had a body shaped like an apple; reddish brown hair combed over to hide an expanse of bald scalp; rectangular eyebrows hanging over his narrow, beady eyes; pursed lips and a piggish nose. Quite possibly the worlds shortest neck led the way to a red pullover fleece with a little alligator on the left breast. XXXL khaki cargo pants greeted the pullover fleece way up at Gil’s belly button. A pair of Nike tennis shoes rounded off the queer ensemble. Gil Calentina had style.
 On his way into the house, Gil picked up the days newspaper. He was going to need a job and that was a good place to start looking.
 Gil’s living room was cramped at best. A green loveseat with a wood frame, looking like it came from the fine art of trash picking, was pushed way up towards a small black and white television. Behind the loveseat was a round dining table with four uncomfortable looking chairs. Surrounding all of this were four walls, with one entrance to a hallway leading to the bedroom and bathrooms, and another entrance to the kitchen. A cramped space indeed with Gil’s girth, but Gil couldn’t afford much and needed less.
 He sat down on the loveseat with a creak and thumbed through the want-ads. A job in the service had a very inviting salary of $350.00 a week, but Gil was hardly military material. Gil was quite the oboe player, but a job paying $90.00 a week as a street musician didn’t quite cut the cheddar. Gil spotted a job on the next page paying $250.00 a week to be a guinea pig for lab experiments. It was more than he could ever hope for. Gil made the call and a car agreed to collect his overly large ass at 8:30 the next morning. All this reading was making Gil extremely hungry.
 Gil had little or no skill at cooking, but after landing that killer lab rat job, with the potential to be promoted to the cheese, and maybe one day…the labyrinth, he had such a load of confidence, he felt like an iron chef.
 The kitchen had even less room to work around than the living room. It was furnished with an old Coppertone refrigerator, a couple of counters and an old gas stove that very well could have been the prototype. Gil waddled in and weighed his options. Grilled cheese sandwiches would make a delightful appetizer. After that…who knows? Either way, Gil was beside himself with excitement!
 He opened the fridge, got out the butter, bread and American cheese, and sat them down on the countertop. Reaching over to the stove, he turned the knob on the front burner to high. Gil waited a moment, but the flame didn’t catch. He tried the other three with the same result. Gil stood with his arms laying flat against his ample sides bewildered. Gil waited…still nothing. In the silence, it did appear that the gas was coming out, but it just wasn’t catching. Gil stood and pondered the situation while he eyed the cheese and licked his chops.
 After a few moments, Gil observed the knobs on the oven. Next to “high” was the word “lite.” Adeeerrrrr! Gil flicked the front knob to lite and heard a faint clicking. Presto!
 Blammo!! A ball of flame engulfed the oven top and the air above it all the way to the ceiling. Gil leapt awkwardly in surprise. That quickly, the ball of fire was gone. All four burners were going strong and Gil quickly gathered himself and shut three of them off. He set the fourth to medium, put a pan over top of it and took a moment to catch his breath and slow his thumping heart.
 Something was burning. It was Gil’s reddish brown comb over. Gil flailed his pudgy arms, patting his head wildly. The flames spread to his fleece, quickly engulfing it. Gil flailed more aggressively, his heart trip hammering, arms pin-wheeling in a fabulous futile effort. Eventually, Gil stopped trying to put the fire out. Soon after, the kitchen was a roaring inferno, and the close quartered living room followed suit. By the time the fire fighters arrived, Gil Calentina was nothing more than a smoldering glob of gelatin.

Todd Tucker laughed to himself and almost fell off his computer chair. It took him well over an hour to build the little house and create his Sim, Gil Calentina, and less than three minutes to burn it all to the ground. Hilarious! Todd clicked on Gil’s remains and dragged them to the yard out back of the house. His ashes became a headstone. Classic! The first of many! Todd had the rest of the day off from work, so he imagined there would be quite a cemetery by days end.
He had just started on his next Sim when there was a knock at his front door. With a sigh he got up from his seat to answer it. “Eddie Schleb,” he thought to himself; a killer name for his next Sim. Classic!
Todd opened the front door and immediately found himself tackled and pinned face first to the ground.
“*Cough*, hey…what gives!?!” Todd managed to choke out.
“Stay down scum and don’t struggle!”
Josh squirmed as the Police officer dug a knee into his back. “What…what is going on!?!” Josh tasted blood.
The cop’s voice was stern
“Sir, you’re wanted for the murder of Gil Calentina.”
Josh felt cuffs close on his wrists and he was dragged to his feet. He was flabbergasted.
“Gil Calentina,” Josh said between quick breaths, “but, he was just a Sim…a game.”
Another cop approached Josh with his computer tower in hand.
“We have all the evidence right here sir.”
“Great work Johnson,” said the first cop as he began dragging Josh out the door toward his cruiser.
Josh was in full panic now. “This is a joke right? This is insane! You can’t be serious!”
Johnson stepped in front of Josh and put his face right up to his. “As serious as first degree murder and arson. You’re going away for a long time.”
Josh tilted his head back to the heavens and let out a bone-chilling wail.
“Sabaducia!!!!”

Hypochondriac

Patient: Hi Doctor!
Doctor: Hello …I remember you … it’s been along time? So how have you been?
Patient: well…ok. I have been fine.
Doctor: so that’s why I haven’t seen you …you’ve been well.
Patient: …(smiles) well yes
Doctor: So tell me what’s the matter.now?
Patient: Well doctor it’s my back..Its still giving me problems..
Doctor: Oh yes..(Looking at the computer) …Ok so you want a referral to see a Psysio right?
Patient: yes exactly…
Doctor: scribbles down some details on a referral form.
Patient: …ermm well there is something else …I ‘ve got this mole I want you to look at …it’s new… (Wow I bet he’s really excited…)
Doctor hands over referral form …
Doctor: ok show me this mole?
Patient lifts shirt to expose …the tiny spot.
Doctor: Is that it? (A look of tired amusement)
Patient: yes…
Doctor: that’s nothing …it’s not even a mole …its just skin mould.
Patient: oh ok …(idiot)
Doctor: is there anything else?
Patient: well yes …(go on say it…you might as well now..after the mole thing) I have been getting these occasional heart pains on the left side of my chest …
Doctor: So … you think you have Heart disease…(with a come on..Are you serious face)
Patient: (chuckles) well no …I was hoping you could tell me what it was?
Doctor: Yes..You seem to have developed Hypochondria…its quite common.
Patient: (laughter…I knew I shouldn’t have said anything….) .
Doctor: (sighing) sit down let me take your blood pressure…..do you still smoke?
Patient: ermm yes sometimes..
After a quick check… blood pressure and stethoscope checking my heartbeat.
Doctor declares there is nothing wrong with me..
Patient: (feeling foolish) ok thanks…so what you think its nothing?
Doctor: its normal…
Doctor: types some notes on computer.
Doctor: So you’re still working at such and such? (Some IT company)
Patient: yes.
Doctor: well maybe you can tell me … I have an old Ipod …and it doesn’t work..
The dial has gone on it… do you think I can get it fixed anywhere?
Patient: well … is it still under guarantee?
Doctor shakes his head…
Patient: well …I think it will cost a lot..Perhaps its better to get a new one.
Doctor: well that’s what I thought ..
Patient: Well I don’t really know about Ipod’s ..Maybe it can be fixed …but I imagine that apple may charge a lot…
Doctor: it’s the old Ipod ..You know the 30 gb one’s … I think they aren’t very reliable?
Patient: no I think the new ones are better …the first generation ones had some glitches.
Doctor: oh ok.
Doctor: You know ….a friend of mine …just spent £65 on a new cable lead for his camera… do you think that’s crazy … he could have bought a new camera …better spec..newer model …and it would have come with the cable..
Patient…yeah crazy…
Doctor: Well anyway. Its good to see you again. Take care.
Patient: bye doctor! (Wow that was and abrupt goodbye…still I guess he has patients to see…)
Patient…Whilst I’m still negotiating my way back to my car..I start thinking..(Spells trouble)…what was that all about?was the doctor testing me … talking about Ipods… Cameras…
Perhaps he wanted to know if I believed all things should be fixed… or whether I had the attitude of …out with the old in with the new.. .. Maybe he realised that I was fucked and couldn’t be fixed …but didn’t want to tell me … ..yes that was it… he was trying to tell me that he believed some things shouldn’t be allowed to be fixed … was it cos I smoke… sheeeet (shit)…
So he was just trying to gauge my reaction to his ipod and camera stories… crafty beggar!
…Or perhaps he was just being polite and having a normal conversation …and I am just a paranoid hypochondriac.. . It’s quite feasible…
I get home and quickly begin to scan google for ipod repair websites and eventually find a cool site …fixing old ipods … I call the surgery and get the receptionist to write down the link to pass on to the doctor…my good deed of the day...what a loser..

pls send comments to migperu@mac.com

PLease send me your comments to loopkingdom@hotmail.com

Mr. Gerg sat in his office like a cyborg with no legs, that's not saying much I know, but in order to understand how he sat, we must travel to an earlier time, in which we ask ourselves, why the hell is Mr. Gerg a cyborg.

 

He wore glasses, two cups, filled with an expensive type of champagne, chevignon or some crap like that, I'm not much of an alcoholic connoisseur, but I can understand how some people might choose to employ it for giving themselves an air of prestige, or class. This particular class of people belonged to an underground family that was borne in the last phase of the Soviet union, the Gorbachev phase which really ended at the eve of the gulf war.

 

See the gulf war was really a demonstration of force, the Americans wanted to be understood once and for all, in a clear wordless language that everyone can understand, even Pumpernickel the friendly scout bear, who trudges across mid west forests in search of fantastical honey groves that stretched like golden bubbly rivers.

 

On this particular day he had his fill of honey, but something was missing, a reason for his existence, this he thought he would find in the honey groves, where his princess in the clouds found her abode. She sat on a pedestal that only she could see. For all those who surrounded her, you may haply know that they were in fact giants of a very high caliber, in gun terms that would mean anything greater than an AK 47, which is in fact a weapon superior to its more modern counterparts in many ways, for example reliability in jungle theatres, furthermore they gained popular attention and even celebrity status when they were used to murder Gorbachev, 'he's still alive' you say, that's what you think, you hadn't really planned on saying anything, just thinking, which is in fact a passive process, like a water passing through a filter.

 

Little did we all know, we are all bound by our unspoken thoughts, in ways which we cannot imagine, so for that reason, what's the point of trying to elucidate on this matter with words, or maybe I should use Lego pieces in order to demonstrate my contentions?

 

Alright, after purchasing any major Lego set, take all the human Lego representations and place them in a microwave for 5 seconds, this will initiate them into becoming cyborgs. Take the red pieces and throw them all away, you should do this whenever you come across Lego, because the red pieces contain a special tracing substance known as Myoplex, during the Reagan years they tested this substance on captured Soviet soldiers, yes they fought a major unpublicized war, off the coast of Siberia, media coverage was disallowed, and all the major historians were hapless victims of pressure groups, and NGO that don’t give a crap about people's right to know stuff.

The result, of course, took place in a matter of short years that you could count on Chinese beads, if you have a beard, do you have one, you should its good for you, the result is the WTO which is really a crap place.

 

 Anyways, make an office out of your Lego parts and put one of you 'cyborgs' in there, on the seat, yes have him sitting, and we'll call him Mr. Gerg, he will be our main character.

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anyone seen Philip Eugene Palmer whom lived in Hardin,Mo 64035
cause I am his devoted friend
Philip used to be in the U.S.Army
today he`s got a wife named Sharon Palmer
whom was a Stevens before she got married

Edited by author 01-25-2007 11:46 PM
Whispering wind swirled, twisting and twirling, gliding along the currents. Sourceless light shone along the horizon, the developings of an onslaught just before dawn. A reminder to all beholding it, the new age had dawned.
    
   Beautiful tree's, standing dorman and flourishing since the beginnings of man, wiltered. Dying. No amount of care, compassion and understanding would ever bring these giants of the past back to life. The fires of life faded, pummeted by toxic desecration of leaders since gone.
   This was the new age. An age of realising. An age of destruction...

 Twenty-One years ago, the year 2013. The Iraqi war had seemed to be controlled. Submitted and accepted by its subjects, international workers and even the terrorism had died down. Only the occasional of lapsing believers, every couple of years tried to blow something up or destroy the overseas troops still there.
  As the years slowly wen't by. Tension eased, apparently coming to a complete stop all of a sudden.
  "Realising the errors of their ways" military experts reaconed.
  "Admitting defeat" others rambled.

 Peace it seemed was only a period of waiting, till nobody even remembered the War of Iraq and the many people that lost their lives through bloodshed.

                     Everybody’s comment on my short story is solicited by writer at E-Mail address=rasheed1144@yahoo.co.in



                           The Washer man


“Are you girls ready for your clients”.


      The madam mother asked from her daughter and newly wed daughter in law. They replied to her meekly while puffing their nose with face powder in unison,
                              “We will be ready soon, mom”.

           “You know that you had only two clients during last fortnight. Raja the head of “Escort” was not giving us clients. On the other hand, you girls are showing tantrums. How can we satisfy our customers? You, Eileen has to wear bridal clothes for your client today as Raja told me that this man has fetish for brides. Anyway, he is paying nicely. Be quick taxi is coming soon for you.”
             
             The madam after instructing her girls went into the kitchen to prepare some snack for herself; cab arrived and off went the girls.

                 Eileen was five feet seven inches in height and was a tall girl by Pakistani standards. Her mother was also a whore but married to a businessperson and was prettier than her daughter. She always remembered her hay days at Lahore, where she was much sough after prostitute of her own. Even she had acted as a stock girl in many cheap Punjabi films.
         At a Raja’s Escort hideout, Eileen met Tony who was also a partner in that trade besides working as an officer in credit card retailing center, where he influenced his well-connected card buyers with his call girls to enhance sales of credit cards as well.. Tony’s mother raised him as a pampered child and he married Eileen without full consent of his indulging mom. He somehow passed his graduation examination to qualify for a civil job other than his partnership in the Escort service. After a long courtship, he married Eileen when she has passed her graduation. Tony has promised her that she would not work as a call girl subsequent to their marriage, but Tony’s mother made it binding that when her own daughter is going out for business her daughter in law should also go to the clients in the night and prepare food in the day in alternate date rotation with her daughters.

 
 Eileen’s mother in law, who was not a pretty woman, was demanding and disciplining towards her daughters and daughter in law. She had educated her daughters and they worked as call girls too during their high school days. No one in neighborhood knew that Mom and her daughters were sluts, had they knew it they had been thrown them out from their apartments in that orthodox Muslim locality. The whole business was going on clandestinely; however regular bribes to the local police paid to keep escort service free of their intervention.


                The newly wed bride of the house arrived at a secret hideout of “Escort” service were other similar girls were also preparing for their clients. The couturier of Raja’s Escort gave her traditional red bridal dress to wear for her special client and a bold bridal make was finished on her body. She then escorted to a room where she sat like a newly wed bride with her head and face cover with her red couture’s bridal shroud like readying for bull to come and gore her.
                 The customer was late in coming so Eileen sneakily began reading a romantic novel and keeping in her mind to throw the book on floor as soon as her crazy customer entered the room.
                      A man in his middle ages arrived and after seeing her chuckled as she was watching him from behind her veil. She suppressed her smile, when he sat on the bed beside her, he opened her face covering and gave her a thousand-rupee note as customary in this part of world to present a gift to newly wed bride after seeing her face first time. Then said,
             
         “How pretty are you. Just like my late wife. Come on unbutton me”.

                She undressed him, but was surprised to see his flaccid dick. His penis was twigging below his tummy like a rasher of meat. Subsequently he asked her to undress and message his body. She has to perform all sexual acts as customer had paid for it and it was against her trade to refuse any demand of clients. Loathingly she started rubbing her body against his whole torso but felt that her that acts had no effect on his flagging dick. After an hour, Eileen was perspiring a lot due to constant massage, but there was no flame in the dead wood, nevertheless, her client was still obstinate for the continuation of her foreplay actions. The man then became prostrate but he was huffing, puffing, and looking like sparred bag of a pugilist on the other hand she had become a boxer who had mock punched a lot on a limply sack. Eileen also realized that the middle-aged man was as cold as roasted turkey and further punching of his body was needless. To her much relief when she was squeezing his dick while rubbing her pussy on his bum, that he felt pain and asked her to stop all action forthwith. The client however gave her bonus money, told her to leave the room, and then she hurriedly scuttled off from that punishing charade.

