Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

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DO NOT DISCUSS THE CONTEST IN THIS THREAD. ALL QUESTIONS, CONCERNS AND COMMENTS GO IN THE DISCUSSION THREAD: HERE.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Welcome February 2009's Monthly Writing Contest - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Worth A Thousand Words - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

This month you will be choosing a single picture from this collection. There are 13 pictures, so make sure you use the next and back links to view them all! Write a story involving any person or animal in the story. Your story must clearly be related to who that person is in the picture. You are allowed to assume anything else. Try to use as many details from the picture as possible and create a "real" person in a "real" world in your piece.

RESTRICTIONS

1) Word Count Minimum: 800 words
2) Word Count Maximum: 4000 words
3) You must pick your character and setting from exactly one of the 13 provided pictures.

DEADLINE: MARCH 1ST, 2009; MIDNIGHT STD, EST (ie midnight between Feb 1st and Feb 2nd) (GMT -5)

PRIZES - Tom Fulp is backing our competition! Yay!

1st) $30 Newgrounds store credit and a recording of Fyndir narrating your story.

2nd) $30 Newgrounds store credit and a recording of TacticalShoe narrating your story.

(Note pending voice battle TC may replace Fyndir as first place prize. :o)

3rd) $30 Newgrounds store credit!

4th & 5th place receive honorable mentions in the winners thread.

USERS ARE WELCOME TO OFFER UP ADDITIONAL PRIZES, BUT RETAIN SOLE RESPONSIBILITY OF DISTRIBUTION. We encourage it, though again we won't be held responsible for it.

SUBMITTING

1) Post your stories in this thread.
2) Post the picture you used at the end of your story, by using the upload button.
3) Do not post revisions in this thread. They will be deleted.
4) You may submit one story only, one time. Posts will not be deleted at your demand so make sure your work is perfect before posting here.

RULES

1) Contestants may submit exactly one entry. No more. Users found trying to smart ass their way around this rule will be disqualified from this an arbitrary number of future competitions to be agreed on by the judges. (You are your alt and vice versa)

2) Users caught posting writings which they do not own will face imediate disqualification from this and any future contests. That means don't try to pass other's work off as your own, you will fail and we'll all hate you!

3) Users must submit on or before the given date. In the past allowances have been made. That won't happen this time, your entry must be in on the given date.

4) You must follow the rules of this BBS. If you have a question about whether you will be breaking them, contact a moderator.

5) HAVE A BUNCH OF FUN! OR ELSE!

GETTING REVIEWS

The judges do not HAVE to review your work and give you a detailed critique, there are too many entries in most contests for that to be a plausible option.

You have the following options none the less:

1) I highly recommend that you review someone elses work, in that way, they may return the favor. ;)

2) There is both a writing club & and writing guild in the Clubs & Crews section which is there as an open forum for writers to post their work.

3) PM the specific person you would like to review your work and hope they will.

4) Post a link to a newspost on your user page which contains your story again, in either the discussion thread or at the end of your official submission in this thread.

JUDGING

If you'd like to judge, feel free to volunteer by pming gumOnShoe. You must of course be well versed in writing and reading and judging fictional works. If you are still in your early years of high school, its probably better to wait a while and get your writing up to snuff. Judges can't be in it for the prizes, so its best if you participate by writing entries.

If you really want to be a judge and haven't been accepted yet, the best way to be noticed as a good candidate is to review your fellow writer's works for them. Let them know how they can improve, what their weaknesses are, and what you enjoyed in a respectful well put way and you'll be one step closer to judging in the future.

Judges for this competion are:

gumOnShoe
WritersBlock
Fyndir
36Holla

I could use one more judge, contact me and we'll see if you're up to it.

FINAL SUGGESTIONS

Revise your stories! Edit your stories! Make sure that whatever you submit is perfect to your standards. Grammar mistakes and misspelled words detract from the enjoyability of your story. Make sure you don't lose points for something you could have easily fixed with a little more effort.

And of course, again, have fun with this! Good luck to everyone. :D

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Sally and the Ride (I'm not a good title maker)

Sally was coming out of the hospital. She couldn't remember anything-why she was so randomely in the West, why she heard so many men call her a "hoe-bag", and even her name! She was just wandering the open field. Alone... all alone.
The only thing she remembered is the word "amnesia". She heard her doctor say it about her. But of course, she didn't know what "amnesia" was. So that's why she was wandering the open plain. To find an explanation for what was going on, and why it was happening.
She went inside a building. It had a bunch of men drinking bottles marked "XXX" on them. She went up to one of the men. He was an old man (probably in his 50's), drinking some liquid out of his bottle marked "XXX". So she asked,
"Excuse me, sir. I'm kinda lost here. I was wondering... what does the word 'amnesia' mean?"
"Why'd you like to know, whore?" he said. Due to the wierd pitch of his voice, he was obviously drunk. Then for no reason, he spit on her.
"Well why the hell did you do that? I wasn't causing any trouble!" Sally responded.
"Fine," the man said, "I apologize. Let me explain. Well, you have amnesia. Amnesia is a disease where you temporarily forget everything that happened to you." The man took a large belch. "I'm kinda wasted here, so I can't explain your life, but let me point out 3 things. One, you're Sally Thrustmore. Two, everyone here hates you for being a whore-"
"Why do you all think I'm a whore?" Sally inturrupted.
"Isn't it obvious? Why, you've slept with everyone here!" He responded. "Now don't inturrupt me, you bitch. And the third thing, is watch out for the man... with the red bandana over his mouth."
"Well why do I have to do that?" Sally asked. "Well," the man said, but then he was inturrupted.
A man walked in the building. He had sweating, rippling biceps. His hair was slowly blowing in the breeze. But what got Sally's attention was what was on his face-a red bandana, right where his mouth was. He began to talk, in a muffled up voice, pointing at Sally.
"Hey you! You stupid whore, I thought I got rid of you two days ago, when I 'accidentally' threw that rock onto your head!" He began to approach her, and quickly grabbed her. She was begging and pleading to be free, but every time she pleaded he punched her in the face, and told her to shut up.
One time he punched her so hard she fainted. By the time she woke up, nobody was around. All she could see were metal train tracks under her feet. Then suddenly, she heard a faint noise. She heard it again, this time louder. CHOO CHOO! Remember, Sally had amnesia, so she didn't quite remember what that sound was for the moment. It was getting louder and louder, and now two very bright lights were pointing directly in her eyes. The big machine was very close, and suddenly, CRASH!
No, that crash wasn't the sound of a train hitting Sally in the face. It was the sound of the train stopping suddenly. But it didn't stop for Sally (the train driver also agreed that Sally was a bitch, and he was happy to run over her). It stopped for the best man in town, Jim Furgeston.
Jim quickly grabbed Sally's hand, and ran far away, to a small hole.
"Ok," Jim began to say, "I know you don't know me. Well actually, you don't remember me. But I'm Jim, your cousin. And let me tell you why people are calling you a bitch, and why that mean man with the red bandana dragged you to these train tracks all the way out of town. See, you've slept with a lot of men before you were here, ok? Well, you were dating the man with the bandana, and he walked in on you sleeping with another man! So he threw a big rock at your head, vowed that you would rue the day, and left you bleeding in the man's house. Well, he saw you in that there bar, and quickly punched you in the face, kidnapped you, and put you to die on these trAAHHHHH!!!"
Jim, motionless, fell to the floor, clutching sand in his hands. He fell on his stomach, and there was a knife in his back! Behind Jim was another man. Wearing a bandana.
"Ok, whore." The man with the bandana said, "I think this is the final time I'll have to... get rid of you." He grabbed her and threw her to the floor. Sally, bleeding, reached into her handbag. A tumbleweed blew by in the backround, while Sally reached in her bag to get-A GUN!
"Now Sal," He began to say, "You don't wanna do that."
Sally began to talk, "Yes I do. From what Jim told me, you ruined my life. You attempted to kill me twice, and made everyone hate me! Wait... it's all coming back to me! I remember everything! I'm Sally, and you're Wilson! And this is payback!"
A gunshot was heard. The animals all fled. So did the people. And the train driver. Well, to make a long story short, Sally shot Wilson, and he was dead.
Sally dropped her gun. She started crying, but then grabbed the gun again, walked to the train tracks, and-
BOOM. Another noise was heard. The yelling of a woman, with blood all over her heart area. She killed herself, to stop the pain in her life. Wilson and Sally lied there, dead. Blood pools below them. The townsfolk found the bodies and had a proper funeral, before burning the bodies. And everything in the town quickly returned to normal. Cause it was the end.

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The four radiant, featureless bodies gathered around the base of a statue, a comatose stony figure, said to resemble a godly figure, shadowing the streets of Houston, as they prepared for the devastation they were about to commit upon society. They were strong upholders of the Pastafarian religion. Their flying spaghetti monster was in distress.

They could sense it in them. The religions of the world ridiculed them, then and there, and as long as the religion had existed. Life treated the Pastafarian sect as a joke, nothing other than a silly cult of immaculate Satanists.

The four figures covered themselves with rich, vibrant plaster to escape the irksome grip of sectarianism against their beloved creed. They held dark automatic weapons in their arms, and they turned their sights towards the Lakewood Church. Their anger of the worthless, imbecilic Christian faith, and the Christian's displays of utter hypocrisy charged them up for a massacre. They would gratify their lord, the hated, underappreciated monster of spaghetti whom was ridiculed and mocked.

A man covered entirely with yellow plaster began to utter instructions. Two men, one coated in red, and another coated in blue, turned to listen.

Yellow began to speak, "Our plan is to infiltrate the side entrance of the Church during the Lord's prayer. We should catch them off guard..."

Yellow paused in a meditative stance of thought. "... and make our religion better... known, whether we travel down the slide of infamy, or climb the ladder of eternal grace. We are sick of being mocked. Our sect is sick of being mocked. If Scientology can be a religion, so can we."

Red chimed in, "Green went to scout for side entrances. He should be back shortly. So our plan is to interfere with their most holy moment of confession? Would this not cause great devastation? Would this instead cause us to be hated? Ridiculed even further?"

Blue began to speak, "This is the payback they have been deserving since the holy roman times. The Christian faith has caused many wars, the crusades for example. lives were lost to reclaim a holy area shared by multiple religions. Does this drive you to any sensible conclusions about the Spaghetti-forsaken religion? What has to be done, has to be done."

"A conclusion any intelligent man would seek. sadly, intelligence is not entirely what we are dealing with? Is it not? Is it true that missionaries are God's work? Does this imply that religious propaganda is God's work? By all means, it certainly does," Yellow began to state, "and is it not true that many Christians are opposed to propaganda? Is propaganda not stealing faith, and affinity from another conforming society? Is this not what many christens have spoken out against other religions?

"I see your point there," began Red, "yet the Christian faith is huge! This Church alone has over forty thousand members. That's a higher number than every believer of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. The ratio is unjust."
Yellow, about to speak, was interrupted by the return of Green, who happened to have returned inside of a overwhelmingly armored truck, filled with countless tools of destruction.

"You have arrived, and you have brought-" said Red.

"The Instruments," began Green. "This... this is a violin, the gentle, soothing sounds of the freshly rosined bow, rubbing against the smooth, shining metal strings, producing a beautiful high tone, but only to be possessed by the highly skilled artisans."

Green promptly removed a Mac-10 from his dangerous truck.

"This... is a Cello. The deep, mellow sound of the springs resonates in the large, brilliantly carved chamber, only to immerse as a low, heart pounding sound, capable of attracting listeners to its immaculate harmonies." said Green as he removed a Colt M4A1 Carbine.

"This... is a bass clarinet. The notes are sharp, and the octaves smooth. The instrument not only looks good but plays well. It's a wild beat waiting to be tamed..." said Green, as he pulled out an FN P90.

"And finally, we have my precious instrument, a French Horn. The tones are loud and exasperating. The shrill noise of the sound waves can only be settled by an expert behind the mouthpiece."

Green slowly pulled out Vulcan gun, with long belts of ammunition hanging closely towards the dangerous-looking weapon.

"Let the Symphony begin" stated Blue.

"Ah, I do believe we are actually but a quartet." said Green.

"The way we'll be playing our instruments, people will think that we are the London Philharmonic."

Green let out a slight chuckle, but quickly recovered to his mysterious state of mind.

The quartet slowly began their walk towards the Stadium of a church, quietly passing the front door. After a few moments of scanning, Red spotted the side door. he heard a choir begin to sing.

"What horrible voices those singers have! I'll be glad to add a few musical instruments to help out their pitch." said Yellow.

After a painful hymn, the Choir quickly settled down, and the Lector began to lead the congregation in prayer. The quartet opened the door, readied their weapons, and took aim.

The lector began, "Our Father, Who Art in Heaven..."

"I've always laughed in the face of danger. This is what Pastafarianism is all about, Isn't it?" Stated Blue.

"No," said Yellow, "Our religion involved worship all the same, but not ridicule. This is our mission, we are the fire extinguishers of the unholy flame."

"Hallowed be thy name..."

"Will we get caught? Or shot by police?" Started Red.

"Of course, unless we escape," said yellow. "We'll just see as time unfolds"
"Thy kingdom come..."

"I'm ready for anything that's about to happen" said Blue.

"Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven"

"Yes. We are all ready to satisfy our lord." said Green.

"Give us this day, our daily bread, And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us"

"Get on with it already!" said Red, impatiently.

"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil..."

"Are we the evil ones?" asked Red. nobody answered.

"For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen"

Yellow, Blue, Green, and Red all readied their weapons and burst open the door, shooting wildly into the crowd. Blood gushed from the bleachers. People phoned for the police, people ran, screamed, and cried. Countless lives were being lost, in the battle of religion.

Blue finally shouted at the top of his lungs, "Amen, motherfuckers!"

===End of story===

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Texan Haven

Out there on the trail, life is a tad diffrent than that on a ranch. Sure you still get up early, and depending on where your at at the time breakfast is the same; but instead of herding cows, you just ride. You just follow a dirt line all day, everyday until you hit a town. You buy some food, you hear the gossip, then you ride out and repeat. Course, every now and then you got to throw in a little work to earn a bit of coin, but for the most part your just a wanderer, no more, no less. I didnt like it. I wanted something to break up the monotony, and boy did I get it.

