Ending

Adam squinted against the baleful glare of the red sun as he walked down the deserted street. Dead leaves carpeted the road, drifted across the sidewalk, crunched under his feet, and mulched in the gutter. Darkened storefronts scowled sadly through their broken windows as he walked by. A few solitary cars were parked here and there, remnants of the hustle and bustle that had once filled this street and a thousand others like it. The rest were gone, vanished like a strange herd of mechanical beasts of burden that had crept away to die in some hidden place. Adam had long since given up checking the abandoned vehicles to see if any would run; only a few had viable fuel cells, but nearly all retained armed anti-theft capacitors that would hold their “not-quite-lethal” charge indefinitely. After his own vehicle had finally stalled out a few miles previously, Adam quickly concluded that walking home was the least-painful option available.

Home. Now that it was only a few blocks away, Adam considered the finality of what he was doing, and wondered if he would live to regret the decision he had made. He turned off the empty high street and marched into what was left of the familiar Perennial Oaks subdivision. Adam knew that the residents of this neighborhood would have been among the first to join the exodus, but he was unprepared for what four years of neglect under a dying sun had done to his childhood stomping grounds.

Tangled hedges of undergrowth and grass sprawled across the prize-winning lawns and flower gardens. Oak leaves covered everything that had not been overtaken by weeds. A considerable section of the road had subsided over a broken water line, and Adam had to skirt the resultant lake to turn onto Constant Circle. His father’s house came into view, and Adam was suddenly doubtful. Would his father really have stayed here while the world departed around him? But his choice was made, and there was nothing for him but to follow through and walk the final hundred yards home.

The electronic locks did not work, of course, but Adam was gratified to discover that his key to the old-fashioned deadbolt was still perfectly functional. He eased the door open and wrinkled his nose at the smell of mildew, and wondered again whether he had made an irreversible decision for nothing.

“Hello?” he called. “Dad?”

Silence threw his voice down the hallway and buried it in the thick, dusty carpet on the stairs. Adam closed the front door and took three steps into the gloomy foyer when he heard the click of a pistol safety snapping back into place. He turned to see his father standing in a doorway, putting a gun back into its holster.

“What are you doing here, Adam?” he asked. His face was hidden in the shadows, but if his voice was anything to go by, Adam’s father had aged badly in the years of their separation. Adam couldn’t blame him.

“I … had to come … come back, sir,” he faltered. “I walked out on you once. I couldn’t do it again. I’m so sorry, Dad.”

Adam’s father stepped forward into the pool of light from the window over the front door, and Adam saw that he had been correct: his father was a lonely old man.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” he whispered again.

Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes. “I’m sorry too, Adam. I’m sorry I drove you away.”

The two men embraced, and forgiveness wrapped her arms around them both. Adam discovered tears in his eyes too, and buried his head in his father’s shoulder like the little boy he suddenly wished he could be again.

They stood there for a long time and when Adam’s father finally broke the silence, his voice sounded much closer to the strong baritone that Adam remembered from his youth.

“We should get on the road if we’re going to leave together.”

Adam shook his head.

“It’s too late, Dad. The last ship lifted off this morning. We can’t go anywhere.”

Confusion reigned on the old man’s face. “Last ship? But … you have so much still ahead of you.”

Adam smiled at his father. “I had to come back. I was getting ready to board when I realized I couldn’t leave you behind again. Bad blood is poisonous, I suppose. Leaving without taking care of it would have killed me.”

“Staying behind will kill you too,” his father said dryly.

“I know. You’re more important than that.”

“Well, then. We’ve got some catching up to do. Let’s watch the sun die.”

Adam grinned and followed him outside. Father and son sat together on the porch and watched the red giant in the sky sink below the horizon, and waited for the end of the world.

It wasn’t cold out. She knew that. And yet…

Watching him pack was probably the most difficult thing she had ever done. Silently watching him as he prepared to leave her. She clutched the cardigan around her more tightly as a chill went through her.

“I--.” She swallowed hard, and tried again. “Don’t forget that envelope. You’re going to want…I put photos in there.”

He smiled weakly, “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” Then, more strongly, “I wanted you to have them.”