 She had encountered dozens of impotent clients but they had all allowed her to go after few minutes of foreplay or oral sex. However, that day’s fanatic customer had sapped her energy and she assumed him as a hedonistic man with no respite in his lust. Despite her exhaustion, she had deep urge for sex, as hard efforts with her client had aroused her, instead of her client despite of her best stimulation to him. At escort service, there was no suitable man was present to gratify Eileen even free of any charge. Moreover, she had no yearning to masturbate or to use the vibrator to cool her down from her profound sexual urge.

               Her husband was soundly sleeping in her bedroom nevertheless madam mom was awake to have a night vigil on her girls and told her that she was going away from house in the morning. She threw her clothes and donned nightdress and desired to clasp her husband, but controlled herself, as that action of her must have invited the ire of her spouse who has to go to his office early in the morning. She turned off her bedside table lamp and tried to feign sleep.

                    The doorbell was ringing and ringing, to her astonishment, she was face to face with the washer man who had brought the bundle of clean laundered clothes on his donkey cart, and he had to collect soiled clothes as well as normal practice of that house. She wanted to brush him off by impressing on him that no other member of abode was present to take the delivery of the launders. The washer man was clever and had an eye on the newly wed girl of that infamous house. He persisted on the delivery and even threatened her that he would report it to her mother in law. With half sleeping eyes, she let him inside the house and told him to leave the bundle of washed clothes and come again for dirty ones. However, the washer man was unwavering in his claim that he had order of madam to take delivery dirty clothes as well in his each turn round.
                      Eileen was wondering at the obduracy of a middle aged menial who had stub of beard grown on his face and was wearing a loincloth over a loose shirt. She was thinking how to get rid of that pig headed man from her house where she was alone at that time. Meanwhile the washer man went inside her bedroom and swiftly embarked on removing duvet from Eileen’s bed. She was flabbergasted at the flaunt of that man and hoarsely shouted,

                   “Do not touch my bed sheets. It is new and clean, as I have spread it last night.”

             The washer man was indifferent to her call and she rushed inside to prevent him from removing her bed’s duvet. As soon as she came near to him, he clasped her with his full force and started caressing her.

           “Do you want to rape me, you dirty scoundrel? Leave me at once otherwise I will call the police”.

                  She shouted at him in mere desperation, as his grip was strong for her to ward him off. Then he murmured in her ear,

           “I know your family and so does police. I had already enjoyed all the girls including madam and had eyed you for long to take pleasure from newly wed daughter of this infamous house. So, do not resist darling, as I shall forfeit my whole month’s laundry charges for sex with you and that will more than other clients pay to you.”

                              “You daring bastard, leave me for God’s sake”

                 Eileen now meekly requested her, butwasher man’s large and stout prick was rubbing against her fanny and she was feeling the pleasure of it. She then succumbed to his desires, she twice enjoyed him with her repeated organism on that afternoon, and after that, she fell fast sleep until late evening.

Edited by author 10-25-2006 10:46 AM
The Washer man.

Please comment on my short story at rasheed1144@yahoo.co.in.Everybody's comment will be solicited on my story "The Washer man "



                      “Are you girls ready for your clients”.


      The madam mother asked from her daughter and newly wed daughter in law. They replied to her meekly while puffing their nose with face powder in unison,
                              “We will be ready soon, mom”.

           “You know that you had only two clients during last fortnight. Raja the head of “Escort” was not giving us clients. On the other hand, you girls are showing tantrums. How can we satisfy our customers? You, Eileen has to wear bridal clothes for your client today as Raja told me that this man has fetish for brides. Anyway, he is paying nicely. Be quick taxi is coming soon for you.”
             
             The madam after instructing her girls went into the kitchen to prepare some snack for herself; cab arrived and off went the girls.

                 Eileen was five feet seven inches in height and was a tall girl by Pakistani standards. Her mother was also a whore but married to a businessperson and was prettier than her daughter. She always remembered her hay days at Lahore, where she was much sough after prostitute of her own. Even she had acted as a stock girl in many cheap Punjabi films.
         At a Raja’s Escort hideout, Eileen met Tony who was also a partner in that trade besides working as an officer in credit card retailing center, where he influenced his well-connected card buyers with his call girls to enhance sales of credit cards as well.. Tony’s mother raised him as a pampered child and he married Eileen without full consent of his indulging mom. He somehow passed his graduation examination to qualify for a civil job other than his partnership in the Escort service. After a long courtship, he married Eileen when she has passed her graduation. Tony has promised her that she would not work as a call girl subsequent to their marriage, but Tony’s mother made it binding that when her own daughter is going out for business her daughter in law should also go to the clients in the night and prepare food in the day in alternate date rotation with her daughters.

 
 Eileen’s mother in law, who was not a pretty woman, was demanding and disciplining towards her daughters and daughter in law. She had educated her daughters and they worked as call girls too during their high school days. No one in neighborhood knew that Mom and her daughters were sluts, had they knew it they had been thrown them out from their apartments in that orthodox Muslim locality. The whole business was going on clandestinely; however regular bribes to the local police were paid to keep escort service free of their intervention.


                The newly wed bride of the house arrived at a secret hideout of “Escort” service were other similar girls were also preparing for their clients. The couturier of Raja’s Escort gave her traditional red bridal dress to wear for her special client and a bold bridal make was finished on her body. She was escorted to a room where she sat like a newly wed bride with her head and face cover with her red couture’s bridal shroud like readying for bull to come and gore her.
                 The customer was late in coming so Eileen sneakily began reading a romantic novel and keeping in her mind to throw the book on floor as soon as her crazy customer entered the room.
                      A man in his middle ages arrived and after seeing her chuckled as she was watching him from behind her veil. She suppressed her smile, when he sat on the bed beside her, he opened her face covering and gave her a thousand-rupee note as customary in this part of world to present a gift to newly wed bride after seeing her face first time. Then said,
             
         “How pretty are you. Just like my late wife. Come on unbutton me”.

                She undressed him, but was surprised to see his flaccid dick. His penis was twigging below his tummy like a rasher of meat. Subsequently he asked her to undress and message his body. She has to perform all sexual acts as customer had paid for it and it was against her trade to refuse any demand of clients. Loathingly she started rubbing her body against his whole torso but felt that her that acts had no effect on his flagging dick. After an hour, Eileen was perspiring a lot due to constant massage, but there was no flame in the dead wood, nevertheless, her client was still obstinate for the continuation of her foreplay actions. The man then became prostrate but he was huffing, puffing, and looking like sparred bag of a pugilist on the other hand she had become a boxer who had mock punched a lot on a limply sack. Eileen also realized that the middle-aged man was as cold as roasted turkey and further punching of his body was needless. To her much relief when she was squeezing his dick while rubbing her pussy on his bum, that he felt pain and asked her to stop all action forthwith. The client however gave her bonus money, told her to leave the room, and then she hurriedly scuttled off from that punishing charade.

 She had encountered dozens of impotent clients but they had all allowed her to go after few minutes of foreplay or oral sex. However, that day’s fanatic customer had sapped her energy and she assumed him as a hedonistic man with no respite in his lust. Despite her exhaustion, she had deep urge for sex, as hard efforts with her client had aroused her, instead of her client despite of her best stimulation to him. At escort service, there was no suitable man was present to gratify Eileen even free of any charge. Moreover, she had no yearning to masturbate or to use the vibrator to cool her down from her profound sexual urge.

               Her husband was soundly sleeping in her bedroom nevertheless madam mom was awake to have a night vigil on her girls and told her that she was going away from house in the morning. She threw her clothes and donned nightdress and desired to clasp her husband, but controlled herself, as that action of her must have invited the ire of her spouse who has to go to his office early in the morning. She turned off her bedside table lamp and tried to feign sleep.

                    The doorbell was ringing and ringing, to her astonishment, she was face to face with the washer man who had brought the bundle of clean laundered clothes on his donkey cart, and he had to collect soiled clothes as well as normal practice of that house. She wanted to brush him off by impressing on him that no other member of abode was present to take the delivery of the launders. The washer man was clever and had an eye on the newly wed girl of that infamous house. He persisted on the delivery and even threatened her that he would report it to her mother in law. With half sleeping eyes, she let him inside the house and told him to leave the bundle of washed clothes and come again for dirty ones. However, the washer man was unwavering in his claim that he had order of madam to take delivery dirty clothes as well in his each turn round.
                      Eileen was wondering at the obduracy of a middle aged menial who had stub of beard grown on his face and was wearing a loincloth over a loose shirt. She was thinking how to get rid of that pig headed man from her house where she was alone at that time. Meanwhile the washer man went inside her bedroom and swiftly embarked on removing duvet from Eileen’s bed. She was flabbergasted at the flaunt of that man and hoarsely shouted,

                   “Do not touch my bed sheets. It is new and clean, as I have spread it last night.”

             The washer man was indifferent to her call and she rushed inside to prevent him from removing her bed’s duvet. As soon as she came near to him, he clasped her with his full force and started caressing her.

           “Do you want to rape me, you dirty scoundrel? Leave me at once otherwise I will call the police”.

                  She shouted at him in mere desperation, as his grip was strong for her to ward him off. Then he murmured in her ear,

           “I know your family and so does police. I had already enjoyed all the girls including madam and had eyed you for long to take pleasure from newly wed daughter of this infamous house. So, do not resist darling, as I shall forfeit my whole month’s laundry charges for sex with you and that will more than other clients pay to you.”

                              “You daring bastard, leave me for God’s sake”

                 Eileen now meekly requested her, but washer man’s large and stout prick was rubbing against her fanny and she was feeling the pleasure of it. She then succumbed to his desires, she twice enjoyed him with her repeated organism on that afternoon, and after that, she fell fast sleep until late evening.

Edited by author 10-23-2006 09:06 AM
Our Last Night Together
by MysteryWriter

"Well Jude, looks mighty bad." I had just stated the obvious to a woman twice as smart as me.

"Yes Aaron, it looks as though we might not see little Tommy's next birthday."

"You should've stayed with him back at mike's place."

"Old man, we been together nigh on to 25 years. I guess we can be together a little more."

"Yeah, but tomorrow we gonna go our seperate ways."

"Well there's still time. You don't need no preacher to make it legal. You can find him now and it will count just the same."

"No, I ain't no hypocrite. I'm gonna' go out just like I lived."

"Well old man, much as I love you, I ain't going to hell with you."

"Don't 'spect you to. Didn't even 'spect you to be here."

"Well, wouldn't be much of a life without you would it?"

"They sure got some purty suits don't they old woman?"

"Yes they do. Gonna be a damn shame to stain them with blood."

"Well, come mornin' we sure as hell gonna try."

"You know old man, I never did like to travel alone. Let's me and you try to fill up that train."

"Train?"

"The one to heaven or hell."

"Oh that train," I thought a minute then added. "Shame nobody's gonna even remember this little fart in the war."

"Well we didn't come here for glory."

"No old lady, we came to make one last gesture."

"Yes one last throw of them dice you always talking 'bout."

"Looks like you sure put your money on the wrong gambler this time?" I suggested.

"I guess after all these years you are entitled to one mistake."

"Thanks, wonder if Mike will remember the name of this place. Maybe come put a flower here for you."

"I got no idea. What is this placed called again. I can't speak no Mex."

"Somebody said the locals call it Alamo or some such nonsense."

The End

got one more but not done yet:

You wake up and know something will go wrong. It is not a feeling anymore, it is a way of living. The reason why, is something always go wrong. With in the first few minutes of walking out the bedroom door. Those first few hours something will make your life shit, and worse than it already is.
 Devastation will wreak fucking havoc on your mind, it will engulf all the feelings you had in your body. You can say James today will be the day that will start a new life. It will be a great and then you open your eyes, shit it already has begun.
 The world you think you should be living in will never be the real world that you do want. This world does not have smiles, laughter, or fun. You have a second wife and a step daughter, also a son from your failure of a first marriage and a shit hole of a job. Your wife of now of five years is sleeping with your now 37 years old son. She would rather have sex with him then to even think about touching your fat disusing body, much less see you. The sex that you do have, involves your hand, or from a woman that is so morbid you would rather fuck a dog.
 Your dreams are not normal dreams, they are mind fucking nightmares. This is they way they have been for as long as you have been dreaming. Falling asleep you dread every night, because you have to face what you really fucking are about.
 Every time you awake you see the same fucking cruel image of your life. You sit at home, with the same cigarette letting it burn down to the tips of your stubby fingers. You are not able to stop yourself from burning the same two fingers everyday. Because that is the only thing that you can feel. You say fuck Annie what are you doing to yourself, fuck this when will I get out of this world of fucking hate and discuss that I am.
 The only person that can stand to touching me is my step son. Even then I can’t stand the way his gaze, just sucks at the empty abyss of my soul that I have. The grime that I am settles in the thing that might be my heart… Fuck!
 Your body is so mangled, because of your morbid overbearing fats and scars from the falling cigarettes. This is only because of you passing out from all the drugs that you take, to numb all the pain that you give to yourself. There is no wonder why people run as soon as they see your horrid body. You are the reason that you live like scum. The filth that surrounds you could give a shit about. You dress like a porn star, which has giving up on botox and lipo, and it did the adverse effects.
 Your husband James thinks a vacuum can give him a better blow job than you can. Guess what bitch it can, because the vacuum can find the pea size of a dick that he has.
 This is just the beginning, now we add in the two kids and their fucked up lives….
 You wake up and all you see is a rat faced fat ass shell of a woman. You go into the bathroom and see mold, because you never want to get off your ass do any cleaning. Now you are thinking to yourself “Jenny why did I move out for this?” when did I say self lets move out with this man rick, who wants you to be a hooker, so he can sit on his fat rotten fish smelling ass. So he can do nothing but eat the little food that you have. You know that all the money that you fucking make, is going into the veins of his arms. Then he has the balls to fucking hit you because there is no fucking junk food in the house for him to eat. Well guess what mother fucker, how would like to have this toaster along side your fucking head, while it is still plugged in. I will no longer take this shit, so take this and shove it you fat fucker.

