Copernicus said:

Secondary objectives are optional, I've chosen to option it.

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Heh I actually purposely put the word "keeping" in there because I thought someone would think I was talking about the second theme. I thought I was talking about something different, but I guess I'm really confused now

Edit: Is it still spoilery saying whether or not we did use the secondary theme.

Basically, this is a one off thread, where we depart from normal posting protocol. And I presume in light of that, Copernicus is following normal protocol. lol...

edit: >>>>>>Here is crow's winning entry from the last thread. This is how a story would normally be posted. <<<<<

edit: except that he posted an art link at the bottom, because of the art theme last week, of course...

Ashes1396 said:

Basically, this is a one off thread, where we depart from normal posting protocol. And I presume in light of that, Copernicus is following normal protocol. lol...

edit: >>>>>>Here is crow's winning entry from the last thread. This is how a story would normally be posted. <<<<<

edit: except that he posted an art link at the bottom, because of the art theme last week, of course...

Click to expand...

Hmm, that actually makes me wonder what the capacity is of a neogaf post. If a near 3000 word post would fit.

official threads have massive ops.. I wouldn't worry about word count...

edit: Character limit is 24,000, including spaces... I guess that's 4000 words, 5000 words ?

I hope the stories are posted alphabetically. That's kind of the whole reason I went with "Aardvarks Abroad."

I actually submitted an entry! I think this is the 2nd time I've done so. But I'm back home now, so hopefully I'll submit more regularly in the future.

Anybody know when they'll be posted?

ThoseDeafMutes said:

Anybody know when they'll be posted?

Click to expand...

Probably some time tomorrow morning. crow is on snobby aristocratic east coast time, so if he has any sense he's been asleep for hours.

Last name Ever. First name Slowest. You're the Slowest Ever, crow. We've been waiting on your shit for--nevermindnevermindnevermind.

vDaedalus said:

Aight, we in this b*!@#

*runs away*

Click to expand...

To clarify: I totally submitted something.

That first rainy day in five years, whispers grew into hysterics of her newest attack. This time, She had succeeded in gravely injuring her newest victim, when Her previous torment simply drove people to moderate insanity and catatonia. He fell from the long decommissioned train overpass, a remnant of almost a century ago when the town tried, and failed, to enter competition with the industrial boom of the big cities. The unkempt, fissured pavement that he fell from 45 feet onto wasn’t much newer.

He heard the stories, all of them. The Boy’s day was no different in that regard. Stories of this monster of a person, this creature of a girl popped up at least every few days for the last few years. She was always described in vagaries, but always in a terrified manner, whether by a “witness” or…

“I was a genuwinevictum, I swar!” The same bumbling corner tramp that the boy had seen for ages was telling a different version of the many stories he spat out about the “Fear Girl”. “She don’t e’enneedta take off’er mask to get ya, the sight o’ it alone will paralyze you for days! The eyes on that thing will drive needles into yerbrein, and that grin that never stops growing wider, mahlaurd!”

Even the Boy knew it was not exactly fair to think too badly of him. All of them were practically “tramps”, with the best off living almost moderate lives compared to what they knew existed far beyond. And they all had to live in a crumbling, rusted town that was too expensive for the combined wages of every citizen to properly renovate from the slum it has become. In this respect, he knew life wasn’t much better before Fear Girl, even as anmiddleschool boy, he was highly aware of that.

Yet, she made things different. No more is survival and eking as much as can be gained from menial life all the only struggle. Though there were rumors abound of arsons, assaults, and murders that never happened, she earned her fear from the torment she disseminated.

Most can only speak from hearsay of a figure with long unkempt black hair that billows in the air in spite natural gravity, a ragged off-white garb that can hardly be called a gown, and that mask that has made her an icon in the town. The most accurate details, at least in His opinion, on the Fear Girl were from those that weren’t just simple eyewitnesses, but those that were affected enough to make some of the rumors comparatively middling; those that were visibly damaged psychologically by seeing a face more terrifying that the already unsettling mask covering it.

One of the earliest victims, recently released from the asylum on good behavior, wanders the square occasionally mumbling about seeingHer “glassed eyes burrowed in her moist, rotten flesh”. A few months back, the south block was awoken by a woman crumpledin the middle of the road loudly screaming in fits, interspersed only with fragments resembling “DON’T EAT ME, PLEASE GOD DON’T LET HER EAT ME! AHHH, THTHTHTHTHTHTHOSE JAGUGUGUGUGUGUJAGGED TEETH!” When hospital workers finally arrived at the crowd surrounding the scene, her consciousness was drastically fading away into the coma she has yet to wake from, her last words being faint mumblings of “…mangled teeth…tear…kill me…” .

The victim before last was one of the most coherent He had ever known, mainly because the Boy snuck into the asylum he was housed in after the attack. The victim was much more calm than even the Boy thought, but his insistent belief that Fear Girl was watching at all times meant that he wasn’t exactly a stranger in the institution. The patient also saw her face, like all the real victims, when he, in a drunken stupor, walked right up to her in an alley and attempted to pry it off. Even in the moonless night, he insisted the face was so vivid. The eyes wide and glowing, staring, then glaring at his soul. The face appearing crusted and dirty, with thin cheeks and an inhumansnout. The mouth open much wider than any human beings could ever be, bloody lipped, and lain with serrated, almost metallic teeth, dripping with abnormally thick saliva. She growled as she bared her wide open maw. This was plenty to make him run away. Run for hours until he wandered into the forest that surrounds the town.

He swears he saw her out there. Again and again and again. He swears she followed him, always watching from afar behind a tree or rock. Again and again and again.

Coming back into town, he became too much of a blathering nuisance to passersby in the square to not be tossed in with the crazies. Yet, the Boy does not see him as much different from every other citizen in town. The Fear Girl is practically all anyone speaks of. Even when the subject turns to something else, she is unavoidably part of it. The oldest doctors, all the artists and craftsmen, the very last dentist, all left town one after the other, as if they knew more than anyone else that something was wrong with this town’s obsession with the Fear Girl. When He heard several days back a conversation his teacher was having with a neighbor about their friends new baby, the person in front of him at the drug store making small talk with the owner, even classmates playing and pretending, he could always feel it in the tone of their voices, in the way that they moved, that She was always in their minds. She was always lingering with them.

There was little reason the newest victim should have survived, considering he was found without a pulse, yet the loudest metallic banging brought people to the scene in time for him to be defibrillated and hospitalized. Something was wrong. The Boy thought something was wrong with everything about the Fear Girl. He had plenty of time to think about the problems that plagued the town, Fear Girl being just one, considering that the home He returned to from school every day was usually empty, with His foster mother usually being away for days at a time.There were no friends for him to spend time with, since they would either ignore Him, or quite literally pee themselves at the prospect of discussing Fear Girl.He had plenty of time to wander the streets and the other abandoned, dilapidated buildings that surround him (there usually more interesting than his own abandoned, dilapidated home), as well as the same forest that many have become afraid of. He had never seen Fear Girl. Something is wrong with this.

It was this rare rainon this full moon night, coinciding with the newest victim, that made Him most anxious about Her as he wandered the rooftops of his neighborhood. Granted, He was both too young in age and too old in mind to be afraid of what was out there on dark nights, Fear Girl or not. It simply felt to Him like too many factors were coinciding together.

He stopped at the edge of the roof he was on, looking across to the other building, barely 20 feet away just in time to see someone come out of the roof access door and walk a ways before jerking their head directly at him.

Fear Girl was a deathly slender, imposing figure, covered in surprisingly sheer and bright rags, which in and of themselves were sheltered by her wet, practically knee-length hair with a wave subtly visible even in the torrent. The round, ceramic looking mask had eyes, a nose, and mouth seemingly painted over it, but the detail within was so astoundingly uncanny. The eyes were red-rimmed and dotted with the smallest of pupils, looking too much like real, moist, twitching, and gazing eyeballs than something painted over a flat surface. Same could be said for the nose and the stretched, open, and smiling mouth whose corners possibly extended beyond the edges of the mask itself.

She took a running leap towards the Boy, crossing the chasm made by the alley below, and gripping the ledge of the other building. A few seconds passed as she hung from the ledge before she yanked herself up in a spasm.

He ran. He ran to the opposite end of the roof where the fire escape was, swiftly hopping down the stairs and ladders to the alley surface, segueing directly into continuing his escape. Ironically for Him, he was in the middle of a dense cluster of buildings and alleyways, so escape into a clear area was not easy. Every time he looked back, he could see her in the corner of his periphery, whether running directly on the surface, or hopping across buildings. He kept going for what seemed like an hour, running with intense fear that he never expected even from Her. He kept running, and running, and running…and then he stopped.

Why am I running from Her, He wonders. Why should I be afraid when I know something is wrong with this, he continues with himself. He happened to stop across the street from the alley he just exited. Swiftly turning around, he sees Fear Girl exit as well, coming to a stop on the other side from what clearly was a sprint. The downpour increased in intensity.She broadens her stance with her legs and arms, in a ploy to scare him, but He stands his ground. The Boy decides to slowly approach Her, but does not make it much more than two feet before Fear Girlyanks off the mask.

Nothing.Nothing to fear.

He could hardly see anything in the rain, butwhat He did not see was anything close to the image reminiscent of the fabled and terrifying Fear Girl. What he could make out was that her eyes widened,even more than her reputation preceding her, in realization that this was the case. She slowly shuffled backwards a bit before running back the way she came, dropping her mask on the cobbled sidewalk with a small but audible crack. He rushed after her, not before scooping up the mask.

As he pursued her up and down and across the buildings, he was able to take a couple seconds to note the well painted, but unremarkable mask that was recently given a veiny, spidery crack across the whole face. The mask that he clutched tightly somehow had little to no effect on his ability to pursue her. Both were clearly losing energy and breath, but something made the Girl stop before he did. Maybe her recent distress?

She stopped at a dead end, in a corner knoll made with the wall and a dumpster, collapsing seconds before the Boywalked to her. He slowly shuffled to the now huddled, sobbing mass, breathing heavily to the point of growling, upper body struggling to stay up. He glares at her as he approaches, slowly...slowly…


“Hey.”

He now stood in front of Her, the toes of his shoes barely an inch from the sharp knees outlined by her clothes. He waited for a response, but she was sobbing completely covered under her pale, slender hands.

“Hey.”

“……………………I……I didn’t….want to k….kk……kill him…….”

“Who didn’t you want to kill?”

She continued to sob between her words, with her mouth filled with saliva from the crying making it even harder for Her to articulate. The Boy took a good look at her. She was surprisingly younger than most, including him, though, no more than fifteen years old. Her skin was covered with dirt that seemed caked on, but was washing off in the rain, exposing clear and pale flesh.

“………..he….wanted to see my face…………..”

“……Ummm…”

“He said he wanted to see…..everything….everything under what I….was wearing”

He decided to slowly sit down as she spoke.

“We were on the traintracks, and he grabbed me, and I pupupupush…….he fell…”

The girl pulled her hands down just enough for her eyes to become visible to Him. Her eyes shined in the light such a bright and crystalline blue. Oh did they shine for Him! The same eyes that were supposed to forcefully bore into the souls of mortals, gazed widely at Him, partly in tears, partly in shame, but mostly in longing. He was thoroughly confused.

“I tried to….get everyone to come by….by banging on the tracks with a pipe that was…was on the side of…them. I tried to get him breathing again, but it didn’t…..he……e….e.”

“He didn’t die. None of your victims are dead.”

She gasped in uncharacteristic joy at the first sentence, but then shrunk back at the second.

“My face scared too many people when…before I started being….that….thing….Fear Girl, I guess….My parents had a…mask around that thei…..their artist friend…made. It was all…all I had when they di…….died. It was…less ugly than my face, so I wore it a lot…but I guess it wasn’t….”

She started to breathe heavily for a while. He sat attentively. Both in the now dwindling rain.

“I did….didn’t like not being able to……………I guess…I liked being in control of how people were scared of me. They were already going to think I was gross and scary, so I might as……”

He started to look a bit angered.

“I’m sorry! I don’t want this anymore! I…I..I…”

As She continued to stifle her words, He slowly reached out his hands towards hers, and gently pulled them away. She fought with all she could to stop him, at least for a few seconds, before relenting.

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

First was exposed her prominent, slender nose, which blended well with her oval face. Her lips were wide and scabbed from chapped bleeding, but shone beautifully from the rainwater. The Boy was gradually becoming less and less shocked by how beautiful this Girl was to Him. She opened Her mouth partly to catch breath, and partly to yawn after this long night. It was much wider than He had ever seen a mouth open. Within, he saw teeth covered in slightly rusted, but still intact braces.

At this point, She held on tightly to His hands as She gazed in wonder at Him, now huddling closer to him. Still breathless and stifled from tears, she asked.

“…What’s your name?”

He smiled.

"Ship arriving in T minus three-hundred. All personnel at the ready."
The worker ants take their place. I take mine as well. Life support, sewage, and much of the rest of the day-to-day maintenance required for living on the massive, spinning metal wheel of Port Fianco is done by machine. Not so for the harbor. We humans still patrol it, clean it, refuel and repair ships on it, all so that businesses will fly their outgoing wares through the humble metropolis at the center of Lagrange 5.
The female loudspeaker booms again,
"Ship bound for the Jupiter colonies. Attention to detail is not a luxury, it's a necessity."

Looking around, it seems unlikely that any detail has been missed. The floors are spotless -- I just finished cleaning them, they'd better be -- and a dozen dock workers are standing in formation, armed and ready to fix any bucket of bolts that might come careening in from the abyss.
"You saw the news last night?"
"No, I missed it. Out at the game."
"So... get this. Yesterday morning, about nine-ish as we were getting in... monorail driver puts one into his own skull." The man mimes gun recoil with his finger and thumb.
"What? You serious?"
"Yeah, must've been quite the scene. Trains were still backed up last night, right?"
"Now that you mention it... Man, that's brutal. Such a shame."

The time of death was 8:54, as passengers were swarming the elevated train platform in the usual rush hour fever pitch. The reported cause is suicide, but the Fianco police have one of their better private investigators on the case.
"T minus two hundred seconds."

"Livius!" The same voice, sans loudspeaker, calls from across the dock. Slowly, I turn. "Livius Langston, come to my office now!"
"Oh, somebody's in troubleee..."
"Is she my mother?" I quip in response.


"Ah, Livius. I need to discuss something about your hours."
The boss here is the young-looking brunette, Jill. Miss Jill, as we are expected to call her. If the workers are ants, she is the Queen of this establishment. The Queen is older than she looks -- and to the discerning eye, the years are beginning to crack through her youthful disguise. In a few more, she may end the charade entirely. But for now at least, the eternally young Miss Jill remains the supreme ruler of her peasants' hearts and minds.
"Yes, Miss."
I've tried this before, and usually I get a "Miss who?" in response. Not today.