“Well…thank you.” He finished putting things into his bag then, carefully, placed the envelope on top. He looked up at her, “I think that’s it.”

Struggling not to show emotion, she responded, “Yeah. Looks like you got everything.”

He turned to leave. Stopped. Turned back. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Oh…sure,” she responded with a quavering voice. “Of course I will.”

“Well…goodbye.”

“Or…I could always go with you.” He looked at her, surprised. “I mean…I could drive you, or just go along to help…”

“We talked about this.” His voice was gentle. “My stuff is filling up the entire car. There’s barely enough room left for me and dad. Besides, the two of us will have an easier time bringing my stuff up to my dorm. It’s on the third floor, remember.”

“I remember.”

“And no elevators.”

She forced a smile, “Some fancy school we’re sending you to, no elevators.”

“It’ll be good exercise. No freshman fifteen for me.”

“No, I suppose not.” She took a deep breath. “Oh sweetheart, I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, Mom.” He hugged her. She hugged him back harder. He quietly said, “Parents weekend is in just a few weeks. You can visit me then.”

Pulling away, she said, “Yes. Of course.” She smoothed his hair down and picked non-existent lint off of his jacket. “My baby’s all grown up.”

“Maybe.” He smiled at her. “Dad’s probably waiting.”

“You’re right. I know. You should--” She took a deep breath and said, “Goodbye.”

“Not goodbye, Mom. Just…see you in a few weeks.”

As the door swung shut behind him, the chill she was feeling grew stronger. The house had never seemed so empty…so lonely…so large. She wandered around, surprised, a little, that the house was large enough to wander around in. Suddenly, she found herself in his room. She ran her hand against the pale blue walls. She could remember picking out this paint color when the ultrasound had told her that she was having a boy. She went over baseball window shades, that he had chosen (with just a little of her help) when he had decided that his previous clown shades were too “babyish”. She looked at the stars on the ceiling, a project they had worked on together. Each star was painstakingly placed according to a constellation chart, when he had been sure he wanted to be an astronomer.

The posters on the walls, the books, the games, the sports equipment, even each nick and scratch on the furniture…her mind flooded with stories surrounding each one. But he was gone now. Her little boy was grown. And the room was only a storehouse for the things he had left behind…things neither needed nor wanted in his new life.

She sat on the bed, clutched the pillow to her chest, and slowly rocked back and forth. And as she sat there, she tried desperately to convince herself that she wasn’t just one more thing that he no longer had a use for.