i got a really diff type of story

 You walk in and glance around and think “ok not bad”. You sit down see a magazine that looks interesting. You start looking threw it and your name is called, by a fascinating woman in a black leather top with her nipples exposed, long black lace stockings, and a black lace thong with black high heels. She walks you down a long dimly lit hallway. She opens a door into a room with a swing, a bed and a feather whip. You think ok this will be fun. She tells you that Kitty Vibe will be in, in a few minutes.
  You sit down on the bed and wait .You think now what should I do? What should I ask for? Then you hear a knock, and in walks this goddess of beauty. She is very petite, with long legs and long red hair. Her eyes are green with this sexual look in them; her body is the one that you only see in your dreams.
 Hello I am Kitty Vibe your sex slave for the evening. What can I do for you tonight? Then you try to think what you want and nothing comes to mind. You tell her she has total control of your body.
 So she starts to kiss your lips and then gradually undoes every button of your shirt. As she unbuttons you she kisses every part of skin that shows with every button that is undone. You calmly touch her erected nipples, as she is taking off your shirt. She starts to move slowly down your body, touching you ever so slightly. Your erotic senses are once more awakened. She runs her silky-smooth hands over your chest, just ever so lightly with her nails making you grow larger with every pass. Your body is going through something you never thought you would ever feel again. She grazes your ear with her warm lips and the heat of her hot breath; she kisses your neck with such infatuation, running down your now warm body, ever so lightly with her tongue, sending shivers down your spine. She is gracefully undoing your belt, making you crave her faster, but she doesn’t. She unbuttons your pants with her teeth. The warmth of her breath you can feel, so close but not yet there.
 She teases you with her tongue just below your belt line. Now you desire that wetness that is just waiting for you. You grab her by her hair ever so tenderly and she gasps with pleasure. You look at her with intense eyes, pleading her for a taste of her sweet juices. Pulling off your pants, she touches the tip of your penis with those supple red lips. She teases you with the tip of her tongue, but just a little not to much though. Then she grasps it with her hand, moving up and down the shaft with a firm, but soft grip. She licks the bead of oil that comes out of the tip.
 Your body now is urgently in need of you being inside the wet, moist depths of her. She is now taking you in her mouth, erotically moving up and down your shaft. When she reaches the top, she flips her tongue over your hard cock. Enjoying every minute, you flip around, you start licking her nice and wet pussy. She starts to moan in pleasure, you move down wanting to taste her sweet wetness. She starts to caress your balls in her ever so warm hands. You start to lick faster, she gasps in pleasure as you hit the right spot. She is now in erotic bliss, moaning to every movement of your tongue. You give her a little nibble, she starts to quiver, and you go quicker. Faster and faster tasting ever drop of sweetness of her body. She screams out in a body shaking orgasm.
 You turn her onto her back, and slowly glide into the warmness and wetness of her ecstasy. You give her a little, than a little more. Slow at first and then you plunge deeper, as she gasps at the size. You start to pull out she grabs you, pulling you back in wanting you deeper. You thrust again going deeper; to her it feels like you are going up her spine. Your going faster now, she grabs at your back digging her nails into the warm flesh of your body. She is moaning with total pleasure, she has no control of her body. The faster and deeper you go, the more she digs her nails into you skin. You take her and put her on top, she now has all the control. You slide into her; she starts to move up and down slowly at first. Then she starts to sway her hips back and forth, with every movement of her hips she tightens around you. You clutch her silky breasts and squeeze them, and she moans at the feel of your touch. You take hold of her by the hair, and she tightens again you run your hands down her moist body, trying to find the warmth of clit. You find it and start to rub your fingers over it, little by little, calmly and with every touch her breathing get heavier and faster. Her moans are getting louder, you pull her deeper. You taste her ever so sensual nipples, which are hard and erect from you touching her. She starts to get louder and louder and her breathing is getting harder and faster. She screams out in pleasure while you get off at the same time. She collapses in udder enjoyment; you crash because it has been so long.
 This has been your first time you have ever been to a sex house. This is a night that you will remember for the rest of your life, and the years to come.

none

This is my short: Her Beautiful Eyes. Everybody please comment and tell me what you think! or you can email me : sarahroane@yahoo.com

Every night we would lie close together on that old creaky mattress before falling victim to sleep. Sometimes I would play with the stray hairs that bordered her pale face, sometimes run my fingers from her bold shoulder to her much less intimidating thigh, but mostly I would stare at those eyes, those beautiful eyes, until her rhythmic breathing captured my own. She knew she was torturing me when she laid on her side with her face towards my chest, her thin, long, wavy brown hair outlining her slight hourglass shape better, if possible, than the worn light blue cami she often wore to bed. Her long, some – what tan legs intertwining my own looked even more seductive in the dim light of our repaired alarm clock than in the black knee – high stilettos she liked to wear during the day. Those, accompanied by her regular navy trench coat and loose white blouse, made her appear very bold, but I knew better than to think her strong. I knew she still had many weaknesses locked inside her head; they seemed to enjoy forcing their way into her dreams, making her stir and kick under the thin sheet we slumbered with in the summer. When it would finally slip to the floor (much to the delight of our shaggy pet Roger who liked to snuggle in the wrinkled fabric) I would wake from the cold and turn to shake her from the deep trance by calling her name.
The fear that penetrated her dreams caused us both trouble going back to sleep, and so I would hold her very tight until the salty liquid on her face disappeared and her hand loosened its death grip on my shirt. We would then begin the staring game, the game that would fascinate us many a night without failing, at least until the dawn gave us permission to stop. But in those hours before sunrise that never seemed to last long enough, I was happy to stare at her eyes, her beautiful eyes, as she stared back at mine.
Sometimes the nightmares would subside for a week, maybe two, before starting up again. Those nights in-between I was grateful for, when I could sleep without being interrupted and know that her mind was safe. Unfortunately, the days that continually came after the nights would put me in a sad, blank state; I was left to brainstorm the reason of her constant harassment.
She left me wondering until one night, when I woke her from her repetitive dream with a kiss, the same concerned kiss that we often shared and came to understand all too well. It was then that her eyes, her beautiful eyes, flashed with an emotion, maybe pain that I rarely saw. This time I thought that look was accompanied by something else, an understanding of sorts. My suspicions were confirmed when she spoke.
She told me a story that night as I held her in my arms. The story was unusual, I thought, and hurting, but with a strange, under spoken ghost of pain that could only be put to rest by someone who understood it’s unfortunate predicament. I often sought her gaze through her long, blunt - cut bangs, not sure of how spilling these thoughts was affecting her, but when at last her eyes met mine, they looked strange. The upper – face of the one I loved was not only shadowed by her ruffled hair, but also with a nostalgic glaze that was not to be wiped away by blinking. After I realized that she was too far back in her sorrowful past to hear the words I was planning on saying, I tilted the tip of my nose tenderly to the top of her head and closed my eyes, patiently waiting to hear what she had decided to tell me.
She kept talking, sometimes pausing and then continuing with a different voice. I could not decide what her current feelings were, if one was even there. When she swallowed before going on her eyes were just as blank and expressionless as before, though slightly narrower. One time she stopped and looked down, ashamed, I thought, about the condition she had been in before meeting me. She was obviously aware of the fact that group class had helped her, but until this night I had wondered if it was what she had really wanted, if I would ever find out. The limp figure beneath my loose grasp was beautiful, but not well. Though she wasn’t delicate, I knew she was breakable, and I suppressed a sigh as she continued her story, never once looking up at me.
Every now and then her eyebrows would frown slightly to emphasize confusion or frustration at points before returning to the serenity her face held throughout the tale. When she paused to gather her thoughts and let me take in her words I realized that she was still in that dark hole she had just described, part of her still stuck in a depression with that boy and whatever she still felt towards him. I knew then why she often cried - cried, but never sobbed. Her eyes leaked tears – what her mind would not recognize the need for. It made me upset and frustrated, for it would always sidetrack me during my frequent brainstorms of why this girl’s short life was so complicated, and how her skin, so tender and pale against her bohemian clothing, could possibly have held her together during the time when she was alive.
Tears then started flowing unconsciously across her face without warning and I immediately felt more sympathetic. I clung to her tighter than before, scared to let her slip too far back in the past. I never thought to brush away the drops of water on her pretty face; she usually wouldn’t have let me touch her in this state. I felt grateful that she was allowing me to do so now, but at the same time I was fretful, wondering if explaining this chapter of her like was slowly ripping up another part of her obviously broken heart. I blinked my eyes as a tear ran down my own cheek; I knew I could not stop her by telling her to.
I didn’t know whether or not she would go on with the story; she hadn’t said anything for a few minutes. I released her with one hand to tilt her chin towards mine and look into her eyes, her beautiful eyes.
They made a chill run up my spine.
Naturally a light, watery gray color, splotches of indigo helped to compliment a dark plum, almost black pupil. Now wide and looking very surprised, not at the fact that I was crying too but because she just remembered my presence, they were much more astonishing than before, being magnified with tears that had yet to fall. I had woken apart of her, as her eyes never failed to do to me whenever I found them. Suppressing the urge to lose myself inside her I wrenched my thoughts back to the present and saw that she was staring at me, both our minds and bodies locked tight with the other.
We had never been afraid to look away, nor were we then. We both knew that we were a permanent part of this earth, together or apart, happy or sad, guilty or innocent. But now my hard, demanding gaze was penetrating her own for a different reason; I was determined to finish this never ending maze by finding out what happened next even if she wasn’t going to tell me. Her small mouth open and closed soundlessly a few times before stopping to rest her front teeth on her bottom lip. When she spoke I had to suppress a surprised jolt – her voice was deep and solemn, unlike earlier.
She looked down once again as she came to a missing element in the story, the part that had obviously torn her into the pieces I had found her in, the ones that all seemed to be from different puzzles that wouldn’t fit together no matter how hard I tried. My eyes then widened and my hand, which had been subconsciously stroking the wisps of hair that shadowed her features, stopped midair as the impact of it hit me. She was not crying so I had no clue of what she thought, but never before had I wanted more than I did then.
I took a long time to accept that climax, the one that was definitely not wanted but had been put in the unfortunate story anyway, and when my mind rejoined present time I saw that neither of us had moved from our close position on the bed, and that her eyes – her beautiful eyes – were staring at mine once more.
She tried to start again but instead choked on her words and buried her face back into my chest. I could feel a wet spot on my shirt becoming steadily larger as more and more of her warm tears hit my skin, and my hand ran up and down her back in turn. I didn’t want nor need her to go on anymore. I knew the rest of the story.
I had found her in a rehab center that we were both checked into. She had come saying she had an addiction to men, or that she used to, but over time I thought that harder and harder to believe. I think she mostly wanted somewhere safe to stay, like me. I was there to bum a bed and food, as my father had kicked me out earlier that week. Being a freeloader I agreed to head group discussions when the regular leader wasn’t there, missing out on as many classes as I could until I spotted her. After that, I came to every one.
It wasn’t the slim physique or particularly generous breasts that I was after. It was her eyes. I was amazed, and still am, at how they could maintain that chillingly blank feel and color so effortlessly. I think she understood, too, for she began to relax under my stare and return it to me. I tried to start conversations with her but stopped after a couple times, giving into the fact that neither one of us had much to say. Even so, she began to pick seats next to mine, and after our fingers finished playing nervously with loose strings on one another’s jeans, they interlocked.
I left my door unlocked after a few sessions, hoping maybe one night she would come in. She eventually did, and just as I wished, she stayed there all night beneath my hold. That night we slept, only slept, as I had no intentions of having her that night. Partly it was due to the fact that my mother had instilled in me (before she left) a great respect, telling me that women could do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted and that I had no control whatsoever. I found her words very true over time, and though I had never been in a very long relationship, this advice had come in handy whenever I felt like messing around.
I woke up the next morning to the minor tickle of slender, slightly callused fingers toying with the soft cotton of my tee shirt. She seemed very happy, happier than I had ever seen her in group or during our frequent encounters prior to that morning, and it was shown in the small curve of her usually slack mouth. When she heard me laugh at the sensation her hands were giving me she looked up and her expression immediately changed to one of apologetic fear. I then smiled the same smile that she had worn just seconds ago, which seemed to calm her immensely. To prove my feelings even more I slid my hand around her waist and laid a light kiss on her pale pink lips. The kiss was long, sweet, and passionate, but tender just the same, and slowly, very slowly, she began to return it.
The tears had now stopped, and I released her only to scoot down a few inches and look at her, as I had done earlier, but in a much gentler way. I planted a few light kisses on her lips, her forehead, and her nose before she returned the comforting favor, giving me much pleasure. I wrapped my hands loosely around the small of her back, my forearms resting lightly her abdomen (which was just beginning to swell) as she smiled and stroked my chest with just as much love. We lay there for hours unsure of what to say, and eventually the awkward silence made her serene face break into a very familiar smile. Sometimes I would look at her and do the same, but mostly I felt like playing the staring game. I stared at her eyes, her beautiful eyes, and she stared back at mine.

Riah your story of "I am damaged inspiration" is wonderful so very true and I like how you metamophically compare life/love to the changing of the seasons.

Beautifully written and well said!

Hiya.. My story hasn't got a title yet.. and it's not finished.. and I just want to see what you all think about, so here it is;

      I sat on a dirty porch by my lonesome self minding my own business until I heard someone yell, it startled me, this girl came running down the alley, crying she looked up at me I wanted to leave but instead I walked towards her.
"Are you okay?" I asked her.
"Yes, I'm fine." she replied.
       She had a busted lip I asked her if she wanted to come to my house to clean herself up, she hesitated.
"S-s-sure." She stammered.
I put my arm around her and walked her to my house.
"My name is Emily, whats yours?" I asked her.
"Shelley." She sighed
I grabbed a wash cloth to wipe away the blood, she squirmed around
"OW!" She exclaimed.
"Sorry, it's not an everyday thing for me to bring home strange girls and bandage them up." I told her.
I wiped her bottom lip, as softly as I could so I wouldn't hurt her more then she already was.
"So where do you go to school?" I asked her.
"Westerly High."
"Oh really me to."
She turned away, and looked in the mirror she sighed, I never seen her at school, that's kind'a strange. Did this girl have any friends? I pondered about it for a few moments. She turned to look at me, she smiled then said.
"Thank you, so much!" She said with a soft and restless voice, I felt sorry for her, she was beautiful, sweet, kind, and very delicate. I gave her my bed to sleep in so she could get a good night sleep.
       I went down stairs to sleep on the couch, but I heard Shelley call my name, I headed back towards my room.
"Yea." I said.
"You don't have to sleep in a different room, there's plenty of room over here with me, and besides I don't want to be alone."
"Okay."
I layed down beside her, I layed there half the night thinking, it was about 5:23 A.M. when I finally fell asleep.
It didn't even seem like it was time to wake up, time flies when your asleep, I opened my eyes and i realized Shelley had left, but there lay a note.
"Dear Emily thank you for taking care of me and taking me in to your lovely home, I wished I could stay but I think we will be better off if we pretend that we never met."
I layed the note on my desk, and got ready for school maybe I would see her there, I was on my way to school when I seen her pull up in a black convertible, I was confused I hurried off the bus to catch up with her.
"Hey Shelley!" I yelled from a distance.
She turned, and stared at me for a minute she started to smile, but then she looked at her friends.
"And who might you be?" She asked.
"Last night remember?"
She gave me a funny look, like the kind you give when you regret something but the kind of regret look she gave was more like sorry i didn't mean it kind'a look.
       I went to class and I sat next to my best friend Erin.
"Gosh girl you look tired." Erin said
"Yea, I was up all night taking care of Shelley."
"You mean?"
"Yea, but the weird thing is she acts like she doesn't know me."
"Typical."
The bell rang, it was about time to leave just one more class, I couldn't wait me and Erin made some plans to hang out at my house and pig out on junk food and watch scary movies until our eyes bleed. I was on my way to History class, but the first thing I noticed when I walked in the door was Shelley. She glanced up at me and gave me a half smile.
     Then one of her friends walked in and she gave me a dirty look, her lame friends started laughing. I rolled my eyes.
"Hey Emily, sorry if I've been kind'a rude to you around my friends."
As I listened to my voicemail and I heard the pain in Shelley's voice. My eyes filled with tears almost immediately. I tried calling her back but there was no answer, I started to get worried;
I went to the same place where we met.
      I heard screaming, cussing, crying, someone being slapped around. I ran to her house busted open the door and saw Shelley laying in a puddle of blood I quickly ran over to her and helped her to her feet, we walked back to my house.
"Are you okay?"
"Just dandy!" She said sarcastically.
"It was just a question."
"Sorry, but I've had a bad night."
"I can tell, does that always happen?"
"Depends on their moods."
I stared at her for a while, I was in deep thought, Shelley shouldn't have to go through that noone should ever have to its just plain wrong. I finally stood up. And then Shelley started crying worse then I've ever seen anyone cry. I sat down beside her.


Well that all i've written so far.. so what do you think of it..??

I like that; thanks for the contribution.

Doors and Oceans

by

McLean W. Donnelly

 

They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself

-Andy Warhol


We used to have a large globe in our elementary school library. Every day during lunch, I walked up to the globe and placed my index finger along its bumpy surface. I would choose amazing locations and pray that I would soon be there. After closing my eyes as tight as they could go, I spun the globe, moved my finger up, down, and across the world. I ended up in places I could never imagine, but most of the time, I would end up in the middle of some great ocean. I guess that is how life really is. We all want to go places. We want something more, something great, but the tough truth is that we all end up in a middle of an ocean. I stopped playing with the globe a long time ago, and since then, my world stopped spinning as well.

