“Why?” She screamed. “Why would you do this to me? How can you just leave me like this?”

There was no response. Not even a sound.

She sat hunched in the corner. Tears streamed down her face. She had lost him. Everything was spinning out of control. She looked at him; his eyes stared back at her.

What was she to do? She had just lost her best friend. He had been with her for years. She thought that he would stay by her side forever. Even when she had moved across the country for a job, he went with her. Why would he leave me now, she wondered? Had she not been good to him? Was her friendship not enough? Was she not enough?

It just didn’t seem right that after all this time, he should just leave like this. She wanted there to be something that she could do to change things. Yet there was nothing. It was too late.

She stood and paced about the room. She was still crying. She tried to calm herself down so that she could rationalize the situation properly. After her circling the room half a dozen times and having taken several deep breaths, she believed she was getting herself more under control. At least, that is what she told herself.

She sighed as she sat down on the couch with him. She looked longingly into his eyes, hoping that maybe there would still be something there. Any response at all would be better than the nothingness she was seeing. But there was no reaction from him. He stayed where he was, no sign that he even heard her let alone that he would respond to her pleas.

With another sigh, she arose. She was done crying for now; she had to be. It was abundantly clear that she was not going to get him back. She could not keep him with her. She could cry more later if she needed to. For now, she needed to get herself cleaned up.

She had a big meeting in an hour. She had told him of the meeting just two days ago. She wished that he could have waited to do this until after. It would have made things so much easier on her. Obviously, her feelings in this didn’t seem to matter to him. He may still have been in her apartment, but he was already long gone.

She crossed the room slowly, trying not to think about the whole thing. She had to pull herself together if she was going to be presentable for the meeting. Another tear slid from her eye as she entered the bathroom. She grabbed a tissue, dried her eyes, took a deep breath and flushed the toilet.

She walked to the sink and turned on the water. She splashed her face several times to wash away the tears that had streaked makeup. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked ragged. Her hair was a mess. Mascara ran in streams beneath her eyes. She had taken this really hard.

She had loved that fish so much, and now he was gone forever.

THE woods were cold and damp, and Sir Galahad was tired.

For days now he had led his steed through shadowed paths, through bog and swamp, each day blighted by rain that never seemed to end. But he would not rest until he found the beast.

The steady drip of water from the leaves had long ago lulled his mind to a stupor, and he often slipped on the sodden ground. But he would pick himself up, wipe off the dirt from his once-gleaming platemail, and trudge on.

Each time he fell, he offered up a silent prayer to God, asking only for the strength to destroy the demon which had brought so much misery to his people.

He had rode out from Camelot weeks before, his armour ablaze in the sun and his standard streaming from the pommel of his saddle. His warhorse had surged through the fair fields around the castle, the sight of it stopping the peasants in the fields as the shining knight rode past.

They had heard, as everyone had, of the thing discovered in the outlying lands, the lands of forest, swamp and hill that surrounded the noble kingdom. The priests had returned with stories of an ancient creature, foul beyond imagining, which resisted their good works and laughed at the word of Jesus.

It was a creature whose time should have passed long ago, but had lingered on, while the world beyond was infused with the light of Christ and the laws of King Arthur .

The monster was said to take cattle from the fields, and steal children who strayed too far. It was told that it demanded gold, making off with the poor folk’s wealth when they had so little to give. Foul magics had been spoken of, tales of babies swapped in their cribs with wizened parodies of men, the thing blamed for the dark storms which rose up in the night.

No more, said Arthur. He had turned to his knights and asked who was worthy enough to slay the fiend, and deliver the kingdom from its evil. All the knights had begged to go, but Galahad, the purest, had been chosen.

His quest had taken him to the border lands, and from there to this forest, where those who dwelt in the hinterland had said the creature made its lair. Too frightened to accompany him, the peasants had shrank back from the shadows. But Galahad’s resolve had not weakened, and he had entered the forest.

But that had been days ago.

Brushing away decaying leaves and more mud, the knight looked up from his reverie and noticed the shadows were growing longer. Soon he would camp, resting his weary body on the cold ground, no hope for a fire in this damp place.

And then he saw it.