"There was something about my hours?"
"I'll cut to the chase. I want you to work more. You're one of my best workers. Very thorough. I'd like to promote you."
Apparently I need to slack off more.
"I'm honored, but my expectation was part time. I have other responsibilities."
"But surely none as important as maintaining the very livelihood of the twenty million citizens of Port Fianco?"
"My apologies."
She sighs in exasperation.
"Well, I suppose we're all entitled to a little selfishness. I'll let you leave, Livius -- for now. You're off for the rest of the day."
"Thank you, Miss Jill."
I bow my head, and make for a quick escape before she changes her mind. Strange mood from that woman today. As if her mind is elsewhere. In the dock, the ship is arriving. But that's no longer my concern.

Outside, there's a low-gravity terminal that defies description. From it, thirty-two large elevators descend down to the city surface. I step inside the nearest one.

Transit is how Port Fianco sustains itself. Mother Earth is 400,000 kilometers from here, and the moon is just as far. After a ship leaves those gravity wells, having burned up most of its fuel just to escape Newton's pull, it's necessary to stop and prepare for the journey ahead. There's no better place than Port Fianco.

So the brochures read, anyway. Reality says that this is a party town. The oversized elevator doors slide open, and the Fianco night skyline shines to life.


"Coke! MJ! Booze! Get what you need here!"
"Do you have a permit to be selling this outside?"
"Officer, it's promotional."
"Do you have a permit?"
"No, but--"
"You need a permit," I interject. "What establishment do you work for? Do you have an EMT on staff?"
The seedy salesman seems taken aback.
"Sorry about that, officer." With a muted nod, he steps inside.
"You have a way with words, Aoki."
"Perhaps. Anything new about the Church case?"
"Not here." He leads me away from the shady doorstep, a block away to the police station. We step through a side entry and into a small room only a salesman could call an office. "The files are in the desk."

I open a drawer and remove a small black square, examine it, then put it back.
"Aren't you going to take it?"
"Why would I need an extra copy?"
The young man plants a hand across his face.
"I keep forgetting you can do that."
"You'll be the first to know what I find. My theory is that there's more to this, we'll see if the facts bear that out."
"... you suspect Asimof?"
"Perhaps." With a wave, I exit his desk closet.

Asimof is the name of a company. They're based in Port Fianco, and they specialize in neural robotics -- artificial limbs, eyes, ears, and such. More recently, they've expanded to what they're calling 'neural enhancement': devices that hook into the senses in a more radical way to instantly feed extra information back to the user's mind. The technology has existed for years, but it's a new field for them.

This is relevant only because Port Fianco recently introduced Asimof's neural enhancement for their train operators. And the dead Mister Church was one of the first to receive the implant.

Asimof is where I start my search.

***

After an unpleasant find, I'm on my way to see Mister Church himself. The morgue is on the other side of town, which is to say that the fastest way is by train. I hop on. With any luck the trip will go without incident. As I peer down at the busy streets below, I get a call.
"Blue, I have a job for you."
"Good," I answer.
"Don't get cocky until I tell you the job. I need you to book another room."
"Besides the girl? No, nevermind that -- don't you have a secretary for this sort of thing?"
"It's harder and harder to get into Fianco these days. You know I wouldn't call if it wasn't important."
I offer a groan of resignation.
"Anything else, Markus?"
"Yeah, keep your ear to the ground. Something big's going down soon."
"How soon is soon?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Ten four."

He hangs up. That 'he can't tell me' is informative, because Markus is a military man and that means someone higher than him up the chain passed down an order. He knows I know this. I suppose I'm expected to make a connection to the room I've been asked to book as well.

The train creaks to a halt at my stop, and I venture out onto the platform, down the stairs, and walk a few blocks to an unadorned brick building. Inside, a grim looking man greets me and leads me into a small white room. No body is in sight.
"The autopsy is ongoing. You'll be able to see the body shortly."
"As it happens, I'm only interested in the brain implant. Has it been removed?"
"It has, actually. Asimof wants to examine it."
"I suppose they do. Would I be able to borrow it for a few hours?"
"The PD will take the fall if you lose it?"
"An unlikely scenario, but yes."

I don't know that they will, but that's never stopped me before. With the minuscule bundle of electronics in hand, I make for the train. It's time for a science experiment.

Hours later, I find myself at last in front of a gaudy compound called Asimof Inc. Business is booming, apparently. After ten minutes of loitering, I intimidate a secretary into letting me speak to an engineer.
"Yes, is this Don?"
He's a pale, skinny man wearing glasses. In short, he looks the part.
"Yes? You are?"
"Detective Aoki. I'm here on behalf of the Fianco PD."
"This is to do with the suicide?"
"Hopefully. I'd like to make sure that's what it was."
The man's face seems to be going pink, and I wonder what button I've pressed.
"We take a lot of pride in our testing. The device in question provides only stimulus. It does not effect judgment, and it certainly cannot control a person's actions!"
"Easy. I meant no offense. By chance, could I confirm something on the design of the device?"
"Design...?" the man seems oddly pacified. "I wouldn't mind personally, but I doubt we're allowed to give that information out, police or otherwise."
"Understandable, but the circumstances may require it. Let me explain: the APIs are publicly viewable, yes?"
"Yes?"
"And the device operates in a fail open manner? Which is to say, it notifies the user of a stimulus even if it's of untrusted origin."
"That's correct, yes."
"So, what of a denial of service attack?"
"That would require the network to be compromised. The network is trusted."
And there lies the problem.
"Fianco's drivers are gathering information from all over. Anonymous tips and the like. Their network is explicitly untrustworthy."
As I speak, a troubled look of recognition dawns on the man's face.
"Excuse me, I need to talk to someone about this."
"Thank you."


At the far side of the city, in a quiet spot near the steel colony wall, there is a serene little graveyard with no bodies therein. It's purely ceremonial, but oddly cathartic to come here.

I stand before the plain tombstone of a deceased scientist named Gary Searle. Usually this is a quiet spot, but today a talkative passerby seems hellbent on making conversation.
"So, who was he?"
At times, I wish that impromptu invisibility was inconspicuous behavior. Alas.
"... someone dear to me."
"I'm sorry."
...to have asked, one might presume.
"Do you know?" I say, rounding into form, "behind that steel wall, the entire depth of space is bearing down on us. That there is a statistically significant probability that at any given time, a high velocity piece of shrapnel could come flying through the wall and render the need for you or I to have one of these markers for ourselves? It makes one think, perhaps."
The man seems less interested in conversation now.


"Talk to me, Aoki. They say you're requesting the access logs for the Asimof site for the past three years?"
"It was as long a duration as the form allowed. I'd accept a hundred if the company or city had been around that long."
"We have one year."
"That will have to do then, won't it?"
"If I can ask, what'll you do with this?"
"I'm going to find the culprit."
"Pardon?"
"It appears that the impetus for suicide was a continuous sensory assault by way of a DOS on the implant."
"In English?"
"Someone annoyed him to death. I found the spam-bot quietly lurking on the Fianco network. When I brought Mister Church's implant back online, it was inundated. You would've shot yourself too."
Moments of silence, as my policeman friend digests this information.
"You're damn good at this, Aoki. Why aren't you working for us full time?"
"Well, I can't spend all my days on fun and games. Sometimes I have to do real work."

***

"Livius! You dropped something!"
A cursory glance at the security feed might suggest otherwise.
"My apologies, Miss." I turn and scoop up a wrench the size of my forearm, silently wondering how I was to have dropped this without noticing. Oh well. This afternoon's ship is going to earth, so tightening the bolts might be prudent.
"Miss who?"
"Jill," I answer.
"No, Miss Jill. Say it with me. Miss Jill."
"Miss Jill." Inside, where it counts, I roll my eyes. I suppose it's nice that she's back to normal.


Back inside the city proper, I've found my culprit. Or all but: proxies. Usually my best friend, but not on this side of the law. For a murder investigation, I might be able to pry the information from greedy hands from here to the moon to the earth below. But that will take a long time, and I'm a busy man. Expediency calls for another method.

The stimuli that drove Mister Church mad were a methodical assortment of images, video, sound, even touch and taste. It was not randomly assembled, and if it was meant to drive him to kill himself, the killer would have known him personally. A jilted lover perhaps. A normal detective would start interviewing people who knew the man at this point, but I am not one of those.

People are sloppy. And a person put together this clip show. With high probability, there is something uniquely identifiable within the lot. But for the moment, that search will have to wait. I pick up the ringing phone.

"How do you find yourself, Quicksilver?" I answer.
"I haven't been called that in years, Blue Tree," the other side returns. "I have a favor to call in."
"I keep being asked for favors. There's been a terrible mistake, and you people have been duped into thinking I'm a charitable man."
"There's an overweight ammunition shipment from Orwell's Arms with some living cargo in it. That's all."
Admittedly, my interest is piqued.
"How overweight?"
"I don't know, seventy kilos?" The weight of a young man.
"You have my attention."
"It left an hour ago. I think it's going to Fianco, so you shouldn't have to look far. Thanks."
The world never ceases to amaze.


An hour later, I seem to have finally found an actual person as the culprit. Specifically, I have a location -- a quiet corner of the 4th residential district. From that and a cross-reference of Mister Church's residences over the past three years, one former co-resident stands out. An ex-girlfriend, by the looks of it.

Initially, I'd thought that the stimuli used to crush the poor man's sanity was targeted. A murder weapon. That appears to be incorrect. The imagery is overwhelmingly positive, and the way it drove him to madness was likely via sheer volume and relentlessness. My speculation is that the woman was trying to win him back, but didn't know what she was doing.

Time to confirm the truth.


Late afternoon. The overhead colony light is diminished, refracted to an orange-yellow hue meant to imitate Earth's twilight. I'm standing on the third floor doorstep of my murder suspect. I ring the bell.
"Coming!"
I recognize the voice. The door opens, and the familiar figure of Miss Jill steps into it. She looks considerably older -- apparently when off duty, her mask is much thinner.
"Can I help you?" She doesn't recognize me, as expected. A man of many identities needs many faces.
"You're Jill Sanders? You knew Charles Church, correct?"
"Yes." She fidgets.
"To not mince words, you're under investigation for the murder of Mister Charles Church. I'm the detective for the case, with the full authority of the Fianco PD."
Unpleasant and blunt, but I've learned that there's no nicer way to do these things. I stand silently, waiting a full minute to let what I've said sink in.
"Is this a joke? I thought..." She struggles for words, "I thought it was a suicide?"
"He pulled the trigger himself, yes. There were mitigating circumstances that drove him to do so."
"But I couldn't have done anything. I work in the colony dock, as a manager. You can check the security feed--"
"Your physical location is of little interest."

She looks at me uncomprehendingly, as if I'm some sort of madman. In a way, I am, but that has no relevance to this case.
"Here are the facts. Mister Church died Monday morning at 8:54. He had made up his mind a few hours before, driven to the breaking point by constant stimuli from a malfunctioning neural implant, and taking with him a twenty-two millimeter loaded with a single bullet. His 'malfunctioning' implant had quite contrarily never showed any signs of malfunction in five private tests, including one the previous week. And suspiciously, even a freshly minted implant device will immediately began acting up as soon as it is connected to the network under his identity, as I've verified. This because of the cyber-bot you released onto the network for the explicit purpose of targeting him. Are you to tell me in good faith that your handiwork is not the root cause of all of this, when all the evidence suggests only that it is?"
The woman looks shocked. Dumbstruck. I wonder, were her powers of denial strong enough to cloak cold reality for this long?
"I didn't mean to... I was just trying..."
There is the confirmation.
"Trying to do what? Did you intend to kill Mister Church?"
"No! Never! I just... wanted to change... him." She bursts into tears, her head buried in her hands. I wait. A police siren rings from the ground floor, and heavy footsteps rise towards us.

"I never wanted anyone to get hurt," she says. "I just wanted to see him again."
"Releasing a targeted bot onto the Fianco net is already a serious crime, even if it hadn't led to any harm. There's a reason it's outlawed -- it's a dangerous sort of fire to be playing with." The footsteps grow louder.
"Will I go to jail?"
"In a word: no. Fianco City will not expend the geopolitical capital necessary to keep you confined. Should you be convicted, you will be deported instead."

The officers burst through the door. Apparently they don't get to do this often enough.
"HANDS IN THE AIR!"
"Easy, officer," I shrug, tossing mine towards the ceiling. "The suspect is non-combative. Did you get lost on your way to Hattori's place?"
"Very funny, detective."

They put Miss Jill in handcuffs. As she's being marched toward the door, she looks at me almost inquisitively.
"Mister detective... do I know you?" she asks.
"We may have met."

I sit beside the Christmas tree, alone, with only the glow of the star, the shadows of the ornaments, and the thousand flickering lights like a rainbow of fireflies to keep me company. It is the middle of the night, but the room is filled with soft light, like heaven on the horizon. Beside the Christmas tree it is always dawn.

There was a time when the star and the angels were more to me than beautiful images, when carols made me cry in a way that had nothing to do with their melodies. Those days are gone.


Two Septembers ago. I stand beside my father.

“I'm not worried about grades, son, although I know you'll do well,” he says to me. “The only requirement I have for you is that you join a Christian group and you don't lose your faith.”

I’ve already lost it, but I can’t tell him. I haven’t really been a Christian in years. There is nothing he could say to me to win me back to his faith. No treatise could ever bridge the chasm between his beliefs and mine. He believes we are born evil. He believes we must spend our lives atoning for our sinful nature. But I have so much more to do than lead a life of penance. And I would never beg forgiveness from my creator for the way he made me.

So I tell my father that I'll join a youth group, and that he will be in my prayers, and everything else I know he wants to hear, and he smiles and tells me how proud he is and drives away, and on my first day of freedom I have already broken the only rule he had left for me to follow.

“If ye were of the world, the world would love his own; but because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you.”

In the weeks and months to come, I will drink heavily. I will take all manner of drugs. I will meet young women on the balconies at parties; I will take them home; in the darkness of my dorm room I will unclasp their bras, part their legs, enter them and break another commandment. This is the world I am supposed to shun.

I meet a young gay man in a largely gay theater group that needs a musical director. I take the job and enter another new world. My parents hated homosexuals. But as I work with them, live with them, make friends with them, I wonder what there was to hate. I see two men kissing. This is the sin I am supposed to hate, and yet as I watch them I see nothing to condemn.

My great-grandfather spent five years in a Chinese prison for preaching the Christian faith. My grandfather translated the Bible into six Asian languages. I am the grandson and great-grandson of missionaries, and yet every day of my life betrays my heritage. Was all they did for nothing? If I reject their beliefs, it must follow that all they did was a waste, and yet I cannot look at my mother and tell her that her father wasted his life, wasted years that he could have spent with her, that he denied himself so much in hope of a reward that he will never see.


Two summers later. I sit beside my mother in the car.

“You haven't lost your faith, have you?” she asks me.

“Of course not,” I say, putting more sincerity into this lie than I put into a thousand of my truths.

“That's good,” she says softly. “I want to see you in heaven, Johnny.”