The New Day

At 31, Farrell had spent the majority of his life in prison, and became accustomed to bells, buzzers, and the clanging of cell doors. Mechanical devices and violence had been the backdrop of his life.
He had been released from prison yesterday. He remained disorientated all night, not sure what to do outside the gate anymore. . Independence had always been lurking on the edges of his fantasies. Thin hope in a pale dream.
His parole officer had recommended the hotel to him for anonymity. It wasn’t quite what he expected; it was clean, and had a pleasing view of a nearby river. Not the anthill of prison.
He put his head back down on his pillow ,and took advantage of the tranquility. He was grateful for the moment.
Farrell had always been able to see more than one side of things, but he couldn’t figure out when things went bad. This is what got him into trouble. He always felt that his positive attitude would overcome anything.
The memory of his childhood was strong. Having been smaller than most of the other boys his age in school, he found it necessary to fight or ally himself with tough boys. Bad boys. He chose the bad boys. He did anything they did, and anything they told him to do. When the gang made him steal a car, he knew what the result would be. He had been arrested within an hour.
Farrell’s father had died soon after Farrell’s twenty-fifth birthday, and the focus of the world became his mother. His parents hadn’t gotten along well, and Farrell learned to survive by accepting any point of view, going along, never causing any turmoil by resistance. His obvious downfall was that he subverted his own feelings to go along with the group. That desire to please had been misplaced. Prison life had demanded that Farrell stand up for himself.
Yesterday morning, guards led Farrell to the main gate. The guards thought he looked pitiful with just a small bag containing everything he owned. The sergeant of the guard, who had known Ferrell for years, was backlit by the deep blue morning sky. They looked at each other for a few moments. The pale blue of Farrell’s eyes seemed disturbing to the sergeant, and he had to fight to keep from looking away.
Their hands clasped, they nodded to each other. Then the sergeant moved aside.
Farrell’s skin crawled with expectation of strong hands pulling him back, pulling him back. But nothing happened, and his pace quickened.
Shortly, Farrell reached down and pulled back his blanket. He placed his feet on the carpeted floor, and felt the contrast between it and the cold concrete of his ended prison life.
As life slowly imposed itself upon Farrell, he looked across the room at the old rotary phone. The rays of the morning sun penetrated the threadbare green curtain through the window; the other half of the room seem to be in another dimension. He crossed to the phone and stared at it. His left hand alternately opened and closed, revealing his uncertainty.
He picked up the phone. His finger dialed his mother’s number in Alabama. No answer. He tried the number again, and when he was ready to hang up, he heard a small voice.
“Hello.”
“Hello.” The voice repeated.
Farrell was speechless. He watched the pigeons walk back and forth outside his window. “Mama?”
“Who is this?”
“Mama.”
He could hear breathing.
“Farrell. Boy … is that you?”
“They let me out yesterday, Mama.”
“Where are you?”
His voice sounded remote.
“California. At a motel.”
Farrell could hear her weeping.
“It’s all right now.”
The hiss of the telephone connection was deafening.
“Are you … coming home?”
Farrell could hear the age in her voice.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You come on home, now.”
“I’ll be leaving this morning. It’ll take about three days to get there.”
The hiss returned.
“I’ll be waiting, Farrell.”
“Bye, mama.”
Suddenly the phone was heavy in Farrell’s hand and it fell, dreamlike, into its cradle. He stood there for a few moments in the eerie green light. He looked around the dingy room, then entered the bathroom and started a shower of very hot water. He stepped in to the steam.
He soaped himself, and was elated by the smells and the sensation of the hot water running down his body.
Afterwards, he quickly packed his few things.
Farrell reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a matchbox. Inside was a razorblade he had hidden the last few years. He tossed the box and blade into the trashcan.
He absentmindedly rubbed his wrist.
He stepped towards the door as muscles in his face unwound. His exit ended that chapter of his life.

She gave a contented sigh and shifted her position slightly on the sofa. She reached her hand toward the warmth of the fire. The soft orange light created shadows as she waved her fingers around.

She reached down. Picking up a shiny ribbon, she wound it around her hand, enjoying the reflections of the firelight bouncing around the room, creating flickering lights on the walls and ceiling. Following one patch of light with her eyes, she twisted her wrist to make it flash on first one wall, then another, then on the ceiling and then onto the angel. It lit the cherub’s porcelain face, making the angel child look even more otherworldly, more holy. She grinned at the thought, and then allowed her eyes to slowly wander down the tree.

The twinkling lights caught her eye first, of course, standing out in the darkened room. The warm reds and soft blues, the dazzling greens and vivid purples, the star-like whites and fire-like oranges…they all combined to gently illuminate the ornaments on the tree.

She picked out a classic silver ball next to a stuffed cloth Santa with a cotton beard. Below them, an heirloom wooden train next to a glittery popsicle-stick star. Old and new, metal and wood, shiny and matte, store-bought and lovingly homemade… It was impossible, she thought, that any tree in the world was as beautiful as the one right here.

She looked down, under the tree. No more presents, just crumpled paper reminders of what they had looked like. Stretching her arm, she just barely reached a relatively unwrinkled scrap. Smiling elves frolicked among toys and wrapped gifts, causing her to softly beam at the remembrance of her son opening a box that had been wrapped in this paper.

“Honey?” a deep voice from behind her softly questioned.

She pulled herself up to look at her husband and responded, “Yes?”

He grinned at her, “I wasn’t sure if you were awake.”

She smiled back, “I am.”

“There’s a little wine left,” he said, showing her a half-full glass of deep red wine.

“We’ll share.”

He came over and slipped behind her on the couch. She leaned against him, snuggling in his arms and took the glass from him. As she sipped the wine, he said, “The children are snuggled asleep in their beds. No sugar plums though.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how the line goes,” she said as he chuckled. “Besides,” she said, gentle teasing in her voice, “isn’t that for Christmas Eve?”