I rode into this small Texas town by the name of Haven, on account of the small body of water near the town that made this stretch of road passable. It could barely be called a town at all really. I mean it did have all that a traveler could ask for, in a basic sence. It had a general store, and by it was the blacksmith with a stable for the horses. It had a saloon, with the sounds of a few card games singing into the street. It had a church of course and along with the houses it had a hotel. It wasnt much, but after two weeks of travel, I didnt care. It seemed like a nice place, but I knew it was only this was only beginning. Towns like this on roads like the one I came on never stayed small. For some, the trail broke em and they gave up their travels and settled down. Others just saw that this was the only route to go from town A to town B and capitalized on the whole deal. And lastly, as was about to be my case, people stayed cause they just got caught up in something a whole hell of alot bigger then them and couldn't escape.

So I led my horse to the hitching pole outside the hotel and tied Mary, my appaloosa, to her and walked in. As I thought, it wasnt much, but it was enough. I went up to the ledger, signed my name, payed my due, got my key and went back out. This is when the trouble began. As I walked out, I saw there were three new characters I hadnt seen on the way in, and all of them just had that air about them. It wasnt that they looked like bad men, but they just felt the same to me as the cattle rustlers I had caught during my time on a ranch. And they were all looking at me, hands palming their guns. This was all out of the corner of my eye, which is not to say that I am by any means a gunfighter always on edge; but I have been in a few towns and gotten into a few scraps and this scrap looked to be a bad one.

So I acted casual, as if I hadnt noticed and went over to my horse acting like I was going to pull my bed roll off, when in reality I had loosened my winchester rifle from its scabbard just so when I went to the other side of Mary, I could swing her out nice and easy. As I had thought, they had tried to sneak up on me while my back was turned, and were really surprised to be looking down the barrel of my gun.

"Can I help you three?" I asked them, as was my right in this situation. They just looked at me with their brows drawn down into an angry stare, their lips had a slight curl, and the one on the right had gripped his gun, but he looked young so I didnt fear him hitting me on the fast draw. What did worry me was the guy in the middle; he looked like a seasoned fighter. Luckily for me, he had his hand away from his gun, same goes for the man on his right, course he looked young too, so I cant really say that I was relieved at that, it didnt bother me at all.

"Well you see mistah, couple o days ago Johnny boy here was ridin around, mindin his own, when a man comes out of nowhere an drygultchs him. Lukily my boy 'ere is a fightah and we were able ta find him in time. His horse look a lot like yaws." The man in the middle said, incating his drygultched friend was the young one trying to fast draw on me. The only thing that tipped me off that I was being distracted were his eyes. He looked over my shoulder, for just a second and then back to me. As Ive said before, Im not gunfighter, but I know what not to do in a battle. If you know a man is coming up behind you and you have three men infront of you, the best thing is to threaten your way out. Turning around and killing the one behind you puts you at risk of the three drawing on you from behind, fast or not. Threatening to kill one of the men in front at least gives you a chance to call it off. It only backfires if none of the men in the group is the leader of the thieves, cause the leader doesnt care.

"Well now, you could kill me right here and now" I said over my shoulder "But before I die, I can take one of these men with me. Maybe young guns over here, he'd die anyway from fighting the wrong man. Maybe the head honcho of this group, this far west Im sure the Irish have forgotten him by now. Or maybe the one on his right? He looks like he can think for himself, could be dangerous. Who knows who I take down." I said leveling my gun at the man who I thought led them at the end of my speech. I heard laughter from behind me and knew my assumption had been wrong, and this was about to backfire on me. I took aim though, right in the center of the irishman's head and...

"BAM! A shot rang out of nowhere. It caught the man behind your grandfather right in the hand, knocking away the gun. Thinking he had been shot, your grandfather shot straight at the Irishman and took him down. He moved onto the next one as if he were a pro, ot realizing he hadnt been shot at all, and killed the man he thought was going to draw on him, ending the gun battle by taking out the last man. Three black suited men lay dead on the streets and their leader wounded, but the trouble had only begun for your grandpappy."

As soon as the last man had been struck down, I turned to find my savior. As the final body had begun to fall, I realized I wasnt hit at all, seeing as I was still alive, but who would save a stranger?

"Eli, Eli, Eli." A low voice said slowly off to my side, "What am I going to do with you? This is what, the fifth crew you lost now? How many more men have to die for you to stay in Yuma?"

"It aint the judges fault, Guards are scared of me is all." the man behind me, Eli, replied. "What about you, last time I saw you, you were playing the hero in Deadwood."

"Got a bit too much for me. Hickok went up there for gold, and I was only a vigilante at best, so I figured the town would be safe enough in the hands of proper law and I left. Come on, you know the drill." So Eli walked passed me to what appeared to be the towns jail. I had mistaken it for a house, but it came to me as no surprise that I could, place was so damned small. My savior walked into my field of vision and merely looked my way to nod his head over and he continued on his way. I had nuthin better to do so I followed. When I got there, Eli had already been locked up in one of the two cells and the sheriff was at his desk just sitting down.

"Well thank you sir, for saving me back there. I thought myself dead." I told the man, and it was true. Plus a little bit of praise never hurt anybody wearing a badge. I was looking to go to my room and get some sleep and head out at first light, not to get stuck here for a few days being asked if I knew this man, why would he be after me, of all the people in this town. So on and so forth. Didnt appeal to me, so I knew I had to grease the wheels fast before they got to rolling and got stuck.

"No thanks needed. Its you who should be praised. Not many men try to extort their way out, and even fewer actually stay to make good on a promise. You got guts, no lie." He held out his hand to me and I took it. "Names Henderson, Bill Henderson. What can I call you stranger?"

"They call me John. John Fairiday." I replied.

"So John, what brings ya down here?" The sheriff asked. Here we go.

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(continued from above)

"I was a rancher from up north, got a bit tired of the life so after the season was done, I shipped down to colorado and have been riding the trails to here. Just stopped to rest because your the first town I seen in a couple of weeks."

"Well John, Im almighty sorry this happened to you in my town, but Im glad you came out of it alright. John, can I ask you something?"

"Might as well, I owe you one"

"I take it youve been around to see town rise... and fall?" he asked

"Yessir. Seen a few in my time"

"Well Im afraid its going to happen here. Wells Fargo wants to establish a route from one of the minor mining towns through here and straight into the heart of kansas to get to the railroad. They got all the stops assigned, and the only thing that was stopping them was that this place, didnt exist. Now it does, and they want in. This route planning is so far in the works that once this town takes on an office, it will be weeks till we see a shipment. Let that sink in a bit and tell me what you think" So I did.I thought about for a bit; and then it hit me.

"Theres a shipment already ready to go." I said, more to myself then him.

"Almost ready. While they were setting up this route, they figured out a longer and costlier way to get it to the main line. They cant trust these split offs anymore it seems, getting robbed to much. Least down this way they are. So in light of this, I have tried to raise up some friends of mine to come down and help with the booming crowd that will flood this town. We need to establish dominance and law early or risk it falling to anarchy and falling as some new towns do. He wont get here for another month and Im hard pressed to find a man to hold down the fort while he gets here. I
think Ive found it in you. What do you say? I know its sudden an all but were talking weeks here and your the best option Ive had is you."

"Well... uhhhh sure." I replied, caught of guard by the question. I didnt really want to do it, but what other choice did this sheriff have? I might as well stick around.

"And so your grandfather took the job, and killed lots of bad men and lived a fulfilling life, the end." The father said, finishing the story and smiling at his son.

"But daddy, you said the trouble only just began!" His son replied

"Thats where lots of bad men came in son. Didnt you understand that?" The father retorted, grinning away to know he was only fooling.

"Well tell me more bout the bad men!" His son demanded of him

"Ok, ok, ok. So anyhow. Things went well for the first couple of months. It was the ones after that that things got hairy. Bill and your grandfather kept the peace as best they could, but it seems word got out near and far and soon the own was over run by new people. It wasnt that they were after the gold, well most werent, but rather old gold roots became trade roots to other towns, and you had to get in quick else you were thrown to the side by the bigger players. So the town of maybe sixty and jumped up to ten thousand, and up in months.Your grandfather stayed on even though his month was up and the new guy was in, he was a good man like that. So the three of them were able to hold the law down for awhile, even after problems started up. But sadly, not all stories are ones with the best of endings. A band of misfits had come into the town and started stealing and looting and shooting. The three sheriffs did all they could to stop em, but they always were one step ahead of them. It finally came to a head when they raped and killed one of the origial settlers. So the three of them tracked down the gange to a saloon, and..."

The guns went off right away. People were smart enough to get out of there when they saw us walking down, so all that should have been left were gang members. And they were. We didnt even try to bring them in, we just opened up. Bill had out dual colts and his friend Julias was on the 8-gauge while I just kept pumping my Carbine away. As soon as we were through the door we spread out and took cover. Our entrance gave us that time, but in hiding they took their cues. There were twelve of them and in our entrance we had gotten five. Three hid behind the bar and the other four behind various tables, which wasnt the best idea given the 8 gauge. Julias blew right through them as if cutting butter with a hot knife. In doing so though, he left himself open and the three behind the bar struck. They hit him in the shoulder and leg, taking him out of this fight. We managed to get him behind cover before a more fatal sot could be dealt.

"Enough is enough, Im finishing this" I cried, for I had been growing weary with this gang. The long nights, the early mornings, the constant in flow of crime reports. I was done. I wasnt suicidal by any means, but I was through with their crap.

So I took up Julias's shotgun, loaded it and clicked back both barrels and got it set up to shoot from my hip. It would tear my left arm to shreds, but it would keep em down long enough for me to get my left hand back and ready. I had to hold my Carbine so i could actually use the time givin to me by the shotgun. I stood, I fired, they ducked. One was slow on the uptake and got hit straight in the face, leaving only two. The force shot my left back and was enough to pop my shoulder out of place. I cried out in pain and dropped to my knee, also dropping the Carbine out of instinct, not smarts.

"John!" Bill cried out, shooting up from cover to run over to me, firing his pistols away as the men came up. They fired as he fired, and my world slowed down. Everything around me moved so slow, I actually saw the bullet hit Bill in the chest, saw the air it displaced. The same could be said of the last two gang memebers I suppose, I wasnt looking, I was horrified that my new found friend, the one whose marriage I was at, had been shot. I cried out to him...

"But it wasnt going to do any good. Bill was dead. With Julias wounded, on the verge of death, your grandfather had to act quick. He made sure the last two men were dead and then ran out into the street and cried for a doctor. He was able to save Julias, but as I said, Bill was dead. It hurt your grandfather quite a bit, but he was able to work though it. He stayed sheriffing that town till the day of his death. He didnt want to throw away all the hard work and the sacrifices. And everytime things got quiet and he could take a few days, he took the train to pennslyvania, where Bills next of kin were, and made camp near where they buried his friend. Just secluded woodland, a havan. A Texan havan. Good night son." His father said, kissing his son on the forehead and walking out. Closing the door behind him as he went.

---

Its so hard to concentrate. I can feel strange breath on my neck and it draws me in like an aromatic meal served to a starving man, yet I am no man. The breath belongs not to that of another, but to the night breeze. I feel so free to stretch my wings, but my soul is heavy from an all too short and somehow all too long life. Theres something unfamiliar calling to me, and I want so badly to listen....
" A chance, just a chance," It calls to me, with an almost pathetic yearning.I shouldnt listen ,it feels bad almost menacing." Don't you want to try it? To be one of them?"the unfamiliar voice beckoned. These words would have brought tears to my eyes, if only I could cry.How did this voice know my deepest desires? Is it my own mind?
"I can give that to you a chance,I can switch you with one of them.Arent you tired of being a bug?"the voice now whooped and whirred as it became one with the wind.This was true. My whole life I have felt meaningless as if I didn't exsist. Just a worthless moth.I have longed to be one of them for a lifespan. My lifespan.. With thier carefree lives ,and thier happy faces. What would it be like? I could do anything I wanted ,roam the earth or finally feel true pleasure.Could it really happen? Could this mysterious.... whatever it is..... truly give me what my heart has begged for?
"I can, and I will,"It whispered. It could hear my thoughts,and it could taste my soul.I could no longer question it, I simply know, this is real.
"Who would I be?" my mind asked.
"Anyone you want, but does it really matter?"the wind replied. The voice was right. I didnt care who I was ,as long as I was human and it was real. I looked below me and saw a boy playing in his grassy dimly lit backyard. He played in the warm night air, his giggles echoing in my mind.This boy had the world in front of him and I could have it.
"I want him. I want that life."The wind screamed in response and the deed was done. I could feel the cool grass beneath my feet.I laughed out loud, startling myself with the sound of my own voice. MY VOICE! My head and my heart were racing out of control, spinning as I tried to get a grasp on what to do first. Oooo a light......

---

It's amazing how something so simple as a candle, that flickering glow of hot light on the end of a wax stick can change your whole perception of life. I remember as a child, I would come downstairs at night and stare at it. How the light flickered and the air seemed to bend around it, drawing me in was a feeling like no other. It was calming, it was soothing, yet it was also the most invigorating experience of my life. Without that simple candle, would I be who I am today? Stop right there. You're probably wondering the most obvious question. Just exactly who am I today?

There is nothing but the candle. The source of light illuminating the darkest of rooms and the dirty truths that they hold. This particular room held the ghosts of reality of my dead sister. The cliché portrait of an abusive stepfather might seem appropriate right about now. Of course it would, that's what they thought too. Third degree burns and melted wax paved over her once beautiful face left a mark. This mark could not be wiped clean; nothing could reclaim a soul from the dead. The neighbours who were under the assumption that my stepfather was a loving and caring man, even to children who weren't his, were dumbfounded. They talked, that's how it is in society. Over time, they came to accept him as an abusive murderer. Oh how my mother wept at this. She was missing a daughter and a husband.

What about me? Am I just a worthless leftover? Am I the remainder in a sum that doesn't give the desired answer?

Fire represents anger; fire represents the burning passion to get what you desire. What do I desire? I don't desire anymore, when I did, I desired to be the centre of attention. How do you think it felt when my father left us? One less person to crave my company. How do you think it felt when my sister and stepfather grew closer than either of us ever did? She deserved what she got; she was a foul and miserable little witch that took what didn't belong to her. They were my family first. It looks like you now have an insight as to what I was capable of; yes it was me who killed my sister. You saw it coming and she had it coming, although much credit goes to my stepfather for confessing to the crime and sparing me the chance of my passion dying out as I rotted in an institution. With one death, I've never felt so alive. Isn't it astounding?