I could take the easy route and blame my parents, or society, or any number of things. When it comes down to it, it is my life and it is my fault. The fault I speak of isn’t an easy thing to talk about--failure is a difficult thing. I always find that it is easier to talk about another’s fault, rather than our own. When I do that, it makes me feel better about myself, more close to normal. Yet I am not really sure what normal is. Television says--or did the last time it worked-- that normal is a white house, with a green lawn, a dog, a wife, and a few kids. I guess normal really depends on the person. The wife, the dog, and the kids are all one way to go about it, but not my way.

I live in a run-down apartment building, in a tired part of town--a place that rich people call “out there.” My place stinks of stale booze and cheap menthol cigarettes. My only real possessions are an old lighter, a crumpled suit my grandfather gave to me, and a television that hasn’t worked in two years. I have a small kitchen which I never use, and a bathroom that is as foul as the shit that comes out of my ass. I don’t eat much, but drink heavily. Somehow, booze seems to be my best friend. I enjoy nothing more than sitting down with a bottle and finishing it in one sitting. It doesn’t make me feel good, but at least I can depend on it. Back when I still spoke to my family, my brother told me that I was drinking my life away. I never cared much for the prink, but he made a good point. Each drink I take slowly makes my life disappear. I have became further removed from it all, and, as of now, I don’t see anything wrong with it.

I have a cat, Frank, who I found in an alley. Two bums were going to roast him over a garbage-can fire. Usually, I could have cared less, but as the hobos started to burn the cat, I felt something. Call it compassion if you must; I don’t have a way to describe it. I traded a bottle of rum for the cat and have kept him ever since. Frank doesn’t like me, and I wouldn’t expect anything else. Nothing has liked me in life, especially myself. I wake up with scratches from Frank. I am usually so drunk that I cannot feel the pain--which is too bad, because I would like to feel something soon. For now, I am just going to sit on my couch and let the day pass.

There is a knock at my door. I am startled. The only person who knocks on my door is my land-lord, Chester. Chester hates me for many reasons. He hates me because I rarely pay my rent on time, and when I do, I am drunk and angry. More than the rent though, Chester hates me because of Vietnam. He claims that I am a member of his platoon. Chester, God save him, was drafted by the United States military and sent to die in a jungle far away; I suppose that would piss me off too.

I creep slowly to the door and peek through the grungy peephole. It isn’t Chester; it is a woman. I panic. I haven’t made love to a woman in over a year, let alone spoken to one. Well, that isn’t exactly true. I frequently visit a local Asian whore named Dolly. We don’t make love; we fuck. And, when we do, it isn’t right. The woman standing in my doorway doesn’t look anything like Dolly. Her face is pale and boney, yet attractive as well. She has a slender build, and long brownish hair that falls off just beyond her shoulders. She is wearing plain clothes--jeans, and a tight tee-shirt with a logo that I can’t make out.

“Can I help you?” I still haven’t opened the door, and hope I can get pass this interruption without having her see my face. My face--I forgot to tell you. As a child and teenager, I had terrible acne. Not playful pimples like most young adults, but thick boils that clung to my face. The children used to call me Boils. I still am scarred all over my face, almost the same surface as a globe.

“Umm, well, I am your new neighbor, Sarah. I wanted to say hi.” I paused. Her voice had a gentleness to it; it reminded me of my grandmother. Why is this woman at my doorstep? I though about it for a moment. Why not answer it? Be bold, I tell myself, and unlatch the door.

As soon as I open the door, my cold heart begins to warm.

“Hi.” This is all I could muster out. Damn, I need a drink badly.

“I’m Sarah, just moved into apartment eight.” Her voice is barbed with a faint twang. She sticks out her hand. I slowly grab it and shake it as lightly as I can. It must be disgusting for her, my palms are as wet as Dolly’s you-know-what.

“My name is James. But my friends call me Jim.” I am lying already; I don’t have any friends and nobody calls me Jim.

“It’s good to meet you, Jim.” I could tell that I needed to muster up some form of conversation. Damn, I really wish I had a drink.

“So, how did you end up at this place?” A good start.

“Well, I had some problems with my old boyfriend and needed a new place in a hurry. This was open, and, so, here I am.” She was nice, almost motherly in a way.

“I doubt you’ll like it here, its just me and Chester and a few other lowlifes. Pretty much the runts of the world’s litter. Make sure to lock your doors at night.” Although I wasn’t joking, she bursts out in laughter. Her laugh is a pleasant high pitch giggle. I like women who laugh.

“Oh I doubt that. You seem like a nice enough guy to me.” I have always been terrible at reading women, but I think that she is being more than friendly with me. Who am I kidding, though? I am Boils.

“Well, I have to go get a few things for my place, but I was wondering if you would---”

“What is going on here!?” I thought I could smell Chester hovering around the corner. He walks up next to Sarah. I can tell that he is going to belittle me, which is fine; I am an easy target for punishment.

“Sarah,” he says with his crusted southern drawl, “I’d stay away from this one. He can’t be trusted. Isn’t that right James?” I feel like crawling inside a whiskey bottle and never leaving. Fucking Chester. Sarah, in her good nature, doesn’t quite understand what Chester was getting at, and probably thinks he was simply giving me a hard time because we were friends. Oh, sweet ignorance.

“Oh,” Sarah replied, “Why can’t I trust Jim?” She looked at me and smiled. I nearly died.

“Well, because he is a gook-loving bastard, that is why! Jim, as you call him, was in my unit in Nam. The god-dam pussy ran off and left his men to die, including me. Do you remember, that Jim?”

“Dammit Chester, how many times do I have to tell you, I wasn’t ever born till after the war.”

“You can play your games, boy, but just know that I am on to you. Your commie ass is this close to being kicked out of here.” Chester turns to Sarah.

“You aren’t a red, are you?” Sarah, now understanding that Chester is a crazy fuck, responds accordingly.

“Better dead than red than dead, right Chester?” Her voice quivers a bit, but remains strong.

“God damn right. And you,” poking his finger into my chest, “you better watch your ass.”

Chester exits down the hallway and leaves me praying that I can get out of this mess and go back into my hole. A drink, that is all I need. I knew I never should have opened the door. Opening doors only gets people into trouble. Sometimes, it’s best to say put.

“Wow, I never knew how messed up he was. He seemed normal when I spoke to him earlier today,” Sarah exclaimed.

“Well, he only gets angry around me. I pause for a moment and attempt a joke. “And Commies.” It works. Her warm laugh pours out of her soul and into my doorway.

“Don’t forget the Gooks too!” Sarah added. We both share a laugh. This is the first time I had laughed at something besides myself in a long time. It feels good. I look straight into her eyes.

We pause for a moment.

“So, like I was saying earlier, I was wondering if you wanted to come over and have supper with me tonight. I don’t have many friends around here, and wanted to celebrate in my new place.” I stood utterly still and silent and did not say a word for what felt like eternity. I couldn’t believe that this woman wanted to eat with me; My face alone would make her lose her appetite. What do I care, though?

“I would invite Chester, but I think I’ll pass. So, what do you say? Around eight-o’clock?”

“Eight o’clock sounds,” I couldn’t think of the word, “eight o'clock sounds, nice.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.” She smiles at me, turns around, and leaves me standing in my doorway.

* * *

I always wondered whether a single moment could change your life. I had accepted the fact that my life was to be a series of hurtful moments, and nothing more. Nevertheless, I opened my door and something amazing was on the other side. For most of the day, I sat around my apartment drinking warm beer. I was nervous, but it wasn’t just Sarah I was worried about. It’s more than worrying though, it is a fear. I have gotten used to my hermit life. I don’t come out of my shell, and am afraid that if I do, I may never be able to get back in. We all get some comfortable with our little worlds that we get fear change. Maybe its a fear of acceptance, or something I don’t understand, but, I do know that we all hide. I am not the only one. We all have secrets--little parts of our lives that are strictly ours, not because we cherish our individuality, but because we cannot expose our true selves. And I guess that is the one true thing we all have in common--we all make mistakes. I have made plenty in my life, more than I would like to remember. But, tonight, with Sarah, I have a new chance, a new door to open.

I slam back another beer and look at Frank. He is certainly an ugly cat; half of his fur is missing from the bums, leaving his right side completely bare. I look at him and he looks back. He leans back, stretches, then hisses at me. It’s his way of saying hello, or, maybe fuck you, I am not sure.

“Well, Frank, you think I can pull this off tonight?” I take another chug of my beer. Frank hisses at me again.

It is nearly eight and can feel my stomach turning. I don’t think my stomach is upset from the beer, but from the fact that I haven’t said more than ten words to a women in a long, long time. I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. What a pathetic man I am I think to myself. I run my hand over the scars on my face and feel memories as I do. Each scar has a memory, some that are sad, some that are enraging, all that are hurtful. At least I have showered and shaved. I conclude that I look as good as I can, and feel good about it. I take one more swig of beer and start to exit my apartment.

I open my door and step into the hallway. I’ve done this a million times, but this time is different.

I can smell him from here.

“Whoa, look at this guy, looking pretty sharp for a commie.”

“Chester, what is it?”

“Where do you think you are going?”

“Over to Sarah’s for dinner.” He looks at me with pure puzzlement.

“Oh, you begged her for some food. All commie of you commies are always asking for handouts.”

“You know what Chester, why don’t you get the fuck over it. The war is over, asshole. The troops are home.”

Chester looks at me. I am not sure if he is going to punch me or hug me--probably both. Either way, I stood up to the bastard, something, I haven’t ever done. And, it feels good too.

“Something is going on with you James, and I don’t like it. You watch yourself.” With that, Chester sulks away and doesn’t look back. I realize that something in my life is changing, and changing for the better. All these years I have feared change, but, really, change is what I needed the most.

I continued down the hall and stopped in front of Sarah’s apartment. I take a deep breath and contemplate running back to my room to drink a quick beer--to take the edge off. I resist though, and knock lightly against the door. No answer. I lean my ear against the door. She is on the phone. I can barely make out her words, but they sound soft and hurt. I hear the click of the phone being hung up.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and Sarah’s smiling face is the next thing I see. She is, simply, beautiful. Her hair is pulled back exposing her long, slender neck. The dress she is wearing isn’t revealing, but certainly gives me a good sense of what is beneath it. However, there is something slightly off in her chest; seems like one might be missing. At the same time though, I don’t really care. I just want to be around her.

“Hay, its good to see you. You look great all cleaned up.” She leans forward and gives me a small hug. “Come on in.”

I glance around the place, and am impressed with what she has done so far. Unlike my dungeon, Sarah has curtains, silverware, Christ, furniture for that matter.

“I thought we could have some pasta. It’s pretty much the only thing I can make, actually.” She laughs at her little joke and glances up at me.

“Are you ok? You look pale.” I am more than ok. I am great.

“No, I feel good. The pasta smells great.”

“Thanks. Say, I have to finish up in the kitchen, I have a little bar over there if you need to make yourself a drink.” She smiles her wonderful teethy grin and heads to the kitchen. I head to the bar.

“Sure, a drink would be nice.”

I make my way to the bar and notice a small globe sitting on a table near by. I make my drink--low cost vodka on ice--and inspect the globe. It is old, worn, and dusty, but at this moment, one of the most beautiful things my weary eyes have ever seen.

“This is nice,” I say, “I used to play with these all the time.”

Sarah walks over to the globe and stands next to me.

“Here, give me your finger.” Before I can move, she grabs my hand and extends my index finger.

“Close you eyes.”

I can feel the rough terrain of my globe beneath my index finger.

“Now, when I spin it, move your finger up and down. Wherever you land is where you are going to end up in your next life.”

The globe spins beneath my finger, creating a slight breeze that helps relieve my sweating palms. Nonetheless, I move up and down for what feels like an eternity. Finally, the globe stops. I open my eyes.

“Wow, you are going to be an African! How about that!” Sarah looks at me, smiles, laughs and skips back to the pasta.

I stand still for a moment and to utter to myself, “no more endless oceans for you Jim.”

I turn, take a sip of my drink, and head towards Sarah.

A Loss of Innocence

"Where did you say you've been?" My mother's voice expressed fear, concern, anger and disbelief in just about equal proportions. The question was addressed to my 10-year-old sister who, being older than me by a little more than three years, was (I figured) better able to withstand the rigors of such an inquisition.

With the benefit of hindsight, I have come to believe that the local abattoir was a preposterous place for anyone to be, let alone for a couple of impressionable children. However, as a seven-year-old boy, hindsight was not my strong suit, so (I guess) my mind was probably as open and accessible then as at any time before or since.

The car stopped and our neighbour - the man whose baby-son my sister regularly took for walks in his buggy - got out to do some business. My sister and I followed him out of the car, neither of us knowing what sort of business it might be. I suspect that we suspected there would be animals involved, but I am quite sure that neither of us could have imagined just how involved the animals would be.

We went to where our businessman-neighbour stood talking with another man who also seemed to be quite busy and important. He was probably the foreman of the abattoir. Whatever a foreman might be, it was becoming more apparent by the second what an abattoir was.

I absorbed the scene as any innocent and perceptive child might, my senses bombarded by the sights, smells and sounds. Animals - or what was left of them - were hanging from almost every available hanging-place. However these poor creatures had managed to sustain such horrific injuries, it was clear to me that it would take a very long time and an awful lot of care if they were ever to get well.

A sinking and terrifying feeling accompanied the realisation that (like myself) the animals had arrived at this awful place in a state of perfect health. They had managed to fall into such a wretched state of disrepair at some point during their visit. I very much hoped that I might not succumb to a similar fate.

The place was awash with blood, guts and everything else which might normally be considered to be the contents of an animal. The air was saturated with the unforgettable, God-awful stench of slaughter.

I gathered that the hanging animals were expected to be dead at this stage, but the odd cow's ear still twitched as the poor creature hung upside-down with its throat cut and belly ripped open. This was unimaginable suffering on an industrial scale. Never before nor since have I witnessed a scene of such carnage.

The foreman felt obliged to demonstrate for us just how the animals were killed. He fired a bullet into the skull of the sheep he had been in the process of disembowelling on our arrival. I am sure that I didn't think 'Well thank you Mr. Foreman for that helpful and illuminating demonstration; it will doubtless prove to be an invaluable experience from which I can hope to derive incalculable benefit in the years to come.' No, I probably wondered if I was really standing no more than three feet away from the sickest, most evil man in the whole world. Shouldn't there be a law against this sort of thing?

On some level, these poor dumb animals had trusted people. How could human beings participate in such an unspeakable act of betrayal? Yes, that was it. Amongst all of the other smells ravaging my sensibilities that day was the most repulsive stench of treachery.

Whoever I might previously have been, it is fair to say that, from that day forward, my sense of how life was (and could be) had changed forever.
My consciousness had been violently stretched to encompass the reality of the unimaginable cruelty and suffering of sentient creatures. Scenes of horror such as might not have been witnessed on a battlefield were indelibly etched on my 7-year-old psyche.

Not long afterwards, I began to write horror stories at school. My teacher was profoundly impressed by the graphic descriptions of horror emanating from what he must have assumed to be an extremely vivid imagination.

Would that it were just a figment of some bad dream.
Many years later, I would revisit those same memories to acknowledge that perhaps I had been affected much more by the experience than I had understood or would have cared to admit.