It takes all my strength not to cry. For this is everything. If I admit I no longer believe in God, I am lost to them. They believe that only those with faith like theirs can see heaven. What could be more agonizing than to picture your child, your firstborn, rotting in hell? So I lie. There's no other option, really. They cannot convince me that their beliefs are true. I cannot convince them that their beliefs are false. And if I could, would I? I picture my grandfather lying in the ground. It won’t be so long before my parents join him. Not so long after that until I do. We will all dissolve stinking into the earth, and yet they alone have the hope of something more. How can I take that from them?

And so it is for them that I pretend. I say the prayers at dinner while I'm at home. I read Bible verses for the family on Christmas and Easter. I go to church and play accompaniment for the congregation just like I used to. I take the communion, but it means nothing to me.

I know I cannot keep up this charade forever. Someday I will have children, and my parents will ask whether I take them to some church, somewhere, wherever I live years from now. I could lie, but someday the lie would be revealed. Most lies are. I could tutor my children in a faith I no longer believe in. Or I could have no children, and let my unbelief die with me. Either way is to betray myself, for no reason except that I cannot break my parents' hearts. I am the middle child of the generations, with no identity of my own, a bridge between illusion and disillusionment.

If only I could believe again. It would solve so many problems if I could. But it would create so many new ones, I doubt it would be worth it. I cannot choose what my heart tells me is true. So I continue to lie, and wait until the future brings the problems to my doorstep before I will deal with them. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend.

“Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)”
-Walt Whitman

Shift.

The sky was the color of death. The man stood motionless, eyes to the sky, jaws clamped around the glowing remnants of a Lucky Strike. He stood and gazed up until a fat drop of rain hit him in the face. He turned then, looked back down at the tableau before him.

On the sidewalk, at his feet, lay a woman. Blood, thick and crimson, spread from beneath her head like a halo. She was a bright thing, the woman, a watchfire calling him home.

He couldn't remember her name.

Once, that would have troubled him. Now--ah, now it was the way of things. People, places, came and went with nary a flick of recognition in his mind.

He did know one thing--he had known this woman, intimately. Cared for her. He had loved her pouting lips, her crooked smile. Her dark-brown, laughing eyes. Her raven hair, her subtle curves. This he felt in his bones. Felt deep down inside where the sight of her pale skin, bright against the concrete and the rivulets of blood, kindled a flame within him.

Footsteps. Footsteps running.

He snapped to attention, head coming up and eyes sharpening.

A trenchcoat-clad man was sprinting away from him down Mercy Street. Without a moment's hesitation, he pounded down the pavement in pursuit. This was him. This was the one.

The fire within him flared. He pulled his Beretta and kept running.

Shift.

Crowbar to the brainpan, motherfuckers. Crowbar to the brainpan, a cacophany of swirling colors and sounds, particles and waves zipping out in pairs in all directions, together at last like God Himself said enough is enough, make up or put up or shut up.

"Pull my finger, shitheel!" I shout. I'm running flat out down a dirty road, and I don't even know why except this asshole in a black suit and a gray Stetson is chasing me, and I know he wants me. I want him, and he wants me, but all I'm going to do is run.

I could fly. I could sprout giant fucking wings and soar away on a gust of wind, take a dump on the guy's head like I'm a seagull. But I won’t. There's a symmetry here, a longing between me and the guy, and he's getting closer and I can feel it in the underlying fabric of the universe, that this is meant to be, him and me running and we keep getting closer and we're white hot, man, we're on fire and this is the Kentucky Derby.

Howard--I call him that to myself, after Howard Hughes because he hates germs--Howard is right behind me, we’re getting closer and closer and he’s lifting up his gun. I welcome this. I embrace it with open arms, it's meant to be, our fates entwined together like waves and particles, and this is how the universe comes into perfect symmetry, not with a whimper but a bang.

White hot screeching metal to the back of the skull. A complete and final embodiment.

Howard pulls his finger on the trigger, the final orgasmic release.

Shift.

Percussion faded in. Slap slap slap, a quick hi-hat beat as thick soles tore along the street next to me.

The fog over my mind lifted abruptly, thoughts of another dull day at work breaking under the sudden surging assault of five senses.

Sight: a man in a trenchcoat, manic grin on his pale face, running flat out down Mercy Street. Behind him, a man (a mobster?) in a suit and a Stetson, grim expression, running as fast, faster, bringing a gun to bear.

Touch: wind tugging at my coat, my briefcase. Drops of rain hitting my bare head in what seems like slow motion.

Smell: piss and garbage, and a damp cat ducking under a car. Wet air and wet asphalt.

Taste: the memory of bacon and toast, taunting me. The lingering taste of my wife's lips, the rote morning kiss goodbye.

Sound: leather shoes pounding on the pavement, raindrops hitting the road and the sidewalk and nearby cars, a cat's yowl.

And in a moment, the inevitable gunshot.

It was nothing to do with me. It was nothing to do with me and I would stand by and do nothing, stand by and not even say anything to the police later, when they pulled me in for questioning, the sergeant standing there and nodding sympathetically when I complained about my poor eyesight and wasn't the city a mess these days, wasn't it just terrible and why would no one ever do anything about it. No one. Not ever.

The man in the trenchcoat ran past me. My head swiveled back, to the man in the Stetson, chasing, trying to aim even as he ran.

I played football, once upon a time. Small-time high school in small-town Alabama, years before I moved up here to the city, but we took the sport seriously. I played both ways, but my favorite position was linebacker: lining up, finding your man, getting in position. And if your man had the ball, well that was the best part: then you got to tackle him.

The man in the Stetson had the ball.

It clicked in a shivering instant, the rain and the cat and the hi-hat slaps, the wind and the wet asphalt and the gun. For a lunatic moment, I was #57 again, in pads and powder blue. I could smell the grass, taste the sweat, feel the rush of adrenaline, I could hear the echoes of the crowd, the shouts from Coach. And I could see the man with the ball.

Knees bent, head up. Two quick steps forward, shoulder leading, wrap, lift, slam.

The gun went off, and we were on the ground.

Shift.

She sits on the sidewalk, her withered back against the wall. She does this every day, carrying out her slow trajectory: buffeted by storms and winds and the wakes of other, bigger lives. Sprayed with salt water, thirsty but unable to drink, in a lifeboat with no oars.

She’s traveled this path so long, the ruts are miles deep.

In front of her on the sidewalk is a white paper cup, that says “Starbucks” on the side in faded green. It contains one dollar and twenty-three cents in small change.

She’s cold, this woman. Not because of her skinny, depleted frame and the too-thin blanket. It’s deeper inside, a chrysalis covered in a patina of frost. She put them there, chrysalis and frost both. She tells herself she doesn’t mind; it doesn’t matter. She meant things to end up this way.

She lets her mind wander. Back to another time, another part of the trajectory. Back when the chrysalis was cracking open and she had someone who loved her. Kisses and hands touching and the warmth of life and love, of humanity. A glass of red wine, a barking, slobbering puppy, a bouquet of flowers. She--

A gunshot shouts in the street, and the sea of images building in her subconscious mind shatters, evaporates. She ducks to the side and covers her head with her hands, knowing even as she does so that it’s too late, that if she’s the target she’s dead. She quivers in relief to find herself still alive as the echoes fall away.

Quick, running footsteps approach her, then stop. She looks up.

The man’s face is not right. Something in his eyes is sideways, upside-down, inverted, like he’s a reverse-polarity human being. And yet she recognizes him, despite or perhaps because of those backwards eyes. She recognizes him but does not know him.

He quirks both eyebrows; clearly he recognizes her. “Where is he?” he asks.

And she knows. Her eyes widen, her mind bounces on slinkies and rubber bands, suspended in zero G for a timeless moment. But he is not here for her. Not this time.

She lifts a shaking hand, and points to the building behind her.

Shift.

A gunshot? Liza raised her head with interest. “Hey Dad? Was that a gunshot?”

Dad’s voice came thin and hollow from under the sink. “No sweetie, that was my brain backfiring.” He dropped a wrench, then cursed as it landed on something. “Working with plumbing really clears out the cobwebs.”

“Well that makes sense,” she said brightly. “Cleans the pipes and clears the cobwebs!” She walked over to the window to try and find where the shot had come from. The fire escape kind of got in the way, but she could make out most of the street below.

There was a clanging sound, and Dad’s head popped out from under the sink. “Hang on. A gunshot?”

“Yep!” Liza bit a thumbnail; Dad always swore she’d need braces if she kept on doing it, but it hadn’t happened yet. You could never really trust a parent, when they said something like that. They’d tell you whatever they thought would work to convince you, and never mind if it was actually true. After all, this was the same man who’d tried to get her to give all her leftover Halloween candy to a giant pumpkin-man.

“Get away from the window, Liza.” Dad’s voice had changed suddenly, from happy and teasing to sharp and tight.

She turned back, braids swinging, and gave him a look and her number-two sigh. “Dad, I’m not a baby. I’m twelve! You don’t have to tuck me into my covers and pat me on the head.”

“Liza,” his voice took on a warning quality. “Stand back. If someone’s firing a gun out there, we want to stay out of sight and danger. You could easily get hit by--”

She rolled her eyes and did the thing Dad hated most: interrupted him. “Oh come on Dad, you always tell me I can’t do things and then make up a stupid reason why. I’m not gonna get shot, and I’m not gonna need braces.”

She had gone too far. Dad stood up, face red and heat in his eyes. “Young lady, you step away from that window right now. And then we are going to have a little talk about manners.”

She turned to take one more look out the window, just to prove he wasn’t the boss of her.

Outside on the fire escape, a strange man in a trenchcoat stood staring in at her.

Liza shrieked, fell over backwards, and covered her eyes.

The worst of it was, Dad had been right. Ugh.

Shift.

The glass shattered and I instinctively dove, landing half on top of my daughter and trying to shield her from flying shards.

Good things come in threes, says the inscription to Albano Berg’s Chamber Concerto. Keyboard, strings, wind. Schoenberg, Webern, Berg. Tema scherzoso, Adagio, Rondo ritmico.
Well, it had been a cold, wet, miserable day, the plumbing was broken and my punk kid had been sassing me. And now this. Four.

What the hell did Berg know anyway?

“Where is he?”

I looked up. The man in the trenchcoat was staring down at me with wide, vacant eyes. He was terrifying.

But I was a father. I shoved my daughter back, and I stood up. “Who are you and what are you doing in my apartment?” I kept my voice steady and stern.

“Where is he?”

I didn’t flinch. “Who?”

“The inspector.”

“I don’t know what you’re--” I was interrupted by more breaking glass, as another man came leaping through the window. He wore a suit and a Stetson. He was just as tall, just as intimidating as the first man, but without the added terror. Except--

I dove back on top of my daughter. The man had a gun. From underneath me, I could hear and feel my daughter quietly sobbing. I patted her head, to calm myself as much as her. The Stetson man wasn’t after us.

The two men were having some kind of fistfight. Stetson had lost the gun somewhere, but Trenchcoat was still getting the worst of it. Stetson came in, left, right, left. Trenchcoat was barely putting up a fight.

He fell, and Stetson went diving for the floor where his gun must be. Trenchcoat was on him then, and they rolled around on the floor punching and kicking. I didn’t move from my position, shielding my daughter.

I realized I was staring at the broken window. Trenchcoat, Stetson. Somehow my mind was expecting someone else to come through the window. Good things come in threes.

I snapped out of it and looked back to the two men fighting. Stetson had come out on top. He was climbing to his feet, gun in hand, looking down at Trenchcoat with a gloating expression on his face. I covered my daughter’s eyes, and for once she didn’t protest.

Stetson tilted his head, took aim down at Trenchcoat. And another man stepped through the window.

Shift.

They call me the Regulator.

I'm the sane one; the boring one. The one that keeps the others from breaking each other to pieces. Breaking us all.

In this place, my guise is a city inspector. A regulator, a manager--keeping things running smoothly.

"You don't want to do that, son," I say. I put my hand on the man's shoulder.

He flinches, moves the gun uncertainly in my direction. Stops. "Who are you?" he growls.

"Names mean less than nothing, here," I reply. My hand remains on his shoulder. "But if you must--I'm the Regulator."

His eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm in charge of keeping things smooth. Keeping the inmates from running the asylum." Though, if you want to get technical, I'm one of the inmates myself.

"Inmates?" The gun lowers a touch.

"Haven’t you wondered? About all the people you've encountered? You can feel them, down somewhere below your gut. You can see through their eyes, almost. Hear through their ears. Feel their experiences."

He nods, face tight. "We're all connected somehow."

"Indeed. Walk with me a moment."

He takes another look at the man on the floor, the grinning wreck of a human being, and shakes his head, slightly. Then he shrugs and follows as I lead.

We step back out onto the fire escape and climb. "This is a city," I say, and gesture out over it. As we climb higher, the view gets better. Broader. Skyscrapers, city squares, dots of green land. "It's a city, but it's more than that." I point down below, gesture out. "Roads, thoroughfares, avenues. Like veins. Passing along cars and bikes and people, blood through the heart of the city."

"So the city's a living thing." The man sounds bored. "What's the stomach in this metaphor?"

"It doesn't extend that far, but you've got the gist. Though," I pause to search for words. "The city's not an organism so much as the center of one--the hub. The nucleus."

"The brain?" He follows me off the fire escape and onto the roof.

"You've got it." We stare out over the city. It's dirty. It's grotty. It's full of shit and blood and bile. But it's ours.

After a long moment, he speaks. "The madman. Why did you stop me killing him?"

I sigh. "We are all connected."

"But he killed her. The woman." A fire ignites behind his eyes.

"Did he?" I raise an eyebrow.

The fire stalls. The man stares at me, unsure. "What are you saying? Of course he did. He was the only one there."

"Hmm." I wait.

The fire turns to ice. "I killed her," he whispers. "Is that what you're saying?"

"In part."

Another moment. He looks back out over the city. "We are all connected."

I nod.

"I killed her."

Nod.

"And he killed her. And you killed her."

"Ah. You do understand."

He bows his head, puts his hands on the low wall around the rooftop. "We are all one. And we are all guilty." His lips quirk into a crooked smile. "Now what, ‘Regulator’?"

"Now?" I smile. "After acceptance, reintegration."

He looks up in confusion, but I have already moved my arms in a broad gesture. A gesture like the beginning of an embrace. Before us on the rooftop appear a dead woman, a madman, a businessman, a homeless woman, a child, a father, and many more. We stare at one another.

Around us, the city begins to melt away.

And here we are at the end of all things. We made it Jake. You and I. My friend. My brother. Side by side.

The world is saved. And nobody will know that it was you and I. You don't talk a lot. And I talk too much. This corridor we walk through, this gigantic hall. The churches we went through, the castles we tore. The sleep, the exhaustion, the mental fatigue. The riches I bagged, the poor you freed. The tale we could tell, if only we had the chance to live.