I couldn't just stop there and then; I wanted to feel the rush one more time. I wanted my blood to pump through my veins and fill me with the feeling I got the first time I sat on the floor and stared into the heart of the flame. Who am I? I'm a slave to my addiction; I'm doomed to fall by my own hand. Nothing sounds more appealing than burning in hell though, I'm sure you can see why. Ten years old and the town are terrified of me, the joke is that they've yet to realise it. I am the addict and fire is my heroin. The press will get a kick out of this.

Bush, tree, car home, motel, hotel. Safe? Not likely. They're all the same to me. When you stare down the barrel of a gun do you check to see what type of gun it is? Just think about that.

I am sixteen years old and I desire it like nothing should dare be desired. Mother? Long gone. Please, you know what I'm capable of. She paid no attention to me, which was all I'd ever wanted. Now look at me! Who needs attention? Those days are long gone and I'm complete. Education? Not anymore. Orphanage? Cinders.

The ultimate statement. Scattering the ashes of the American flag across the town as they flow from the pillar of smoke. The top of the town hall smells like my stepfather's garage did when he worked for the oil company, such a putrid smell. Strike a match and watch it flicker just for a second. Staring over the edge for a split second I see the police closing in, maybe I shouldn't have set the ground floor on fire first. It's an honest mistake, besides, a little escapism from the harsh realm of reality won't be so bad. You may call this remorse for the damage I have caused, I call it enlightenment. I've achieved all that is possible in this world and all that is left is to leave in a puff of smoke. Perhaps more literally than you'd think. The irony of it all is that fire was my one source of happiness and at this very moment, there's a trace of fear in the back of my mind. There's no turning back now, down goes the match. This is my story, a story that can be told simply by staring into the heart of a burning candle.

---

Coffee-Nothing More Than a Cup.

He walks in ever so slowly today. Doesn't know why, but notices it. Just a little thing out of place.

Time seems to slow down for him, nothing more. The early morning rush hasn't hit him yet. The traffic hurries behind, as the cars move in opposite motions, the aura of the morning commute.

The shop is empty, the way he likes it. No one to talk to, no one to disturb his morning ritual of waking up slowly to coffee and the newspaper.

Signaling the cashier, he makes his way to the table. HIS table. The one he's been sitting at for several years now. The table. A piece of wood that holds so much. A table. A stand for his coffee and his newspaper. Just a table.

Making himself comfortable in his seat, he cracks open the daily fish wrap. Headlines boldly claim the economy crisis, war, local murders, politics, and other head turning phrases. Yet he remains expressionless, for the coffee hasn't come yet.

Ah, his coffee. The pinnacle of the dawning prayer to the gods of good days and hard work. The black liquid that jump starts his day. The Devil's drink, sure to drag all into its addiction.

The elder waitress comes and sets down his cup on a saucer. The wrinkles show her age, yet her age shows her knowledge, especially of this particular customer. She knows better to disturb him, for his business is valuable to the tiny Mom and Pop shop.

At this point in his day the sun's rays break through the window, causing him to immediately imbibe the warm refreshment. He picks up his freshly bought daily, hoping to recapture yesterday's news.

On a normal day he would quickly finish his drink, leave the tab on the table and go on with his busy day. Yet today he realizes he does not need to depart quickly, since today he has off.
Today, he decides, is a day of thinking. Not thinking about the future, but about now.

Sure enough his mind ponders his life, a long and boring clichéd monotone. It's repulsing, disgusting, and he soon becomes angry at himself. He is not the world.

The coffee steams, causing humid air around him. Noticing the newly found temperature, he picks up the cup and glares at it.

His awareness tells him this is the first time he has actually seen the cup. How intimate are the design, flowers flowing from one end of the round ceramic to another. The roses on the flowers are fading, as he realizes he has been served the same cup for years and he has not noticed it.

His eyes ponder over to the black fluid inside the cup. That coffee. HIS coffee. But is it his? Has he paid for it? No. Did he grow it? No. Did he roast it? No. Did he grind it? No. Did he drip it? No. Yet he is drinking it, taking from others what should be theirs.

He swirls the cup, watching how the foam bubbles move and suddenly pop. Such is life, he ponders. We swirl around, waiting for our time, and when we think we are ready, we pop. How melodramatic.

But what is life? Are we here purpose? Are we here for a reason? Why can't it be clear? His mind ponders the endless unanswerable questions.

The waitress looks over at him. He realizes his hands have been shaking. He should probably stop, but the mind isn't ready to stop questioning yet.

He takes a sip to tries to relax. Unlike earlier, he tries to enjoy it.

The warmth. Ah, the warmth it brings to him. It seeps down for his throat and into the stomach, spreading the warmth. It reminds him of happy times, when as a child he slides down snow in his sled only to hear his mother calling him to come in to a warm fire and hot cocoa. Or of the time both he and his buddies went up to the slopes for a fun time boarding. Or of the time he and his girlfriend went on their first vacation together.

But now is not one of these times. Is he happy now? No. Is this a comforting place? He stares around the shop, suddenly foreign in his surroundings. How odd. How unusual. Such a mundane place, where he always goes, now off in a little way. He answers his own question. No. Is this a fun time? He notes he is alone, not another decent human being to talk to. The waiter has gone out back. Even if she was here, he has never talked long to her. He knows nothing of hr life, and neither does she know about his. They have rarely exchanged words, yet he thinks he knows her. In reality, he does not.

This is not a fun time. Is he in love? His relationship is on hold. His girlfriend told him they needed some time apart, in respond he simply nodded and muttered "Sure." The words still chime in his ears.

Agreement. He wasn't even paying attention. He was more focused on his work at the time. Peh. His work. Work is so important, he says mockingly to himself. A way to get a better life. Heh. Even he has to laugh at himself.

The self hate in himself builds up. He has ignored all aspects of life, from his personal relationship to even his friends. Heh. His friends. He notes they have left him, leaving for a more exciting person, not one who wanted to settle down. That was year's ago. What happened? Who are his friends now? His coworkers? They hardly pay attention. His girlfriend? She's off somewhere, probably flirting with another more suitable guy. His boss? Too busy. His neighbors? Never meet them, too busy with work.

Why has he abandoned his life? He used to be a fun loving guy. What happened?

Again he realized he is shaking, and the waitress is starring at him, puzzled.

Settle down and get your thoughts in a row, he tells himself. The china moves back on the table. Just another piece of wood to serve a simple function.

But what is this function, he asks himself? Is it to serve me as a place to put down things? Or to serve as decoration? Are we all here for a simple function, when we are confused of what we need to be? Are we simply carved to match what a customer needs? Are we all merely supplies in a capitalistic market?

Furthermore, what has happened to individuality? Are we now simply machines in a world demanding of us to act like the machines? Are we slowly turning into each other, with no means of breaking out?

He stares outside to the now busy street, people hurrying to their jobs. Not once, he notices, does someone look up and look back at them. They are too busy, consumed with their lies, no wait, lives, he corrects, but declines. It is a lie, life. We are told we have a purpose, but what is the purpose? How can we have a purpose if we don't know what it is? Does the world actually care about us? His mind races thought, flowing miles per hours in his head.

DOES THE WORLD CARE ABOUT US, his mind screams. A little voice, perhaps, his subconscious, in a tiny squeaky voice, says no. NO, the rest of his mind yells, NO? I AM IMMPORTANT! I AM A HUMAN BEING! I SHOULD BE RESPECTED AND REMEMBERED, FOR I HAVE DONE GREAT THINGS!

The little voice grows louder. Really? Like what?

I PASSED COLLEGE! I HAVE A GOOD JOB!

Oh, is that so? Is that worth being known for?

WELL, NO......and the dominating voice disappears. He shakes violently again, this time so hard the waitress comes over and asks him if he is all right.

He responds yes and that he'll be fine, and she walks away. Hm. This is the first time he has actually had a decent conversation with her. Wow. Another human being actually cares about him. How odd, this connection with other otherwise irrelevant person in his life. Why does she care? He is not related to her. What will happen if he died?

---

(continued)

Well, he thinks to himself, she would have one less customer. Not too bad. But wait, there's more, he begins to realize. People might hear someone died in her store, perhaps leading to rumors that her coffee is poisoned. The rumors might prompt a heath inspector to come, and the clean bill of health may not pass. She will no longer be able to operate her business, leaving her source of income to disappear. She might have to find another job, which she might not get. She can no longer live in her apartment. Suppose she has no family to take her in? She might have to live on the street? What if she catches a disease while living on the streets? She might need to go to the hospital. But who will pay the bills? She doesn't have money; she might not have any relatives close enough to help. She might die altogether poor, homeless, and lonely. Why? Because he died right there, today, in her coffee shop.

How grim, he notes. How can the human mind come up with such a scenario? So depressing, yet so amazing. We can think of terrible things that can happen to us with a bit of bad luck and coincidence. Yet since the human mind is so powerful, why can't it see what is really ahead of us? How we are trapped by society? Are we blinded by our own ignorance?

He goes back and continues to stare out the window of the shop. Still, no in else looks up to him and makes eye contact, leaving him to remain lonely in his own thoughts. But a stroller rolls by, mother oblivious to the world, talking on her cell phone. But it is the child in the stroller that strikes him the most.

The kid can't be more than 5. Brown hair, blues eyes, soon to be cool guy of his high school. The pale eyes meet his, and the boy continues to stare until his mother pushes him by. The poor guy. The poor children of the world. They have to grow up and become part of this machine, taught by society to ignore all possible signs. Their innocence, pride, taken away. By whom? By us. How sad. He is part of it too, reinforcing the lesson taught by the world, having to act, speak, LIVE a certain way. Too cruel.

His existence. That is his question. Why. Why oh why him? HIM? He exists for no reason. Just a random life. There is no purpose. Just sperm meeting an egg, producing him. All of his life condensed into a microscopic level. How simplistic, life is. Yet people try to make a mountain out of a molehill, thinking we all have a purpose. If we really have a purpose, then it only is to reproduce strong offspring into the world. But we don't view the world on such simplistic Darwinism terms.

A black GT rolls up next to the shop. He hears the loud motor turn off, and a man in a dark suit and sunglasses steps out and enters the coffee shop. The suit orders mocha and sits down next to him. Ignoring the sunglasses clad man, he goes on in his deep thoughts.

Then what do we have to look for? Death, really. Nothing else. What about hope? A politician recently used hope as a slogan to propel his way to victory, as he voted for him. But what is hope? Something that gives us false illusion that something good will happen. Will it happen? Who knows? But in reality, it probably hurts us more then it helps.

Death. What a concept. The end. The final page. A point where nothing comes back. Yet it is there. Nothingness. He ponders, what is it like to die? To become lifeless, to go to a point of no returning. To go to a place of no returning, where nothing happens? Will his be painless? Will he never see it coming? Will he'll know and ask to die earlier? Could he possibly come back? Will he remember his previous life? Will he have any regrets?

Regrets. The self hate of his life. What he has never done. Climb up Everest. Write a novel. Marry, and have children. Have a fun time. Make the best out of the situation. He has accomplished nothing. Nothing, because he doesn't have time.

Time. Meaningless concept. Something the people of the world measure their lives by. But measuring, what is the purpose of it? To prove one person is better than another? How immature, thinking one person is better by an unfair measure. Maybe one didn't have the right luck.
Then what is he doing, simply sitting there in the shop? He needs to get out. Do something with his life. He has no time to waste. He could die the next second, for what he knows.
He takes out his wallet and places the amount due on the table. He gets out of his chair and heads for the door. The man behind him follows, and the two exit to the street. The dark suited man asks him to come and get in his car, for it is his time. A license plate reading 1COR1526 tells him the story.

No. Too soon. Why, why me, he thinks. But it doesn't matter know. The pair gets in the car, and it drives off into a dark tunnel.

The same car never gets out of the tunnel.

All that remains of him ever existing is the coffee cup. Just a cup. Nothing more than a cup.

---

~FOR JONNY~

As with every year, Paul, Simon, Peter, Wendy and Jacob set up their equipment and were getting ready to play their gig they come out to do every year at the Community Fest at Northern Park. Paul, lead singer and guitarist put togther a great band he hoped would make it big some day. He was friends with Simon and Peter, brothers, who both played sax and played at night clubs for extra money and thought they would help make a great start and would give some recognition to the band at the local scenes.

Simon was the one who knew Wendy, another sax player who was trying to get some gigs and introduced her to Paul. Paul thought that having three sax players might be too much but after some convincing by Simon, he heard her play and was amazed. She also solidified her spot by letting Paul know that she was friends with Jacob and that she thought his sound would be perfect for the band.

Paul knew that he was one his way to getting his band together but felt he needed one more piece to the puzzle. At practices, everyone sounded great, but Paul knew that something was missing and he was getting worried. He called a group meeting to discuss everything and how he felt. Peter said that he thought that they could use some percussion and it was funny that this was all brought up as he had passed thru Northern Park and there was someone there that was drumming on some home made drums, but that the sound was fantastic.

The next day, Peter took Paul to where he came across the man they would come to know as "Jonny". Paul asked Jonny to play something for him and to try to keep it to smooth jazz like and not hardcore, and they all laughed because while walking up to Jonny, they heard him from a distance and Paul thought this might be a bad idea. Jonny, looking as cool and confident as always, thru down some serious drum sets and it was perfect. Paul looked at Peter and said that he couldn't believe his luck and that this band might actually get the chance it deserves.

The band pooled together and got a decent set of drums for Jonny from a swap meet and started to get to practice. Paul felt that the band was ready after a few months and decided to make there big debut at the upcomming Community Fest and get the word out.

Peter, Simon and Jonny went to go sign up but there were problems. The Fest coordinator had already signed some bands and solos for entertainment and couldn't fit them in, entry fee or not. Peter noticed a set of drums and pleaded that she just hear Jonny and give them a chance. She shrugingly agreed and thought they would go away after this. Jonny sat down and started to draw a crowd. The coordinator couldn't believe it and thought that if this was what they were capable of, then there was hope for a big turn out and big turnouts bring money.

Simon called Paul with the great news and the band was excited to finally get a shot. However, it was short lived. One week before the show, the band had got together for a final practice but Jonny didn't show. This worried everyone because Jonny never missed a practice. Jacob and Paul went to the shelter that Jonny lived at. They never expected to hear that Jonny passed away the night prior.

The shelter supervisor told them that Jonny was so excited to be a part of a real band and that he invited everyone from the shelter to come out to hear them. He also said that before Jonny met them, that he always went out to Northern Park and drummed away, just hoping for some spare change and kind words for his drumming, nothing more. The fact that Jonny was so happy and excited was reason enough to believe that he just might make something of himself.