Crouched on the branch of an oak, the creature was asleep, its wings folded across his back. For a moment Galahad was tempted to fire a shaft through the thing and be done with it, but his honour demanded he fight.

He leapt to his saddle and readied his bow, raising his war horn to his lips to let fly a mighty blast as he charged forward.

At once the beast rose up from its lair, spreading its wings into the night sky. For a second it seemed to hang, suspended in the mist, and then it dove at Sir Galahad with an unholy scream. Yet In the split second before man and monster collided, the thing veered upwards, it’s awful shriek ringing in the knight’s ears.

Teriffied beyond endurance, his horse bucked and screamed, throwing him to the earth, and he was dashed heavily a boulder. The collision sent white light flaring in his eyes, and blood burst from his mouth.

‘I cannot fail in the face of this horror‘, thought Galahad as he rose into a crouch. His eyes caught the form of the beast as it sped towards him. ‘For God and Christ’, he cried, and unleashed his arrow.

His aim was true, and the bolt struck its wing and it was cast down to earth.

With a cry of triumph, Sir Galahad dragged his sword from its sheath and lurched to where the monster had fallen. It was truly hideous, its body was that of a woman‘s, but naked, and barely a foot long. Gossamer wings, thin and like a butterfly’s, sprouted from its back.

It rolled over, and spoke in a shrill voice. ‘Spare me, fair knight, I beg you. I am the last of my kind, and know nothing but this forest.’

But Galahad was strong in his faith, and would not be swayed. ‘Never, foul creature. Thou shalt not suffer a faerie to live.’

He brought down his foot, crushing the creature’s skull beneath his iron-shod boot.

We’d been at sea for what seemed like forever. Our comrades falling around us. We must have had the prime position. It seemed like as soon as we radioed someone to see if they were still afloat and well, they were sinking fast only seconds later.

It was chaos inside the vessel. We were just trying to stay alive at this point. Strategy was not an option, we were using every survival method we could think of. The captain called down asking how many were still afloat.

“Eleven!” I called back, “But they’re dropping like flies!”

“Somebody contact Jim and see if he’s still afloat,” the captain said.

“Captain, Jim went down two ships before our last air craft carrier, I’m sorry.”

Jim was the captain’s brother, and a good man.

I contacted the base on land and told them our situation. I was ordered to stay alive and blast the enemy out of the sea. Easier said than done. It was like the ships had minds of their own. We were in a war that no one was going to come out on top of.

By the time we had evaded serious damage and had repaired what was already done, we found ourselves out of transmission with the base and our allies. Somehow we had lost our radio and the only thing guiding us was the grid we all knew in our hearts. Captain come down and gave us the plan of action.

“The last I had heard there were only four of our guys still giving hell out there, and five of theirs,” Captain reported. “We’ve got to blow their main vessels out of there and have the Guppies running scared.” “Without that position behind the rocks they are open to all our guns. Find a way in there!”

I found a way to weaken their position. We were going to come straight at them, and set out our patrol boat for the back position. It was dangerous, and more lives were going to be lost, but it had to be done. They would never expect us to come head on. Nobody would. It’s suicide.

We loaded the patrol boat with as much fire power as it could safely carry, and half of our men. There was no time for “good-byes” or “tell my girl I love her” speeches. I told them to set their frequency to eight just in case we got our radio back up and then they were off.

We got our radios working and about twenty minutes later they radioed in their position. It was time for us to strike. We lightened our load as much as we could and threw the ship into full throttle. We couldn’t really worry about the guys on the patrol boat anymore. I told them to go down proud and fighting and that was our last transmission. We headed at the enemy and took out two more of their boats on the way.

We had two ships left, they had two left. It was a battle till the death. Only one of us was going to return to our homes and families. I wasn’t going to let it be them.

About an hour into the fight our brother ship had fallen and we were a far cry from victorious. It seemed as though we had loaded the rest of our ammo and already shot off more than half. We didn’t have much left. The captain told us he had never felt more honored to fight next to such dedicated men, and ordered us to die like honorable men do.

We charged their last two ships and fought like heroes do. We only had one missile left and no idea what they were holding. We fired it and took out one more ship. They had one left standing.