And here at the end of it all, we made a pact; that some things... some things are more important than us. I may be vain, and I could be doing this to satisfy my vanity, to leave my legacy behind; but I am going through with it, am I not? And the legacy would be in my mind alone, no?

And who will remember the fallen? Not people like me, who read to appear read; not me, for I am amongst those who emulate the intelligent. We all do. And I still think, it's better to fashion my self in their mask, then those who model the stupid dumb ephemeral celebrity...

Drink up, teetotaler, the stairs are long, and the tanks are gone. We enter the heart of the machine, and with it too, we shall be gone.

Fair well thee, life. You have been good to me. And if this were a task that could be put off, I would take a woman to bed in the blink of an eye. Two women, if they came in a package. The wine would flow like the snow falls. I have money. Finally. I have so much of it, buried in accounts across the land. But you can't cheat death. My rendezvous with it cannot be put off.

I find you interesting Jake. Have I told you that? Simple, modest, flaws and all. Or you are flawed, Mate. Supporting the Kaiser Chiefs? What is wrong with you? And your gambling problem. First step is to admit brother. You gamble like a hoe who has sex for free. You don't get that the point is to get more money. Sucks to be you. I may be vain, but my banker is happy.

We are so full of contradictions, you and I. I pray to a god I don't believe in, whereas you don't pray to a god you do believe in. How is that working out for you moody-boots? Okay, that was unfair. Those are some awesome boots.

Look at you, with your gun at the ready. Head's up: there's nobody here. Pro tip: You should have left your weapon at the door, like I did with mine. Guns are heavy.

Hmm... would you look at that? Whoever thought building a fort into a mountain, sure knew that the chief's suite had to be at the top... Beautiful.

Okay, Okay, Jeez. I'm getting up. Down and down and down we go.

I wonder why you are so numb to fright? What happened in your childhood Jake? Nothing... Well I'm shitting my self. What can I say? I'm looking death in the eye, and somebody just turned off the light. Oh come on? Laugh man. A man is afraid of the light being switched off even though he is about to... Oh whatever. I thought that was funny... and a little bit smart...

Zombies. Yeah, that was the best part. Not only cause it wasn't morally dubious, but there were so many of them. Surviving that was better than sleeping with Maria that night. Don't give me that look. Maria was not too young. She said she was 17, and where I come from that is legal. It was consensual. No, I didn't pay her. That would be illegal. Anyway, you don't pay a woman of the night, AFTER, you sleep with them. Oh, I paid her an advancement on next time? Don't be silly, I'm not that dumb. Her landlord wanted to bed her, i.e. the 'r' word, if she didn't pay her land's taxes. Death and taxes man. Ain't no stopping them. Don't matter if you are in war or not. How do I know you don't pay a 'woman of the night' after sex...? well err... It's just one of those things everybody knows. Are you telling me that you didn't know that? Well there you are then. I'm not talking to you. Shut up. I shall from now on just be tolerating you. Let's do this shit. And die already... what? Too much?

…

I try to be serious. You know that, right? But the flowery prose, the comedy it just flows. It's dark humor. So I think you're weird for finding me funny. Oh you don't find me funny? Well. Good. My life is an empty shell anyway. And you just threw the shell into the ocean.

Oh men are supposed to be 100% masculine? What bullshit! I've seen soldiers cry to their mothers in their sleep. In dreams, the soul talks what we cannot. I've seen generals shed tears for their wives. Oh I've seen grown men cry alright. They cry at freakin sports events bro!

You know, the last time, I cried? I'll tell you. I'd come home from the Jaffar campaign. I didn't know you then. This is going back some. Summer, 2012, maybe. And I came back home. My wife had hung her self. I didn't cry because of that though. I cried, because she killed my baby daughter. So fuck you dude.

Elena. 18 months, six days.

…

Eat up. You'll need the energy. We have another three or so miles to walk down these endless corridors. It is quite ingenious to build this fort directly into the mountain. I'll give em that much. Why are the ceilings so high?




Jake


I.... I don't... I don't have as much energy as you do Sam. I'm not so eloquent with my words. I fumble in speaking. Words don't come easily. As they do to you. Sometimes I will say something smart. Accidentally. And I wonder where it came from. It sounds nice the things I come up with. But ask me to repeat it. And I would fail.

We're not dead yet Sam. We're not dead. I think we will live.

And that's not the gambling part – you keep having a go at me for that. But I know that's cause you saw my bank statements, and wondered where my loot goes. It goes to my sister's trust man. Not that I can tell you about her. She's famous you know. And for you, a thespian comic like you; well you'd never let me live it down. Yes, I will one day tell you. But my thoughts are private, unlike your own.

How you speak and you think are probably interchangeable. Mine: not so much. I can't think good. Without... you know. Thinking for a bit.

And I feel foolish, truth be told. When I speak out loud. Though, I will say, just because you have the last word, don't mean you're right. And you, generally argue all the way through, whilst I leave it up to you to get me. I rely on your intelligence, while you tell me what is everything. And you put me down. You put down all the time. I know in your own head, you think you are right. But that feeling, I think, is just a self-trigger for the hormone that makes you 'feel' right. Am I making sense? Sometimes you just 'feel' like you have the right answer. Like after a riddle has been revealed to you, and you go: oh, now I get it. And this isn't the same as filling in a crossword puzzle, or finishing a Sudoku, where everything falls to place, and rationally you know the puzzle is now complete. Oh I'm rambling again. Why can't I just say this stuff out loud? I don't know.

I have a hundred books on the shelf, and I'm barely going to make it through them all. I don't read as much as I would like to. Too often I just put a book down, and just think. Those are the really good books though. The ones that make you think about your own life.

There are some that I just trudge through as fast as possible. Time is of the essence when melancholy is present. What's the point I sometimes wonder? What's the point of it all?

I see you look at my medals sometimes when you come to my house. It don't mean shit really. I don't remember most of the stuff. My mom and dad pushed me into sports as a kid. And I love tennis, soccer, swimming etc. But the one thing I really love, they didn't really want me doing. Ping-Pong, or as some people call it: Table-tennis. It's that that really made me realize that for all they said, mom and dad, were really pushing me at sports to satisfy a big part of themselves.

Oh, you tell the truth so easily. I wish I could. Just say it and not give a fuck. I'm a grown man now, so it seems silly to think about my childhood bullying. But it's one of those things that you never forget. I said once, that I'm not afraid of heights. I'm just not. Its one of those things. I wasn't bragging. And they made me walk out onto the landing of the 9th floor, where we lived. And they were even jeering, feigning laugh-out-loud pushes, from the safety of where they were standing. I felt so very numb then. Dead inside. I could have jumped so easily you know. Wonder what they would had made of that. Call me head case probably and move on with their life. I could have jumped you know. But I gripped on for dear life.

You can't say good stuff about yourself. You just can't. I mean you want to. Cause it makes you feel good. But you can't. Then again, you want somebody to say: You did well kid. You did real good. Go get some rest. That's better than the trophies of gold, you won when you nine, ten, or eleven.

Jeez, perhaps I talk to my self about my self too much. Perhaps, its cause I feel miserable. And the misery brings the night into my morn. I wish I could talk to somebody about it. Most likely I would just shut up shop then.

You remind me of my little brother. For an entire week, we thought he'd died. When we were little. And I never told him this. But I... I think he being dead for a week, made us as close as we are now. Silly thing, he jumped from the rowing boat we were in. And I jumped in after him. And it was so very dark, those waters. And you're running out of breath, whilst you're looking around for him. And you have to live, whilst he is dying. And he is your younger brother, so you have to look after him. We didn't find him then. The streams, they had taken him away.

I know this job is shit. And the war is stupid. But somebody has to do this. I don't know how we'll live through this. But we will. The answer. It will come. I don't know how. But it will.


Sam & Jake.

The lights flickered as the two soldiers made their way through another desolate room.
“Take your rucksack off man,” Sam said. “There ain't nobody fucking here.”

Jake blinked as he eyed a web slung over the north east corner of the room. It was an office. Notes lay strewn around the solitary table in the room. A wine bottle, with two glasses filled politely with dark red wine, lay like vacant towers on the desk. There was a note on the table.

“Evacuation is complete. The nuclear sub-chamber, holds the the submarine in place for the time being. Nothing can be done about the overheating. Its regrettable, but we're better off wiping our hands clean of this. If it were not for this damn war, we could have poured all our resources into saving this part of the country. Stupid fucking government.”

It was a note left for historians to uncover. And yet, the fact that it lay uncovered, and unprotected, suggested that the writer knew well the note would not survive the oncoming nuclear catastrophe.

Neither Sam nor Jake questioned why they were saving the enemy's country from themselves. All they knew was that they had to flood the facilities, and over-write the computer programs, to cool the nuclear subs down. There was a dam on the other side of the wall. A billion liters of water would come flooding into the fort. If they'd had more time, diving equipment could have been fetched, and providing they avoided knocking their heads onto walls at the onslaught of water, they could have at least breathed under water. Now, once the flooding started, they would have three minutes to make their way through a labyrinth of rooms, miles and miles into the core of a mountain. Remote detonation would not get them far enough, for the signal grew weaker amidst the thick walls built to sustain the fort and the mountain around it. Locked in, they knew, this was something they would - most likely- not survive.

The end.

The end; it approached them quicker than they had wanted. They dragged two chairs out of the main control room. All that needed to be done now, was to pull the switch.

Jake lifted the cap but hesitated depressing the red button.

Sam sat with his eyes closed. “What're you waiting for? I is ready for a kick in the nuts to save a couple of random people and a bog or two here and there. Let loose the dogs of epic.”

Jake bit his lip. “You sure. Ain't no reason why we both have to die.”

“Fuck off. You should had said something earlier. I ain't pulling no straws you rig to lose.”

Jake sighed. “Why would I rig it? I love breathing as much as the next person.”

“Then why did you bring me along?”

“In case someone was here. And I didn't force your hand.”

Sam breathed out. “No. I can't die alone. And I'm not walking out here without you.”

“Well, then we find a solution then.”

Sam eyed the floor. “Yeah, that sounds better. I presume you've tried to think this through on the journey down here.”

“Er, no. Did you?”

“Sigh. No, my man. I did not. I was reflecting on the status quo. Funny, even when man marches to his death, he thinks about himself.”

Jake sat down. “It'll come. The answer. I mean.”

Sam took the wine bottle he had 'borrowed'. “Let it go man. The end is nigh. Where's the glasses?”

He poured a glass of red for himself, and another for Jake. “Drink up.”

Jake sipped. The liquid tasted moldy & dusty and he consequently spat it out.

“Why don't you pray to that god of yours?” Sam asked.

“You think he will save two souls down here, when he leaves a hundred million to die out there?”

“Yeah but that's them. Why do you reduce another person's misery, and define their entire life with that slice of it? Most probably most of them had a good life till their end. Only the person themselves is fit to judge their own life.”

“I... you don't get it.”

“Meh. Just be grateful for your own life. If you're up there big man. I've had a decent life. Thanks a lot mate. Go easy on me, if you ain't a myth, alright.”

Jake sipped the wine and sat down himself. “You're always looking for the short-cuts in life. Always.”

“That's not true. I might just be upset that he doesn't exist. And yet, here I am calling for his help. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“You're full of contradictions.”

“Aren't we all? Take the masks off, and everybody, everybody is the embodiment of good and evil. A concoction of light and darkness.”


Jake stood up momentarily. Whilst he thought of his little brother floating out to sea, Sam thought of holding his child in his arms. Jake then thought of his impending doom, and realized that the end was indeed nigh. Their cold vacant stares saw through walls of fatigue into chambers where the soul was already drowning in it's own misery.

“You ready?” one said.
“To whatever happens,” the other replied, as both raised their glasses in unison.

Jake pressed the button. “Now what?”
“Run. Run for your lives.”

And that they did. They made it to the first floor, before the water came crashing through. Boots came off on the second floor. They had to swim the third floor. By the fourth floor, the water reached their heads. And by the sixth, it carried them along. By the seventh they were gasping for breath, trying to keep their heads above water. And they were submerged by the tenth. They had been swimming, running, and out of breath for well over ten minutes. The water carried them along up the stairs. And in the end, perhaps it was the ingenious design, that gave them a shot at life. The stairs, the drainage system, the ventilation system, the high ceiling, the very things people took for granted. The military mask flushed through, unmasked the architectural design, the anonymous character of the living breathing metropolis.


Gulls made their errant sounds overhead, as one lay dead, the other looked out at the body of blue water, whose motion comforted him, and whose sound filtered his woes; he was utterly lost in its soft caresses, as he closed the eyes of his fallen friend.

They call him Earl.

A giant canvas is spread before him. He looks out, into the expanse, but is unable to see where it ends. His small, pudgy feet dangle into a sheet of green, the edge if which tickles his feet and causes him to smile. Someone walks beside Earl and kisses him. He isn't sure why but this always causes him to smile, no matter how often it occurs. Whenever she comes around he becomes very warm and very happy -- in her presence is a reassuring love.

And then it arrives, an opulent block of white that obscures his vision. Initially, Earl isn't sure what he's looking at, but recognizes the sweet scent wafting toward him and instinctively reaches forward but is unable to touch the white wall. Helplessness overcomes him as he begins to look around. His breaths quicken and his eyes begin to water, but he does not cry. It won't help. He struggles at first but eventually finds himself atop the expanse. The woman who'd exposed him to an unbound affection is away, speaking and laughing with the others.

And Earl is glad. He moves quickly now, unsure as to how long this freedom will last; the ability to seize whatever will be his. In what seems like an instant the white wall falls. Earl revels in its softness and sweetness. Again his hands descend, revealing streaks of black and brown, the tastes of which are still soft, still sweet.

And again the white wall crashed...
And again the white wall crashed...

Earl's stomach is full and his cheeks begin to swell.

And again the white wall crashed...
And again the white wall crashed...

Shortly thereafter the woman returns, accompanied by the others. Atop the crumbs, the rubble, Earl sits, covered and smeared in lines of white and black and brown. He looks around, worried, and does not smile. Amongst the woman and the others there is a unanimous elation.

"How cute!" they proclaim.

Earl's heart beats slowly now, but in their laughter they do not notice. The woman picks him up, kissing him on the forehead and holding him close to her bosom. Earl begins to cry. Fear overtakes him.

*****

A block here and there, various colors to and fro; he is surrounded by multicolored walls on all sides. But atop one is a symbol which solidifies his dominance -- the yellow star. Tom sits proud of what he has created and nods approvingly. He sees another child beginning to walk towards him and is filled with a boastful passion. He watches as the child points to the yellow star sitting atop the center wall. His face is unsure yet hopeful. Tom shakes his head.

"But...friends?"
"No. My star."