Having heard this touching story, Paul thought that backing out of the gig to grieve for their friend would be disrespectful. So much was on the line and Paul didn't have to say much to the band to get them to keep the gig.

To this day, Paul, Simon, Peter, Wendy and Jacob go to Northern Park and play their hearts out and make everyone happy. It was hard that first year, but keeping in their heart what Paul said, the band comes out every year to support the Festival and to honor a great friend. The last set is a song called
"For Jonny", their signature song and the very thing Paul said to the band to help them thru everything.

---

2209 (I suck at these title things, I know)

The year is 2209, in Seattle, Washington. Late Night. National Guard members walk through the street, killing anyone they see that do not have permission to be outside. Teens play this one game called "Sprint 'n Shoot", where the teens run from their house to a neighbors/other friends house during that time, trying not to be caught by the National Guard members. The game is a dangerous one, since if the teens were seen doing this, then the National Guard would be forced to kill the teens and their families. So to save their families, the teens have to do a brave thing-say that they were trying to rob the houses. The teen gets killed, the family gets told, and then everything is goes on.
Tonight, however, is an awful night for one National Guard member Jerry Baker. Once a member of Seattle, Jerry has seen many things happen. He's killed teenagers, from thirteen, all the way to seventeen. But tonight, Jerry sees a sixteen year old running across the street. Jerry doesn't want to get the kid, but he is being watched from every angle. Jerry drags over to the kid.
"Kid, this is NOT allowed. What are you doing here?"
The kid looks down at his shoes. He thinks for a minute.
"Well, kid, what are you doing here? And who are you? You shouldn't be here!" Jerry gets out a small pistol, and hits the butt of the gun on the kids head.
"I am going to steal from this house." The kid replies, with tears welling up in his eyes. "My name is Mark."
Jerry is about to reply, when he sees a small, delicate figure come out of nowhere. The figure is a boy, about the age of six. His face is staring blank into space.
"No..." whispers Jerry. "Not a kid."
Mark tries to tell the kid to leave before Jerry sees him. Jerry tries to act like he didn't see the kid. He continues to talk to Mark.
"Really? You brought this kid out here-"
A booming, manly voice is heard throughout the city.
"JERRY BAKER." It yells. "I KNOW YOU SEE HIM. IN REQUIREMENTS TO THE TREATY WE HAD WITH THE US GOVERNMENT, INCLUDING THE NATIONAL GUARD, YOU MUST GET RID OF ALL OF THOSE WHO DO NOT OBEY THE RULES. DISPOSE OF THESE PEOPLE AT ONCE."
"Come on, sir," replies Jerry. "These kids are just plain stupid. Let them go. And the kid, he's not even a teen." Jerry tries to explain more, but Mark is sobbing too much. And the little kid is just staring into space, not knowing what is going on.
"YOU DO NOT ASK US QUESTIONS, JERRY. WE WANT BOTH OF THEM DEAD. KILL THE TEENAGER IMMEDIATELY."
Jerry cocks his pistol. "I'm sorry." He says. The gun is raised to Mark's head. Jerry however hesitates.
"I'm sorry Mike." Mark says silently.

The silence is shattered with a deafening noise.

Blood covers the window of a nearby house. Jerry looks away from the kid. Jerry starts to tear up.
"There? Happy?" He yells out into the distance. "I just killed a teenager, trying to have a fun time with his friends. A family is now without a child, and it's all because of the completely unnecessary censorship!"
More silence comes.
"Jerry." Says the voice, except now not as loud, "You know what you must do now."
Jerry grabs his gun. "I want to make this as quick and painless as possible," he whispers to the child. Jerry hugs him, wishing that he did not have to do this.
The gun cocks. It is placed by his forehead.
"Oh, and Jerry," says the voice, "Since of that unfortunate mishap you had with me, you aren't allowed to use your gun. You are going to have to use your hands."
"You have got to be shitting me." Jerry says in anger. "This is a six year old. He did nothing, but try to prove that he was brave. Just let him go, Sir, that was my fault."
"Oh, I will let him go." The voice is angry now. "Just he'll go, without the use of your gun."
The gun falls to the ground. Jerry tries to pick it up, but something denies him the ability to do so. It's impossible.
"You can't make me do this to him."
The voice laughs. "I'll be waiting for the cleanup crew to bring me the body."
The child looks at Jerry. He stares at him blankly. Jerry can't do this. But he has to. If not, then he will get killed. And so will the kid.
He grabs the kid by the neck."I'm sorry. It's got to happen. This is painful."
"I know." replies the kid in an innocent voice. "I don't need to look cool for my brother anymore, since he's gone. I'll be alright."
Jerry tears up.
"But, why? Why does this have to happen?"
Jerry tries to talk, but he chokes up. After a small while, Jerry finally answers.
"It's the God Damn rules nowadays. I'm sorry. If I don't kill you, they will kill me. And you."
"Why do you have to be so greedy, sir?"

Jerry eats. He gets his breakfast from the local food station. He sits down at a table in the eating facility. Other National Guard members join him at an eating table.
"Hey, did you hear about the new people?" Says one National Guard Member.
"No, what about them?" Asks another.
"I heard that they were ex-murderers." Everyone was talking, and having a good time. Except Jerry.
"Really? That's cool."
"No, it's not."
"Why not?"
"Because they're new, and you know what that means."
"Oh, they have to be under a year of surveillance, right?"
"Yeah. Why people move to this town, I wonder..."
"They don't choose it. The US government makes them come here."
"Damn them, they also screwed us into living here."
"I remember when we were allowed to listen to music and read any books we wanted, back in the good ol' USA. But here, everything has to be censored."
People laugh, talk about their nights, talk about their unloving spouses, and everything else.
Except Jerry.
Jerry stands up on the eating table. The members at the table look at him.
"Boys," he starts, "yesterday was the worst day of my life."
"Yeah, we heard last night. Everyone did!" Someone there blurts out. Everyone chuckles. Except Jerry.
"I had to kill to children, they did nothing. It's over. I'm tired that the Council of Raachm is trying to censor everything. We no longer are allowed to listen to music. We can't read any books, except if it's on the history of the Raacheminian Council. I'm tired of that. I don't think any of you remember what real music sounds like. If you can remember this kind, jazz, that would be great. I loved that kind. I would listen to it every night back in the US. At least, I would, before I came here to save everyone's asses. But since They came over here, everyone has been told wrong about them. They say that they are the Chosen Ones, but they are wrong."
Everyone at the eating table looked up at Jerry, with mixed emotions. They were confused.
"Jerry, what is it that you are suggesting?"
Jerry squatted down, and called everyone in so he could whisper.

"Boys," he whispers in a patriotic way, "I say that we take back what is ours."

--::Continued::--

---

The Man, The Dog, and the Ciminal

In New York City, there lived a man. While this man wasn't poor, he didn't have much money. Everyday he would go to the middle of the street, and play a song. He didn't want the money, he loved the music.

One fateful day, he was playing his instrument, and along came the cutest little puppy. He was black and brown, he was small, and had the loudest bark. He had a collar, and attached to it was a small note which said "Give good care." The man named him Max. When the man returned home he showed the dog to his wife and 2 girls. It was a happy time. But the calm always came before the storm.

As he went in the middle of the street, he heard gunfire. He looked down the alley, and saw a hooded man carrying a gun. To his side was a bleeding woman. She was dead. Max the puppy, as if to scare the criminal, made a loud bark. The police heard it, and as the sirens came on the hooded man left the scene, and threw the gun to the man. One the police arrived, they all thought it was him who shot that woman. The man would go to jail.

His trial did not go well. He was sentenced to 20 years in prison. His girls where crying, as was his wife.Max the dog, who felt a spiritual bond with him, would not give up. He would find the criminal.

With his only clue being the criminals scent, the dog set off. Looking through the streets and through the alleys, he found nothing. But then it happened. Max smelled the criminal. As he rushed to where the scent came from Max found him. Sitting in a coffee shop. Max rushed up and tugged on his leg. Barking and growling. The criminal realized something, that this was the dog from before.He picked him up and ran out.

Max gave off a few loud barks, loud enough to be heard a block away. One police officer was around the corner as he came to investigate. "Shut up dog!" the criminal screamed. The cop saw him and took him to the police station, not to be put to jail, but for questioning. Upon taking a finger print he noticed something. These where the smae prints as on the crime scene!

The criminal wouldn't give up just yet. Before he waas put into handcuffs he took out his gun and shot Max. "That dog...deserved that." The man was freed from jail. Max had sacrificed himself for his master. The man, his wife, and children would always feel a deep sadness because of the lost of Max.

"Rest in peace" The man said as his final goodbye. "My dear friend."

The End

---

A man and his stall.
As I watched on the man just sat there calmly not saying word. Hundreds of people passed day in day out and yet he did not move or even let out a breath.
At the end of each day he would pack up his belongings and be on his way, as he walked off he turned and looked on at where he had been sitting for all these hours and just smiled.
The next day to my surprise before the sun was at its highest in the sky, he was there ready to sell for the day. Again just sitting there not hassling the passers by. I had all these stories in my head of why he would not ask people to buy things but none of them seemed right.
As the day became to draw to an end I decided to ask him, as I was walking over I felt a warm hand on my shoulder but when I turned there was no-one to be seen. He was staring at me when I looked back, not even blinking despite the wind and dust blowing around, he looked like a man possessed. I tried to talk but the words would just not arise. I missed my chance as he got up collected his possessions and left, but again, looking back and smiling at where he has been sitting.
I decided to follow this man as I was intrigued by him. But as I went round the corner he has just turned he was nowhere to be seen.
The next day I waited and hoped to speak to the man but he hadn't arrived so I sat all day waiting for him. Seconds, minutes, hours passed and yet he did not arrive.
As I was leaving for home I felt as if my world was collapsing from just not seeing that man. He amazed me in every way and I felt so warm when he was around yet I was left feeling empty.
As days passed I waited hoping to see him yet every day he did not grace me with his presence. I asked the stall holder next to him who he was and he said that, that spot had always been empty after the man who sold their died.
I couldn't believe this, I described the man to him and he said that there had never been a man like that here.
My mind felt like rock my mind had gone hard and blank just thinking and feeling that the man was real.
I never returned to that place again...................................
........................................
.............................

Until one day I was walking along the street and I saw a picture on a flyer it was the old man and underneath in bold "HAVE FAITH". I didn't quite understand what this meant why this sign chose me. Why was I the only one to have seen this old man?
I followed the posters they where all along the wall all the way to the edge of town I walked for miles in the blistering heat feeling that warm rush of when I first saw that man. I arrived by the last poster it was by the edge of a cliff. As I looked over the edge of the cliff I saw the old man's face in the clouds that warm rush I had felt was back and I felt at peace.
I decided to stay there for as long as it was that I needed to have faith for.
Days passed but I never felt hungry or thirsty I felt alive. 1 year had passed when finally I received my message. The old man when I woke was sitting next to me staring at the sea.
I smiled and he took my hand and stood me up, both of us at the edge of the cliff.
He said to me "James" I know why your here and I want to help you.
I was shocked that he know my name, I asked him how and as he inhaled heavily I could see the innocence in his eyes and he told me to just have faith.
He told me to look at the stars and then said "it was never my fault". I knew what he meant but not how he knew.
He told me that I done everything I could for my wife and daughter and that it was time to stop blaming myself. As he edged us closer to the cliff he told me it's time to let everything go.
He gave me a coin and told me to flip. As I did and caught it he told me before I look
"Turn your life on the flip of this coin. Turn upside a choice you'd normally avoid. And promise me you'll follow what it says whatever it says"

I jumped.