“That was our last missile Captain!” I shouted.

“We don’t need a missile, we are one,” Captain replied.

I knew what he meant, so I told the men to pray and we headed at them with fire and fury in our hearts. They fired on us and by the time we made it to them we were nearly sunk. In a last ditch effort we rammed them and damaged their boat enough to send them under.

Our ship was filled with victorious cries as we heard one ominous voice that was God-like.

“You sunk my battleship!” it cried.

“Hah! I win. Set up for a new game,” shouted another voice.

Our ship was tossed into victory, and suddenly we were back where we started, seventeen ships on either side of the world going to battle. We couldn’t explain it, we never tried. All we did was fight, watch our comrades fall again, and do our best to stay alive.

When I drew back the curtains to my second floor apartment at precisely five past eight, I had nothing other on my mind than what I was going to have for breakfast. I noticed that it was a cloudless sky and that the postman was just finishing his deliveries in the square opposite. That meant he would be delivering my mail within five minutes. I also noticed some activity that was distinctly unusual. A strange woman was knocking on doors and gesticulating at people who seemed to recoil from her. She ran from door to door. A few people emerged later with their coats on and quickly made their way out of the square. How intriguing!

The traffic lights were on red, and the flashing green man was pumping away on the spot. A man and his dog were taking advantage and crossing in slow motion, or so it seemed to me.

The postman suddenly looked up with a strange look of horror. It was only then that I noticed the ear-splitting screeching sound. It was incredibly loud - a veritable roar - so how had I missed it? It was getting nearer and I could now hear the distinct sound of an airplane engine spluttering and whining. My apartment was shuddering, and people started to emerge from their homes to see what was happening.

The shock of the impact and explosion was coursing round my body. My heart was pounding pure adrenaline and I was trying to scream, but no sound came. Part of the garden in the centre of the square was laid waste, and I could see that at least five of the houses were raging with fire. The postman was now nowhere to be seen, and nor was the demented woman. I frantically began scanning the scene for the man and his dog, but, alas, they too were missing.

My apartment was far enough away from the danger of a further fuel explosion for me to remain, but the police were adamant that I stay inside and well away from the windows. This, of course, was impossible to do. I was somehow compelled to look out and see the emergency services working together to somehow salvage lives. There was such devastation that it seemed an impossible task. By now several helicopters were in the air and outside broadcast vans were dotted around the perimeter of the crash scene.

I turned on the television in order to get some up-to-date news of what was happening and caught the tail end of an on-the-scene reporter stating that several lives had been saved by a woman who had warned that a crash was imminent and that people should get out of the square. The postman was suddenly on screen and was clearly emotional. He said that the woman had literally taken his postal trolley and ran away with it out of the square. He, naturally, had thought she was quite mad and had run after her in order to retrieve the mail. She then proceeded, he said, to yank the lead from some struggling dog owner and taken it further down the street, where she had tied it in knots to a railing. She had then crossed back into the square and started to knock on the very doors where the plane had later crashed. She had still been knocking on doors when the plane came down, and he was pretty certain she must now be dead.

Now came the lines of people from the plane. They were unescorted and seemed dazed. I couldn't understand why the police and the ambulance crew were totally ignoring them. They were suddenly looking up at my window, waving and calling me down. This was all wrong.

It was only when they started calling me by name that I started with a jolt and woke from my nightmare.

The relief was enormous, although the feeling of doom remained. It took quite some time before my heart settled into a normal rhythm. I looked at the clock and saw that it was only half an hour before my alarm would go off anyway, so I decided to get a head start on the day.

After putting the kettle on I wandered into the living room and drew back the curtains. I was just thinking about making some toast when I spotted the postman entering the square opposite to begin his rounds. It would take him a full twenty minutes to get round the square. It would be twenty-five minutes before he got to me. From two doors into the square a man emerged with his dog to begin their walk, which would normally take them twenty minutes. And suddenly I just knew.

I just knew I had to warn them.