The child walks back to join a group of children just a quickly as he'd came, yellow star in hand. Tom is consumed by a seething anger and an incredible urge. The center wall sits in shambles.
Tom does not ponder repercussion or consequence. His wrath is quick and efficient. The red block moves swiftly through the air. There is an audible *clock* and instantaneous reaction from the boy who'd stolen the yellow star. Tears flow freely now and his voice echoes across the park. Tom observes, unfamiliar with the feelings beginning to grow inside him. He looks at the yellow star, which is now sitting beside the red block he'd thrown. The other children stare at him curiously, unsure what to do. Tom does not notice them.

The boy who'd stolen the yellow star is in pain but had been met with justice. The boy who'd stolen the yellow star was out of control but had been put back into place. The boy who'd stolen the yellow star had lied. He said they could be friends.

Together, the air is pierced by sounds of anguish and sorrow.

The city exploded into action, a multitude of exotic hues plastered upon the streets, gaudy banners and bunting and neon candy ticker tape that flickered through the air as fireworks cracked and banged above. He sat alone on the balcony of his favourite bar and watched the insanity unfold beneath him. In his hand he cradled a glass, dark red rum over a peak of ice, but it hadn't yet touched his lips, captivated as he was entirely by the scene below. Constant motions of colour and light as people streamed through the streets in all manner of fanciful dress, with flags and whistles and firecrackers they went, to the beat of a hundred different drummers.

Bathed in a rainbow of ethereal light with every firework launched from the rooftops, the dancers seemed magical to him. Perfect, shimmering beings, unweighed by burden as they revelled in their freedom, cavorting through the night, an array of intricately carved masks transforming them. His mask sat discarded on the table beside him, he wore it to the bar but soon took it off inside, alone with the barkeep who looked at him with the venom of one who has to work on this night of nights so a rich gringo can have a drink in peace. The procession was dying down now. The mass of humanity had grown so large that the front met the back, like a giant writhing snake devouring it's own tail.

The snake had spilled it's guts and was spreading outwards, consuming every bit of space, streets and houses awash with the celebration. He took a swig of his drink and lurched from his chair toward the railing to gain a better view of the surging crowd. He'd been here two months and didn't know a single soul in this city. He felt like a ghost and the people treated him as such. An ephemeral being, watching, drinking, but only for a short while. Soon he'd fly away, back to his rich city where he'd tell tall tales of the natives. He was a black crow, draped in shadow, a beady onyx eye centred on the city from high above, watching distantly.

He held the glass up to the light and peered through the amber lens of rum and rapidly melting ice, growing ever warmer in his clutch. The people became even more distorted, flowing together in front of his liquid gaze. He reeled back as a firecracker whistled alarmingly close to his perch and exploded with a bang. Snatching off his shades he blinked away the red and black splotches that swam before his eyes, silently cursing whichever brute had launched the incendiary. Regaining his composure he went back to observing the crowd, but found his eyes drawn inexorably to a doorway across the street where a woman stood.

She was a vision in red. Dark, auburn hair that fell in languor beyond her shoulders, olive skin that glistened in the heat of the evening and a striking dress of firecracker red that matched the flame wreathed horned devils mask she wore across her brow. Lighting a cigarette she swept her gaze into the night, surveying the throng. Their eyes briefly met, brilliant white surrounding dark, smoky irises, and then she was lost to him, swallowed by the crowd. With a sigh he slunk back to his seat and pondered what on earth he was going to write about.

Dandling the glass back and forth in his hand he stared intently at the remaining drink sloshing in the bottom, watching the darkness of the bar behind him in the reflection. The lights inside were dim, but he could make out the slouched form of the barkeep thumbing through a magazine and then, to his surprise, the sleek form of the woman in red as she ascended the stairs. The barkeep said something to her as she passed, but she ignored him and strode out purposefully on to the balcony and over to the railing. She leaned over, staring at the people below, her feet kicking free of the balcony for a second or two. He felt breathless.

Downing the remaining rum he rose to his feet and approached the railing.

“Uh, can I get you a drink” he asked, slurring more than he would have liked.

“Rum, no ice.” she replied curtly, never taking those dark eyes off the crowd.

He returned with their drinks, the ice that was absent in her rum cracking in his as he handed her the glass before taking his seat.

She took a sip and turned to stare at him, a quizzical look showing under her mask as she leaned lazily on the railing.

“So beautiful, don't you think?” she asked as the last of the fireworks shot from the rooftops.

“Too bright for my liking. Too loud.”

“My brothers, they used to light them and chase me until they shot off above our heads. I would scream and scream and Mama would scold them, but they knew I loved it.”

“Like roller-coasters. I never liked them either.”

“You don't like to be scared?”

“I like to be in control.”

“Then you miss half of the fun.” she laughed and sipped at her drink.

“Good rum. Reminds me of Papa. He'd drink it after work and come home stinking of the stuff. I remember the smell fiercely, one of my earliest remembrances, I think.”

“My father forbade the stuff in his drinks cabinet. Said rum's fit only for drunks and smugglers.” he snorted in derision.

“Well, Papa was no smuggler, but he was usually drunk.” she replied. The conversation lapsed into silence.

“I saw you from the street, you know?”

“I noticed.”

“No, before. You were staring into your glass so intently, I wondered what it was you saw.”

“What does any man see when staring into his cup? The past, the future and everything in between. Old friends and family, old lovers.”

“I think people see themselves. Reflected again and again in the alcohol. They see their mistakes and their regrets and their lies.” at that she paused, “For everyone, I think, drinking becomes less about fun and more about escape, at some point in their life.”

“I'll drink to that.” he said, raising his glass in mock toast, a wry smile playing across his lips.

“So, how long does all...this, go on for?” sweeping his hand across the view.

“This is just the first night. Tomorrow is the feast day, where we celebrate the solstice and on Sunday it is the saint's day, a day for prayer and for family. But tonight is all about the dancing and the drinking.” she explained and he nodded his understanding.

“I just wonder, y'know, why you sit alone?”

He considered that for a second.

“Perhaps I like to be alone” and to that she laughed.

“You are alone, but I do not think you like it, no?” came her silken reply, paired with a bewitching smile.

“I'm used to my own company” he said, his free hand rising to scratch absent mindedly at the mark his shades had imprinted on his brow.

“And what is it you do with your company?” she questioned, amusement tingeing her voice.

“I'm a writer, I guess. Travel, that sort of thing.”

“That must take you many places.”

“Only here, as of yet, this is my first assignment.”

“So what will you write?” came her next question.

“The usual. The sort of things that people expect. The hotels, the food, the sights.”

“But you sit up here alone, delaying the inevitable, no? I do not think that you want to write what people expect.” and at that it was his turn to smile.

“I guess we all want to make our mark. I'd like to write something unique. Something that says more about this town than a tourist brochure could ever convey. But that's what I'm being paid to write, a glorified tourist brochure.” he replied.

She took the seat opposite him and they sat in silence for a while, enjoying their drinks as they let the light and sounds of the party wash over them. It was still in full swing, but the sky had returned to it's normal midnight hue as the supply of fireworks dwindled. She picked up his mask and played with it, turning it this way and that. It was a simple thing, a plain white phantoms mask.

“So you don't want to write, but you don't join the party either?”

“I've never been one for parties.” he replied.

“Why not? You don't like to dance?”

“No, I like to dance fine enough. More formal than this usually.” he chuckled, sparing a glance for the writhing surge of humanity below. “I guess I'm just not that fond of crowds.”

“So you sit up here, watching, like a hawk.”

“Or a crow.”

“Always the painter, never the painted” she said with another perfect smile.

“You don't want to wear this?” she asked at length, handing his mask to him.

“There didn't seem much point up here, alone. It would feel foolish.”

“Tonight is a night for drunken fools, as my Mama used to say, but I've always liked it well enough” there was that smile again “and besides, you aren't alone any longer.”

He felt lost looking at her, a man sinking, way too far into the deep end, but there was no backing out now. Just as his eyes were inexorably drawn to her in a crowd of thousands, he was inexorably helpless to resist. He donned the phantoms mask and took her hand. She smiled that sweet, seductive smile and led him from the balcony, through the bar, down the steps and into the streets. The throng enclosed tight around them and he felt overwhelmed by the heat and the noise. Craziness at every turn, masked beings surrounded him, dancing in fervour and elation along to the madcap beat. She pressed tight against him and he was acutely aware of the curves of her breasts, her hips against his own and the warmth that radiated from her body. For him, time slowed to a crawl as they danced and the people, those strange masked figures, blended into the background, as entranced as he was by the music, the beat and the magic in the air. Her lips brushed against his on their way to whisper breathlessly in his ear;

“Tonight, this city and I will give you something to write about.”

Deleted due to TOS change.

We’re not the creative type. It was either a kidnapping or a bank robbery. Kidnapping’s way less dangerous. Rich dead people are still dead.

It’s amazing what a little preparation can do. We’ve seen the news, watched the movies. We know what works, what doesn’t. At least we thought we did. Like I said, we’re not the creative type.

We weren’t going to nab anyone off the street. They had to be rich, they had to be vulnerable, and we needed the public to care. So it had to be a girl. Old enough to be self-sufficient, but not too old to get all idealistic and mess with our minds. A high-school girl worked the best. A senior, a popular girl, not spoiled but not emotionally scarred either.

We had split up duties. Jake would secure our hiding place. Carl would get the car. I was to scope out the girl. I decided on Cindy: a relatively average girl but popular and cute enough to generate sufficient public sympathy and outrage.

Cindy lived in the suburbs. A middle-class area with lots of families, a park, a school, and a hospital. Safest place in the world, but big enough so that people didn’t know everyone. It was easy to blend in, easy to track Cindy’s schedule.

We put our plan into action in the early evening. Cindy liked to volunteer. It was a noble enterprise, and she needed it for her scholarship applications. So she was tired as she walked home. Alone. People were already off school and work, settling into their evening meal with the news on the TV. The streets were quiet.

As she walked by our parked car, Jake and I opened our doors. He placed a cloth of chloroform over her mouth while I grabbed her legs. She barely struggled as we hoisted her into the van.

Oh yes, the van. Tinted windows on those boxy vans would stick out. But a late-model minivan with its rear seats removed would put us in soccer-mom territory. No one saw us as we drove away. Well, at least we hope no one did.

Carl took us on a circuitous route of the neighbourhood to shake off any pursuit. Our final destination was a boarded-up laundromat a few blocks away from Cindy’s home. Jake had chosen well. Instead of high-tailing it out of the city, we were hiding in the proverbial plain sight. I thought an actual house would be even better, but the quiet strip mall the laundromat was located in was the next best thing.

The laundromat had a living area above it, which is where we deposited Cindy. We tied her to a bed in an otherwise empty room, took away her backpack, wallet, and cell phone, and waited for the chloroform to wear off.

She came to after an hour. She struggled at first. They always do. She screamed too, or at least tried to through the gag.

Jake was our spokesman. “Calm down, no one can hear you and you can’t get free. Even if you did, you think you can take all three of us?”

To her credit Cindy quieted down quickly. Jake explained the situation, which was the standard operating procedure for kidnappings: there would be a search, a call for witnesses, an emotional plea from the parents. Then we would make a ransom request, get the money, and free the girl.

“No one has to get hurt.”

We weren’t your typical bloodthirsty perverted kidnappers. We had no intention of having our way with her, nor would we leave her tied up all the time. At least one of us watched her at all times and the room was windowless and had one locked door. There was a small bathroom where we’d check on her every 30 seconds. Food was eaten with her hands.

Jake, who could blend into any crowd, handled the ransom demands. Carl, the stereotypical “big man”, did the driving and heavy lifting. Me, I was the artist, the poet, the insightful one. I didn’t fit the criminal lifestyle, but who did? As it was, I spent the most time with our quarry.

Cindy was a nice enough girl. There wasn’t much to do between meals, bathroom breaks, and sleeping. She asked for a pen and paper, which we denied. I found a dusty book for her. She kept trying to talk to me, but I knew what she was trying to do and ignored her.

About two weeks into the kidnapping, the police responded to our ransom request. The money would be dropped off in the park. Once we picked it up, we had one day to release Cindy.

Here, things started to unravel. We couldn’t agree on a course of action. Carl wanted all of us to go to the park, get the money, and use Cindy as a hostage to buy us enough time to get away. Jake thought it was a trap and the money, if it wasn’t fake, would contain a tracker that would lead the police right to us. I saw the pros and cons of both scenarios, but I didn’t want to endanger any of us.

“One of us can grab the money and come back here. Even if they track us, they wouldn’t arrest us if the girl is still here. We can use her as leverage to let us get away.”

The problem was that neither of us trusted each other. But Carl, in a rare moment of intelligence, figured out a solution.

“Let him go. He’s sweet for the girl and will come back for her.”

I protested, but Jake agreed with Carl. Overruled, I hopped in the minivan and drove to the rendevous. The worst part was that I knew they were right: I was developing feelings for Cindy.

It’s hard to say when things started to go wrong. Our execution was flawless, our hiding place perfect, out identities intact. Cindy had never seen us without our masks on and only Jake had spoken to her in a modulated voice. Now our ultimate goal was in reach, but I didn’t see a way for us to get away cleanly with the money and Cindy released unharmed. The police were smarter than that.

In the end, I had to ensure Cindy’s survival above Jake’s, Carl’s, and even mine. It was foolish and destroyed everything we had worked so hard for, yet a part of me kept saying it was the right thing to do.

So I took the money and went back to the laundromat. I left the money in the car and walked around to the back door.

“What took you so long.”

“Had to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

“Where’s the money? Have you scanned it for bugs?”

“It’s clean. It’s in the car.”

“Okay let’s go. Carl, take care of the girl.”

“No, let me handle it.”

“You sure, pretty boy? All right, don’t take too long.”

I cradled the gun in my hand as I walked to Cindy’s room. I unlocked and opened the door.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

The gun felt so heavy. I clicked off the safety.

“Wait! You got the money right? I don’t know any of you. I haven’t seen your faces. I won’t tell them anything!”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Startled, I turned, aimed, and fired. The gun clicked. Empty.

“Heh, I knew it.”

Carl’s gun erupted and I felt a searing pain in my side. Cindy screamed. I fell to my knees.

Trembling, I reached a hand up and removed my mask. My other hand reached behind me and pulled the gun from my belt. Thumbing the safety, I put a bullet between Carl’s eyes.

I heard footsteps. Jake appeared, his hands fumbling for his own gun. He froze when he saw my gun pointed at him.

“The money’s in the car. Get out of here.”

Jake ran. He didn’t look back.

I collapsed in Cindy’s arms. My vision started to blur as the pain spread throughout me. Dimly, I heard sirens.

“It never would’ve worked out.”

Xianyu and Cao-ren were brothers. But all they shared in common was their blood and their profession of being stone cutters.

Cao-ren was short and unremarkable, as were his wife and kids. He lived simply and the only thing he coveted seemed to be good food and long naps. Xianyu was tall and haughtily handsome. He lived alone and pined for a life of opulence and power.

Every day the brothers would go to the foot of Mountain Hajain and spend long hours chipping out blocks of stone. One blazingly hot summer day the two brothers were going about their normal routine of chipping away at the mountain when a white fox bounded out of some nearby brushes. In the distance the beat of horse hooves pulsed in the sky. The fox looked around frantically.