---

World of Gray, Life on Rails

My hand brushed up against the wall, it felt cold and lifeless. Looking up I saw a huge skyscraper, made of metal, reaching to the heavens. I stopped on the sidewalk and looked up. Hundreds of these huge towers stabbing at the beautiful sky. "What a shame" I mumbled to myself. I continued walking, not sure where I was. I stopped by a train station and walked in. The smell of smoke and steam combined to make a strange aroma that I couldn't explain. A crowd of anxious people waited for the train to arrive. I wondered where they all were going, but I never said anything. I just stood around them watching them. Checking their watched, sighing, talking, until a sharp whistle sound cut thru the crowd. Everyone stopped and looked at the on-coming train. The crowd scattered and formed smaller crowds, one for each cart. I've never been on a train, I thought. Checking my pockets, I found not a single coin, I was broke.
The train approached. It was a lot larger than I expected. A huge stream of smoke flew from its engine. It passed by me faster than anything I've ever seen before, then it came to a stop, steadily. The doors opened and the people scurried into it. The doors closed.
I thought about those people and where they could be going, why they could be going away. I imagined their lives in my head, what kind of people they were, where they lived, what their jobs were, their families. Some were bad men, wife beaters and criminals from the underground, others were priests and men of business, but this was all just in my mind.
I had nothing, no home, no family, no friends, no belongings, nothing keeping me here. I darted after the train. The train was moving fast by now, I don't know if I could have made it, but somehow I did. I grabbed onto a side-railing between two carts and pulled myself up. Pressing my body against one of the carts, I hid from the security guards.
In no time, I was out of the city, traveling at incredible speeds. But I couldn't stay out there forever. I combed my hair with my fingers, I slowed down my heart-beat, and I relaxed. Opening the door into the passenger cart, I strolled in casually. "Good day" I said, as though I have nothing else to say. The people looked at me and nodded with approval. I walked by to an empty seat and let set myself up. That chair was the softest thing I have ever sat in. I looked around, looking at all the strangers. Suddenly, the cart's front door opened. A man in a uniform came in and asked to see the passengers tickets. I fixed my hat and got up.
"Sir, where might you be heading?" said the uniformed man.
"I have to use the restroom." I answered.
"Sir, no one leaves the cart until everyone's tickets have been checked."
I got nervous, I did not have a ticket, I had to think of something fast.
"While you excuse me, I'll be back in a minute" I said as I began to leave.
"No one leaves, sir.
"I don't think you understand, you have no power over me." I was getting nervous. The uniformed man looked at me closely, he examined me, he saw the family crest on my jacket.
"Sir, forgive me, may you go on your way." he said nervously.
"Thank you" I tipped my hat and got out of the cart.
Crap, what do I do now! I began to climb on top of the cart, the wind was hitting my face at unbelievable speeds, I could barely see. I had to close my eyes. I lay prone on top of the cart, thinking of what I should do next. I began to crawl across the top of the cart, steadily, silently.
It was the longest crawl I ever had. I finally made my way across. I lowered myself down onto the short bridge where two carts meet. I gasped for air. Quickly, I wiped the sweat off of my forehead and fixed my head. I steadied into the cart in front of me. This one was different. There was a different kind of man in this cart. The people were wealthy. They showered in their gold as they laughed about their businesses and corporations. They drank their cups of sugared Indian teas. I walked by them. I left the cart. I kept going from cart to cart, looking at the faces of strangers, it seemed to go on forever.
They all looked the same to me. No matter what they wore or how they acted, I wasn't interested in any of them. As I kept walking, their faces began to repeat. They began to look alike, too much, but I didn't care. Lower, middle, or upper class, they were all the same to me. I continued down two more carts before I heard them say, there's a stop coming up. I came to this nearly-empty cart. I sat down and stared out the window.
The sky was gray, just as it has been for the last decade. The sun never shone, the grass was never green. It was always a bleak greenish blue color. Everything else looked gray. Except for dandelions. Their color never went away.
As the train sped down the track, I stared outside, watching at the ugly depressing world before me. The jungle of steel had been replaced with veins of smoke rising up into the air. It was the coal that they burn. Everything runs on coal, the cars, the trains, the planes, the cities, and the people. No longer is anything beautiful, everything is made of steel. The world, running on steam power.
The train began to slow down. The whistle sounded as the train approached the station and stopped. The doors opened. Just a small no-where village for the mines. You could see the mines for miles on miles. I sat. I couldn't just sit forever. Standing up, I left the train. It was taking me no-where, so why should I stay.
Walking to the engine cart, I looked at it. It was ugly. Poisoning the world, that was once beautiful, as they told us. I took my jacket off and put it on the closest wheel of the train. I am not from any royal family as my jacket says. I'm a no-body from the slums. It's funny how a stolen jacket can get you out of trouble. A free train-ride was more then I could ask for. What good is pretending to be someone who you're not.
The train started up and tore the jacket into pieces. Good riddance. Now I can be myself.
The air smelled horrible in this town. It was hard to stand it. Everyone had masks on, and they were right to do so. There was coal dust everywhere, the town shimmered of gray carbon-crystals, I never seen so many shades of the color gray. It was beautiful. I coughed. I couldn't breathe. I pulled my shirt over my mouth and ran to the closest wall. I touched it. It felt different. It felt softer then the metal of the cities. The building was made of wood. I looked up and saw a sign. "Motel"
I walked in, coughing as if I was sick with the flu.
"Hello there, you new here?" said a strange man.
He sure did look strange, he had only one arm, the other was an anomaly of a machine that seemed to be powered by his soul. His head was bald and he had a short beard. The wrinkles on his face made it apparent he has had a hard life.
"I got no money" I answered.
"Get the hell out of here."
For a man of his age, I expected wisdom and hospitality for me, but I guess not. I left.
The darkness was beginning to set, and even though it was hard to see in the day, I was sure it would be hell during the night. I needed some-where to go.
Now, I am not a man of crime, I consider myself a good person, but I try to survive to an extreme extent. I am no murderer or thief. I am just a man living his life.
I ran over to an un-finished house that had been going construction. Shattering the glass with a rock, I crawled in. I coughed that night. I don't think I slept, but the house shook as night came. A tremendous storm had come. I went to the broken window and looked outside. It was an enormous whirling cloud of coal and ash. There was a bookshelf in the room. I pushed it over to cover the window. I tried to sleep. There was only the ground and some small furniture. I slept on the ground.
Morning came so fast. Quickly, I moved the bookcase and crawled back out the window. The sky was still gray and there was still this crap in the air. What a miserable town this is, I suddenly sympathized for the old man.
(Continued)

---

A loud whistle sounded as I wandered. A train, I had to leave this town. Following the sound, I sprinted. This train was different. It had no people in the carts, just coal, and iron ore. As the train stopped, I went to the engine cart.
"Do you need an extra hand?" I asked.
The man looked at me. He had no shirt on, he had a depressing look in his eyes, in his mid thirties. "Can you shovel coal?"
"Sure I can." I replied.
He handed me a five dollar bill. "Here's your pay, for the week."
I looked down at it. I thought to myself, five dollars? "Alright"
I got on the train, picked up the shovel and looked at the coal. I looked outside, there were huge machines, they were taking the iron from the carts and replacing them with coal. The train seemed to go on forever.
The whistle sounded, we were leaving.
"Alright, give me 10kms." said the man.
10kms? What does that mean? I had no clue. I stepped on the pedal, it opened the furnace. I picked the shovel up and started putting coal into the furnace.
"Whoa, slow down there, I said ten."
I had no clue what I was doing, but I understood what he meant. I slowed down.
"There we go, now let's speed this baby up a little"
I started shoveling faster. Furnace, coal, furnace, coal, an endless cycle.
"You're not much of a talker."
I didn't answer. I didn't want to get into trouble, and so I kept my mouth shut. I shoveled for hours.
The whistle ripped thru my ears, I stood up. My back ached. My head hurt. We finally arrived, somewhere.
I looked down at my pants. I was covered in coal dust, I brushed off what I could. We had arrived at a port. I thanked the man and left, he told me to return in 2 hours, but I will not be returning.
The town was enormous. Metal towers were everywhere, I was finally where I had come from, except there was a different smell. It stank, it stank of death, of fish and such.
Wandering, I finally ended up by the great ocean. It was enormous. Large ships were passing before my eyes. I looked down. The water was a strange mix between gray and blue, with many black spots. Then, I realized why it had stank so much. The ocean was dead. I stood there and stretched my arms out to feel the breeze. For once in my life, the air had been horrible. Just for a brief moment, I could smell the ocean, the way it used to be. I smelled the salt. The plants that used to grow in it. An explosion shattered my dream. I looked in front of myself. A huge steam ship had exploded. Another explosion, the same ship. I panicked. What had been going on?! I started running. That was the right thing to do.
An armada of blimps rose over the sky. Bombs began falling out of it. War had come to us.
I quickly leaped into the closest building. It was a cafe. I fell onto the ground. I was dead for sure. What was I suppose to do? If I stay they'll kill me, if I run they'll catch me. I decided to run. Explosions were going off in all directions. Panic had come to be, everyone was trying to get out of town. People were dying left and right, like little mice, the bombs just kept coming and coming.
From building to building, I dodged my destruction, I don't know what is more dangerous, ceilings falling on you or the barrage of shrapnel. No matter, I had made it, but where?
A familiar whistle caught my attention. Like a small child, I smiled and looked at it. I saw train tracks.
I sprinted. A miserable machine, could not have looked more beautiful at any other time. I stopped to catch my breath. As I looked up, I saw that all the coal had been taken out of the carts and people were getting into them. I got into the engine cart, the driver wasn't there. I waited.
Seconds became minutes, minutes became hours and I heard the bombardment get closer, louder.
I couldn't wait anymore. I switched the train into 10% speed. I picked up my shovel and began to shovel coal into the furnace. I switched it to 20%. More coal, faster. Thirty, forty, until we were going at full speed. I was shoveling coal as if my life depended on it.
We had made it out alive.
When we arrived to the next city, we were greeted by soldiers. They got all the people out of the carts. My back was aching. My body was throbbing.
"Can you take us back?" said a soldier.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the division manager of these platoons, in the empires name, bring these men to the port."
If I refuse he would kill me on the spot, but I didn't have the strength in me. I had to try something.
"Sir, I'm just a civilian, I don't know how to work a train..." I pleaded.
He pulled out his pistol and cocked the hammer.
"Are you denying me and the EMPIRE!?" he screamed.
"I'm sorry sir, right away."
Oh god, what have I got myself into.
The soldiers all got into the train carts. The division manager got into the engine cart with me. I shoveled coal. Hours.
The engine was the only sound for miles. The manager told me silence the train. I did as I was told. The only sound was the wheels on the tracks. The train came to a halt. It was quiet.
He handed me his pistol.
I looked outside. The city was in ruins. Corpses lay on the ground. Craters were everywhere.
A shot rang out. Followed by many more. The soldiers began moving off the train. I could not see who was shooting. I heard screams. Men began to die. Then suddenly I heard a ringing overhead. There were four planes. They started dropping bombs.
I had to think fast. I quickly started up the train.
"What are you doing?!" said the division manager.
"Getting out of here" I responded.
"These men have come here to die for their empire, let them be!"
"They came here to kill but they will only die."
"NO!"
I lifted the pistol and pointed it at his head.
He had another. He began to reach for it. He took it out of holster and started to aim. Suddenly, he went limp and fell on the ground. I had not fired a shot.
I got filled with fear, and rage. I angrily fired at nothing. After all six rounds were gone, I threw the gun and picked up my shovel. I was out of my world and back into reality. Bombs were going off, gunfire was ringing out on all sides. I pulled the whistle and started counting to thirty. I hoped the soldiers had enough time to get back on.
Twenty nine, thirty.
I grabbed my shovel and opened the furnace. I put the speed to 40 and started shoveling in a fury. I have no idea where I got the strength, my arms were going numb but I couldn't give up.
We were out. The gunfire ceased. The bombs went away. We had come to safety.
I got off the train. Looking back into it, I realized what I had been through. I looked on the ground. Coal dust, covering it. A soldier came up to me and handed me his pistol. He was in tears. I felt sorry for him.
We didn't speak. We just stood for the sake of not being alone. Then we parted ways. I used the five dollars to clean my clothes, I bought myself a nice jacket and I went to a cafe. I ordered a cup of tea and sat quietly. I took a sip, I looked at the newspaper, I thought of my life.
A shot rang out, this all had ended.

---

God has no pity on a man without a soul.

This is fact, not a mere question but the unadulterated true. No inquires no assumptions on its meaning, just a Statement. It may have been first quietly muttered by a crushed man without a flicker of light left in his desolate cold world, sitting in a Charred remains of what was once his life. This is the feeling of this statement, its what I feel while I sit here knowing that I have no future, nothing to grasp for, to cling on to stop my slip into Perpetual darkness. The surreal events that have occurred over the last few hours has seen to it that I will not live past today, and I cant lie and say that I wish to.
Only I sit and drink in this diner the Warm blood hidden by my heavy winter coat. I can not remember the Last time I slept, Insomnia can blur you perception or reality. I can feel haze drifting lazily over my mind, and all I can do is gaze around the Diner. It's painted a warm deep red, with wore vinyl seats coxing you to sit. The old smoke stained ceiling and the tired wore down waitress with the "I've seen it all" look in her eyes. I sit her and drink this Gourmet coffee, it tastes like sandpaper dipped in gas and scorches my throat. I sit and ponder what happens to a man with no soul, not a shimmer of life left in his shell of a body. How can you kill a man that has no hope to live?
Someone turns on the music and over the low hum of the Speakers I here the Soft melody of Hey Jude fill my skull, In my mind I start to replay the Events that lead me to this place, the last place for me to make peace with myself. I see what I did, everything that caused this downward spiral to oblivion. I can do nothing and I feel like weeping, but I can't for some reason I am unable to shed one tear for the Pain I have brought, the sorrow that surrounds me is unbearable. I feel a cold draft hit me, it runs through my bones and makes every muscle in my body shiver. I grip my coat and Pull it tighter...but the cold stays. The haze grows stronger I can not make out people just shadowy figures, they seem to be welcoming me. I hear the Hey Jude playing softly in my ear slipping farther away. I close my eyes and I see nothing except the child. The child I shot, the Child I murdered.
The boy was innocent, just a child. Still, I the soulless basted took his life anyway. I had no personal vendetta against his family or him, he was a random face to me a way for me to continue to burn my soul until it faded completely. I need Heroin to live, when the withdraw sets in, and the sickness that feels like death crushes you. You will do anything to feel good again. They told me the only way they would help me is to do something for them. I don't know the reason behind it, I didn't care, that was not priority in my mind all that mattered was feeling good again. I had to get this death out of me.
You think it would be hard to kill a child, maybe for most people that had a mind or a soul it would be. Not for me, I didn't look at him twice. He was playing cars in the front yard, I walked up and shot him "bang". Then I couldn't look away, he just started at me with a look, his eyes not understanding the pain. They asked me why, I couldn't answer. Then I heard the screaming and I ran. I ran as far as I could shakes and all. I could hear the screams for miles it seemed, I finally stopped in an ally cold sweat running down my face my heart pounding Lungs screaming for air. I wanted for the pain of what I just did to settle in, but it didn't. I could not feel anything.
I headed back to collect my prize, my H my life blood. Then when I told him it was finished I needed my medicine. I handed him the gun he had given me to do the kid an Old stub nose 38. Pistol. He took the gun looked at me then shot me twice. I dropped to the ground and lay there. He ran off leaving me to die in an ally a child killer, and worst of all no H in my veins. I managed to get to my feet and stumble out of the dark grimy ally and down the street. The haze over my eyes was just setting in, the people that i passed dident even notice the blood..the blood that was so warm in the cold November air.
Now I sit here watching the dark creep in from the corners of my eyes greedily consuming everything they touch. I am sorry for killing the child sorry that my needs meant his live and his family's sorrow. I am no man, I am not human, and I am a soulless piece of garbage. The world will be better when I am gone. As the dark extinguishes the last bit of light I will ever see, Hey Jude slips into my ears then...nothing

God takes no Pity on a Man with No Soul, This is Fact.

---

Passion and Greatness - by: Linkcrazy101/Taylor (This is for the contest; It is short but touching).