“Close enough. In any case, they are asleep, your parents have closed the door to the guest room and the house is quiet.”

“Sounds nice,” she responded wistfully.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really.” He stared at her, as if daring her to talk. “It’s silly.”

“Tell me,” he commanded.

“It’s nice, just sitting here, especially with you, enjoying the calm and the memories but…well…I’m just a little sad that Christmas is over.”

“Well, Mrs. Johnson,” he said, looking at his watch, “the time is now exactly 11:58 pm. That means that we have 2 minutes left.”

“Well then, Mr. Johnson,” she said turning toward him, “Merry Christmas.” She leaned over and gave him a Christmas kiss.

When you're broke, “date night” is really a rented movie on a night when you either manage to get the kids to bed early, or bribe a family member to take them for a few hours. You fix something fancy for dinner, which is really something that doesn't have hot dogs, macaroni, or tuna fish as a main ingredient. You get out the nice dishes, which may or may not match, depending on if your kids have broken enough pieces in your set yet, and the remaining two forks in the house that do not have cartoon characters on the handle.

You sit next to each other on the couch, and pay attention to your movie, more or less, and try to ignore the fact that you can't put your feet on the floor without stepping on Play-Doh. Half way through the movie, you notice that there's crayon on the TV screen, and that Orlando Bloom does not, in fact, have green streaks in his hair. You fight the urge to get off the couch and do some house cleaning. After all, you're having a romantic evening.

Your whole evening feels forced, and slightly uncomfortable. You're trying too hard. For a moment, you wonder if the romance has died completely, for you to have to stage it to such a degree.

And then, the movie ends. The kids need picked up. You drive across town, in silence, and buckle two sleepy children into car seats. The drive home is filled with quiet murmuring about what the sitter said the kids ate for dinner, and how well behaved they are when they're sleeping.

Bringing two sleeping children into the house without waking them is a complicated dance. Each of you pulls a slumbering form from the car. Little faces nuzzle into your necks, and you catch each other nuzzling the curls atop their little heads, before your eyes meet and you grin sheepishly at each other. No matter how quickly they grow, they're still babies.

You lay one in the crib; he lays the other in a toddler bed. You creep out, making sure to step over the floorboard that creaks and the toys near the door. He trips over Glo-Worm, and the room is suddenly flooded with sound and light. Both of you hold your breath, and then release nervous giggles as you hear the children sigh, turn over, and return to sleep. Both of you go for the door at once, and yet again, you stifle yourselves as you try not to fall out into the hall.

Once you manage to get far enough from the room, the two of you erupt into chatter. You collapse onto the couch together, and finally laugh. The forced formality of the evening has ended.

Finally, your romantic evening begins.

It was August the 12th, when the phone call came.

Of course, I’d been expecting it. But none the less, it all seems a bit surreal when things actually happen. When your dreams, of sorts, become true.
I’d expected the reaction to be a complete breakdown. I’d expected her to break into tears and come to me to hold her. But, that wasn’t what happened at all. She was just speechless. It took me a few times of asking her what it was before she showed any sign of cognition.

I remember her voice exactly, or lack of a voice to be more precise. A deafened whisper.

‘I’m dying.’

And I’d been preparing myself the past few days for this moment. What to say and how to act natural, but when it happened, I realized I didn’t need it. Because when you reach a moment that profound, it’s impossible not to act natural. And when it happened, I didn’t need to put my practice to the test and try to force a tear down my cheek. They just came. I couldn’t stop it. We just hugged and cried. And I didn’t ask questions and no, not because I already knew the answers, but because I couldn’t speak either.

It was good for me, I think. The crying. It made me feel more compassionate. I didn’t need to fake anything after all, I actually was a fully emotional human being.

It was August the 14th, when she was put on life-support.

I sat at home the entire day. Practicing.

And of course, you’re wanting to know why I did it.

Why I, to put it most unfairly blunt, killed my wife.