'What an evolutionary abomination us human beings are' I have often pondered since. God, help us all.

i think what you wrote was wonderful. dead on. straight forward and truthful.
 
bravo.
 
send more as i enjoyed reading this one....
 
 
samaritan

I am damaged inspiration. I own the ability to engage in the brighter aspects of any given situation but my own. My heart leaps out to those in need and I have naturally become accustomed to taking full advantage of an individual's down-fall in order to diminish my own. Indulging myself in someone else's pain hands me the opportunity to neglect the needs of my own person. I have found that the personal abuse I inflict on myself has caused an accumulation of desperation that often becomes far too overbearing to focus on. To look inside myself and read all of the pain written within me gives birth to a sense of suffocation. I drown in my own hurt and misery. Regret and wonder are my constant companions. The idea of love as the world understands it holds a very opposite definition in my own revised dictionary. I have found through my own experiences as well as others, that love is a conditonal reality rather than an unconditional idea. It is a devastating truth to a girl once full of dreams, hope and spirit. The truth once revealed to you upon lessons learned, gives way to side effects of physical, emotional, and spiritual disgust. The imbalance of anguish and hope leaves one steadfast in an absolute unfortunate state of desperate confusion. Therefore, leaving a once vibrant and healthy human being locked in to a prison of tragic emotion. Amazing is the mask that one may have the strenth to wear in order to disguise the broken smile they continuously swim in. We are all on an endless journey to resurrect and recreate a mediocre foundation of love, as if human natures ignorance will somehow form a glow of magic strong enough to surpass where all of history has failed. We too have failed and will continue to do so. The strength to achieve such a monumental goal was not weaved carefully enough into our design. Love is equivalent to the course of one full year. The beginning leaves nothing less than the brightest smile upon your face, as does the sun shine its brightest rays upon your world. The season of spring, the first steps into the inevitable cycle of detioration and change. Every life form around you is in bloom. It is a quiet demand of all of your senses to enjoyably absorb the warm glow that drenches every object in your view. The desire to share love and laughter in hopes of having it equally returned can envelop your reality and like the alpha male upon its lioness...suddenly shock and amaze you. And as you wish, happiness floods your way. However as does the seasons in a year change, will the moments of happiness in a relationship desiring love. The once easy warmth and kindness of the beginning gradually transform into a heated passion...just as the summer. The atmosphere becomes hot and heavy as is a cliche descrption of the sensation one feels when tossed into a heated passion. Everything is grown at this point. The height of "love" has been officially reached. The trees have become green...the grass has a need to be cut and the soil is in its transition from moist to dry. Eventually the weather cools and fall takes its place in line. The sky can all too suddenly cast a shadow of doubt on what was once so bright. The wind changes its tone, and causes you to reach out with more need to keep the warmth you desire. The chill is calm however becoming colder. And as in every situation, you stop to wonder where it all went so fast. Then before you realize all the time that has passed and all of the love that was sacrificed, a little more of your soul has been depleted. Your world has so suddenly lost a shade of the color it once so easily gave to you. You reach out trying to grasp all the good you fond but in turn, are only slapped in the face wth the ice that begins to form as winter represses your joy. There comes a time when communication is mute...you have no option to make better what has invenitably faded in the seasons of change. Your heart is broken and hope is lost. You search so deeply and consistently to understand the reasons and use for the pain that now utterly envelops you. As you once spent wisely the days of your previous year, you will spend the next on a mission of recovery and wisdom. In all that the lesson has to offer, you will find a little bit of strength for every ounce of your soul that was un-rightly taken from you. You will eventually learn to be strong again, but the pain that was dealt you will never be forgotten and wields itself into your bones becoming a part of the person you are.

The Good Samaritan


Is about a drifter making his way from Maine to south California. You don’t really get to know too much of his background other than he was once a working stiff, surviving each day just to face another one. No relationships, no ambition. Then one day he wakes up in Maine and doesn’t remember how he got there. Doesn’t really care either. But he has this indescribable urge to walk. To keep walking and make turns onto streets he’s never seen and go from one place to the next without hesitation as to what direction he needs to go. He’s just there.
He wears a white t-shirt, white jeans and black shoes and a black belt. He has an old worn out bag around his shoulders and his black hair is long enough to drape just over his eyes. Probably hasn’t shaved in a couple days and a cigarette is never far from his lips.
He has three guns. One is tucked into his pants and the other two stay wrapped up in cloth and stashed in his bag. Those two guns are by far the most exquisite and beautiful guns man has ever seen. He doesn’t know where they came from, they were by his head when he woke up and from the second he saw them he knew those would be the guns he uses to finish this.
“This” is his purpose. His reason he’s here. While he crosses the U.S. he comes to the steps of random houses and buildings and odd places he would never go. To the back of clubs, and bars and into places a normal person wouldn’t be. And no one ever sees him. He’s not invisible but his timing is eerie. He walks in just as the doorman turns to spit and he doesn’t get seen. Just as he walks in the second ‘bodyguard’ sneezes and he doesn’t get seen. He walks up the stairs and takes out his gun, cocks it. He gets to the top floor and makes his way through the halls, turning corners just as other people come out of rooms. He gets to the office he was meant to be at (how he knows this even he wouldn’t be able to say) and he walks in. The name on the door said Phillip Henderson, attorney at law . Inside is a man sweaty and out of breath, standing over a woman, his secretary who is bound and gagged and beaten. She see’s him as he comes in but Phillip doesn’t. Phillip raises his hand but stops mid swing as he feels a gun pressed to the back of his head.
“Phillip Henderson.”
He slowly turns and comes eye to eye with the barrel and sweat pours like a faucet. He shakes and starts to cry.
“Phillip Henderson.”
He looks up, “Yes, ye-“
BANG
One bullet was enough but the drifter drops two more before the body hits the floor. He stands over the body, a confused look on his face but relieved nonetheless.
He takes a deep breath.
“Phillip Henderson.” he says to himself.
He looks up and around, at the office, the pictures, the ceiling, the desk and finally the woman shivering just a few feet away. He looks at her just long enough for it to seem a little uncomfortable then walks over. He puts his gun in his pants and unties her. Pulls the gag from her mouth and her thank-you’s come pouring out along with her tears. He stands up and walks out ignoring her calls and questions. She’s too weak to run after him but she tries and when she gets to the door and looks down the hall he’s already gone. He left no footprints though there was plenty enough blood. No bullet casings though he fired three shots. No witnesses except the woman and she didn’t even see his face. The drifter walks out the building without a drop of blood on him, his demeanor calm and collected. He stops at the street and looks right, then proceeds to go in that direction.
The next day he’s on the border of Maine and New York, about to go into a diner when he sees the morning paper. He picks it up in stride and sees on the cover an article of the woman and the lawyer. He reads it and comes to find that the lawyer was filming his deeds with his secretary and the cops had seen the drifters execution but could not make out any distinguishing attributes as to identify the suspect and the only witness doesn’t want him to be caught, calling the stranger a Good Samaritan. She said justice was served and there was no need to apprehend him.
The drifter looks up at the sky and lights a cigarette making his way to the diner.

Throughout the story he comes across random situations in which his purpose is needed. Ultimately it ends with him in L.A., holding hostage a room full of known rapists, murderers and child molesters all tied up and helpless. The tables turned. Outside is a small army of cops, SWAT and F.B.I. They’re shouting orders over a megaphone and the drifter is sitting in the corner, smoking, his knees to his chest and his arms draping over them. He stands up and pulls out his gun from the back of his pants. He walks over to the closest man.
“Russ Salstead.”
BANG
He goes to the next man.
“Jason Lutz.”
BANG
He goes to the next, saying each man’s name and shooting them square in the head. They fall over and over until they’re just a mound of dead men. Evil men. He throws his cigarette out. At them.
Rapists.
BANG
Murderers.
BANG
He shoots the mound, reloads and shoots again. Blood splatters the walls and for the first time ever a small splash lands across his face and he stops, his arm still holding the gun out. He breathes and looks back at the door, the megaphone’s orders start to get clear and he can hear them calling him out. To put his gun down and come out with his hands up.
He looks back down at the heap of bloody filth and drops his gun. He walks over to his bag and takes out the two guns. The cloth that conceals them is old and ragged but the glare of the guns is all too bright and dance on his face as they’re unwrapped. He picks them up and looks at them.
He walks to the door and leans against it. Lights a cigarette and closes his eyes. Flashes of all the men and woman he killed getting here scatter across the back of his eyelids. Faces and names of people never knew of until a few weeks ago. All evil. All dead. All by his hand. He looks down and sees the cigarette has burned to the filter. Time always went by too quickly. He flicks it and takes a deep breath looking back at the bodies still exuding blood.
“See you soon.”
And he opens the door and comes out firing. The shots from his guns are monstrous. Loud and booming as he sees everything in slow motion. The guns cocking back and shells flying out. Cops shooting and moving and shooting. He didn’t know so many people were out here. Squad cars and SWAT vans and news vans. He sees people down the streets, cautioned off but still watching every move. He’s developed support for what he’s done over the past few weeks and they all came out. He sees a woman scream out and-
The first bullet went through his right shoulder catching him off guard. The second and third came at the same time quickly followed by the fourth, the fifth, the sixth. He fires more and more until there’s nothing but empty clicks. He’s hit again and again and he’s on the ground. He’s doesn’t remember falling but he’s down. The cop’s guns all stop just as quickly as they began and they all rush over to him swarming him to verify his death. Some one shouts he’s gone. Another shouts about the bodies in the motel room. Another shouts about the photographers and for someone to get a medic. Then another says something about the two guns. How he’s never seen guns like these before and. How they’re full of blanks. Everyone stops and looks at the guns then down at the stranger’s body, covered in blood. What white spots are left on his shirt and pants shine bright against the red. His eyes remain open gazing up at the sky, a confused look on his face but relieved nonetheless.


by
Steve Martinez

HOW ARE YOU?

"Hello, how are you this morning?"

The day began well enough; the sun rose, the sky brightened, power surged to the kettle at the press of a button and cheap, freeze-dried coffee was at my instant disposal. The clock counted down the minutes, daring me to miss the bus to work. Life was grand, right enough - a forty hour week, a 'minimum wage' and only one extra hungry mouth to feed over and above my own - Lulu, the cat. Ends meet, just, with a stretch of the imagination and the omission of most luxuries. That day ended abruptly - job gone. No savings, no prospects, no knowing what comes next, except that we'd manage, somehow. Life actually sucks!

Despondent, I spend £4.50 on twenty cigarettes - a sheer luxury to which I have absolutely no addiction - treat Lulu to some shiny foil-wrapped meaty goodness and, for good measure, make a 20 minute call from my pay-as-you-go mobile to chat to a friend, clearing out all but seventeen pence of my precious credit. Arranging to meet later, I offer to foot the bill for a curry and a couple of bottles of wine. Sod the rent, it's a tied house anyway; no job equals no home. I'll share with a friend, for now.

A single incoming call inform me that, 600 miles away, someone I once knew is dying. They thought they had it all - beautiful home, early retirement after an amazingly successful career, part-time housekeeper, no pets, new car in the garage and several holidays per year - total independence and freedom to do exactly as they pleased. Sadly, no family and no friends to care. Elsewhere, someone has just taken their last gasp before jumping in front of a speeding train, leaving a widow, distraught children and a business one partner short.

"I'm fine, thanks, how are you?"

Vote for Eddie Elwood at http://www.eddieelwood.co.uk

“150-Million Year Old Baby Bird Fossil/ Hide Scraper”
By Steven Montes,

 I was using my metal detector in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. As luck would have it, I never find anything that I am looking for. As I was walking back to my truck with my metal detector resting on my shoulder, I caught sight of an unusual-looking rock lying on the ground. I picked it up, and noticed a fossil that looked suspiciously like the head of a baby bird just off center in the stone. I turned the stone over to reveal more of the bird’s body.
After showing my unusual find to some of my friends, I decided to take it to the University of Arizona so I could learn more about what I had found.
 When I arrived, I was told to take the stone to the Paleontology Department across the lawn in front of where I was. When I got there I saw a professor in his office. I asked him if I could talk to a paleontologist. He asked why, so I handed him the stone and proceeded to tell him how I found it. His eyes grew huge with excitement as he examined the piece, while we were walking down the hallway to another office. Soon there were several professors and other people examining the stone in awe. As they talked, I listened.
 The rock I found was secondary sedimentary solidified limestone, which is not indigenous to this area. I was told that the original source could have been in Canada, China, or even South America.
 I was told that the inclusion I had first noticed was indeed a baby bird fossil, and that and that birds had evolved from reptiles 150 million years ago. That is how they were able to determine the age of the fossil. Another professor pointed out to me other inclusions in the stone like plant matter, twigs, and other unidentifiable foreign objects. One professor stated that there was proof that his rock was found on the surface, like I had said, because it bore impact marks etched into the rock as the rain water hit the front of the stone for thousands of years while it lay on top of the ground. (Limestone is quite soluble in water; witness karst terrains or the deterioration of carvings on medieval European churches.) The marks were small, circular pockets about the size of a pencil eraser, grouped together. One fellow mentioned that there were once other bones near the chest of the bird that had fallen out over time, but the imprints left by the bones are still visible. They could not identify the species of the bird, because all baby birds look pretty much alike at birth.
 I was asked by one of the professors if I wouldn’t mind waiting a little while longer for one more professor who was still in class to come and see the stone. This professor was part of their group, and they did not want him to miss seeing it.
 As this man approached, I handed him the stone. He looked at it for a moment, and then stated that this stone was an artifact that had been carved by Paleo-Indians into a tool for scraping the flesh away from the hide after the game animal had been killed. It turned out that his speciality is in Archeology. A silence fell on the gathering as we all listened to the explanation he gave about this rare specimen.
 The archaeologist then asked one of the other professors if he could borrow his microscope to look at the stone more closely. The group moved down the hall and entered a small office. As I stood by his side, he examined the piece and stated that there were shiny areas on the sharp edge around the stone that were not visible to the naked eye. He believed that tough tendons and ligaments had polished parts of the stone during its use. He also stated that the hide scraper was in mint condition and was and was not worn out. He went on to say that most hide scrapers that we see today in museums are small ovals that are badly worn from long use, and then discarded when they become useless. He said that he had never seen such a fine hide scraper before.
 He wished that he knew what group of people had carved the hide scraper. He speculated that whoever carved the stone might possibly be the first recorded fossil collector. These tribal people were farmers, artists, and traders much like the people of today. The position of the bird and the way it was evidently intentionally carved into a tool made this a true specimen of fossil art.
 One of my questions that I asked was how much was this unique item worth? His answer was that it was so unique that it was priceless. I asked how I might go about selling my fossil/artifact. A young lady, still full of excitement, suggested that I take a picture of the hide scraper and put it on the internet with a price tag of $20 million (an idea that did not sit well with some of the others there). Since this is the only known occurrence of such an unusual artifact, the chances of finding another are practically nil. She described it this way: there might be someone who owns the biggest diamond in the world, but other people have diamonds; someone else has the biggest in the world, but other people have houses. She said try to think of something that no one else has, and that is what you’ve got.
 For the time being, I still have not decided for certain what I am going to do with my find.
If you need any information on this topic, or would like pictures of my rare find please feel free to call me at (520) 749-1105 or e-mail me at smontes@scientist.com or visit my web site at:
www.vstoreauction/shops/homiedclown

Steven Montes
9000 E. Indian Canyon Rd.
Tucson, Az 85749

Susan your new website is fabulous. keep up the good work.
Jimbo

Seeing Red

The space was stripped bare. Every bump felt like a heavy blow for my legs. I could feel bruises dying to appear. There was barely anything to hold on to. I tried to stay stationary by wedging my feet into grooves in the floor and grabbing onto the tiny window sill. The white before my eyes was very domineering. I began to perspire; I felt a droplet come down my forehead only to get caught in my brow. We came to a stop, so I quickly tried to get to my feet and peer out the window.

I saw nothing but people, walking on their merry way all business-like, living out their lives, many men in suits grasping briefcases. The only mere individual that caught my eye was a woman in a long, red, satin dress. Before long, the white van had started up again.
‘Where was I going?’ I asked myself. ‘Should I try the door again? I know it was locked the last four times but maybe this time it won’t’.

The van sped up and made some sharp turns and I was flung against one of the side walls until we finally came to a halt. Before I could take control of the situation and escape, it was already too late, and before long I was escorted inside this large complex and walked to this one room at the end of the hall and told to lie down on the chair provided.

A woman was talking but I wasn’t listening at all. All I was taking notice of was her lips moving, and the red lipstick smeared upon them.
“Miss Reed”
Suddenly those two words made me alert and started to take notice of what she was saying to me.
“Your files interest us Miss Reed, especially your laptop documents and notebook clippings. Tell me, what are you feeling right now? Write down on the piece of paper I gave you, then show it to me and read out what it says.”

I found this rather perplexing, was this some kind of conundrum? I reached for the slip of paper with my right hand and the red pen with my left. I scribbled down how I was feeling and showed it to her. I read out ‘I feel melancholy’.