The rain continues to fall as I gaze across the great ocean. Onward it sprawls, limitless in direction and savagery. The sky is black with the impartial darkness of an everlasting twilight and yet there are no stars to be seen. No stars or light. No light. The waves eternally roll and break into soft, milky foam; their continuity serves as the calming mask worn by a theatrical villain to deceive the unwary, and I have beheld it night after night, day after day. The dichotomy between day and night is increasingly blurred in a compounding way, and I find myself in this moment of chaotic and yet unchanging perplexity for some forty days without change.

The breeze around me is sharp and stale. So stale! The very air I breathe tastes old and lifeless, almost metallic and bitter. I spit it and I sputter it away and yet I taste it all the same.

I glance down at my tired, gray hands and relive the purpose of my deeds: I received so little from so few and have taken so much from so many and I have only to look so far as within myself to find the cause of my present. Everything I have done I have judged and believed to be right, and the lives I have taken were not taken without calculated purpose. It was deserved, deserved and warranted! Of this, I am certain. Certain!

I sigh as I have sighed many times before. I feel no regret and no joy. I feel calm. Calm, only calm.

And yet…yet I must still hope. Hope! I implore! I must hope that my actions will yet be fruitful. I must hope that the poison can be cured. I must hope that there can be a second chance and life shall bloom where it had long since rotted away into vice and ignorance and cruelty. I must hope that my hope is not the hope of a fool, for I take myself to be no fool. No fool! No fool.

My eyes drift slowly across the water-drawn horizon. I inhale. I inhale deeply and taste a sweet coolness I have not tasted in ages. Intoxicating is this sweetness, this taste. What coolness! This taste!

Yes… Yes! I feel this hope and I believe. I believe I have not hoped in folly. I believe that the winds of change can still blow and not just blow but blow for the better! Not for me but for the better of all, it can blow. I feel it. I feel it blowing inside me like the swell of a great gale building into burst! Let it burst! Burst!

I feel the faint light in my heart that has wilted so dim rekindle itself and within the perseverance of embers it silently and steadily glows and begins to burn anew. It grows! The warmth fills my body and I feel the air around me stir. It stirs and begins to whip into a panicked frenzy. What warmth! What frenzy, it stirs!

I can feel light, and I can see it! My eyes open wide and I behold it. My body fills with the great white light and every piece of darkness in me is pierced and stricken. It is stricken and destroyed. Destroyed! Broken!

Yes! Yes! It is high time! It is high time for an end and for a beginning, an omega and an alpha! It is time!

There will be life. Life! Not just inside me but here. Here! Where there once was it shall again be! Life!

And as I cry and I exclaim, I behold a dove as it flies to me straightly with all due purpose and duty.

I call to it, “My friend! My beautiful friend, fly! Fly back! Fly back to them and tell them! Carry with you peace to good Noah’s boat! They are saved! They are delivered! The ordeal shall pass! I judge it so, it will pass!”

It will pass! The storm shall now pass. Pass! It shall pass!

Joseph groped for the alarm clock until the obnoxious buzzing finally stopped. He lay in bed considering the option of going back to sleep and just skipping school for once, but he knew there was no point to playing hooky. Rolling out of bed Joseph started on the daily rituals that had consumed his life every day for the past 2 years.

As he entered the kitchen he greeted his dad, “Hey, are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” he replied as he hastily finished his cereal on the kitchen countertop. They slipped into their old pickup truck with Joseph behind the wheel. He could drive by himself and would prefer it, but his dad didn’t trust that he could drive safely by himself. Driving to school with his dad every day as a senior didn’t do much for his reputation, but he was used to it after the past socially inadequate 2 years.

After about 10 minutes Joseph approached the school in their pickup. Even after all of the years he had spent at this school he still felt nervousness overwhelm him as he stopped by the south entrance. Maybe today will be different, he couldn’t help but think. His dad helped him out of the car like he did every day; this was probably one of the most irritating rituals that he had to face every time he got in or out of any car. He didn’t get why he wouldn’t just let him get out himself, he was perfectly capable of it. Joseph had even done it at home in the garage to prove it.

Entering school he felt everyone’s eyes fixate on him like they did every morning. Why did they all act like he was so much different than them? Was it because of the way that his dad continued to baby him even though at 17 he should be much more independent? He knew his father had good intentions, but even the best of intentions can be seen as annoying – especially to a teenager just itching to get out of the house already.