Cao-ren stepped toward the fox, "You're being hunted aren't you?" He said and opened his toolbox. "You can hide in here."

The white fox looked at Cao-ren and back in the direction of the sounds of the hunting party. Before Xianyu could object, the fox jumped into Cao-ran’s toolbox. Cao-ren picked up the toolbox and went back to work just as the hunting party emerged from the thicket of bushes. A noble lord and his retinue scanned the area for the fox. Both Cao-ren and Xianyu stopped their work, fell to their knees and touched their foreheads to the ground.

"I do not see any trace of the fox my lord. Perhaps these men saw it?" One of the men next to the nobleman said.

"These are simple commoners. They wouldn't know a fox if it danced on their face. All they have eyes for is stone. They eat stone in the morning and at night they use cylinders of stone as their wives." The nobleman laughed. All around him the sound of forced laughter erupted from his men.

After appreciating his joke the noble man pointed off to another set of bushes, "The fox probably went that way." He said as he kicked his horse to a quick trot. His retinue followed behind.

After the host was gone the brothers stood. Xianyu muttered a curse under his breath while dusting himself off. Cao-ren opened his toolbox and the fox hopped out. To the astonishment of both brothers the fox began to speak.

"By hiding me and keeping silent you have saved my life." The fox said in a cool smooth voice like honeyed milk, "I have a great debt to both of you."

The fox reached out and touched six small pebbles that had been chipped off the stone the brothers had been working at. As the fox’s paw touched them the pebbles transformed into perfectly formed jade beads. The fox took three beads in its mouth and dropped them at Cao-Ren's feet, then proceeded to do the same for Xianyu.

"Each of these beads will grant you one wish." The fox began, "To make a wish: hold the bead and think of the wish before going to sleep. When you awake you will find your wish granted. Thus, my debt is repaid."

Without another word the fox bounded into the bushes it had come from and disappeared from view.

Immediately Xianyu began chattering about how great their luck was and how their lives were going to change. Cao-ren quietly picked up the beads and admired them in the sunlight.

"What will you be wishing for?" Xianyu asked as he slipped his beads into a small pouch around his neck.

Cao-ren tossed the beads into his toolbox and replied, "I don't know. I don't really need anything. Maybe I'll make them into a necklace for my wife until I need them."

"Cao-ren, you're just going to waste your wishes if you're not going to use them." Xianyu said taking up a hammer and returning to work.

"But there's nothing I need now." Cao-ren said returning to his own work.

"Think of it Cao-ren, you could have riches, or power, or as many beautiful wives as you want."

"My work is hard, yes. But I have enough to eat and provide for my family and keeping one wife happy is hard enough. Who'd want two?"

Xianyu wanted to shout at Cao-ren for being so stupid. Xianyu had seen Cao-ren's family eat dinner, it was no feast and his wife looked like a mule and his sons were as smart as one. Xianyu could not believe that his brother was so stupid. Xianyu knew better than to argue with his dimwitted brother and for the remainder of the work day the two continued their work wordlessly. All the while Xianyu fumed at his brother's stupidity.

That night Xianyu paced in him house still angry with his brother's stupidity. Three unspent wishes, what a waste! It was a sacrilege. One that Xianyu would not allow to happen. In the late hours of the night Xianyu snuck into his brother's backyard. He knew that Cao-ren kept anything important to him buried under a cherry tree. Xianyu quickly found the tree; sure enough the ground had been freshly dug up. The full moon peered over Mount Hajain as Xianyu dug up his brother's treasures and removed the three jade beads.

After he had replaced the rest of Cao-ren's things and reburied them, Xianyu snuck back to his house, now with six jade beads in the pouch around his neck. He pulled one out and held it up to the moon. It looked like a black pearl in the night.

"I wish I was the richest merchant in a grand city." Xianyu wished.

Xianyu awoke the next morning to find himself on a bed covered in the finest silks in a house bigger than any he had ever seen. His wish had come true, just as the fox had promised. It was a charmed life. In the morning servants brought him breakfast, the afternoons were lazy, and there was no shortage of willing women at night. For the first time in his life Xianyu was happy and thus he lived for over two years until the Provincial governor came to visit.

Xianyu believed he had the best of everything, but the governor's litter was far finer than his. The women that surrounded him were more beautiful and his clothes were even finer than Xianyu’s. Worst of all Xianyu had to host the man in his own house and bow whenever the Governor came into view. Xianyu knew what his second wish would be. That very night before sleeping Xianyu pulled the second bead from his pouch and said, "I wish to be the most powerful Governor in all the middle kingdom."

When he awoke the next morning it was so. Xianyu found being a governor far better than being a merchant. Riches were certainly nice. But what good were they without power? As Governor, Xianyu had plenty of power. He found the women and riches just the same as when he was a merchant, but the required work was far less. He also had players for entertainment, and when that grew old he had criminals punished. He gave important speeches and travelled to the finest cities, enjoying the finest food, lodging and women. And thus he lived for little over a year until the Emperor came.

Xianyu was dismayed. It was like seeing the Governor as a merchant all over again. The Emperor had finer things, even more beautiful women around him and even Xianyu had to cower before him when the Emperor came into view and bear the Emperor's chastisement like a filthy slave. That night, after having been berated by the Emperor's consul for not being gracious enough, Xianyu made his third wish.

"I wish to be the unquestioned emperor of the middle kingdom." He said.

As Emperor Xianyu found little to complain about. And what he did complain about was set right quickly. Xianyu believed that, finally, he had the best of all possible lives. And so it seemed until about year later when Xianyu was picnicking with his favorite concubines in the hills around his palace. It began to rain and Xianyu along with his concubines were forced to run for shelter in a servant's home.

That night Xianyu could not sleep. What was the point in being Emperor if a little rain sent him to hobble in a hut like a common peasant? Perhaps Xianyu had been blinded by riches and pleasure, for all the good it did him it could not keep him out of that hut. What truly mattered was power.

He reached into his pouch and wished that he could have the power that had sent even the Emperor scurrying for cover.

When he awoke Xianyu found himself transformed into a cloud. He was delighted with his power. He rained down on the poor and rich alike and watched them all run from him. He sent lightning to destroy the mansions in the city and snowed on the crop. He was the ruler in the sky and Xianyu was enamored with his power. Until one day, months later, Xianyu wanted to move to rain on a certain village and finally realized that he could not move on his own accord. Despite all his power there still something more powerful that held dominion over him, the wind.

"I wish to be the all powerful wind." He said as he pulled out the fifth bead from his pouch.

The next morning it was so. If Xianyu had been a ruler as a cloud, as the wind he was a tyrant. He caused typhoons and tornados; he blew over crops, huts, and palaces. He laughed as he raged over the seas, lakes and countryside. Everything yielded to him. He was all powerful. Then one day as Xianyu rushed passed a forest and came to a full stop. He had run up against something and no matter how he howled and prod and push he could not get around it. Xianyu was dismayed. After all his seeking he was still subject to something else.

He reached into his pouch and pulled out his last jade bead. "I wish to be this great power that can stop even me, the wind."

He awoke to a view such as he had never seen. It seemed like the entirety of the world lay below him. Above him it looked like he could reach up and blot out the very sun. Below him people and animal all scurried like ants. He felt the wind bounce off him. He was strong and immovable. Xianyu took a deep breath and felt the earth beneath him swell with his power. Xianyu let out a happy sigh and drifted to reveries of his power. Suddenly Xianyu was awoken by a blinding pain in his foot. His entire world was pain. It felt as if he was splitting apart. Xianyu looked down fearful as to what could hold such power to make even him cringe in pain. There far below him, in his threadbare and simple clothes was Cao-ren chipping away at him with his tools.

A young man wearing a lush blue bathrobe came out on the balcony and leaned against the balustrade. An exceptionally handsome man, tall and slim with clear blue eyes and long brown hair, he lit a cigarette and gazed down at the dark waters lapping against the rocks over which the balcony of the luxurious suite of the hotel on the cliff extended. The stars of the clear December night were like snowflakes frozen in the sky that heaven was not ready to part with. From the balcony of the island hotel the young man saw that far in the distance a city lay on the shore, a sleepy seaside town still wide awake at that late hour: it was New Year’s Eve.

“You’ll catch death out there,” a dry voice called from inside. The young man did not answer, but putting his hands in the deep pockets of the robe he continued gazing at the city as the white clouds of his breath mingled with the cigarette smoke. Above the city he saw few rockets pierce the sky like fire arrows, whistling through the air before exploding into golden cascades and colourful parasols. Soon he flipped the butt down towards the mutinous waves below and went inside.

On the bed sat a portly old man, wearing a matching robe and holding a glass of whiskey in one hand. The ice clattered in the brown liquid as he twirled the glass gently.

“You’re freezing,” said the old man without taking his eyes off the whiskey.

“I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t smoke. It’s not good for you.”

“Not much is.”

The young man crashed down on a couch, covering his eyes with one hand, the other resting on his chest. He heard the sound of a glass falling and the old man wobbling towards the screen door through which he had just come in.

“You okay?” the asked flatly, with not much interest in his voice.

The old man did not answer. Raising his hand slightly, the young man saw the glass and ice on the floor, and the old man standing by the screen door staring at the darkness without.

“Watching the fireworks?” the young man asked. “There’s not much to see until midnight.”

“People sure love to celebrate the passing of time,” the old man finally said.

“And what’s wrong with that?” the young man asked flippantly.

“What is wrong?” the old man exclaimed with such agitation it seemed to have a sobering effect. “What is wrong! New Year, birthdays, it’s all an abomination, an insult to civilisation, as disgusting as witnessing cannibalism, a ritual of a savage tribe! The passing of time should be mourned in silence, not celebrated openly!”

“Don’t preach to me about it,” the young man said, amused by the harangue. “I’m in here on this warm sofa, not out there freezing and playing with fire.”

“You’re here because I pay you to.”

The young man lifted his head, and saw the old man’s bloodshot eyes fixed on him from the screen door.

“Here’s just as good as anywhere,” he finally answered.

“Here’s just as good as anywhere,” the old man repeated, turning back to the darkness. “There are times like that when you’re young. All the people feel like sheep, going through the endless menial chores, and you despise it all so much, because it’s all one enormous mirror that tells you you’re one of the sheep, and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s the folly of youth to think there’s always a tomorrow and that you’re not part of it all.”

“And it’s the folly of the old to think age brings wisdom,” the young man answered, covering his eyes again.

“Have you been reading?” the old man said mischievously, with more than a hint of intoxicated mirth in his voice. “You know I don’t like it when you think. It gives you wrinkles.”

The young man did not answer, but he could feel the old man’s eyes on him again.

”Come here,” the seasoned one called out to the sedentary one.

“What for?”

“Come here!”

The young man got up, rubbing his forehead, and joined his corpulent companion by the screen door.

“What do you see?” the old man asked.

The young man looked at the screen door and saw their images reflected in the twilight that occasionally evaporated when a premature firework lit up the sky in the distance.

“Just dark,” he said. “And a some rockets.”

“No,” said the old man. “Us.”

The young man saw himself, tall, thin and beautiful, next to a porcine ogre in a matching robe.

“When I look into a mirror, my only consolation is that I was never beautiful,” the old man continued with a monotonous voice. “It is the only thing that allows me to bear the sight of that obese wrinkly monstrosity that is me, but for which I feel no connection, only contempt. But you, my friend, you will face a fate far worse than mine. Beautiful people have to die twice, unless they’re blessed with an untimely death; once in body and only then in mind. People who once were beautiful but lived long enough to be cast out of that sweet paradise by time’s cruel hand, they are walking corpses, their suffering is such that the likes of me could never even begin to fathom. For what is the death of a mind compared to the death of beauty?”

“There’s more to life than looks,” the young man said with a smile. “At least that’s what they say.”

“They!” laughed the old man. “You’re smart enough to not pay attention to them. Do not believe any lies about inner beauty or how fleeting “exterior” beauty is. The mind is just as fleeting as the body. Live long enough and you will end up as a senile feces soaked ruin of a man. Being beautiful is synonymous with being a genius, it’s the most obvious form of it. The best form in fact, as it fades the quickest, but only because it burns the brightest.”

“No one ever cured cancer by being beautiful.”

“If someone, no matter how much of an idiotic, empty-minded fool he is, dies at twenty, it’s a universal tragedy,” the old man went off on a tangent, seeming to ignore the young man. “But when someone, no matter how brilliant, dies at eighty, people say what a good long life they had. That has nothing to do with average human life spans or the old being seen as having performed the so called social obligations for a a successful life, or any other nonsense like that. It is, plain and simply, the universal, unconscious recognition that the true tragedy is the loss of youth and beauty, and not the meaningless loss of matter. The old are already spoiled, expired, and life without beauty is not worth living.”

The old man looked deep in the young man’s eyes.

“So afraid I am for you,” he said. “What will you feel when you look into a mirror and see the handiwork of time, a decaying corpse, still alive, but marked for death?”

“You’ve always been morose, but this is a bit much, even for you,” the young man said. “How can you even function if that’s how you feel about it?”

“Because beauty is transient, ugliness immortal. Beauty fades, but ugliness is refined,” the old man explained with an anguished voice. “That is why I blindfold my lovers. Their eyes are like mirrors, and if I know they can see me, through them I am repulsed by my own image. I can only release my inhibitions, let loose my desires, if I know no one sees my form.”

“And here I thought you just were into that sort of thing,” the young man said with an indifferent shrug. “People like weird things.”

“You would know something about that, wouldn’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The old man stared at the young man with an almost pleading look.

“You have other... clients, don’t you?”

“Well, of course.”

“And are many of them... women?”

“Most of them, in fact.”

“Oh, why must you do that,” the old man moaned as he turned away. “Debase yourself like that, for money!”

“I think this time it’s you who needs reminding why I’m here,” the young man said with a laugh.

“Don’t laugh at me,” the old man said with such severity the young man was taken aback. “It is different. Men are fine. But women! I know your games. I know your secret.”

“My secret?” the young man asked with unfeigned confusion. “What are you on about?”

“You get them to feel sorry for you, that’s the key. That’s the key to it all: pity. When a woman feels pity for a man, she’s his. The poor boy, the poor prostitute, a poor soul lost in a sculpture. She is driven to help him, to save him, to drive him on and to realize his possibilities, and in the process she gives herself over to him. But I warn you, though it’s unnecessary as you know just as well as I, that women have no brains, but sometimes they have something just as good to take its place: malice.”

“I didn’t realize I knew that,” the young man said, again with jovial air. “That is quite something from a married man. I assume this is not something you discuss with your wife.”

“My wife?” the old man roared with laughter. “My wife!”

“What’s so funny?”

“I filed for divorced two weeks ago.”

“You’re getting divorced? Is that what all this is about?”