“Very interesting Miss Reed, but that’s not what the piece of paper says, you actually wrote down ‘I feel red’”.
‘Impossible! Show me!’ She handed me the slip of paper and sure enough it said exactly what she told me it said.
“Now, I’m unsure if you know why you’re back here, on previous occasions you’ve told me you are an author, am I correct?’
‘I am an author’ I explained.
“Yes okay, why do you feel it necessary to disobey us? Every time we let you fee you seem to break the rules, which is why you’re back here, you’re in trouble this time which is why we had to man-handle you the way we did. You must obey the Law Miss Reed, you can’t just go around…..”

I interrupted her mid-sentence. ‘What is that man standing there for?’
“What man?”
‘Him’ I pointed at the door ‘In the suit can’t you see?’
“There’s no one there Miss Reed”
I ignored her and stared at the man. He was wearing a red suit, red tie, red pants and red shoes; he wasn’t moving just staring at the adjacent wall. My focus went back to the woman as she put my notebook on the desk. She had long tenacious fingers and caressed the inscriptions on the red cover before opening it.

“You like to play on words, don’t you Miss Reed? You like to write down how a word should sound rather than how it is traditionally written, classic example, your first page, big letters, ‘I reed the notebook, I red the notebook’ clever Miss Reed, very clever”

I turned away from her and tuned out once again. She was putting me to sleep. The woman continued to monologue for many minutes. Certain key words would strike my attention for a second then I would ignore her again. Words like ‘self-discovery’, ‘insane’, ‘delirious’, ‘manic-depressive’, ‘visions’, ‘nightmares’, ‘megalomaniac’.

‘Was this my self discovery? Was I here to be told who I truly was? I was an author wasn’t I? I thought I knew who I was, I thought I has discovered what type of person I was, I didn’t need to be told, no one can be told who they are, it’s a journey right? In my writings was how I discovered myself, my endless of nights of just writing, they provided me with paper and notebooks, provided me with that laptop, they said I was a ‘Prodigy’. I was no prodigy, I was an author. They asked me why I once ate my page of writing but I never told them why. Was it me who consumed my writing? Or was the writing consuming me?

I closed my eyes and felt hands grabbing me. I was being dragged down the hall once again, I heard voices, conversing to each other, one asked the other “How do you feel?” and I replied.
‘I FEEL RED!”
         © Daniel Weir 2006

Pain is real. Is this true? Heartbreak and suffering is everlasting and enduring even more so than your own will. Work, home, school, THE WORLD. It all collides with each other causing a mass ball of hell on earth. Your very world is cloudy and things around you are so unclear and too hard to break through. So what do you do? How do you deal?
Send an email with your thoughts and comments. Subject line should read I HAVE BEEN THERE BEFORE.

THINGS THAT GO BUMP, ELECTRICKERY AND OTHER DISASTERS

It was in the early hours of Christmas morning when I was awoken by a loud crash from the direction of the chimney breast.
I look arround and my wife who is a very light sleeper hadn’t stirred.
Now given the time of the year and the time of night someone younger or more impressionable might have thought it was Father Christmas about his work in the chimney.
However being a grizzled old cynic I thought it more likely to be either a burglar or perhaps the wind blowing over my chimney or even subsidence.
I lay awake for about ten minutes trying to work out what the noise was and hearing no further noises I decided it must have been a dream and went back to sleep.

A few hours later awoken suddenly again this time by three excitement crazed children dragging their sacks of presents behind them on thing was for sure there would be no return to sleep after this disturbance.
When the children had opened all their stocking presents they rushed off downstairs for breakfast leaving a scene of devastation behind them.

After breakfast I went back upstairs and showered and then went into the bedroom to dress for the day.
On opening the wardrobe door I discovered the source of the crash that had woken me up several hours earlier.
The rail in the wardrobe had collapsed and all the clothes were in a heap at the bottom on top of the shoes.
“So it wasn’t a dream then” I said to myself.
Five minutes later and wearing a slightly creased shirt I made my way back downstairs to what sounded like bedlam.

The rest of the morning went according to plan; the children opened their main presents from under the tree and disappeared off to play with their favourites.

By twelve o’clock the dining table was laid complete with my late mother’s best table cloth, Christmas napkins, party favours, best china, glassware and the brand new table centre while emanating from the kitchen was the sound of steam rattling the saucepan lids together with the mouth watering aroma of roasting Turkey.
In the lounge my wife was holding court with myself and her parents looking on as she was opening the few presents that still remained.
I left the group to go and boil the kettle for a drink as I entered the kitchen I looked at the electric cooker and there was one ring lit with nothing on it so I checked the other rings to make sure that the saucepan with the potatoes had heat under it which it did.
So I went to switch off the vacant ring only to discover it was already switched off.
Now there had been a little water spilled on the hob from where one of the pans had begun to boil over so I mopped up the spillage and using reverse psychology I turned the rogue ring on believing this would in fact turn it off, it didn’t it just tripped the breaker in the meter cupboard instead.
I went to the cupboard and reset the breaker and it tripped immediately.
So then we decided to wait for ten minutes before we repeated the exercise which ended with the same result.
It was decided that we could not use the cooker as it was just too dangerous.
With my wife almost in tears I said “it’s not the end of the world darling, and nobody died”.
So with true Dunkirk spirit we made the best of a bad situation.
As luck would have it the Turkey was cooked as was the stuffing, sausages and the Potatoes where boiled.
The remaining vegetables we were able to cook in the microwave and all we had to forgo were the roast potatoes and parsnips.
Now it wasn’t the most successful Christmas lunch we ever had but it could have been a lot worse.
“Bad things always come in three’s” I think we all thought it but equally all refrained from saying it out loud.

The next day, Sunday, passed off without incident for us anyway, my wife had to hit the stores in the Boxing Day sales to choose a new cooker.

Its late in the evening when, sitting down in front of the TV we see the news for the first time that day and we here the dreadful news about the Tsunami for the first time and even then it didn’t even hint at just how big a tragedy it really was.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dead in a heartbeat from Indonesia to sir Lanka and beyond and still counting.

We had our new cooker delivered on Thursday 30th December we were inconvenienced for five whole days.
Five days before normality was restored to our household.
Many of The survivors of the Tsunami will never have their lives restored to what they knew before Boxing Day.

Count your blessing, and make the best of what you have because it’s a lot more than many.

A QUESTION OF POOH

Its Christmas time again, as if anyone could fail to notice.
Even without leaving my house I can see more than half a dozen house decorated to the hilt.
Every coloured light imaginable, Santa’s on the roof or climbing a ladder, sleighs, elves, snowmen, bells, stars baubles and last but by no means least standing almost four feet high that perennial favourite Winnie the Pooh.
Wait a minute though you might well be saying what does Pooh have to do with Christmas? Well every other house seems to have one so there must be something in it.
I don’t recall mention of him in the bible and in the many nativity plays I have seen over the years he was conspicuous by his absence and although there is a donkey its not Eeyore.
The stable did not house Piglet and the wise men did not travel from the east with Tigger baring gifts of Huney.
Nor in any of the Christmas traditions around the world is there a single reference to Pooh as one of Santa’s helpers.
There’s Black Peter, The Jolly Elf even the devil figure Krampus but no Pooh but people still give him pride of place on their lawns at Christmas.
Go figure.

POINSETTIA THE FLOWER OF THE HOLY NIGHT

The Poinsettia is named after the USA's first ambassador to Mexico, Joel Robert Poinsett, who served from 1825-1829.
He saw and was greatly taken with the colorful indigenous plant which was the Mexican Christmas flower.
The Aztecs called Poinsettias "Cuetlaxochitle." And between the 14th and 16th centuries the sap was used to control fevers and the red leaves were used to make dye.
Montezuma, the last of the Aztec kings was particularly fond of Poinsettias and had them brought especially to what is now Mexico City because the shrub could not be grown at high altitude.
Poinsett took some specimen plants with him on one of his trips back to America in 1828 and they flourished.
Despite an outstanding career as a United States Congressman and an ambassador he will always be remembered for introducing the Poinsettia into the United States.
the Mexicans believed the plants were symbolic of the Star of Bethlehem because of the star shapes created by the bright red leaves Thus the Poinsettia became associated with the Christmas season.
The Mexicans call the poinsettia "Flower of the Holy Night".

SILVER TINSEL
 
It was in Germany that tinsel was first invented and it was made from real silver.
A crude machine was used to shred the silver into thin strips which were then twisted onto a central wire.
This was indeed a luxury product although and obviously only available to the privileged classes.
However the silver tinsel did not last for ever as Silver would tarnish and lose its shine in time.
Despite its lack of longevity however it remained in use by those who could afford it until a cheaper artificial alternative was invented.

A CRACKING IDEA

The origins of the Christmas cracker lie in France where bags of bon-bons where wrapped in paper which two children would then pull apart.
While on holiday in Paris in the 1860’s an English confectioner named Tom Smith noticed the paper wrapped bags of sugared almonds and bon-bons in many shop windows.
When he returned to London he decided he would sell these bags of sweets in his shop but they where not to the English taste so he formulated an idea to improve on the French idea adding a printed motto or riddle this did not help.
It was only when he was sitting quietly by his fireside listening to the logs burning and cracking that the idea hit him.
Make them bang.
He was a very resourceful man and experimented with various chemicals before he succeeded in impregnating two strips of cardboard which when pulled apart, as a result of friction, would then cause a small explosion.
When they went on sale they contained mottoes written by popular writers of the day and quality novelties in the form of games, puzzles, toys and curiosities, a far cry from the cheap plastic imports and paper hats we get today.
Tom Smiths Christmas Crackers became an instant success.

THE ST STEPHEN’S DAY MASSACRE

The Wren is a bird with a rather unfortunate connection to Christmas.
There is an old Irish legend that claims that when St Stephen was imprisoned he would have made good his escape had it not been for the chirping of the Wrens.
As a result from that day forward in Ireland every St Stephen’s day, December 26th, in a ceremony called “the Wren massacre” Wrens were stoned to death.
Since the 1920’s the custom has thankfully died out.

ILLUMINATING THE CHRISTMAS TREE

The practice of using small candles to decorate Christmas tree’s is said to date back to the middle of the 17th century in Germany.
However it was to be 150 years before the custom became firmly established.
In the beginning the candles where made of tallow, derived from animal fat, which gave off equal amounts of smoke and odor.
There was also the risk of the tree catching fire although tree’s were normally cut fresh of Christmas eve and therefore more difficult to ignite however a bucket of water always stood by the tree just in case.
The first candles were glued to the branches with wax but eventually candleholders appeared and then an American called Frederick Artz invented a candle holder made of tin with a tray to catch the drips of wax and a spring clip to attach it to the branch.
A Christmas tree was lit by electricity for the first time in New York in 1882 when Edward Johnson, a colleague of Thomas Edison, lit a Christmas tree with a string of 80 small electric light bulbs which he had made himself.
As the bulbs were all hand made they were two expensive to be commercial viable however by 1900 some large stores put up large illuminated trees to attract customers.
It was in 1903 when The Every Ready Company of New York began to make strings of 28 lights which cost the equivalent of a week’s wages.
It wasn’t until 1927 when the General Electric Company of America produced strings of miniature bulbs like we get today.

THE SAINT AND THE BUTCHER

The saint and the butcher is a popular St Nicholas tale in northern France which is told every year before St Nicholas day.
The Tale tells of three children who wandered away from their village and got lost. They continued on there way until Cold and hungry they came to an unfamiliar village.
They were discovered by a wicked butcher who lured them into his shop with the promise of food and warmth.
Once inside his shop he attacked the three children and he salted them away in a large tub.
They children would have been lost forever but for the intervention of St Nicholas who rescued the children and returned them safely to their families.
From that day forward St. Nicolas has been regarded in France as the protector of children.
The evil butcher became Père Fouettard who forever follows St Nicholas with switches in hand to threaten children and it’s the evil butcher who leaves any naughty children with a bundle of birch twigs.
On the eve of St Nicholas day the children put their shoes near the chimney and sing a song to the Saint before going to bed.
The next morning the shoes overflow with special Saint Nicolas sweets, chocolates and cookies.
Even the best of children will find by their shoes some birch twigs tied with a ribbon as every child does something naughty in the year.

Edited by author 12-17-2005 06:15 PM
I didn't know about the Twelve Days of Christmas until reading it here. Now You Know!

Click here to go back to http://www.nowyouknow.co.uk

THE HIDDEN MEANING OF THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

Everyone is familiar with the famous Christmas song, "The Twelve Days of Christmas" and we have all at some time happily sung along to it.
But delightful though it is it believed that it had a more serious purpose when it was first written and that it was certainly much more than a repetitious piece of nonsense.
It is said it came about at a time when the Catholics in northern Europe were prevented from practicing their faith openly or otherwise by law and especially In England during the years of 1558 to 1829 it was to all intents and purposes a crime to BE a Catholic.
So "The Twelve Days of Christmas" was written in England as a kind of Underground Catechism.
In fact it was one of the "catechism songs" to help young Catholics learn the tenets of their faith.
In short it was a memory aid at a time when to be caught with anything in written form indicating adherence to the Catholic faith could lead to imprisonment or even death.
The contained hidden meanings for example the “true love” mentioned in the song in fact refers to God.
While the songs gifts hide the meanings to the teachings of the faith.
The "me" who receives the presents symbolizes every baptized person and a partridge in a pear tree refers to Jesus Christ and the two turtle doves are The Old and New Testaments.
The three French Hens are Faith, Hope and Charity, the three great Theological Virtues
the four Calling Birds are the Four Gospels and the five Golden Rings, The first Five Books of the Old Testament.
The six Geese A-laying are the six days of creation while seven Swans A-swimming represent the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the seven sacraments.
The eight Maids A-milking are the eight beatitudes with nine Ladies Dancing representing the nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit.
the ten Lords A-leaping are the ten commandments and the eleven Pipers Piping stand for the eleven faithful apostles and last by no means least twelve drummers
drumming represent the twelve doctrinal points in the Apostle's Creed.

The may be fact or it may be fiction but I know which I would like it to be.

ILLUMINATING THE CHRISTMAS TREE

The practice of using small candles to decorate Christmas tree’s is said to date back to the middle of the 17th century in Germany.
However it was to be 150 years before the custom became firmly established.
In the beginning the candles where made of tallow, derived from animal fat, which gave off equal amounts of smoke and odor.
There was also the risk of the tree catching fire although tree’s were normally cut fresh of Christmas eve and therefore more difficult to ignite however a bucket of water always stood by the tree just in case.
The first candles were glued to the branches with wax but eventually candleholders appeared and then an American called Frederick Artz invented a candle holder made of tin with a tray to catch the drips of wax and a spring clip to attach it to the branch.
A Christmas tree was lit by electricity for the first time in New York in 1882 when Edward Johnson, a colleague of Thomas Edison, lit a Christmas tree with a string of 80 small electric light bulbs which he had made himself.
As the bulbs were all hand made they were two expensive to be commercial viable however by 1900 some large stores put up large illuminated trees to attract customers.
It was in 1903 when The Every Ready Company of New York began to make strings of 28 lights which cost the equivalent of a week’s wages.
It wasn’t until 1927 when the General Electric Company of America produced strings of miniature bulbs like we get today.

THE TINSEL WIDOW

The Christian legend of the origins of tinsel concerns a poor widow who was left alone to care for her large family.
It was the first Christmas since the death of her husband and she was determined to make Christmas as special as she could possibly could for her children.
The poor widow worked every hour god sent her washing, cleaning and baking for the town’s people.
She went to the nearby forest and cut a Christmas tree for the house but it was a struggle for them to survive on her meager income and they could afford no decorations for it.
Instead she and her children made decorations for the tree they made snowflakes from scraps of paper and garlands from strips of old cloth and for baubles they used pine cones.
Working together they trimmed it as beautifully as they could with what little they had.
Spiders invaded the tree as they slept and as they crawled from branch to branch they left their shimmering webs behind them.
A watching angel knowing the family would be devastated by what the spiders had done transformed the webs into shimmering strands of silver.
When they awoke next morning they could not believe there eyes and they did indeed have a very special Christmas.

