wholesale jewelry from china

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."

(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.

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..

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!!!

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.

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.

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.

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

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 Lindsey786@talktalk.net, thanks guys x

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

                             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

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.”

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