“All this? About my wife?” the old man said, his good humour vanishing as he removed the ring from his finger. “Thirty-eight years of marriage, and not a single moment did I feel any desire, any lust,” he tossed aside the ring with a sinister look and spoke loudly and rapidly to cover his growing excitement. “Not to even mention love. I told her about you, about everything, and she accused me of being unfaithful to her. Unfaithful to her! Every time I shared a bed with her I was being unfaithful to myself. Is that not the worst form of infidelity? There was no intimacy in our marriage. How could there have been? When we slept together, there were always three other people with me: her, the man she thought I was, and the man I imagined her to be. She felt that I had betrayed her, but is it not clearly the other way around? Was I not a mere prostitute, giving her my body with no emotion? After all, and you of all people should know, the paragon of self-sacrifice is to give your body over to someone you neither love nor desire.”

The young man, so used to blocking out the appearances of his clients, really looked at the excited face of his companion; the clogged dilated pores on the fat cheeks and on the large nose repulsed him. The rough sun-damaged skin and the red eyes with dark pouches under them served to underscore the vile impression the aging homosexual had on the young man.

“I understand that it would be a divine blessing if an angel like you could ever love an old depraved devil such as I,” the old man continued. “That the mere touch of my lecherous hand is enough to besmirch your angelic purity. My love for you is that of an idealist who knows his cause will never be fulfilled.”

At this moment the young man felt strange compassion for the old man, born from their shared object of affection; the old man loved the young man, and the young man loved himself. But that compassion was tinged with contempt, for he sensed how great was the old man’s love for him, for his beauty in particular, and to be so loved by such a creature was painful and burdensome.

“When people look at us together, at our relationship, they see an old rich man using his fortune to take an advantage,” the old man said with watery eyes, placing his hands on the young man’s cheeks. “I would be a cruel taskmaster, and you would be the young gorgeous slave. But we know that is not the case. Your youth, your beauty is my master, and I am a slave to it.”

The old man’s grandiloquence only served to irritate the young man, who walked away towards the couch, but soon felt something. The old man was on his knees, weeping and kissing the feet of the young man with his parched lips and caressing the ankles with his veiny and spotted hands while pleading his angel not to leave him.

“What are you doing?” asked the young man, laughing. “You’re drunk. Get up!” he said and gave the old man a playful kick and tried to walk away.

The old man frowned and his heart throbbed with anguish. He rose and grabbed the young man by the neck and pulled him down. The young man’s well toned but slender body did not possess the strength to fight off his assailant, and he fell on his back, trapped under the weight of his aged lover.

“Just because you’re young and beautiful you think you can laugh at me!” the old man screamed. “To spit on me!”

The anger of the aging homosexual was twofold; the rage of a man whose woman is unfaithful combined with the envy a woman feels at a younger and more beautiful member of her own sex. As the young man struggled under his weight, the old man saw his reflection in the terror-stricken eyes of his victim. To block both that horrible image and the shouts, he reached for a pillow on the couch and covered the young man’s face. With all his weight he pressed his knees down on the young man’s chest, and with both fists he hammered the face under the thin pillow. He could feel the hapless youth’s nose give in under his blows, but he did not stop until he heard a terrible crack resound from beneath his knees and the young man’s hands lay spread motionless on the floor.

With a face hideously distorted by despair and fear, the old man crawled backwards away from his lover; he saw no signs of life, but heard faint rattling under the pillow with every weak breath that passed through the young man's lips. The windows were illuminated by a brilliant light show as midnight approached and the sky filled with varicoloured explosions; the city held a vigil for the dying year.

It felt so warm to hug him. I felt like I drowned with his hoodie sweatshirt embracing me. I don’t think he had ever given me a hug so solid before. To think how I had been thinking about breaking up with Marco over the last two weeks. We just weren’t getting anywhere and I felt like I wasn’t even getting to know him, really.

I whispered, “I love you, Marco.” I don’t know why – it just came out. He didn’t reply immediately but hugged me harder, perhaps to stall, and then also said, “I love you, Maya.” Shit. What were we doing? We were just college students! But I was caught up in the moment and we stood there longer – hugging – as other students walked by. It was all so fun and romantic – and it felt so right. But then, I almost lost my balance. I guess hugs eventually need to end.

I moved back, and we started walking towards the creek up in the hills behind the campus. “So how long have you felt this way? I mean, that is, feeling ‘bothered’ as you put it, by social situations?” I didn't really believe him.

He smiled and shrugged. I held his hand and then bopped his hip gently. I minded a girlfriend’s advice, “Guys are like little kids with special needs. The way to work with them is to slow everything down. They have delayed response time, and maybe formulation challenges. Don’t bombard them with more questions. Just give them quiet time and eventually they figure out what they want to say.” So I walked beside Marco, and swung his hand playfully as we walked along the trail.

“Maybe a few years, really.” It worked! Marco was talking! “Y’know, I think that David makes me nervous, too,” Marco added.

“David Holloway from biochem?” I asked.

“No, David Dolin.”

“Oh really? I thought you thought Dolin was a loser.”

“Exactly. I don’t. That’s the problem. Remember when Sigma Chi had a party back in April?”

“Yeah you cracked me up! Though I was pretty wasted myself and maybe I don’t remember everything right. But remember when you started impersonating David Sedaris? You were cracking me up when you were pretending to try to remember the gendered articles in French for… what was it?”

“For ‘piss.’ I had to take a leak,” smiled Marco. “Yeah, that was a pretty good night.”

“Didn’t seem like you had any of this social anxiety you’re talking about.”

“But I had a few beers in me.”

“That’s how it is for anyone, Marco,” I empathized.

“Well, without the drinks, Dolin thinks I think I’m a loser, I guess.”

“That’s not what I meant, Marco.” Damn, this man was sensitive.

“No, Maya, I know what you mean. That’s what I’m getting at. I get so nervous around him. David is a pretty cool guy. I mean, he’s self-confident, good-looking, and all the girls like him.”

“Whatever. I like you.” I was going to add a pun on how maybe Marco was sexually attracted David but decided it wasn’t the time.

He smiled, but my comment didn’t cover all bases. “But I dunno, I guess he intimidates me. So, I saw him the day after. I didn’t tell you about this, but the guys and I went to The Pancake Hut and I saw him as we were leaving.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, he was really cool. He told me that he had fun the night before.” Marco seemed to say this with dismay. “But I didn’t know what to say back to him. I just said, ‘Yeah, totally.’ I was probably looking at my shoes as I said it.

Marco proceeded to tell me how David wanted to hang out but Marco didn’t follow through. And, given the size of our campus, Marco bumped into David several times. I was with him two of those times, and it’s true that Marco just stared at the ground. Like David, I just thought Marco didn’t really care. But Marco insisted that this was his anxiety.

Then Marco kept on going. Boy, my friend was right. If I just don’t ask any questions, Marco can really get going. He told me about how David Dolin was just one example, but that Marco often put several people on pedestals. Then, Marco would try to compete and act just as “cool,” resulting in greater anxiety and insecurity.

“It’s amazing how well you understand all this,” I said.

“Well, I had some help,” said Marco. “I… saw a counselor – at the health center.”

He was so nervous telling me this, but it just made me so excited. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me before. I was dating this guy who was like no other. Most of the shit bags I dated before Marco just tried to suppress any thoughts they had, or turned their thoughts into anger.

“I couldn’t stand this counselor I saw, Aaron. He frustrated me to no end. I felt like he didn’t understand what I was saying. I told him I wanted to work on my self-esteem. And he told me to tell David exactly why I acted all weird around him! Bull shit, right? I thought I’d kill myself before doing that. It was pissing me off. I didn’t want to celebrate this damned anxiety, for crying out loud. I wanted to get rid of it. What the hell is a counselor for?”

“But – ” I started.

“I told Aaron that I was trying to be more of this easy-going guy I wanted to be. But he pointed out that it was contradictory of me to say that I wanted to develop my self-esteem and also become a different person – to become the front that I put on, and not accept myself. I know this sounds all cheesy, Maya. I guess that’s why I wanted to start with you.”

Marco told me about how Aaron was getting frustrated with Marco’s agenda of trying to hide his real self as if it were defective.

“Yeah, so Aaron said, ‘Y’know Marco, you’re trying to be so great, so special. Trying to talk smooth to others waiting in the lobby, or to the assistant, or the front desk person. You seem determined to be better than everybody else. I’m sick of it and it just won’t work. I bet most people are really turned off by you, just like I am.”

“Oh shit!” It did surprise me.

“Yeah!” continued Marco, with a chuckle, when recollecting this story. “I didn’t know counselors talk like that, and even the counselor seemed surprised by his own words. But I totally got it. It all clicked and I finally saw what I was doing. That’s why I told you what I told you before we went on this walk. To be more real with you.” He squeezed my hand.

“Well, this is the closest I’ve felt to you in forever.” We looked at each and continued to walk, in silence.

"Fantastic."

Pearly whites flashed as the young gent swung the toddler off the ground and into his arms. Bits of hardened chocolate adorned the tyke's smile, vanilla ice cream gluing it to his face. They were quickly transferred over to the shoulder of his father's shirt. The woman who had spent the last four hours with the boy giggled as he turned his fresh face back in her direction. A confused look crossed his carrier's features for a moment before the man looked down, a sigh quietly escaping from his lips.

"Napkin. T-shirt. Same thing, right? Well, it is for him anyway," he let out through a half frown.

The baby sitter just smiled at him and reached out to ruffle the shock of platinum hair tumbling down from the top of the kid's head.

"Thanks for being such a good boy for me, Tyler. Gonna come back and see me soon?" she asked, pulling her hand back.

A gigantic grin flashed from ear to ear on his little face as he shook his head back and forth and cooed several non-words. Perched in the crook of his dad's arms, he looked nothing less than a king studying one of his serfs.

"Awwww... that's too bad because I really like you. I hope you end up changing your mind, little one."

"Oh, I can guarantee he will. Honestly though, you've been a great help, Tally. I really do appreciate this," the man said as he dug his free hand into his pocket and fished out a $20 bill. It had been pulled from his wallet earlier in the day and placed in his front pocket for easier access.

She palmed the cash and then slipped fingers from both hands into the belt loops on her jeans.

"Hey, I'm nearly always free. You can bring him over any time you need, Rob."

"Thanks!"

With that, Rob stepped down off the porch and turned towards the street where his red SUV was parked. Tally stepped inside of her house and closed the screen door, waving at little Tyler as he peeped his head above his father's shoulder. He lifted up his hand and did a quick clam-handed return wave. Once the pair finally reached the vehicle, the baby sitter closed the front door, disappearing from view. With his free hand, Rob opened the back door on the driver's side and hefted his little boy into the booster seat that was secured in place there. Next, he fumbled around with the 4-piece buckle, clanging the metal ends against each other for about a minute without any success.

"It's like a goddamned puzzle," he said to no one in particular as he continued to struggle to fit the multiple pieces together. Tyler just looked up at him and smiled. Wrinkles formed at the ends of his eyes, making him look many times older than he actually was. Rob put his hand down to readjust himself for a better view at the problem and then heard a light click followed by a zipping sound. He had accidentally unbuckled the belt that held the car seat in place.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered aloud as he shoved his hand into the narrow crevice behind the seat in order to retrieve the main belt. Trying to hold on to the belt made it near impossible to pull his hand out again. Finally, after several attempts, he managed to slide his hand, along with the bigger buckle, out of the slit and latch it back together. Once done with that, he returned his attention to the child's buckle and managed to snake it into place with hardly any further struggle.

"Gedum, Gedum, Gedum!" Tyler whispered over and over again as Rob buckled himself into the driver's seat.

"Hush Tyler. That's a bad word," he said in a stern voice as started the ignition.

"Gedum, Gedum, Gedum!" the boy repeated for the rest of the car ride home- his father's frustration level be damned. Rob merely tightened his grip on the steering wheel and continued on, shushing his son once every few minutes. After about twenty minutes of driving, the pair finally reached their small suburban ranch. The man stared out at the garage door ahead of him for several minutes, examining every streak of dirt and scratch covering the white paint. Slowly, he stumbled out of the vehicle and unbuckled Tyler. It went much quicker than the initial process of trying to fasten him into the seat. Rob then carried him into the house and set him down on the corduroy couch in order to freely peruse the pantry for something to make for lunch.

After several moments of contemplation, he grabbed a can of chicken noodle soup and a clean pot out of the pantry and took it over to the island counter. He flicked the stove on, opened up the can, poured the soup into the pot, and then tossed the pot onto the now glowing burner. He let the soup heat up for a couple of minutes, constantly peeking around the corner into the living room to check up on Tyler. The boy was still sitting on the couch, crashing his matchbox cars together on the coffee table in front of him. A few more minutes passed before Rob went back to the stove and turned it off. Next, he ladled a few spoonfuls of the chicken soup into a tiny plastic bowl with a picture of a car on the bottom. That bowl was put into the freezer for the minute or so it took to spoon the rest of the soup into his own ceramic bowl. Once it had sufficiently cooled, he pulled the soup out of the freezer and placed it on the kitchen table across from his own. He then went over to silverware drawer and drew out two spoons. The metallic one went into his own bowl while the big plastic one was placed into the tiny little bowl.

"Come here, Tyler. It's time to eat," Rob called out as he watched the boy playing with his toys. Tyler looked over at him and then scooted himself off the couch. He ran wildly over to the table and hurled his tiny little body onto the kitchen chair. Rob went over to his own seat and began eating, blowing over each piping hot spoonful. Little Tyler aped him and began blowing at his already cooled soup, only to knock 80% of the soup off each bite. They sat across from each other and ate silently for several minutes before Tyler suddenly dropped his spoon onto the table and then forcibly slid his half-full bowl across the table and onto the floor.

"Aw-dun!" he mumbled as he stood up in his chair and smiled.

"Go to your room this instant. Very bad boy." Rob calmly let out as as he pulled several paper towels off the roll and began cleaning up the mess. His son was all too happy to comply. He piled the now wet napkins filled with noodles and bits of chicken into the empty plastic bowl and then took it over to the trash to dump it. As he was standing there, he slammed his fist into the drywall above the little tub, accidentally scraping the knuckles on his right hand against one of the studs behind the wall in the process.

"Fuck!" he whispered out in pain. Small rivulets of blood began streaming down his hand towards his wrist. He quickly rinsed it off in the sink, sprinkled some rubbing alcohol on the cuts, and then wound half a yard or so of gauze around his hand. Exhausted, he sat down on the couch and leaned his head against the back cushion, his left hand resting on the side of his face.

He sat there in the silence for about an hour and a half before Tyler skipped in to the living room and hopped up onto the couch. He leaned over his dad and put his mouth up to his ear. A loud screech burst forth from his lips, sending his father bolting upright. Rob turned towards his son, pinned both of his little arms to his sides, and then let out a ferocious roar that lasted damn near a full minute before his voice finally gave out. Tyler began to sob uncontrollably. The man picked the boy up and rushed out the door. He opened up the back door of the SUV and placed his son into the child's seat, once again beginning the arduous adventure to buckle up the needlessly complicated safety belt. After nearly ten minutes of endless frustration, he finally managed to lock the son of a bitch in. He shut the door and then slid into the front seat, starting up the engine before he was even fully in.