There was a man named Stephen who enjoyed nature. He loved the birds, the trees, and the silence of an empty forest. No one could see him nor hear him tell his story of despair to the grateful Mother Nature. No one could hear him read his Haiku written on parchments of leather. No one knew he was there. One day the man found a shady tree in the middle of a meadow. Stephen was poor, he had no more family and had no home. He dreamed of one day becoming a famous musician. He always carried around his beaten flute in a bag he had made of parchment he had found in a dumpster or two. Stephen always thought to himself and nothing more. He had once been on a road to being the greatest flute player ever known, yet, something tradgic had happened. One late September night on the 4th in a small town in the very South of Colorado, there was a hold up in a bank. One man had a pistol, another had a Shotgun. They were both young and ignorant. Stephen was only 19 and currently attending Warren Tech College. He was taking about $600 out of his savings account to buy a new Flute. He had tried out for a chair in the New York Philharmonic and was up to some rather tough competition. After all, it is one of the best symphonys in the world. He was confident and full of anxiety. He went into the audition room where it was cold. There were no windows, desks, or decorations. There was a man, an intimidating man, sitting on a chair with a clipboard and a red fountain pen. The man glances at Stephen, "Good Afternoon; may I know your name sir?" Stephen gulped with anticipation and replied in his thorough British accent, "My name is Stephen." The man looked at him suspiciously and said, " Stephen eh; that young lad from Warren Tech. I have heard a lot about you boy. I hear that you are the best Flute player many have ever seen. I hope you give me a great performance." Stephen felt his heart faster. He knew that he had to impress the judge, "I'll do my best sir," said Stephen. He lifted his Flute and began to play a soft Japanese tune slowly with fantastic dynamics and intonation. After he finished, the man had been writing for quite a while. The man looked up and saw Stephen patiently staring back at him. The man sighed, "It has been a while since I've heard something as beautiful as that. Thank you so much, you may leave." Stephen nervously opened the door and went towards a bench. He was now more confident than ever. He sat for a few hours before the results were in. He strolled over to the board and was anxiously looking for his name. He finally put his finger on it, Stephen. He had made 23rd, last chair. Although many would be crushed by this, he was proud. The man who judged him walked over and patted him on the back and laughed, "Ha! You have strong will lad! I hope you are glad that you made it." Stephen turned, "Oh definitely sir! I won't let you down." The man grabbed his hand and shook it firm, "Welcome to the New York Philharmonic." This sparked Stephen's carrier. As he went up in ranks, he made it to first chair. The director had a word with him during his first rehersal as first chair, "Son, I am really proud of you, making it this far, but you need to do me one favor before the concert." Stephen looked at the director with an eyebrow raised. The director sighed, "I need you to purchase a new Flute." Stephen had not another word. He ran out and immediately checked his savings account. He had $500. By the time of the last rehersal, he had enough money to buy a new Flute for $600. He then rushed to the bank after his last rehersal was over. Now you ask, what does this have to do with a bank robbery in Southern Colorado? Well, it so happens that Stephen was at that bank being robbed. Now, as the clerk was handing him the money, the robbers shot through the window shattering glass all over. They unfortunately noticed Stephen first, with $600 in his hand. They ran over a held a gun to his head. The first robber screamed in his ear, "GIVE ME YOUR LOOT!!!" Stephen wasn't about to let go of all that he worked for. The robber repeated, "I SAID GIVE ME YOUR DAMN MONEY!!! NOW!!!" Stephen thought then he elbowed the first robber in the face. He grabbed his arm and fought for the gun. He kicked it out of his hands, but alas, Stephen didn't have the weapon. The second robber aimed at Stephen. He faced the gun and felt his heart stop; he thought it was over. The robber pulled the trigger and all went dark for Stephen. He awoke in St. Joseph's Hospital in Denver, but found he couldn't speak. The nurse and doctor walked in and spoke, "Stephen, I am sorry to say that you missed your concert." Stephen's eyes widened and he tried to scream, but nothing came out. The doctor spoke again, "I know that you're upset, but there is a good side. The police would like to give you the Medal of Honor for your bravery. No one has done that much to protect others. Unfortunately, umm, well, I am sorry to say that you will be mute for the rest of your life." Stephen felt a tear trickle down his cheek and drop on his cold hand. He had never felt this much misery. That is how Stephen ended up on the streets, longing for a better life. He could not pay his medical bills. The sun was about to set and the birds had stopped chirping, and all had gone quiet. Stephen sat under the tree and put his head inbetween his knees. He was lonely. No birds to talk to and no one in site. Mother Nature had gone to sleep. Stephen raised his head and his eyes started to glisten in the sunset. He took his torn bag, pulled out his new Flute, and began to play. he played the same song he played for his audition, the old Japanese Folk tune. It sounded more beautiful than before. He noticed a man walk by but did not stop playing. The man walked right passed, but then he came back. He sat down with Stephen. He gently lifted his hat, pulled out a $50 bill, and dropped it on Stephen's lap. He immediately stopped and looked up. The man looked back, "It has been a long time since I've heard something so beautiful. Keep the talent up and don't give up." The man slowly walked away until only a silhouette was visible. Right behind the man was a group of people laughing and chatting as they walked along the trail. They heard Stephen and stopped. They all sat down across from him and stopped talking. They tossed nickles and dimes onto his lap and stayed there listening to him play the Flute. Over the next few hours, small crowds became an audience and soon over 100 people circled him to listen to his playing. They all were happy. Some cried and some grinned, yet no one said a word. Stephen had thought that bravery had made him pay the price, but it actually brought out his potential. Stephen suddenly died later that month of mysterious illness. The same man who gave him that $50 bill walked by and noticed his lifeless body, Flute in hand. He choked up and picked up his Flute and body. He carried them back to town. A funeral was held for Stephen paid for by the New York Philharmonic. His flute was put into a museum, the museum that the man who carried him owned. His Flute became the #1 attraction in the museum. People came from all over to remember him. Greatness can be taken, but is givin back as passion in the heart.

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(Continued from above: Sorry. I put the picture at the end of the first page of the story too.)
Stephen's Childhood Tradgedies

Greatness can be taken, but is givin back as passion in the heart. That is the moral of the story; but there is more to Stephen's greatness. You see, Stephen had been born to a poor family that could not take care of him, yet they swore to keep him and make him a strong person. One night, his dad was driving to a show with his mother and then it happened. They died in a fatal car crash. They were hit by a drunk driver. Stephen was still a small child and he was being babysat by a neighbor. When news of his parents' death came in, they had trouble finding him a home. he had no other family or relatives. The neighbors wouldn't take him, so they had no choice but to put him in an adoption home. As Stephen grew up, more children made fun of his parents, which constantly made him angry. He was always in trouble and got into minor fights with other kids. That is when he was put into an anger management program. His counsleor suggested that he play an instrument to calm himself at hard times. She told him to make his parents proud. Stephen wanted to play the Flute because he loved it's sound. It was a calm, windy sound. It soothed him and soon his anger left his body. Whenever anyone made fun of his deceased parents, he just sat down and played a tune. It made other children jealous because none of the other children played an instrument. One young girl though loved his playing. That little girl was Susan. She loved music and she liked the new boy. She always sat down to listen to Stephen play his Flute. When they were both 14, they were in love. Susan learned to play the Violin and she sometimes joined Stephen in his playing. Stephen's only friend was Susan. No one payed attention to either Susan or him, yet Susan was really beautiful. Many complimented on her magnificent blue eyes and here lucious brown hair. Stephen always stood up for her whenever any guys at his school harassed her. She only liked Stephen. There was a local All County Orchestra that was looking for auditioners. Both Susan and Stephen auditioned. Stephen made 4th chair and Susan made 3rd chair. They were both so excited. Later that week, there was a school dance. Stephen asked Susan to come with him. She gladly said yes. As they got ready, Stephen grabbed his Flute. When he walked out the door, a rather magnificent shine had blinded him; it was Susan's purple mini skirt dress. She stood outside playing her Violin waiting for him. She chuckled, "What do you think? Am I what they call...hot?" Stephen was sweating. He didn't quite know what to say. He slightly grinned, "If it means rather beautiful, then yes you are....hot." Susan grinned and jumped into the car. Stephen walked over and jumped in next to her. As they began to drive, Susan kissed Stephen on the cheek and put her hand upon his. Stephen blushed, and so did Susan. They had the best night of their lives at that dance and went home happy. Later, Susan and Stephen both got ready for the All County concert. They got there instruments, got into the car, and drove off again. As they turned off onto a major street, a truck came zooming at the car. Stephen yelled, "DON'T TURN!!!" It was too late. The truck had hit the car at a high velocity. Everyone was rushed to the hospital. Stephen woke up from a nap as a nurse tapped him on the shoulder. She had a grave face. Stephen immediately asked, "What happened to Susan?" The nurse looked at him with the most dreaded face. He knew what had happened. "No. No, this couldn't have happened! Tell me she's okay!" The nurse replied, "She doesn't have long to live." Stephen then stood up and ran over to Susan's room. She laid there nearly unconcious. He went over to her and put his hand on her head. She looked over, "You're okay, I'm glad. There is something I meant to tell you earlier." She coughed, "The drunk driver who killed your parents was my father." Stephen lost his mind; he couldn't believe it. Susan started again, "I hope you're not mad." Stephen responded, "Of course not!" Susan's pulse monitor was getting slower and slower. She struggled to speak again as the monitor ended with a continuous beep, "I...love...you." She released her grip. Stephen sat on the chair and was motionless, speechless. That is the tradgedy of Stephen's childhood.

Notes and Thank Yous:

Thank you for reading my story of love, passion, tradgedy, and greatness. This is not based off of a true story.

For the Judges: This second part of the story is about Stephen's childhood. It is meant to explain why he acts the way he does in the first part of the story. If you think that this part does not mainly explain the person in the picture below, please listen to this. This part is like a flashback sort of thing, only it's not narrative. This story is written to describe Stephen's musical abilities and life story. Again, thank you for reading my story and I say good luck to all of the wonderful writers who participated in this competition. All of your stories are as wonderful as anything.

Author: Linkcrazy101/Taylor

---

Only Heaven Knows

My name is Gilda; don't ask me why, it's just my name. I never understood why my mother gave me such an ugly name. All my friends had beautiful names, why was I stuck with the worst one? I will never understand, but my mother loved it.
I wear my hair rag and my bulgy winter coat every day. Every morning I get myself together and I do my usual shopping. It's the proof I need, to see that I am living. I wake up every day wondering why I am still alive. Why have I not passed on yet? Where has my old friends gone, why have the heavens taken them from me? Every day I pass by the old benches where we used to meet every day. Since I could remember I would meet my friends there. We would always sit on the benches and talk about our lives, children, and marriages. But now these friends that I once held dear are gone and I am alone. And so I commit to my daily routine and reminisce about the good old days or not so good ones.
I remember one day at the benches my friend Eloise talked about how her husband had lost his job. Oh, how things had been hard then. Her husband had committed himself to drinking and he had quite the temper. She shared with the girls and me the bruises that he had graced upon her. But because how things were then, it just seemed natural for our husbands to lay a hand on us every once and a while. But poor Eloise she didn't get the hand every once and a while, she got it every day. I would ponder about why he would hurt her, what was she doing that was so wrong? But it wasn't my problem so I never said a word. I regret that to this day, I regret never giving her the comfort she needed; I regret never showing her that I cared. Due to my ignorance I lost my beloved friend Eloise to suicide. I heard she slit her wrists in the bath tub, it was a crying shame.
I had another friend named Loretta. She was always so perky and always had fun stories to tell us. She always had an adventure. She had a wealthy husband; I recall his name to be Clark. Clark had his own business I never knew what kind of business it was, but one thing was for sure it made him lots of money. Loretta and Clark would always go on fancy vacations. They would go to Hawaii, Acapulco, and even places in Europe. It truly looked like they had the good life, I envied them very much. But of course, all good things must come to an end. Clark lost his business, I never knew how, but it had nothing to do with me. Loretta stopped being perky and stopped having fun stories to tell us. Then one day she just up and disappeared. I don't know if she found herself another lover or was lying in a gutter somewhere. All I could hope was that she was happy.
Now my friend Margot, she was really something that woman. She had a husband and five children. From what I could tell they grew up to be fine young men and ladies, but that is only because she happened to inherit her grand daddy's fortune. Of course, she took the kids and left the man. Her husband after all was very useless. He was a farmer that had no crops, cows, or sheep. He had the land but nothing to work on. Margot ended up buying out his land and sending him away somewhere and eventually became an entrepreneur. Once that happened though, she never talked to me again. I heard that she died from a type of cancer four years ago.
I had many more friends whose lives were wonderful or ended in tragedy. But in the end I am the only one that remains. So every day I walk by those benches and go over my memories. It's really sad to walk by and see how empty they are. Will anyone use them as we did? Or will they be forgotten, like us? Only heaven knows.

---

Theft

Old man Whitaker was sitting all alone in his usual spot in the marketplace, with him was a tranquilizer gun and a small knife, with a dull and serrated edge, as if it could serve either as a killing device or a means of knocking people out. The other thing in his immediate disposal was a small, worn journal about 200 pages in length. Around him was obviously a market place full of people and empty sacks and a scale. Whitey found that his supply of wares has completely run dry, but he need not panic, for he has the means to acquire his "ammo" for his "gun" literally meaning he has means of finding wares to sell for profit.

Whitaker still remembers his days fighting in the Cold War, stationed in the middle of nowhere deep in the Russian tundra, only with him were a few acquaintances, some hunting tools and the clothes on his back. He remembers all of his training as a soldier brutally clear, what his comrades said to him, what kinds of swears his drill sergeant yelled at him, the aroma of fear and anxiousness, all of it was in crisp, crystal clear condition in his head; Therefore making Whitaker extremely skilled in hand to hand combat, gun wielding and handling and applying just the right amount of pain to just the right place.

Whitaker's moral values and sense of justice were terribly ruined because of his experience in the Red Army though. The simultaneous high and low of killing a man can make a man a little loopy. Doing this repeatedly for hundreds of times can shatter a man's mind into unrecognizably fragile and cracked state. But Whitaker was a different kind of man. His experience hardened his mind, his thinking, his logic to perfection, morals were nothing for him. Therefore Whitaker was the most bad-ass old man you could ever come across. So bad-ass to the point of making Chuck Norris himself seem like a giant old pansy. Whitaker plotted a bi-monthly plan to extract goods and wares for his needs.

Whitaker, with his gun and knife, decided to play a game. He ran out of his post in the marketplace and headed towards a large warehouse adjacent to the marketplace's location, inside it was obviously a massive amount of wares and goods. Whitaker then stormed into the place, quietly. He found everything he needed in there, and began to take as much as he could, and boy could he take a lot. He found guards patrolling the area, so he got rid of them and turned them into a valuable asset all at once. He convinced them to help him, the cause of an old man.

He then took the frightened guards to the marketplace, where each of them brought the goods to Whitaker's stall. Whitaker had now amassed a large amount of wares, and if all were sold, he would have enough money to start a small army, which was his original plan from the beginning. And as the months went by, he racked up the moolah to start his military corporation. He prepped himself for the opening. He went to a clothing shop known for tailoring fine clothing such as suits, tuxedos as such, and bought himself a nice suit. He went to the only manly, and coincidentally the best barbershop in town and got himself a nice haircut. He went to a car shop, known for making cars that give off an aura of "I'm awesome" and bought himself a nice car. He then drove his new car, to the venue where he would give a speech to his soldiers, all in a snazzy suit and haircut, with smart shoes.