THE LEGEND OF ST NICHOLAS THE RED SUITED SANTA

Part three – The literal St Nicholas

After the demise of the puritans in Europe and America the St Nicholas legend went from strength to strength.
He has over recent centuries become known by different names for example in Holland he is known as Sinter Klaas and when the Dutch arrived in New York or New Amsterdam as it was then the red suited Sinter Klaas arrived with them but the name has since become Americanized into Santa Claus.

The first time the Name Santa Claus appeared in print was in 1773 but the first description of the most traditional image of Santa Claus was by popular author Washington Irving In his History of New York, published in 1809.

But he was finally immortalized along with his eight reindeer in 1823 in the poem “A Visit from Saint Nicholas” more commonly known to all of us as “The Night Before Christmas” written by Clement Clarke Moore an Episcopal minister.
Moore, who wrote the poem for his three daughters, depicted Santa Claus as a "right jolly old elf" with a supernatural ability to ascend up a chimney with a simple nod of his head.

The familiar round jolly white bearded image of Santa Claus was definitively illustrated by the political cartoonist Thomas Nast for Christmas issues of Harper's Weekly magazine in 1881.
It was Nast who revealed the details of Santa's workshop at the North Pole and alerted the world to the existence of what have become known as the naughty and nice lists.

Haddon Sundblom further reinforced Santa’s image when, in 1931, he drew a representation of the jolly red faced Saint for the Coca-Cola Company as part of their advertising campaign which was so successful that he has been used every year since.

Through literary references and descriptions of Christmas the legend of St Nicholas spread and became ingrained in all of us and Along the way the legend of the gift giver became intertwined with other country’s myths and folk lore figures and St Nicholas became known by a wide variety of names.
As well as Santa Claus or Sinter Klaas he is named Father Christmas, Kris Kringle, Père Noël, der Weinachtsmann and Papa Noel to name but a few.

So I can say to you all with hand on heart to young and old wherever you might live there is most definitely a Santa Claus.

THE LEGEND OF ST NICHOLAS THE RED SUITED SANTA

Part two – Growth and Prohibition

In the eyes of the Catholic church, a saint is a person who’s lived such a holy life that even after death and their ascent to heaven they are still able to help the earth bound souls.
It was believed that the white bearded St Nicholas clad in his red bishop’s robes continued to help the less fortunate through his gift giving.
So In the years following his death the St Nicholas legend grew.

As Christianity flourished within the Holy Roman Empire so did St Nicholas and by the year 450 many churches in the Eastern provinces of the empire in Asia Minor and Greece were being named to honor him and by the year 800 he was the most popular saint in the Eastern Catholic Church.

Such was his growing popularity as a Saint and his high regard amongst Christians that his mortal remains, which had been held in his church in Myra since his death, were stolen by a band of Italian sailors in 1087 A.D. and taken to Italy where they remain to this day, housed in the Basilica de St. Nicola in Bari.

The St Nicholas legend spread ever wider around the world and in 13th century France December sixth became the feast of St Nicholas or Bishop Nicholas Day
And as the his fame spread north his red bishops robe was replaced by more practical suit of clothes, still red, but trimmed with white fur and his bishops mitre was replaced by red fur trimmed hat.
Then By the end of the 15th century, St Nicholas was with the exception of Jesus and Mary the most popular religious figure in the Christian world.

Even after the protestant reformation when the worship of saints and relics was discouraged the people kept faith with Nicholas.

When in the 17th century the puritan Oliver Cromwell became Lord Protector of England he banned anything about Christmas the might be construed as enjoyable.
He banned any kind of feasting, drinking or dancing he even banned the hanging of holly.
In America the puritans went further by banning even the mention of St. Nicholas as well as gift-giving, candle-lighting and carol-singing.
But this only served to make people believe in St Nicholas even more

THE LEGEND OF ST NICHOLAS THE RED SUITED SANTA

Part one – Genesis of the Gift Giver

During this narrative I will be answering the eternal question which is all pervading during the festive season namely does Santa Claus really exist?
Obviously the answer we want is a resounding yes and so it will be.
Secondly I will be exploding the popular myth that it was the Coca Cola Company who were responsible for the red suited image of Santa.

St Nicholas is known by many different names around the world and he undoubtedly a legend.
The legend began in the 4th century A.D. in what is now Demre in modern Turkey.
Nicholas was a Christian priest and was born in 280 A.D. in the Lycian city of Patara near the ancient city of Myra where he later became Bishop.

Nicholas was the son of a wealthy man and when he inherited his father’s wealth he traveled the land helping the poor and sick and he was greatly admired for his piety and kindness.
He became the subject of many legends for example he was said to have brought a dead child back to life and he once saved the life of a prisoner by putting himself between the condemned man and his executioner also he is said to have stopped a storm in order to save three sailors from drowning.
But the most enduring and perhaps the best known of the Nicholas legends was when he secretly left golden dowries at the house of a poor man who was on the verge of selling his three daughters into slavery or prostitution.
The dowries meant the three poor sisters could be married.
This remarkable event has led to a tradition we still celebrate to this day as the sisters had left there stockings by the fire to dry and it was in the stocking where Nicholas placed the gold.
Despite his many secret late night visits to the homes of the poor and needy of the city he is forever known as the gift giver of Myra.

In the year 303 A.D., Diocletian the Roman emperor commanded all citizens of the Roman Empire to worship him as a god.
Nicholas and his fellow Christians believed in but one god and in all conscience could not obey the Emperor.
In his Anger Diocletian threatened the Christians with imprisonment if they did not comply.
Many Christians including Nicholas defied The Emperor and were imprisoned.
Nicholas was confined to a small cell for almost ten years and suffered greatly but never wavered in his beliefs.
It was In 313, when Constantine replaced Diocletian to become the first Christian Emperor and Constantine’s first act was the release of the Christians and upon his release Nicholas returned to his post as Bishop of Myra where he continued his good works until his death on December 6, 343.
On his death he was sainted to become St Nicholas the patron saint of Children and sailors.

THE TWELVE CHOSEN - JAMES THE GREATER

James the greater was one of the original twelve disciples chosen by Christ to preach his gospel and it was Jesus who named James and his brother john the sons of thunder because they both struggled to control their tempers.
He and his brother were born the Son’s of Zebedee and Salome and with john he was a fisherman until Jesus called him to be a fisher of men.
Before he was called by the lord James was a disciple of Saint John the Baptist and it is widely believed that Jesus and James were in fact cousins.
He is known as James the Greater not out of conceit he was so called simply because he was the first of the James’ to become an apostle thus the other is known as James the lesser.

During his time as a disciple he was present during most of the recorded miracles of Christ and after the crucifixion James went on to preach the gospels in Samaria, Judea, and Spain
In one tale of James travels he is said to have brought back to life a boy who had been unjustly hanged, and had been dead for several weeks.
When news of the boy's resurection reached his father he was eating his supper and pronounced the story to be ridiculass.
In fact he thought it nonsense and he said that his son was no more alive than the roasted fowl on the supper table and laughed uproariously and at this the roasted bird sat up sprouted feathers and flew out of the window.

James became the First of the Apostles to be martyred when he was beheaded in Jerusalem by King Herod Agrippa I.
The legend has it that upon his death his body was taken from Jerusalem by angels, and sailed in an unmanned and rudderless boat to Spain where it was enveloped by a massive rock.

St James’ relics are held at Compostella in Spain and the pilgrimage to the shrine of Santiago de Compostella became so popular that he became the patron saint of pilgrims.
His time spent spreading the gospels in Spain and the placing of his relics in a shrine there led to James being adopted as patron saint of Spain and all things Spanish.
Santiago the Spanish for of saint James became the battle cry of the Spanish army.
The legend has it that Upon the cry of Santiago in Galicia the saint appeared upon a steed of brilliant white St James the greater was transformed from a fisher of men for his lord to Santiago Matamoros, or St. James the Moor slayer single handedly killing up to 60,000 Arabs in one battle as a result the Spanish won the day and drove the Moors out of Spain.

Such is the pressure from the liberal elite to be seen to be doing the right thing and in the name of political correctness the statue of St James the moor slayer, which depicts the saint beheading a number of the Saracens in battle, is being removed from his cathedral, Santiago de Compostella, in case a Muslim might be offended.

Why a Muslim would enter a Catholic cathedral in the first place is beyond me.

THE AMBER ROOM OF TSARSKOYE SELO

It was in 1701 that King Friedrich the 1st, King of Prussia decided he wanted to have made, as was the fashion amongst the well to do, some kind of curiosity.
Something he would be able to show off to other’s of the nobility and visiting royalty and other foreign dignitaries.
What King Friedrich chose was an Amber room, which was as the name suggests a room with walls covered with amber panels from floor to ceiling.
Amber is an unusual material and although not in itself a gem It is used very often in jewelry but it is in fact petrified tree sap and often has insect and plant life trapped within it.
The project to create the Amber Room was given in to the hands of Hamburg born architect and interior designer from Gdansk Andreas Schluter.
Schluter had been working in Berlin since 1694 but this was by far his grandest commission and he invited a master Amber craftsman from Copenhagen Gottfried Wolfram to work with him.
Over the next six years Wolfram painstakingly prepared the Amber coverings for one wall.
Then King Friedrich the 1st decided to dismiss Schluter and Wolfram and then he employed a new royal designer.
The new man was called Eosander von Goethe and he very quickly employed two master craftsmen and put them immediately to work.
The two master craftsmen were Gottfried Turau and Ernst Schacht and they were both brought from Gdansk as was Schluter.
As the elaborate Amber panels were completed they were taken to the royal palace at Charlottenburg.
Twelve years after work first commenced Friedrich’s dream had almost come to fruition when in 1713 with the project almost complete King Friedrich the 1st died.
After his death his heir Friedrich Wilhelm the 1st immediately ordered the work to stop.
Then he ordered all the completed parts to be packed into wooden crates and moved into Berlin’s Armoury.
Friedrich Wilhelm the 1st who had always considered the Amber room project with disdain had to wait four years before he could finally be rid of it.
It was in 1717 that he presented, in the form of a diplomatic gift, all the finished parts of the room to the Russian Emperor Peter the 1st perhaps better known as Peter the Great.
It seemed that this incredible piece of vision and craftsmanship was destined to spend its entire life in wooden boxes as it was to remain until 1743.
It was Empress Elisabeth the 1st who commissioned the renowned Italian designer Bartolomeo Francesco Rastrelli to assemble the amber panels in one of the many rooms of the St. Petersburg Winter Palace.
Over the next three years Rastrelli modified the Room to take on the Rococo style and the Amber Room was first opened at the Winter Palace in 1746.
And there it remained until 1755 when in that year that it was moved to the summer residence of the Russian Emperors at Tsarskoye Selo.
The interior of the summer palace had larger rooms so only three sides were decorated with Amber and the fourth wall was completed by using mirrors and mosaics made up of decorative Caucasian stones along with stone from the Ural’s.
The room’s ceiling was decorously painted while the floor was a fine mosaic of the most prized and expencive wood’s available in the eighteenth century.
At Tsarskoye Selo during the Amber Room’s second construction, five master amber craftsmen were employed from Koenigsberg in Prussia.
Friedrich Roggenbucke, Johann Roggenbucke, Johann Welpendorf, Clemens Friede and Heinrich Wilhelm Friede created the most lavish room Russia had ever seen.
The Amber Room’s installation was finally completed in the seventh decade of the eighteenth century and it remained undisturbed, apart from routine maintenance and minor restorations, until 1942.
It was in 1942 the German invaders came to Russia and looted everything they could find the Amber room being one of them.
They took the prized Amber Room from Tsarskoye Selo and returned with it to Prussia were it was installed at Koenigsberg castle.
It remained in place at the castle until the summer of 1944 when the Germans fearful of it being damaged by allied bombing raids dismantled the Amber room and it was again packed into wooden crates.
The Germans maintain that the treasured amber was still being stored at Koenigsberg castle in April of 1945 when it was destroyed by a fierce fire.
An extensive search was carried out but despite the best efforts of investigators no trace of the missing treasure has ever been found.
Many rumors abound that it was hidden in what was then Czechoslovakia or even that the Nazi’s have it stashed in Brazil.
Some of the masterpieces in the rooms furnishings created by the eighteenth century master craftsmen are now part of the collection at the Catherine Palace at Tsarskoe Selo.
They are the only parts of the magnificent Amber Room known to have survived the Second World War.
However in the 1970’s and despite a lack of funding and a deficiency of parts an ambitious restoration project was begun at Tsarskoye Selo, now renamed Pushkin, To recreate the magnificent room and return it to its former glory once again.

THE SEVEN WONDERS OF THE ANCIENT WORLD
    THE GREAT PYRAMID OF GIZA

The great pyramid of Giza is not only the oldest of the seven wonders but is also the only one to have survived to the present day.
It stands near the ancient city of Memphis on the Giza plateau, a necropolis or tract of land used for burials now part of modern Cairo.
Although there are three pyramids standing on the Giza plateau it is only the largest of them that is actually one of the seven wonders, the great pyramid of Khufu more commonly referred to as the pyramid of Cheops.
The pyramid was built around 2560 BC by and for the pharaoh Khufu intended to be both his tomb and a great and lasting monument after his death.
The tombs construction is believe to have been achieved over a period of twenty years.
The exterior of the pyramid now have a stepped appearance though when it was completed it has a smooth covering of stone which the desert winds have worn away over nearly four and a half millennia.
When it was built, the Great pyramid stood 481 ft high but 30 ft has been worn off the top over its many years and the base consists of four equal sides 751ft in length.
It wasn’t until the latter part of the nineteenth century that the great pyramid was surpassed as the tallest structure on earth a position it had occupied for over four thousand three hundred years.
Perhaps one of the most fascinating aspects of the Pyramid is the incredible mathematical accuracy involved in its construction.
The great pyramid was built to such great precision using very rudimentary techniques which even with all of out 21st century technology we cannot replicate.

CHRISTMAS MOURNING

The Ronettes where playing on the radio, It was Christmas morning.
The children were rushing about like they’d had a caffeine injection; excitedly showing off there new toys while my wife was wrestling a turkey into the oven.
As I sat in my arm chair sipping my coffee my mind drifted back to the previous week.

The wipers swished rhythmically as they cleared the lightly beating sleet that was spattering the windscreen and the heater struggled to demist the inside.
All this was of no consequence as the car wasn’t actually moving.
It was the last Friday before Christmas and I was sat in a jam in the evening rush hour.
Half an hour I‘d been stuck in it and I was still only half a mile from where I worked.
I had time to take in the colourful and sometimes overly extravagant festive decoration on the houses which contrasted sharply with the meagre and tired looking display put on by the local council.
After another half an hour I reached the main road.
Nothing to see here through the wet steamy windows except the red tail lights of other frustrated drivers.
Twenty minutes after that accompanied by some over cheerful DJ on the radio I could see the roundabout.
The sleety rain was falling harder now and it was difficult to see through the murkiness.
After crawling to the roundabout I could just make out a flashing blue light which I suspected had nothing to do with Christmas.
As I got closer I could see it was attached to a police car which was blocking my exit.
Without any explanation the police had closed the road.
So I was faced with a choice, go back the way I came or take the exit off the roundabout which would take me in the opposite direction from where I lived.
I did the latter.
By the time I eventually arrived home I was in a black mood.
I shouted at the kids, moaned at my wife and tried to kick the cat.
My mood was not improved when my half cremated dinner was removed from the oven and what had once been gravy was now only a stain on the plate.
The weekend was spent doing all the pre Christmas stuff with the family and all too soon it was over.
When I returned to work on Monday I related my tale of woe to my workmate’s and we all had a big laugh about it.
Except for Harry, who lived locally, he just looked down at the ground grave faced.
Later, when we were alone, he told me the road was closed because a young woman had been knocked down and killed.
I was dumbstruck, I had no words just a feeling of shame at my selfishness.
A week before Christmas, she had died.
While I was cursing at being inconvenienced, ranting at being stuck in a jam.
A poor young woman lay dead in the rain soaked street.
Somebody’s wife and lover, also a daughter and mother and she was mourned by two children, a sister and a brother.

The sound of church Bells ringing out brought me back to Christmas morning and my family.
But I still couldn’t help thinking of other families for whom Christmas morning would be less joyous.
With the bells still ringing out I gave thanks for being alive.
Also I vowed to be more patient, more tolerant and more understanding in the future.
But I probably won’t keep it.