He didn’t know how his dad was going to react when he would finally get up the nerve to tell him that he wanted to move out and go to college. His dad was very protective of him, especially after the accident that claimed Joseph's mother 2 years prior. It was just he and his dad, and he knew that his dad was probably scared that he would lose Joseph any day now too.

The bell finally rang and he rushed to his first period: English with Ms. Dane. She was a sweet lady, but her kindness reminded him too much of his dad and almost made it seem like it was more pity that influenced her kind words rather than true friendliness. Ms. Dane made sure to always choose her words wisely just as any English teacher would.

Joseph was never asked much of in school; truthfully it was more like he was asked the bare minimum, which sometimes pissed him off. He still got great grades, but he didn’t feel like he was getting the best of his education. He didn’t have many friends so he figured that a good education was the least he deserved. He sat fiddling with his pencil at his desk as Ms. Dane lectured them about coming to class prepared. There were commonly lectures in her class that made it a bit boring and amusing at the same time, because usually the lectures weren’t even about English.

“Alright, did everyone do their homework last night?” Ms. Dane finally asked as she finished her mini-lecture. A few boys raised their hands and admitted that they did not complete the assignment that they were told to do the night before, sneaking in an excuse along with it. Ms. Dane didn’t care for any of their excuses and simply gave them detention.

Joseph hadn’t done last nights homework either, but he didn’t figure there was a point to raise his hand because she usually gave him an exemption. He didn’t really feel like being treated differently than all of the other kids in the class like he had been so many times in the past. None of the teachers seemed to realize that Joseph didn’t particularly like being treated differently.

Finally the bell rang and class was over. He found it easier to wait for everyone to leave class before him, that way he wouldn’t feel like he was in anyone’s way. As the remainder of kids filed out of the classroom, Joseph wheeled himself away from his desk and towards the door. People always told him that everything happens for a reason, but he was never able to figure out a reason for the car accident that killed his mother and left him crippled in a wheelchair.

Sleep wafted over her as she tried to sleep in the oppressive heat. It rode in on the coat tails of a thunder storm that finally spent itself out around midnight. Trickles of sweat beaded on her cheek and silently slid down to her throat. She sighed and flipped over, allowing her leg to drop off the side of the bed. Her elegant face showing just a hint of irritation over the buzz of the fan.
Her toes flexed in response to the slight chill as the fan made its futile attempt to cool off the heavy air of the room. It danced with the light lace curtains framing an open window. The curtains seemed to beckon the outsider, teasing him with the promise of easy entry. The outsider moved in from across the street, warily watching for those who may be watching. Sticking to the shadows he moved up the street watching the tease of lace calling to him from the window.
Her face highlighted by the shadow of the moon kissing her from clearing skies, fretted once then smoothed out. Her high cheek bones glistening in the steamy night belied her strength. Her skin, the color of alabaster a stark contrast to her bright red hair, she stood out in these parts known for dark beauties. Her brow furrowed and she slid over on her side, the heat just too heavy, she woke. Lying in bed trying to follow the trail of the wonderful dream that danced just beyond her consciousness, she heard a slight noise.
He moved closer to the window, trying to be as silent as possible. A passerby headed home from a local bar had just pushed past him and glared at him full of drunken menace. He was now nearly just under the window. The rain had drenched him and his coat was soaked muddied by all of the slinking around. The curtain danced and called to him, it whispered of clean things and of a beautiful woman. It hinted at the promise of riches and wealth if only he could muster the strength to take it.
She was falling back asleep, the horrible humidity finally succumbing to the post storm breeze. The skin on her exposed arm prickled with the coolness of it, she pulled the sheet up to her neck. Finally comfortable, she drifted back off to sleep. Her breathing slowed and became peaceful, her arm relaxed and her slight arm settled under her chin. The sheet drooped a few inches exposing her bare shoulder. She did not even hear the soft “thud” as he climbed up to her window.
He stood there watching her, his green eyes narrowing as he drank it all in. Would she scream? Would she fight back? Could he take it? Could he handle her? The voice in his head spoke calmly and told him to do it. He fought the urge as long as he could. He hopped down off the window sill, knocking the fan over as he went. He ran to the bed and took a flying leap landing square on her lap. He dug his nails in, anticipating her bucking.
She woke up to the sound of a crash. Her sleep hazed eyes could only see a blur as her fan went akimbo and something landed on her lap hard, and then there was pain, nothing but pain. As she shook off the heavy mantle of sleep she was aware of a weight on her lap and looked down. There he was a soggy dirty, skinny little thing. It was piteously crying as its filth soaked into her soft linen night gown
. The woman’s heart broke. He looked at her with the deepest green eyes she had ever seen and she knew he was hers’. She took him to the bathroom and cleaned him up; he was a deep tawny colored that spoke of his mixed parenthood. After she helped him clean up, she took him to her room where they both crawled into bed and drifted off to sleep. She now utterly exhausted snored lightly in the pre-dawn light, and he purring contentedly for the first time in his life.