Whitaker arrived. He walked up to the stage and began.

"Gentlemen, Ladies, People. All of you have been given the liberty of fighting for your mother Russia. All of you have that special quality that defines you as a soldier, that defines you as a person. That quality is resilience. Your resiliency is the driving force that gives you the ultimate edge, when other people would walk away, you'd stay and go through, taking it. When you're broken, beat and scarred, you will refuse to back down, not until your head is severed from your body. Your resilience as a soldier, and your toughness as a person have let you even be standing here, listening to me.

One quality has given you all of this. Power to kill. Money to spend. Respect to enjoy. I'm sure that you're all very happy now that I've given you these.

I now open the Sickle and Scythe military corporation!"

Whitaker then halted. He waited for a few moments, and he heard the crowd screaming. He at first felt immense euphoria, but then reality kicked in. The crowd was angry, the crowd was downright pissed, helmets went flying towards Whitaker, swear words were thrown at him, emotional anguish was tossed at him like a grenade. Whitaker now broke down from the perfect old man to a senile one, now incapable of thinking like how a professor would.

And as the years passed, he gradually ran out of money and found himself out of a job. So, just for kicks he visited his old spot in the marketplace, and found it intact, with one change; the soviet union's symbol was painted on the wall. And so, he, for the first time in decades, got a supply of wares and such without any theft.

Whitaker found himself in a cycle, and back to where he began.

---

It was a bittersweet morning in May. Normally I would be visiting my children at their mom's place, but here I am, sitting in a diner in downtown London sipping away at my tea. It happened all so sudden. I was happily married. My wife, Therese was everything a guy could wish for in a wife. I admit, we had some troublesome times together, and being a model sure got her enough attention from the opposite sex at times. But those things never were a problem. Well, not until recently.

Her agent had found her a job somewhere in Europe, I believe it was France. She was supposed to go there alone, but her agent insisted he'd come with her, so he could keep an eye on her, he said. I was certain something was afoot, and asked Therese why her agent had a sudden interest in coming with her. She told me not to worry, and that he just came along to assure the photo shoot went according to plan. And it did. What Therese forgot to tell me, was that the job she got in France required her to pose as a nude model.

Therese never told me she had those pictures made until I waved them in her face. I found them while I was doing her laundry for her. They were hidden on the bottom of her drawer. She told me I wasn't to find out. I demanded an explanation and all she could do was cry. She told me she wanted to make those pictures for me. For our anniversary. But her agent thought otherwise. He wanted to be part of it, and convinced her that it was just modeling. It wasn't cheating.

As I flipped through the photographs, a bitter taste filled the back of my throat. This was my wife, my wife who was lying in bed with that son-of-a-bitch. Enraged, I threw the pictures away from me and ran off downstairs. I couldn't believe it.

As I took my jacket off the hatstand, I heard her sobbing. What can I do? She deliberately did all these things, without my consent. Even though it is just modeling, I am certain the filthy bastard knew what he was doing. Why did she do it? Why is she so god-damned gullible to have him talk her into it?

Still pissed off, I closed the door behind me and headed to a nearby motel where I used to do the dishes in my teens. The owner knew me, and he told me I could always pop by if need be. I sat down on one of those typical motel-beds with the coin slots in them so you can make them vibrate. I still had some quarters, so I popped some in. Relaxing. As I stared at the ceiling, I kept wondering why Therese would do such a thing. Why, of all people she'd think it would be ok to pose naked with some random guy, and not even tell me about it! Is she so dense that she'd think I'd enjoy seeing her lying in bed with some other guy? I don't know.

As the bed stopped vibrating, I decided to head back home again. She'd probably been calmed down by now. Instead, there was a note on the table saying she left for London with her agent. That I couldn't get used to her being a model. That it was just a job she took so she could take care of herself financially. So she could feel pretty again. She always felt that ever since we got married, men didn't look at her anymore. She blamed it on me being to possessive. She blamed it on me being too old-fashioned. She blamed it on me.

It's a bittersweet morning in May. Normally I would be visiting my children at their mom's place, but here I am, sitting in a diner in downtown London sipping away at my tea. The newspaper article says it happened all so sudden. And they know who did it. It was her agent. We were once happily married.

As I stare out of the window, I notice it's getting dark already. I leave the newspaper for what it is, and take a final sip of my tea. I hand over a tip to the waitress and head to my car. It's starting to rain. On my way back to the hotel, my phone rings. It's my aunt. She was taking care of the children for me. They want to know why mommy isn't coming back. Mommy has gone away, I told them. On a very long trip. Yes, a modeling trip. Yes, mommy still loves you. Daddy will be back soon. Just give me aunt Annie please.

Daddy never came back.

---

Mud

The townspeople glared at her, shocked that something so out of place would find itself walking the sidewalks of Juniper Street, passing storefronts advertising Thanksgiving Day sales, passing women who pinched their noses at the sight of that muddy, frizzy-haired, unsightly young woman, dressed in nothing more than the tattered remnants of a night gown.

But Mary Ann hardly noticed. She strolled down the streets of Guilford, her bare feet callused and caked with mud. All she needed at the moment was a place to stay, some food, some water.

Mary Ann stopped at a shabby-looking bar, emblazoned with a huge neon sign that read "Big Al's Pub." Maybe she'd have better luck this time. Shaking, she opened the door, a bell ringing above her head. But as she stepped through the threshold, she found herself face-to-face with an intimidating, burly bartender.

"Sorry ma'am, but we don't serve yer kind 'ere," said the bartender in a thick southern accent.

"Please, I haven't eaten for days, I just want-"

"I'm sorry ma'am, but youse'll hafta go."

Before Mary Ann could retaliate, the bartender slammed the door, bell swinging and ringing wildly. Mary Ann's stomach responded angrily with a loud roar.

This had been her life for the past two days. Scavenging whatever she could from trash bins, examining the sidewalks hungrily for spare coins, salvaging rain water from muddy puddles. Every scrap of meat, every spare penny, every tiny dew drop of water was a gift from above.

Half the time she was out on the streets, Mary Ann contemplated returning home. Perhaps running away wasn't such a good idea after all. But, catching herself, disgusted, she remembered the absolute hell that damned excuse for a home was. The absolute hell that damned excuse for a family was.

Mary Ann stared at the neon sign nearly blinded, lost in her thoughts. The church bell across the street rang nine times - it was getting late. Purposeless, Mary Ann continued on, searching for a decent alley in which to take shelter for the night.

A cardboard box, along with a heaping pile of dog crap. It was the best she could find.

Mary set herself down, making herself as comfortable as possible, and escaped into the surreality that was her dreams.

She was always the weird kid, wearing the same black sweatshirt to school every day. She got fair grades, not that it mattered anyway - her parents were alcoholics, and they weren't sending her off to college, no matter what the circumstance was.

And so she stayed home, as her modicum of friends went on to universities, meeting people, getting jobs, having lives...

And she was was constantly under the crack of the belt.

Mary Ann woke up in a sweaty panic. The first rays of sunlight were looming on the horizon, the start of what promised to be another day full of anguish. She rolled over on her cardboard, trying to fall back to sleep, but the thought of the cracking and hitting of the belt on bare flesh haunted her too much.

Groggily, she got up and continued her long journey down Juniper Street, just like the night before. It was light now, and crowds started filling the streets.

There was a park ahead, and three children of about nine or ten were playing baseball. One of the children stood in the center, concentrating hard. He threw the ball, as the batter gave a furious swing.

The impact of the bat on the ball.

The impact of the bat on her bare flesh.

She was writing on the ground in pain, as her father took another long swig from his beer bottle, emptied it, and smashed it on her head, which started bleeding profusely.

Mary Ann reached up at her left temple, feeling the fresh scar tissue that had formed. She closed her eyes, breathing heavily, holding back tears, and opened them again. She drew her eyes away from the children to two teenagers sitting on a park bench, arms around each other, lips dancing, saliva flowing.

Lips dancing.

Saliva flowing.

She was against the wall, her father moving from her lips to her neck to her chest.

Mary Ann was now in the outskirts of town. As she walked alongside a picket fence, one of the holes in her night gown caught on a stray nail, and a strip of her clothing ripped off.

A strip of her clothing was ripped off as her father grabbed her by her nightgown. She attempted to push him away, desperate to make an escape.

"Let me go! Let me go!"

She struggled to break free of his firm grasp, and in panic, accidentally kicked him hard in the crotch. Her father howled in pain, and she was able to break free at last. She ran downstairs and out the front door, passing her mother, who was eating Cheetos and watching TV. She did not make a single glance. It was a normal day in her household.

Mary Ann stopped at a solitary railroad track, winding and swerving through the fields of Alabama. Sighing, she sat down, arms wrapped around her knees. She had lost all purpose in her life. Every minute was another minute wasted. She couldn't see how she would get out of this predicament.

She sat on the field, thoughts flying and colliding with each other like a particle accelerator. It was noon and the November sun baked the back of her neck as the cool breeze soothed her dirt-coated skin.

And a rumble, coming from her left. Mary Ann looked down the railroad tracks. There was a passenger train coming up ahead.

She stood up, walking, running. Her hair whipped about as a gust of wind from the passing train hit her forcefully. Impulsively, as if every moment of her life all lead up to this one moment, as if she had been destined to do this all along, she jumped, with the agility of a cheetah, grabbed the railing on the back of the train, found her footing, and, struggling, landed with a thud on the back of the last car.

Her hair danced, as if in joy, in the wind, as trees and small buildings passed in all directions, as clouds zoomed overhead.

Slowly, the town of Guilford, Alabama shrank to a speck. For the first time in what seemed like years, Mary Ann's lips contorted into a faint smile.

She needed to get out of that town. It held too many memories.

---

Mixed Emotions

The weather was dull, cloudy, a typical miserable autumn afternoon. I felt the same as the dark sky outside the window, but that was no surprise. I'd been feeling cheerless since my divorce, some nine or so months ago.

I looked at the clock; twenty to twelve. I'd better get a move on if I wanted to be on time for the concert me and my band were going to play in a nearby park. Then again, did I want to be on time, or even attend? I picked up my guitar, left my humble apartment and headed for the park with little to no hunger for music today, but I couldn't let the boys down now - I had agreed to do this months ago.

I was the last to arrive of the members of my band. There I go again, calling it ´my band´. Rather it's a band I'm a member of, and not a very enthusiastic member at that.
I'd only been in the band six months. I thought joining a group of musicians might take my mind of other personal matters. I joined, taking on lead guitar, and somehow got given the allotment for lead singer too. Funny that, I was the newest member yet I some how held the most responsibility.
The band was already set up on the circular stage when I arrived. They were always so professional - they always aspired for better, maybe they could make it big one day. And maybe they could, I don´t doubt their musical ability, but I personally thought of the band as just a temporary escape from my negative memories. I've always known I've had an admirable musical talent since young, but not sterling enough to go professional - like those middle aged balding men that hold karaoke in dying out bars on weekends.

The park was heaving. The local charity organized event was taking off well. After a few minutes of fine tuning and sound tests, the event organizer signaled us to let loose the music that so wanted to escape our lungs and instruments.

We started the set by playing ´Piano man´, which was quite ironic, because in our ensemble, there was not one piano, nor anyone that knew how to play one.
The sky seemed to get darker by the minute as more clouds swarmed in from all directions. It looked as if, any minute, the sky could break down pouring rain. Did I look like that too? Like I was going to break down crying?
As we continued sharing our music with the people who had bothered coming, a small crowd of spectators formed in front of us - mostly families and senior citizens, though there was one specific character that stood out in the crowd. Now, I'm not a prejudice man, but the individual in question looked very suspicious, and had an almost evil feel about him. He pushed his way through the crowd of innocent listeners weighed down by a large, and what looked like a quite heavy sports bag.

Though the manner-less person upset my conscious, I could do nothing, for I came here today to put on a show for the people. By now we were nearly half way through are set and were onto playing ´Whatever you want´. I looked over my shoulder, still strumming the all too familiar chords on the guitar and noticed the band were alive, enjoying every minute of the spectacle - our spectacle. That instant I shone. I rose. I actually felt good, my anterior solemn mood had been washed away in an instant. How long had it been since I smiled, since I let out a laugh? I can´t remember, and if I can't remember it has honestly been too long. Now was the time. I looked at the rest of the team and smiled - it felt good. I let out a light chuckle, not so loud that the spectators might hear it, but loud enough for the band to make out. And they acknowledged it, smiling back in turn.

But that new found joy was only to be savored momentarily, as a loud bang, followed by two more were heard throughout the vast park. The ear-aching blasts over powered our music, as if it had the music notes under submission, and had won in a second.

Then Darkness. Darkness and Silence. How could it be so dark? It's almost as if the darkness shone, if that was possible. Darkness shining darkness.

All was normal again. I was back in the park, but for some strange reason there was no music playing. All around people were running, fleeing from something. A few more responsible individuals hung around, forming a semi-circle not far from me. Amongst the gasping and shouting half circle I recognized a few of my band members, so I moved over to join them, and if I could, find out what was happening.
As I got closer, I called out to my musical friends, but no answer. They didn't even acknowledge my existence. I soon found out why. A body lay hugging the floor beside them. After closer inspection I realized it....was....my....body--
How was this possible? If this is my body on the floor, lifeless as the guitar by my side, then what am I now? I pinched myself, and patted my body down. It still all felt real, yet when I attempted to place my hand on a nearby persons shoulder, my hand passed right through the person. That's when it hit me. That's when I let out a cry of anger, rage, confusion......fright.

This all seemed like a movie. Have you ever watched one of those action packed movies and thought to yourself, ´i wish something interesting like that would happen to me´? I had always thought that - until now. I always wanted to see some action, so I could later tell friends and family, maybe one day even exaggerate the stories to my own children, and if all went well, grandchildren. But I wouldn't get the chance to tell this story to the would-be inheritors of my family name.

Some twenty meters away there was another small assembly gathering. This one seemed to be mostly comprised of police officers, now vigilant on the scene. That man, the same suspicious man I had seen minutes ago, lay on the floor here. He was face down, as was I, but he didn't lay lifeless like I did on the stage, he was alive, in agony it seemed, but alive none the less. The culpable bandit had been cuffed by the local police and was in the process of being taken to a squad car, badly parked on a park path. Another office was gathering up the criminals not-so-hard earned loot, which had been partially spread out on the pavement, some notes already blown away.