It’s a feeling I’ve had, as I am sure you and everyone else in this world has had as well, that there is always something getting in the way. Always something preventing you from saying something. In every situation, you can argue yourself out of everything.
And this is how it was, this is how it always is.
When everything is over, the first thought that everyone has consuming them is what they could’ve done differently. What they should’ve said when they had the chance. And I can only imagine it’s the deepest regret and lowest feeling one can experience.

I also unfortunately believe that love fades. Everyone knows this, even if it’s deep in the back of your mind and you still haven’t come to accept it. Spend enough time with someone, it’s only human to grow sick of them. A terrible tragedy, to be sure, to grow old of love, but a true one nonetheless.
I was listening to this voice in the back of my mind. Some people call it madness, some doubt, but I call it reason.
So you see, it’s all a way to escape the inevitable. To preserve love, to establish hope. To never lose faith. It’s all for now. It’s all for this moment.
Death changes everything; it was my outlet.

I’m forcing myself to be the person I should be, to be the person who I want to be.
Or more, I forced myself.

Nothing is better left unsaid.

And when I walked in there, she looked at me and I at her. And it came out. I said it and for the first time in my life, I held nothing back. I was pure.

I didn’t care how Hollywood it sounded.

‘I remember the first time I’d fallen for you. And when I say fallen, I mean every time I saw you I never stopped looking. I mean every time I was somewhere, I wish you were there beside me. I mean, when every other moment was just a moment leading up to the next one I had with you. I didn’t know why it was you, but things like that aren’t important. What’s important was that it was you. And right now, I love you more than I’ve ever thought I could love anything. You’ve made me who I am and without you, I have no idea where I’d be and I don’t want an idea. You are everything I hoped for and everything I didn’t expect and everything you’ve ever said is running through my head right now. We all make our own definitions of love and you are mine. You are the reason I will be happy for the rest of my life.’

That’s what I said, more or less. Except with a lot more crying and in a deafened whisper.
Oh god, it can’t even be explained.

Inexpressibly morbid, you could say, but undeniably poetic. And to be put simplest; lovely.

Every time I remember, I smile.

It may be faint, but it’s certainly a smile.

Eleven years ago I lived with my parents in the city of Delft, The Netherlands. I had a weekend job in a home for the elderly, pushing a cart stacked with metal breadboxes through deserted hallways and halting at every door to drop off a box.

I liked my job. Behind every door there was a really old person and behind every old person, there was a wonderful story. I must have heard hundreds of amazing stories there and I wrote most of them down.

This is not one of them though. It is neither wonderful nor amazing. This is a simple story of endings and the feeling of panic in your belly when you see one coming close.

It was Sunday and I was rearranging my breadboxes in front of the elevator on the second floor. Mrs. Jansen and Mrs. Molenaar were sitting in their wheelchairs, waiting for a nurse to pick them up and bring them down to the dining room.

In eight days, I would pack my bags, kiss my parents goodbye and board a plane to Bordeaux, where I was going to study Art History for the next five years. I had never been away from my parents for more than a month and, to tell you the truth, I was scared to death.

I know now that it is always this way when things come to an end. It’s not so much the goodbye that scares you. It’s not knowing what happens next.

I didn’t sleep much and when I did sleep, I dreamed of being chased by shadows and not finding my way home. During the day my jaws hurt from clenching them the night before.

Let’s get back to that Sunday.

It was quiet in the hallway in front of the elevator, except for the soft clinking of metal boxes and Mrs. Molenaar’s monotonous humming. After a while, Mrs. Jansen raised her head and said:

‘We don’t get to go to church anymore these days.’

‘What?’ asked Molenaar.

‘We can’t go to church anymore.’

‘Oh. No.’ Mrs. Molenaar shook her head. ‘Do you regret it?’

Jansen nodded. ‘You should go to church every Sunday. Christ said it Himself: Do this in my remembrance.’

‘Do what?’

‘Eat bread, drink wine. Go to church.’

‘Ah. Yes.’

Mrs. Jansen got a napkin from her lap and started folding it.

‘Every Sunday,’ she said. ‘A good person goes to church every Sunday.’

‘Today is a Sunday,’ said Mrs. Molenaar.

It was quiet for a few seconds. I dropped a breadbox and the clanging sound echoed through the hallway.