SAD SAM

I have nothing at all against hobbies after all I have one or two of my own.
For some people hobbies are sports based like Golf, Angling or Sailing and with others it’s to do with numbers i.e. train spotters or Plane enthusiasts.
There are other forms of collecting such as Stamps, Coins or even insects.
Some people like model train sets or remote controlled vehicles or even kite flying.
Hobbies come in all types and forms and hobbyists come in all shapes and sizes most are harmless if a little boring and a few are obsessive but by and large they do no harm.
However there is always an exception that proves the rule, Car enthusiasts those feeble minded individuals suffering from a syndrome science hasn’t named yet.
These people have become, for reasons best known to themselves, fixated on a particular make of car like Morris Minor’s, Triumph Herald’s or the worst of all the Ford Capri.
Quite why they chose a particular make and model car is the big mystery although personally I think it’s probably something to do with their first or only sexual experience.
Now your typical enthusiast will buy a reasonably conditioned and priced specimen and fix it up with the more halfhearted collector using replica parts to do the job.
But the really obsessed, those beyond hope, have to use original parts for which they are prepared to pay through the nose.
Then when the vehicle has been painstakingly restored they put it in the garage and cover it with blankets only taking it out 3 or 4 times a year to admire it.
Once a year they might actually drive the thing to a rally in order to show it off to other like-minded Sad Sam’s.
When they are not at work restoring or stood back admiring their prized possessions they are indoors pawing over back issues of “What Car” or “Auto Trader” while abusing themselves.

THERE’S NOWT SO QUEER AS FOLK

Like laboratory mice in a maze we are conditioned and set on their path.
It all begins at 6.45 AM when the car pulls off the drive and they travel in silence arriving outside the station at 7.13.
He kisses her cheek and exits the Cherokee.
He spends approximately two minutes purchasing a newspaper and negotiating the barrier and then occupies the same spot on the platform that he has occupied for the past twelve years.
Should he find an interloper standing in his place then they are subjected to the commuters version of Paddington’s “hard stare” and if that does not suffice then a loud snort is employed.
Apart from the snort there is no other conversation.
7.17 AM the London train arrives and he boards and stows his brief case then occupies the same seat as every other day opposite the same faces behind the same newspapers.
As soon as he is seated he opens his own paper and the train pulls out.
There is no conversation during the journey not even so much as a polite nod in fact no acknowledgment even of the existence of fellow passengers.
The train arrives at Waterloo at 7.43 AM and its contents are disgorged onto the platform and then like lemmings are drawn towards the concourse.
 On the concourse bodies appear to, at least on face value, to have no purpose what so ever just a chaotic whirlpool of flotsam.
However on closer examination you find that the chaos is caused not by the Lemmings lack of purpose bat rather in spite of it.
Each Lemming, or perhaps better described now as a Rat, has a purpose and a course but the chaos ensues when all of them refuse to give way.
Like Salmon fighting the rapids and leaping obstacles the melee is eventually escaped and the strange commuter creatures start to disappear down holes and tunnels only to resurface after varying periods of time.
From deep underground, hot, confused and blinking in the daylight and join their fellows on the crowded pavements, still not giving way, until one by one they take refuge in their office buildings.
Eight of nine hours later the mindless commuter creatures reappear to repeat the process but in reverse flooding onto the pavement and flow along the pavement and then down their tunnels like excess rain water down a storm drain. Emerging at Waterloo the flood water ebbs and flows like a surge tide meeting the mouth of a river.
But with great resilience the strange creatures manage to reach it predetermined destination.
Once on the train he again occupies his usual seat this time opposite a different group of familiar strangers behind their evening papers.
Back in suburbia he leaves the station and gets in the Cherokee and kisses his wife on the cheek.
She says, “How was your day?”
He replies, “OK the usual”
She then recounts the details of her day, which he doesn’t hear.
Once he arrives at his luxurious detached Surrey home he kisses the children and tucks then in bed.
Then he takes a shower and changes into something comfortable before having dinner with his wife.
He then watches an hours TV before going off to bed so that the next day he can do it all again.
The reason he suffers the joys of commuting is to earn the big bucks to pay the huge mortgage on the luxurious big house that he has no time to enjoy.
Not very bright creatures are they.

My short story for review is as follows:-" Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright"

By W.Blake





        The Hazaribagh district in Bihar, India; as name implies in the vernacular, had thousands of tigers in its forests only hundred years ago. Due to forest cutting, mining activities in the habitat area of tigers in that region moreover indiscriminate shooting of this prized animal have depleted their population to the extent that they will be extinct soon from that area and one will find the tigers in the zoo’s only.
      Many years ago, I was a student of mining engineering and doing a study course in a coalmine of Hazaribagh.The coalmine was situated in thick jungle of that district of Bihar state. In that mine coal was extracted through tunnels, and mine’s mouth had openings on the lower side of the hills, just above a narrow valley, and residential colony was situated on the top of those rises.

 I was living with my brother -in -law Mr. Ansari, who was a good big game hunter and had shot down some seventeen tigers during his stay in those forests. He commonly kept rifles, shot guns, searchlights and many boxes of different type of cartridges to shoot down from sparrows to elephants. A jeep was also kept in ready condition to leave for hunt any time if news for his favorite preys were broken to him.

But I loathed his hobby of hunting and used to argue with my brother in law, who was a mature man and a lot older to me in age, regarding the senselessness of shooting of wild animals in their habitat as according to me nature has bestowed them full right to live there, nevertheless it was difficult to convince him as his only hobby was hunting of big wild game and nothing else gave him such a pleasure as big wild game carnage.
                One day as I was getting geared up to go down to nearby officers club in the evening to play tennis, that the cook informed me about sighting of a tiger by our servant on the slopes of the hill and to him, it looked like a big royal Bengal tiger. I immediately hurried to that place to sight that wild beast and indistinctly saw it going down the narrow gorge. I was terrified to see a tiger first time in wild though from a far distance, never the less a sensational draw of its persona overwhelmed me.
  Soon reports started coming that goats, cows and horses of colony area were missing and all and sundry blamed the ferocious tiger for stealing the animals. People were afraid to go out alone in the night due to fear of tiger lurking around in the vicinity of roads to the pits. The work of night shift of mine was also badly affected, as mine workers were afraid to go to the tunnel mouths where they dreaded the presence of the tiger as a fear psychosis of that animal had crawled into their minds.
                However, Mr. Ansari was oblivious of that dread and was keen to face the animal and shoot it down at the first opportunity available to him. He mobilized himself for the hunt by mounting the spot lights on his open jeep and rifles, guns, boxes of cartridges were geared up, moreover some of his friends were also informed to be ready for the night hunt of that prowling tiger .I was also told to accompany him in his hunt and that call elated me as that would be my first tiger Shikar.I was excited to observe the dreaded animal in the night, equally frightful of it’s violent behavior in the open and furthermore sad for useless killing of wild animal with all the modern methods of night kill on a naïve beast.

We searched the whole area till the midnight all around hills, forested regions, and toward mine openings but no trace of tiger was found. That hunt soiree was repeated again and again on subsequent nights, and the pursue operation were suspended after repeated nighttime searches were unsuccessful to spot the eluding tiger. Sensing failure many in that party believed that the marauding animal was masterminded by some supernatural forces, but my brother in law rejected it out right the theory of its ghostly existence.

 Mr. Ansari was however disappointed and disillusioned that the quarry had disappeared from his watchful eyes and from his deft trigger-happy hands, that had seldom missed its prey; however he vowed to kill it in very near future despite of that tiger’s cunning nature to deceive its hunters and not to go for the absurdities propagated by some about its eerie occurrence.

         The information were coming from local Santhals that menacing animal had went to another lucrative area to prey for its food, that was far from mine forest since no stalking of any wild or domestic animal by that beast was reported from the vicinity of that mine zone. On the basis of his long experience of wild tigers, my brother - in -law opined to me that the animal would soon become a man-eating tiger and after that it would become difficult to kill that beast without much trouble.

    I, instead of going to play in the mine’s officer club, used to sauntered down the hill and near to a small stream which had a small water fall that dropped down into the ravine and I made a practice to sit on a boulder over there and gazed at the fall of water of the stream and sang my favorite tunes and used to enjoy that wilderness. One day I recollected Blake's lines, which was in my English textbook of matriculation and also hummed it in the tiger valley:

             "Tiger Tiger burning bright,
                     Like a fire in the night".

     After observing my jaunts to that area, my sister became worried about my trips in the tiger infested vale and counseled me against going down the hill needlessly and alone. I enlightened her by saying that the tiger had left that area and was enjoying him self in some other hospitable forest. I told her that I had read" Man eating tiger of Kumyoun" and from that fascinating book I acknowledged myself as an authority on the man eating tigers habits and their modus operand to stalk human beings, why and how they become man eaters, and she should not fear about my security. After giving her my assurance, I implicitly assumed that the novel by Jim Corbbet was a fiction and my tiger was a reality, it was not a man eater, but simply a wild animal which was after its food. Then on that rock that was on a waterfall, a sudden dread ran through me and I hurriedly returned back to the house of my brother-in-law. From that date, I never went to my favorite spot to ponder over my future dreams.
     Coincidentally, a kill of a calf was reported from my rendezvous area on the nighttime, whose evening, had bought the fear in me and though deep in my mind I cherished that animal, but what brought dread in me was unexplainable or was it a love and dread relationship which was also unfathomable to my conscious. However in reality, the carcass of a domestic calf was taken away by that tiger deep in the gorge and behind the mine waste dumping area as many persons of that mine saw blood strains up to that spot.
                      Mr. Ansari became observant of the events when that news of tiger’s exploit was broken to him and subsequently he fully devoted himself to go to final kill of his long sought after target. He telephoned to his all-close associates of his hunting party and asked them to be prepared and ready for the hunt and to depart soon after receiving his call to leave. Again his jeep was mounted with searchlights and guns and rifles were cleaned and oiled in the preparation of the tiger chase. Nevertheless on their second hunt soiree, I was omitted from the list of hunters, as my presence to them was inauspicious in the stalking of that tiger; moreover they abhorred me for my dissenting views on the hunts of wild animals. However my absence for their hunting party did not bring them a better luck as they came back without spotting the animal, they were puzzled to find that where on earth it should had concealed itself from the powerful beams of spotlights.
  The management of the colliery also became alarmed due to that menace and ordered for a "Hakka"by the local tribesmen. The Santhals came with drums, bows, arrows, and spears to flush out the tiger from its hiding places. The "Hakka"(bush search) was organized in a such way that at one side were about one hundred persons shouting and yelling, beating drums and from the opposite side about a dozen Shikaries stood prepared, with their rifles to shoot down the tiger if it emerged from it hideouts from the thick bushes, ravines and gullies. That attempt to trap that tiger also failed as tiger was clever enough to hide at some safe place from sounds of the beating drums and other hullabaloos as it never came out to become target of those standing marksmen.
  A high level meeting was called by the Chief Engineer of Mine, in which Mr. Ansari was specially invited as being a seasoned hunter of tigers to eliminate that hazardous wild animal, who was destroying the industrial development. The Management of the Mine was very alarmed due to the nuisance of Tiger, as the Owner of Mine was suffering huge financial losses, because of the fact that miners were afraid to go to mine faces to extract coal. The production of mine has become almost half and Mr. Ansari, being employee of mine, was requested to get rid of this menace and his Chief promised him all their support in the eradication of troublemaker and confirmed that he was to be awarded handsomely if the dangerous beast was killed by him. Mr. Ansari declined the offer of reward and promotion and vowed to kill the tiger as a personal challenge to him. His expert view was that tiger had hideouts in the under ground mining area. The mine management was apprised that the beast would be trapped and killed in the under ground mine area where he was hiding and permission was to be given to him to stalk the animal inside the mine which the management happily agreed to allow him.
      My sister and I became very alarmed after hearing their new strategy of killing the tiger inside the mine as it was a very dangerous line of action, as it involved killing the wild animal in confined and in the dark area of under ground mine were the room for any maneuver by the hunt or hunter was very limited. Lamentably, my sister and I tried to convince Mr. Ansari to give up that dangerous plan to kill the animal at the very risky under ground area of the mine. But he was very adamant and was difficult man to convince and moreover Indian woman can do no better than to weep to express their sorrows to their husband.
      Elaborate arrangements were made to seal the tunnel mouths to cut off the escape route of tiger from under ground to surface area if the animal was hiding in the mining tunnels that had become abandoned area, after the extraction of coal from those drives in the coal strata. The miners were also given guns and the local telephone system in the mine area was muted down so that marauder should not get alarmed. Every body was asked to dim their headlights and speak in a hush tones.
      Early in the morning on that momentous day, we mobilized ourselves, as if Rommel's crack brigades were going to charge in the Libyan Desert. And under the command of Mr. Ansari, we entered into our under ground headquarter for last kill of that abominable beast. The place of monitoring of that tiger was in pitch darkness and now and then only the noise of crickets was audible. We were waiting for very feeble ring tone of the telephone to hear the news of any whereabouts of that sought after wild animal in an underground locale. After a long wait a miner called us that he had seen the spoor of the tiger at the 13th number tunnel drive. Hearing the news of our quarry we went stealthily to that mining section where the indication of tiger was observed by the miner. After reaching that area of mine, Mr. Ansari signaled us to remain behind and he slowly crouched to ascertain the spoor of tiger in the darkness of the tunnel. Suddenly a report of gun fire was heard, I slipped, my headlights sent a beam of rays in which black coal dust was seen hovering and after that I saw Mr.Ansari lying on the ground, bleeding and mauled by that tiger. After observing my brother in that condition, I became dizzy and fell to the ground.

       I recovered to my senses in an ambulance that was rushing us to Hazari Bagh district hospital. My sister was consoling me and a nurse was placing cold gauzes on my forehead. I asked precipitately, "Where is Mr. Ansari" and the nurse pointed towards back of ambulance were he was lying on a stretcher. After a month's hospitalization Mr. Ansari became well as his no vital organ was damaged by that tiger after its encounter with him. Later he recollected to me that after sighting the glowing eyes of tiger in the pitch darkness of mine tunnel, his rifle's light become focused on and his hands went to trigger straight away and afterwards the gun shots went instantly into the tigers forearm and heart. As two high calibers rifle shots pierced its heart, the animal sprang towards Mr.Ansari with defying last minute inertia to maul him down on the ground.
       In the evening when I came back to mine area, I saw the carcass of the tiger mounted on a Jeep and at the same time it was paraded around the township area of the mine and miners were shouting " Mr. Ansari ke Jai" '" Mr. Ansari Zindabad" and "The redeemer of evil”.
 The tiger was dead physically, nevertheless it is still alive in my mind, if it is not who will convince me about its immortality?
            It comes over stealthily to me in the dead of the night asking pertinently:
” I was killing for my food only. And you human beings have destroyed my habitat which was given to me by the nature and deprived me of my provided food by the surroundings. No doubt I hunt, but give equal chance to my prey as you humans kill mercilessly wild animals as well as innocent people without providing any opportunity to defend their survival. Tell me, who are humane killers, you or we wild animals”.
                I had no appropriate answer to tell to my tiger whose memories still burns in my imagination.

By: Rasheed

150-Million Year Old Baby Bird Fossil/ Hide Scraper!
By, Steven Montes
 I was using my metal detector in the foothills of Tucson, Arizona. As luck would have it, I never find anything that I am looking for. As I was walking back to my truck with my metal detector resting on my shoulder. I caught sight of an unusual looking rock laying on the ground. I picked the rock and noticed a fossilized baby bird just off-center of the stone. I turned the stone over to reveal more of the bird’s body.
 After showing the bird of to some of my friends, I decided to take the stone to the University of Arizona. I wanted to learn more about what I had found.
 When I arrived, I was told to take my stone to the Paleontology Department across the lawn in front of where I was. When I got there I saw a professor in his office. I asked him if I could talk to a Paleontologist. He asked why, so I handed him the stone and preceded to tell him how I had found the stone. His eyes got big with excitement as he examined the stone while