After running a few errands and settling down, I started surfing the web and looking for ideas on a new story. I noticed a contest for a "story with a twist" and thought that I'd give it a try. I sat and started writing about something then went with it. It went on and seemed interesting. I was surprised that I could even write something cohesive. Soon I was almost done but realized I had already gone over the word limit.

I decided to finish it anyway and pare it down with some editing. I started reading it from the beginning and slashed away words that just took up space. They didn't really say anything or add to the quality of the story so I highlighted them and deleted. It reminded me of all those papers I had to write for classes. That's where I got the comment that I had written in fluffy language. Now it was time to cut the fluff.

When I started out, I thought I'd write from my own perspective since it would be easier. I converted situations from my own experience and started writing. I started thinking about how I related to other people. Soon a story began to develop and grow. There was an antagonist and an innocent bystander as well as an accomplice to the antagonist.

I was in a fine environment where everything went along smoothly. Me being the protagonist, I dealt with the antagonist and accomplice, though at the time, I didn't know that was an accomplice. Actually the accomplice was slightly involved with the antagonist just like the innocent bystander was, but unlike the innocent bystander, the accomplice had a direct relationship to the antagonist.

The antagonist knew the innocent bystander and was the reason why I also knew and interacted with this same person. The accomplice only knew about the bystander and I doubt there was ever any interaction between the two of them. The accomplice dealt with me when I had the rare occurrence to initiate an interaction. I was, though, often in contact with the innocent bystander and antagonist. This was the gist of our relationships.

After dealing with the three of them over the period of a few months, nothing much seemed to change until a year of the same monotony continued into another few months. In that time, I found that it was very difficult to interact with the antagonist, although the plot required it. The antagonist kept me at a distance. Though initially I dealt with the accomplice closely, I found that there too, was a distance that was impossible to cross and found myself keeping away and secluded, mostly dealing with the innocent bystander.

The innocent bystander seemed to have a lot of observations and gave me a lot of insight about the antagonist as well as some of the history about this person and the accomplice. It seems they all spent quite a few years interacting with each other though the antagonist seemed to interact much more often and influence the innocent bystander more than the accomplice. The accomplice then seemed to become a character that took on the personification of more than one person.

It got more complicated. I interacted with many innocent bystanders that were familiar with the antagonist and accomplices, but who were only involved with both to a lesser degree. There was only one antagonist, but there became several accomplices and innocent bystanders.

Interacting with the antagonist seemed to be difficult, and innocent bystanders seemed easy to interact with, but accomplices were the worst. Accomplices were seemingly even more difficult to interact with because they seemed to be influenced by the antagonist while at the same time not having the antagonist admit to having such influence. In addition, accomplices would at times not be available for interaction when the time came for me to question the influence that was their reason for action such as whether it came from the antagonist or not.

Eventually, the antagonist attempted to portray me as the antagonist and not the protagonist. The original antagonist then claimed to be the original innocent protagonist! Not only was I supposedly not the protagonist, but accomplices were innocent bystanders. Such a depiction would greatly benefit the original antagonist, but I found the original innocent bystanders were actually accomplices because the original antagonist had influenced them to the same level as the original accomplices, thus making them all part of one antagonizing group.