‘Then you should have been in church this morning,’ said Mrs. Jansen.

Molenaar nodded.

‘But we get older...’

Jansen squeezed the napkin in her tiny wrinkled hand.

‘But every morning, when I wake up, I pray to our Lord,’ She raised a trembling finger. ‘But you have to take the time for it! You can’t fool Him. He sees everything.’

She paused for a moment and put the napkin in her purse.

‘But I lived a good life,’ she continued. ‘Did nothing wrong.’

‘Neither did I,’ said Molenaar. ‘And if I did, I didn’t mean to.’

Jansen nodded in agreement. I coughed and she looked at me for the first time.

‘Do you know what time it is, young man?’

I told her it was almost noon.

‘Then where is that nurse?’ she muttered to Mrs. Molenaar.

‘I don’t know,’ said Molenaar. She grabbed the arms of her chair and bent closer to Jansen. ‘Say, I’m not really clear on what’s going on. What exactly are we doing here?’

‘We’re going to have dinner,’ answered Jansen. ‘A nurse will pick us up.’

I felt tired and uncomfortable and pushed my cart further into the hallway.

One week later, it was my last day at work. I checked the deathlist to see which breadboxes I wouldn’t have to fill anymore and saw that Mrs. Jansen had passed away. During the coffee break in the staff room, I learned she had gotten pneumonia on Monday and had died on Friday. She had cried a lot and had struggled until the last minute.

‘Afraid of the end,’ said one of the nurses. But I knew better.

Mrs. Jansen had been going to church all her life, but at the end, she could not do it anymore. It was not the goodbye that scared her. It was not knowing what would happen next.

The next day my time in Delft was up. I packed my bags, kissed my parents goodbye and took a plane to Bordeaux.

It turned out to be the beginning of a wonderful time.

It started, as so many of these things do, as a petty argument between kings. The honor of a queen was brought into question. Voices were raised, tempers were lost in the blazing passion of the moment, challenges were issued and gauntlets were thrown. The armies of the Northern Kingdom rode down to meet the forces of the South, and they met in an epic battle for the ages.

The expeditionary skirmishes that opened the conflict had rapidly snowballed and total war soon enfolded the land. In the beginning both armies had been proud and strong, but the attrition of days, months and years of answering attacks with counterattacks had ground both sides down to mere shadows of their former glory.

In the thirty-sixth month of combat, morale in the Northern camp was low. The South had made a costly gamble, and although many Southern men had died, their blood was paid for by the capture of the Queen of the North. Even now she was being held for ransom in the camp of the Southern king, but the Northern king's coffers were empty, and he had fled the battlefield for the safety of his last remaining stronghold in the East. The surviving foot soldiers of the terrible and glorious Army of the North were reduced to the ignominy of waiting for the death blow to come.

But even as the Southern king rallied his troops for the final offensive, a lone Northern horseman rode down the flank and cut a swathe through the Southern lines like a scythe through a cornfield. The Southern archers loosed their arrows in desperation, and some found their targets, but the dark rider rode on and the last Northern foot soldier, against all hope, ran behind him and broke into the Southern encampment. He freed the Northern Queen, who cut the throat of her Southern counterpart herself. The dark knight of the North reigned in his stallion over the King of the South and named his terms.

"You are defeated, O King, therefore yield and save your life!" said he.

"Never while my Queen's blood is unavenged," replied the Southern king. The Northern horseman spurred his steed forward, and the King of the South retreated. He never saw the Queen of the North waiting for him in the shadows, with her bloody knife at the ready.

"Checkmate," said Joey.

David scowled at the chessboard, sighed, and laid his king on its side.

"How about best out of three?" he asked.

Loneliness, silence, sadness ... all this accompanies a person when on his own. Sometimes, it can be their greatest ally, many times a friend, but in the end ... their foulest enemy. Nothing truly matters, darkness engulfs us in its embrace. Usualy, man fears the darkness, its contents and inhabitants, and so he scrapes the edges with fire ... the only way he knows to protect himself.

Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunder storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a century begins it is only we mortals who ring the bells and notice the forces of darkness invading our hearts. But in the winds of change, we must all keep the fire within, for that is the only way to fight.