Tyler had stopped crying by this point. Car rides were his favorite thing in the world. Rob shifted into reverse and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. He would have ran over some kid who was passing by on his bike if the kid hadn't swerved out of the way at the last second. He flipped Rob the bird as he passed by.

"Goddamn kids these days."

"Gedum, Gedum, Gedum!" started up the chant once again.

"SHUT IT, TYLER!" he screamed as he pulled out of their neighborhood and onto a main street. He traveled along for several minutes before finally turning down a long drive. A sign was posted near the street that read:

Paul Ruster City Park

Rob drove deeper into the park until he could go no further, passing only a few people along the way. He parked in one of the marked spaces and leaped out of the car. He unbuckled little Tyler and set him down next to him. Next, he unlatched the seat itself and pulled it from the vehicle as well. The door slammed shut as he grabbed his son in one hand and the car seat in the other. The pair marched down a well worn foot path towards the open field beyond a small copse of trees. On one side of the field, a man made lake rested behind a newly built chain link fence. Rob let go of Tyler's hand and hurled the booster seat over the fence and into the lake. It hit the water with a large splash that sent ripples across the formerly pristine surface. He looked down at his son who was now sitting on the ground playing with a stick and a couple rocks. He ruffled the platinum shock of hair on his head for a moment and then took off sprinting towards the SUV behind the small group of trees. Tyler didn't notice until he was nearly at his destination. Once he realized that he had been left behind, Tyler placed both his hands on the ground and stood himself up. He then took off running after his father, tripping after going only several feet. Rob didn't stop until he had finally reached the red SUV. He jumped in the driver's seat for a moment before finally starting the engine.

C-c-c-combo Breaker!

By the end of the evening we’d wrapped up the festivities and had, smiling with our hoods on, taken a picture with the dead nigger swinging behind us on the oak tree. I still have the picture, black and white, from thirty years back; the figure in the front is me--and beside me is my father, and the woman with no mask is my mother, who stands shrugging, almost, the smile on her face real but strained, as if something stunk real bad under her sharp nose. And the rest of our friends there, the men wearing white hoods and the women with puffy hair, all dressed up as if they were headed to a party, but the party already there, and in the background the corpse swinging by the neck from the tree, no shirt, skin still peeling and falling off in shreds.

Now I do have a few friends that I’m honored to know, and they happen to be black; but the niggers that we took care of back in the day weren’t gentlemen like the men I know now, and I have no regrets for the things we did back then. I don’t consider it racism, just justice, just what needed to be done in a different day and age.

So I was surprised then to find the exact same copy of a picture in my mailbox, placed there by hand, my figure circled with red ink.

---

I don’t think it’s too gentlemanly to creep around at night. In fact I abhor such people, criminals as they usually are, men of low breeding and color. So when I heard something outside scuffling around, I figured at first that it was perhaps a deer, as they are wont to sniff around at night, but then the window rattled--and someone tried to open the door, the knob rattling as the lock refused to give way. I heard it all and took my rifle out from the case under my bed, loaded it, and with a heavy heart (unexplainable, really) went down to investigate. I couldn’t hear anything anymore; there was no sign of anyone having broken in; and then I heard footsteps, slowly walking away perhaps, fading out, outside my door.

I turned the light on outside and found myself staring at nothing in particular, just the grass, and in the distance one of my neighbors’ house, perhaps a mile away with its porchlight but a small gleam in the dark. I wondered if I should leave the light on, it was real reassuring, but I knew that it’d ruin my vision were I to ever stare into the dark again. So I turned it off and went back to the kitchen where the picture that was left in the mailbox sat next to a copy of my own, one framed, the other not, one with my figure circled in red as if it was marked--a crazy feeling came over me then, one of fear, I suppose, not the most gentlemanly thing to do but what have you; somethings are unavoidable, such is the course of things. I stood there staring at that picture and goosebumps chilled up all over my arms. I put the picture down and poured myself a shot of turkey and that was when I heard the window break.

I grabbed my gun and stood there in the kitchen waiting for something else to happen, but nothing did, and eventually I went out to investigate. The eastern window was shattered by a brick, a big red one hurled through with a decent amount of force it looked like, hard enough to crash through the glass and still end up denting the wall on the opposite side.

---

The next morning I drove over to the sheriff and we had a nice chat about what had happened. He agreed to send one of his troopers over and when the young man came I treated him to a bottle of beer and we sat on the porch drinking together, watching the sun set, his car parked next to my truck.

“Some people, you know, just wanna kick things down,” he said. He took a sip and grinned. “Why, yesterday we had a man ram his truck through Hoffles, the side of the wall, just drove on right up and put it through.”

“What for?”

“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all as far as we could tell, though not much could be told to be honest ‘cause he’s still knocked out cold.”

“Well I hear ya,” I said. “Some people, they just wanna hurt things, bother others who just wanna be left alone.”

“Yep.” He finished the beer, and stood up. “Well, thanks for the drink, sir. I’ll be keeping watch in my car tonight, if you need anything just holler.”

“Same goes for you,” I said. “You need anything, just tell me, I’m real thankful for what you’re doing here. Just an old man being fearful and whatnot, you know?”

“You can never be too careful, sir.” He shuffled back to his car and I went back in and checked my rifle, loaded, ready to fire if need be. And then I went to the kitchen where the pictures sat one marked in red and the other not; I looked at them both, and my heart sunk, as if a needle was lodged deep in my chest like a fishhook and it wasn’t coming out, something was tugging it, hard, over and over till I couldn’t breathe no more.

Without reading a word, the one with two titles is Ashes's, am i rite or am i rite?

Rise. Shit. Shower. Shave. Gel. Eat. Brush. Bus. The alarm went off at seven, but I didn't wake until I was almost on campus. A girl near the front of the bus was making me uncomfortable, looking at me because she thought I was looking at her. I shut my eyes, I always hated riding ones with some seats facing backwards, I never knew where to look. I caught my reflection in the window and straightened my back. Perception is everything.

The guy who laughs too loud was standing outside the lecture theatre. He was always there first, except when he wasn't there at all. I stared at the paintings by students from the art faculty that hung on the wall. The artist was either terrible or the subject was exceedingly ugly. Noses don't belong there. More people arrived. One of them looked like she was about to say something to me, but stopped. I smiled at them, and they seemed pleased enough. Tom walked into the room with rings around his eyes and a can of energy drink in his hand.

“Mondays should be illegal,” he said, raising the drink to take a sip. I myself had no real issues with certain days of the week, but everybody else seemed to.

“Yeah, tell me about it. Did you get your readings done?” I said. He laughed.

“Of course not.”

“Sometimes I don't even know why you bothered to come to uni. You obviously don't want to be here.” I knew the reason, of course. It was one I could understand. Jack, Sophie and Trevor appeared as a single unit in file from the rear stairs, in that order. Trev usually followed from behind because he liked to stare at her ass when they went up flights of stairs or inclined planes.

“What would everyone think if I dropped out?”

“Couldn't be any worse than what they think already,” Jack said, closing the distance, the other two moving to his flanks.

“And what is it they think of me, kind sir?” he replied.

“That you're a delightful young man, of course,” I offered. Tom and Jack exchanged a fist bump. Trev was trying not to look at the girls around the room, but he never did master subtlety.

“How was your weekend man?” Jack asked.

“I don't remember the first half, so I assume it was excellent.” They started grinning like idiots, so I joined them. “Which reminds me,” he continued, “You need to come out more Adam.”

“I had things to do,” I said. “Things I assume none of you did.” They kept on the grinning, as though academic failure was something to be proud of. “But don't worry,” I said, “I'll be here to bail you all out come assignment time, as always.”

“That's what I love about you, Adam. Always willing to help,” Sophie said.

“And I admire your disregard for how others perceive you. It must be liberating,” I replied.

The others chuckled a bit, and she feigned a laugh, looking down to check her outfit. I fully intended to fuck her before the semester was over, and I've found that there's nothing like creating a little insecurity to help things along.

The lecturer finally showed up a few moments later and unlocked the door. People started slowly moving in. Sophie checked her mousy brown hair in the reflection on one of the displays near the door. The lecture was as dull as ever, but I diligently took notes anyway. Falling behind was not an option. That's who I was to these people, and perception is everything.

* * *

At noon, as always on a Thursday, I stood outside the on-campus cafe, pretending like I had something fascinating to look at on my phone. Crowds were things to be avoided whenever possible, although that's rarely achievable when you live in the middle of the urban sprawl and spend your days near the city centre. The man I was waiting for arrived a minute or so later, his hair unkempt and his hoodie showing signs of a beer and pizza breakfast.

“Dan,” I said.

“Adam,” he replied.

I turned and walked inside, Daniel following close behind. I let him choose a seat. His face wore the neutral expression I'd spent so long unlearning in my childhood. Hiding a blunted affect is difficult to keep up without thinking about it, but by no means impossible. It was certainly worth it; perception is everything. He leaned back in the chair and let out a sigh.

“Problem?” I asked.

“I feel like I don't belong here,” he said.

“You don't have to belong, you just have to excel. The plebs can fuck themselves.” I picked up the menu and started eyeing the items under six dollars.

“That's the thing though. Look at this,” he said, reaching into his bag. He produced a somewhat roughed up assignment, the corner housing a second staple below where the first one had evidently fallen out.

“Seventy-one percent,” he continued. I shrugged.

“Try harder next time. One assignment isn't going to bring you down.”

He stared at the wall on the other side of the room for a moment.

“This is probably going to sound strange, but I don't really know how. I mean I've always just kind of sat down, done my work, and excelled. Everything came naturally to me, and if I wasn't good at something I dropped it. Now I feel like I'm some sort of imposter, because everybody else worked hard to get here, but I just coasted without learning any useful skills.”

“You're smart, Dan. Probably smarter than I am,” I said. That second part was definitely not true. He sighed again.

“So people keep telling me.” He looked over at the wall again.

“If it's bothering you, see someone about it.”

“Not bloody likely. My parents have been trying to get me to see someone for years.”

According to the DSM IV criterion, Dan could probably be diagnosed with Schizoid Personality Disorder. That was something we'd both known for years. I could be too, although that was something I'd managed to keep to myself.

“Anyway,” Dan said, “how are things on your end.”

“Good enough, I suppose. Got myself a girlfriend.” Dan's left eyebrow piqued.

“And who is it you chose to inflict yourself upon?”

“Do you remember Sarah, from Phys-Sci?”

He squinted a bit before speaking.

“Her?”

“She's nice.” I continued staring at the menu.

“She's autistic. And somebody being nice isn't grounds to date them. I figured you more for, you know, attractive people.”

He was right, of course. She was no looker.

“I've got my other women for that.” He let out a chuckle. I smiled, because he thought I was joking.

* * *

The door to my apartment creaked open as always. My face relaxed into its ordinary, expressionless shape and I put my bag down next to the couch. It was time to unwind. The low table in front of the couch featured an array of remotes and controllers, symmetrically arranged by type. As I sat down, I heard the toilet flush from down the hallway. Moments later, Sarah walked through the hallway door,

“Oh, I didn't realise you were home,” she said, walking over and sitting down next to me. “Did everything go ok today?”

“Mostly, got into a fight on the way home,” I replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. She looked concerned for a moment.

“I can't tell if you're joking or not,” she said.

I leaned in and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“I know. That's why I love you.”

John Dunbar said:

Without reading a word, the one with two titles is Ashes's, am i rite or am i rite?

Click to expand...

Shouldn't have betrayed your story bro...

All right folks. Check your entries. Make sure they're formatted correctly. If not, shoot me a PM

crowphoenix said:

All right folks. Check your entries. Make sure they're formatted correctly. If not, shoot me a PM

Click to expand...

Why did you make yours so obvious?

And we don't reveal which entry was ours until the voting, yes?

We'll probably be able to work out who wrote the most popular entries based on them being the only people who didn't vote for said entry

ThoseDeafMutes said:

And we don't reveal which entry was ours until the voting, yes?

We'll probably be able to work out who wrote the most popular entries based on them being the only people who didn't vote for said entry

Click to expand...

Crow said he will, when it is all over. And ^^^^ if past threads are anything, this won't be the case for at least a few individuals. We have very different tastes on neogaf, just like outside of it.

Ashes1396 said:

Why did you make yours so obvious?

Click to expand...

Ha! You just gave yourself away, my friend!

how about an alphabetical list of people who submitted?

Cyan said:

Ha! You just gave yourself away, my friend!

Click to expand...

I didn't name a title though...

edit: By that I mean that I think I know which is crow's story, but I'm not completely sure...

John Dunbar said:

how about an alphabetical list of people who submitted?

Click to expand...

We should probably stop trying to guess who was who, really. It's likely that we could work it out, based on that guy who accidentally told us the title of his piece and knowledge you have of your own piece. Let's hope he sorted them randomly, not alphabetically by author or something like that.

Copernicus- The Masks We Wear
Fear Girl
Me
A Day in the Life
Pretending
"Manifold" or "I am Legion'
Peaks and Valleys
Sin
Masque
I'm the Bear
A Change of Heart
An Ancient Lesson Retold
The Old Man and His Lover
Without Beer
Father's Day
Summer Ale
Dissonance

Dammit, my brother-in-law is borrowing my laptop and my wife has been using my PC for a childcare class all week. I swore I would find time to write for this, but the deadline snuck up.

Maybe next time.

Damn, Cyan was busy this week.

oh tangent... don't tell me that was your story...

Ashes1396 said:

I didn't name a title though...

Click to expand...

But you were pretty obviously talking about "I am crowphoenix, hear me roar!"

Cyan said:

But you were pretty obviously talking about "I am crowphoenix, hear me roar!"

Click to expand...

I think that story is tim the wizes.

If I wasn't very very sure about Tangent's entry, I'd the say that the two similiar stories in that list were both of yours. Gah.

Crow just didn't change up his style...

Edit: I bet I get em all wrong!

edit: Bootaaay, tangent, crow, dresden, J.d, hero, coper, tim the wiz, zephyr?, ronito, thosedeafmutes, irish (I have no clue which one this is...), Cyan, puddles?, vDaedalus (no clue), none of them look like miri (did he not enter?), Elfforkusu, Lone prodigy?,

edit: crow's one now looks like cyan's, i..e I have no clue.

This challenge is going to be awesome.

Where is the list of entry usernames crow?

I'm already grinning like a Cheshire cat at Ashes's guesses.

Ashes must be a fast reader, nyack nyack nyack.

I thought he was just piecing together the entrants.

John Dunbar said:

Damn, Cyan was busy this week.

Click to expand...

Haha, was gonna say the same about crow!

The formatting in Fear Girl is killing my eyes! (had to give up a tad bit of anonymity for that)