Writing this story began to remind me of a cartoon I saw once. As I thought of the algebraic symbols leaping off a dark chalkboard and attacking the student, I decided that I better escape from the threats of literary terms. I put the story safely away and decided to write something else.

The man is in his office. He has no more work to do so he’s trying to finish the book he started three days ago. His wife gave it to him.
Why don’t you understand that i do love you?
Everytime i want to be with you you just tell me: Ben... Ben’s waiting for me.. i can’t. I’m fed up of this. I want you just for me. No more lies, i want a normal life with you.
I want that too, but understand me... We have a child. At least, this shooting stuff is keeping him away from me. As far as i tell him i’m working for that movie, everything is ok. I only see him at night. I’m all day long with you.
The secretary enters the room.
Your wife called. She said: don’t wait for me tonight. I have more shots to take.
Ok, thanks! Anything else for today?
No, you can go home.
The man is taking the subway today... He has to finish his book.
Really, we need a plan. I can’t stand any more. I want you. Do it!
What?
What we’ve been talking about...
No...
Do it!
I can’t...
Do you love me?
Of course i do!
Then kill him. Look, take my gun. Tonight, in your room. No one will suspect you. Just do it before it’s too late. Let’s live our lifes.
The man arrived home. The kid is with his grandma. It’s raining outside. He doesn’t eat, he’s just going upstairs, in his bedroom, waiting for his wife. He loves her. He’s lying down, on their bed, on their red blanket, with just a soft spotlight turned on. He keeps reading.
Scared, the woman is trying to hide the gun into her blouse. It’s raining. All those memories with her husband come into her mind. He loves her, they have a beautiful child. But she wants something more. She’s all shaking. Because of the rain. She’s home. She’s going upstairs. She’s taking out the gun and she’s opening the door. Her husband is there, lied down on their bed, on their red blanket, reading the book she gave it to him... With the gun pointed at him, she can only say: Ben, i’m sorry...

As the dark wind descended upon the small town of, Crawford, Louisiana, a young boy by the name of Jeffery slept innocently; ignorant of the havoc that would soon entrap his little nothing of a life. He awoke that morning covered in ash. Everything was covered in ash. He ran into his parent’s bedroom to see what was going on, but found nothing but a large pile of ash lying in their bed. He started screaming in horror thinking of the many gruesome things that could have happened to his parents. His scream was one that would make the throat bleed. He ran outside, but found his town emptier than a sack of potatoes in Ireland. There was no one in the church even though today was Sara-Lynn’s wedding. The wretched stench of human flesh rained from the heavens, as Jeffery ran through the streets crying for the gentle touch of his mother’s soft fingers.

The toy factory on Winters Street was on fire. The sweet passion of Mr. Winthrop’s comb-over reminded sweet Jefferies of the desolate winter to come. As butterflies floated among the willows, so did sweet Jefferies arms among the air. He knew it was the time. The time had come and there was no going back. “BATMAN!” he yelled helplessly. But Batman wasn’t going to come. Batman died three years ago in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire.

Jeffery made himself a chicken parmigiana sandwich on toasted wheat with a side of green beans. Then he called to his father’s green blazer to fetch him his slippers. He had named his slippers Sal and Jennifer. One was green and the other one was greener than the extinct ferns of his mind. Sweet Jeffries was truly a renaissance man of sorts. He danced with the black wind and he soared through the corn fields like Milton. He’d tried cheeseburgers before, but never cheese. He’d felt the sea on his brow but never been to the ocean. He’d studied the works of Kepler, but never eaten a sandwich made of pork.

The drunken maze of his mind was lost in Jack Nicholson’s ideals of a humble mutton joint. His chin, as square as they come. The lost mysteries of East Ciderville were destroyed by the intoxicating scent of apple brandy. His pupils were as bright as the darkness and the whites in eyes were as bright as the grand madam’s left heftshire. The tales of tails in the seven seas of North Harbinger.

Jefferies awoke collapsed on a pile of cracked bricks and rescinded letters of Millard Fillmore’s third term campaign slogan ideas. For a time, he believed he was in his mother’s womb, being cradled to sleep by the periodic beating of love. When he came to, he understood that he was in fact in his mother’s womb. The womb of destruction.