Flowers growing everywhere ... no matter the season. Fall stands there, overlooking everything is going according to plans. Far on the snowy tops of the hills and mountains, Winter stands and watches the skies up above. The clouds greet her, making her smile and let loose the snow in her palms. Across the continents and the deep blue sea, Dawn awaits her final hour when she would rise and watch over the world. Deep below, in the hearts of the people around, is Fire ... keeping their hearts warm from cold and Darkness.

There, they are free ... but without a purpose for living, freedom is meaningless. If we want freedom, we must survive in the most unlikely way, living our lives to the fullest. But they say that if we want peace, we cannot have freedom, for both is impossible. Nevertheless, we try and we will always try, until the sand of time passes us through ...

Who do you suppose decided that the birds are free? Even if they can fly the skies unless they have a destination and a branch upon which to perch and rest their wings they might even come to resent having those wings. True freedom ... true freedom may be having somewhere to return to. Do we have that? Do we truly have somewhere to call home, where we can feel warm, cozy and most of all, loved?

All this peace and solitude is about to end, as Darkness sweeps across the land, killing the flowers, the hearts of men grow dark and clouds turn evil. Fall is trapped, Fire extinguished, Dawn dead and Winter alone.

It has come ...

In the end, eyes open and emotions close ...

Forever standing alone ... in the Darkness ...

Not again. I just want to sleep. It's been a month. One horrible month. One month ago, when I came home to a nearly empty house. To an empty bed. Spouse gone children gone. Money gone. I'm left with this big house and my thoughts. Annoying, nagging thoughts.
Was I a bad spouse, lover, parent? What drove them away? Why can't I sleep? It's not my fault. They don't understand how I felt. I did everything I could. I provided. I cared. I loved. It's all my fault. God, why can't I sleep? I want to sleep.
Are they awake? Do they care how hurt I am? I miss them, all of them. To see that smile looking at me from across the table. Not a camera smile, a slight turning of the lips that someone makes when looking at someone they love. the one they can't hold back even to be respectable. But it's been more than a month since I'd seen that, anyway. Maybe that should have been a sign. A warning. Maybe it was when I stopped getting a hug for no reason other than that I was loved. Oh, to feel that warm body next to mine at night as I pass into sleep. Blissful sleep. Why can't I sleep?
I wish I could see my kids. Laughing and playing outside like nothing is wrong with the world. To have them rush up to me and hold my legs laughing and giggling. To have them ask a question that to me seems to have an obvious an obvious answer, and then think I'm the smartest person in the world because I can answer it. that stopped before last night too. Looking back the signs seem so obvious. Why couldn't I have seen them then? I'd have... I don't know, something. I wish that I were up now because one of them had a nightmare or heard weird noises in the walls or something. I wish I could put them to bed and go back to sleep. Sleep.
Damn fly, leave me alone!
Why did my life end? Why, why, why? Maybe my existence should end too. I should pick up some sleeping pills at the pharmacy tomorrow. Maybe I could go to a psychiatrist and get something really strong. I wonder what sleep is like when your drifting out of life. Must be peaceful. Peaceful sleep. Huunhhh.
My boss got on me today. Said I was losing my edge. What does she know? Did she ever lose everything she ever loved or cared for!? Maybe she did. Maybe she’s sat on her bed looking out her bedroom window wishing she’d been a better… whatever. I don’t even know if she’s ever been married. Who am I to condemn her? Maybe I should ask her. That might be a new beginning. Maybe that guy who works with me. Maybe he can be a beginning. Maybe if I begin something, I won’t die over the ending. Maybe then I can get some sleep.
Watching the sun crawl over the horizon, I realize, it's an end. AN. One. Not THE. That means I got a few more beginnings to get past. I'm going to sleep.

It is a sad day when an old and overworked squirrel such as this one passes away. Centuries ago, as a young rodent, this fine fellow entered the world and started up his own multinational business centre, selling cheese and whiskey to underappriciated french turtledoves. He had a monopoly in the business, and was performing exceedingly well, stocks were up and his minions worked happily and hard for him.

Out on a business venture one day, he met with a rare, red female squirrel, of course it was spring, and love was in the air. I’d say they were at it like rabbits, but as a rabbit has less than one minutes stamina im sure they were at it more like lions, 30+ times a day! They married happily, under an oak tree, with a three headed own as priest and soon enough hoards of baby squirrels were born, unfortunately some died to cats, dogs and baked potatoes but in the end, three made it through college, all with high chefs degrees and an uncontrollable butter craving.

As our hero was entering his mid years, during the Battle of Hastings, he ran into a female budgerigar. The affair started, he became shady, and hid things from his wife for the first time. Soon they were arguing, needless to say the paparazzi took interest and soon enough there were pictures of him and the budgie, gorging themselves on some unknown white creamy substance, in laundry baskets all over the British tabloids.

He then went on to get involved in an underground hampster mafia controlled series of stick insect races, which of course were crocked. He did exceedingly well at first, but one day managed to offend Don Hammy, by eating nuts in his presence. He lost all his money on the next few bets and was beaten six ways from sunday, leaving him disgraced and owner of a humiliated company.

And after numerous phone calls at 3 am, demanding to know where the gorgonzola was, his wife divorced him and ran off with the milkman. The three kids took over his business in a hostile take over bid, and threw him out onto the street.

Then, in his alcohol induced state, flashbacks of his past came to him. He remembered the war that had happened when he was a child, when squirrel armies, which his father was assigned to, went to destroy the “dragon” terrorising their community.

Even with the squirrels allies the purple lettuces, the Iguana was more than a match for them. So when the squirrels sallied forth, on their pigmy ponies, carrying their small needle shaped spears, the slaughter began. There were nuts and bits of fur everywhere when our young fellow explored the battle field for survivors, he was just in time to see his fathers brave last stand, protecting an injured lettuce general, as the Iguana mercilessly crushed him with its hind feet. Our hero fell to his knees, and called out to God to save them and unbelievably a Gecko angel shrouded in light descended from the heavens, broom in hand and slew the beast. There was rejoicing, but the squirrel could never get the memory of his fathers last, brave moments from his mind. Now they were back to haunt him, with his father blaming him for breaking the jam drinking world record.

His time in boarding school haunted him to, where he had been tortured and beaten daily, even for minor offences like sneezing when spoken to.

It was all too much for him and his sanity dwindled.

He had no option, but to sell himself out as a computer squirrel. As they were the most advanced form of computer processors in the Tudor times, he'd climb into the back of the monitor, climb onto a wooden, termite infested wheel, and run and run, until the day was up. He would be paid a lump of porridge a day (porridge being the currency at the time) though most of this went on his newly developed peanut addiction.

He'd hit rock bottom and his life was hell. Until one day, when standing on the side of the road, offering himself to all that passed by, a vampire found him and put him in a nice home where he could live a life of luxury - peanuts whenever he wanted, free internet access, as much adult material as he could imagine. It was heaven. All he did in return was to keep the vampires computer running, which he devoted himself to. He had joy in his life once again and was truly happy for the first time in years. He even became oddly friendly with the mouse at times, but that's another story.

Sadly, this great being is no longer here. May he rest in piece.

As he walked out of the club and into the pouring rain, Stiles considered what had just happened between him and “the Brit.” What did it all mean? Why did it have to be him? He had hardly enough time to think as a gray BMW swerved across three lanes toward Stiles. He dove out of the way and the BMW hit the bus stop bench behind him. As the car backed up, he screamed, “Who are you?” But this one moment would cost him his life.
The car lurched forward, zooming toward him. He jumped to avoid the car, but it clipped him by the feet. Stiles was thrown at the ground|||;his face scraping against the asphalt. The passenger door opened and a man in a dismal grey trench coat stepped out. Stiles forced himself to speak, “Did the Brit send you?”
The man looked down at Stiles, “I am afraid so.” He then continued to pull out a 9mm automatic handgun. The man pointed the gun at Stiles and commented, “No offense, but I have to make a living somehow.” Pulling the trigger, Stiles’ life had ended with, quite literally, a bang. He lay on the edge of the curb; his blood draining with the rainwater.