I could hear an officer explaining the details of the occurrence to another, higher ranked officer who had just arrived on the bloody scene. He explained how the criminal had resisted arrest, and let off two stray bullets, one of which reached the fragile body of a musician. He explained he had to take action to stop this danger to society and discharged his own pistol on the criminal, piercing his right upper arm.

By the time I looked back at my own cadaver, paramedics were attempting to revive my limp body, but what good was that? I had already left my corpse. People were crying, around both my spiritual presence, and my physical motionless body. Like I said, I wouldn't able to tell this story, but maybe others would. And maybe i´d live on through those stories. However I suspect that I won't be remembered for the music I was playing that afternoon, but rather how I met an unfortunate end at the hands of a coward.

The sky suddenly changed color to the most beautiful silver-blue. There was now not a cloud in the sky. It´s as if the sky had put on it's finest garments to host a special party. Right now I was the guest being invited, wait, I don´t think guest is the right word. Rather permanent resident. I looked at the commotion around me, then to the perfect sky above. Chaos under harmony.

A brightest white light shone. It shone brighter than that horrible darkness had shone dark. I knew what I had to do, as if I had been living my whole life waiting for this very moment.

My life on this Earth had come to an end.

---

Marshal's Law

"I remember a time," said a man as he lay in his straight jacket, "I remember a time when I wasn't confined with in these padded walls." The man took a breath and tried to speak, "I re-", the man began to cough, then he wiped off some blood from his mouth on one of the padded walls, "I remember when theses padded walls, and that cold steel door was all that was around me."

As a small child plays in a lush meadow, "How could I forget," Continued the man, "The only thing that's kept me going as long as I have." The man once again began to cough, "Before I was put inside this room- no this cage." The lush meadow the child once played in turns to ash, "I remember everything that happened that day, it was the day my life died," said the weak man, "and everything I loved turned to dust."

A man sits in a chair while drinking his morning coffee and reading his paper, then the man walks out of a room as he says good bye to his family, "It was a seemingly good day, the birds sang as the sun rose and my world turned on," continued the man, "everything seemed nice, but to those who looked past their own existence."

A group of soldiers walked past the man, "That was my first worry of that fateful day," the man said, "The soldiers had been taking anyone who seemed suspicious, but no one knew where." The soldiers stop a man walking with a brief case cuff him and throw him in the back of their truck, "The soldiers certainly didn't seem to mind their power, we were under marshal's law, in which all were suspects except soldiers and politicians it seemed."

A man holding a sign saying, "Down with marshal's law, protect the people!!" He exclaimed as the soldiers began to take him away.

"Nothing to see here, just another nut," said one of the soldiers as I walked by,

"Shut up already," said another as he hit him in the face with his gun.

"I walked by trying not to be noticed," continued the man, "But then.." As he walked down the street a man ran past him and quickly placed a case in his hands. "What's going on- is what I tried to say before the soldiers kicked me down and put a bag over my head. "I tried to explain it wasn't my case, but they knocked me out before I could a word in."

"I was cuffed to a chair that much I figured out," said the man, "I couldn't tell where I was, all I saw was black, they must have left the bag on my head." A door opens, as the bag is violently removed from the man's head.

"What is your organization planning," said the figure across the table from the man.

"I couldn't make out his face, but his voice seemed oddly familiar," said the man.

As the man's vision returned, he recognized the figure, "You're-" the man was interrupted.

"Yes, my name is __________ Marshal, you recognized me I'm flattered."

"Where am I," asked the man.

"I guess there's no harm in telling you that, my voice will probably be the last you hear anyways," continued Marshal, "You are in a compound just outside our countries soil."

"Now I'm afraid I need some answers," Marshal said, "What was your target?"

"What are you talking about?" asked the man.

Marshal stood up and began to walk over to the man, "I'm not known for my patients!!" Marshal continued as he slammed the man's face down on the table.

"I kept trying to explain I wasn't part of any organization, and that I wasn't any kind of threat to the country," said the man, "But they didn't seem to care, and the torture continued."

"Later they would tell me that my wife died when they were "questioning" her, I cried that whole night, which eventually got on the guards nerves, so he kick me in the mouth and knocked most of my teeth out."

"As he was leaving I tripped him and apparently he died as his head hit the wall, I saw my chance that night and took his gun and keys." The man ran down a hall way bleeding and broken trying his best not to fall, "I had remembered once Marshal had forgot to put the bag back over my head and I saw the room that he seemed to be staying in."

"I had only one though pulsing threw my head, I wanted revenge for my family, and for me," the man said. The man came up to the door he had been searching for, when Marshal was sleeping soundly like a new born baby, but as he held the gun to Marshal head, he thought about the other impacts of this piece of scum dying.

His movement would continue and everything would turn to dust, so instead of turning it on Marshal he turned it on himself, "I'd prefer to die then continue this life." said the man. But as he pulled the trigger, there were no bullets.

"Then they put me back in the room, and what had happen was view as an assassination attempt by a terrorist force," continued the man, "Marshal's movement went forward, and the nuclear fallout began." "But of course this cage kept me safe and now I lay here, until I die." the man said as his long, hard life finally ended.

---

Life for Granted

Like any other birth mine was violent and quick. I was brought into this world without permission or knowledge; I was just here. The first thing I remember was my mother's eyes. Not so much her eyes as my reflection in them. I saw my poor frail state shivering at every breath she would take. I stared at her, begging for acceptance, receiving it with every blink she gave me. She looked at me as only a person who has brought another life to this world can, caring, nurturing, and loving. "Hello my beautiful beacon," she whispered to me as I continued to shiver to her words. She was so young then, too young to be creating a new life, too young to have to deal with the responsibility of the world. I gazed back into her eyes, comparing myself to her. Her features reminded me of an angel. Long, beautiful hair that would make any man weep at the sight of such a perfection of beauty. Her skin was soft and smooth as a newborn's. Her eyes, her eyes could look right through you. From the first time I saw her she saw my soul, my life. She knew who I was before I knew what I was.

The night of my birth was far too cold for a celebration. The darkness had covered the fields like a blanket. There were no stars to be seen in the moonless sky. The winter had been a harsh one. This was not the time for a celebration. This was not the time to be bringing life into this world. But she did celebrate. She seized the winter air with her whole body and laughed and sang. She jumped and she swayed. She celebrated herself, celebrated me. She took to the night air like a dove takes to a summer's day, soaring across the fields with joy and love. She danced along with the blowing wind and I danced with her. There was no reason for it but we danced. It's as if I couldn't help myself but to. When the wind moved her it moved me, swaying and spinning.

The frigid wind cut me hard. As its ruthless tyranny broke the peacefulness of the winter night, I longed for my mother. I needed her to protect me, to save me from the cold. I could hear her joyful laughing in the distance, her singing being carried away by the bastard wind. Her youthful naiveté had lead her to forget about me. As the wind blew harder I shivered. I felt myself fading away, and as quickly and violently I entered this world I would leave it. I cursed my mother for her ignorance in creating me. How foolish of her to do this to another living thing. As I embraced my inevitable end, I heard footsteps behind me. My mother quickly cupped her hands around me, "Don't leave me just yet," she said with a smile on her face. I shiver with every word. With our unexpected reunion my strength returned, and so did my love for her. How fickle a child's love can be when a mother's is so unconditional.

As the wind calmed so did my fear of premature departure. The young mother continued her playful dancing in the crisp winter night. The night felt as if it would never end, and I didn't want it to. The wind would pick up slightly and we would dance with the breeze. As the night passed I heard my mother laugh and sing to herself as only youth would allow you to do, too young to be bringing life into this world. The night air soon began to warm and the dark sky was pierced by the sharp glow of the new day's sun climbing over the horizon. The night of my birth was over, and the first day of my life had just begun. I waited patiently for my mother to return to my side, longing for her words that would make me shiver.

She returned back by my side. Smiling and laughing with exhaustion from the night before. As I stared at her she looked into me. The sun light made it hard for me to see my reflection in her eyes. A new day was beginning and our night together was coming to an end. She leaned down towards me, and with every breath she would take I would quiver. She blinked her eyes and smiled. Her soft skin came closer to me, and as she leaned in she whispered to me, "Thank you." I felt the words swarm around me as all her words had before. In that moment she pushed her lips together to grace me with a kiss, and as the air passed between her lips my life was extinguished.

---

We're Not Moving

The jazz band had played on the corner of Albright and Ellis for many years. They always organized themselves outside a newsagents owned by a man named Gary. Gary was a childhood friend of Mr. Styles, the band's percussionist, and had been persuaded to offer daily unpaid gigs for all eternity on the pavement running alongside the road, in front of the small business.

The ensemble was also indebted to Gary for their living quarters. They shared a simple room above the shop. Three flimsy beds constructed with cold metal bars and rusty springs, which Gary had received when a distant relative had died, were used to rest in. The two men unfortunate (or fortunate, your opinion) enough not to be sleeping in a proper bed slept in sleeping bags on the floor, trying not to make contact with the old shag carpeting a sadistic individual had installed, for fear of gaining itches over their faces. Gary had never personally wallpapered or painted the room, but when lying in bed, you could make out a weak orange juice dab here and there; that was only one hint that the room was never prominent in anyone's lives outside of those of the band members. All five of them though, were comfortable in this room. They may have had no choice in that they had to live with it, the room and the corner outside being the only places they frequently stayed, but they constantly assured themselves that their comfort was genuine. All they needed to do was peruse their respective instruments while they relaxed, and a few of them wondered if Harlem was similar. Some of them liked to think they had recreated the New York suburb, at least partially, inside the small room.

The part of town that the band called home was not affluent, nor in penury. In fact, it was not home to many but the quintet. Anyone who stopped, watched and applauded their efforts was simply moving on through. The street was open and long; a car or a pedestrian could be monitored as they moved towards the corner, and then away again, probably never to return. The hard slabs of the pavement and the smooth cheerless tarmac on the road worked well with the blankness of the nearby buildings. That in mind, vibrant melodies had painted the street signs a fusion of different colours over the years. At the same time, a tree had been planted decades before, close to what became the band's stage and served as the regular audience; eager to listen and learn.

Big Mac, lead saxophonist, had taken up his instrument in high school as part of his fledgling stand-up comedy routine. He was always the kind of guy who liked to do what he wanted, without getting too political about things. He would step up onto a stage in front of around one hundred people, girls and boys, men and women, and clear his throat into the microphone. Dressed in his teen sized suit and with his saxophone in his hands, he muttered his first sequence, "A young lady nudged me in the lunch queue yesterday. She said, "I wonder what it's like to blow into that horn of yours."" Eyes sprung up around the room in surprise; hands jumped to cover mouths, as Big Mac honed his trademark of tooting away furiously, with a spring in his unmoving step and his eyebrows squirming like worms. People around the room would babble, "That lad, 'e's gunna be big, saw big, I tell yer."

Big Mac was still the humourist. He often told the story of how he never grew into a star to observers, or the rest of the band. They never tired of it, because it was impossible to believe the saxophone player. It was a joke, but such was the mystery between these five men, it was unknown whether anything they said was true. None of them had ever seen another move; it was hard to picture it happening. He always started out that he had the name before the burger, and that profits were being unfairly made off his own name. He claimed he walked into a huge skyscraper, made a stand and played out a few jokes before being kicked out. "Suddenly the vice-president stopped calling. Elvis wasn't coming over for dinner, and the magazine people stopped breaking in to get photos." he would muse as he grinned at himself. "I had been blacklisted!"

Big Mac was the fourth member of the band. The original three who had come out of school, into the welfare office and back out onto the street had already been there for a while. The night of Big Mac's arrival was a black one, and it was much harder to identify the indifferent neighbourhood. The instruments had been put away, and the wires for the small speakers they always used to amplify themselves to no one were coiled up for another day. The three musicians stood on the corner, not talking, but smoking into the wind when the sound of a saxophone flowed down the empty lanes. It was a desire to be somewhere; the sounds were searching. The noise became clearer, and Big Mac was eventually visible, with Coltrane walking beside him. Had he decided to continue moving past the three men, he would only be a distant memory somewhere down the street. How could he though? Big Mac could see the future in front of him; he did want to refuse the last rest stop for God only knows how many miles. He talked to the men quietly, and then according to trumpeter Roger T, slept for four days.

The final member was younger, more concrete and serious in his demeanour. Octopus was a professional, or rather the shell of a professional with the insides sides dissected. Unlike Big Mac's name, Octopus' alias was not a home-grown invention. He had earned the name in his musical talent, in that his father constantly swore he could master eight instruments at once. Only his father would ever see him attempt this, and that only took place in his father's mind, along with dreams that his son would grow into a confident and funny businessman, who occupies himself with the A-list in a hidden Xanadu. Nonetheless, Octopus was certainly creatively minded, and could generally pick up and play a lot of instruments popular in western culture. But he wasn't Superman.

And it remained so as he clashed with professors, argued with journalists and ran into financial trouble. After one night of heavy drinking near the university in which he was studying, he took the guitar that was hanging in the case he had fastened around him as he stumbled across the bridge across the artificial lake. He removed his hat, placed it by his feet, and started to play. One passer-by scoffed, "This must be "Tuning". It's a good one; you'll know it." to his friend. Any other comments went unnoticed by Octopus, whose tentacles were now rapidly tickling the guitar's neck one minute, and stroking it the next. He wasn't aware how long he had played for that night.

He awoke the next morning in a daze, lying on the bridge. His hat was by his side still, and empty, so he helped himself up and planted it back on his head. The guitar was still asleep after its unusually rough night. He squinted at the lurid morning as he managed to put the guitar away without smashing it, and stood up while leaning on the side of the bridge. He could make out a man at the other end staring at him. Octopus geared his legs up to move, but found it difficult. The figure was still watching him, and when Octopus almost collapsed, the man's head lowered significantly. Octopus was not in the right frame of mind at the time to conclude the person was hiding tears and sobs. What could've possibly been an apparition was gone in minutes, and Octopus fell back to sleep once more.

---

Continued

The next day was a chore. Octopus' whole body was aching and he didn't want to move. A thought sprung into his head that he should be settling down somewhere, a thought which culminated in a newsagent where Octopus had stopped to buy an energy drink. What was then a quartet were setting up for their set outside, and noticed the lad's guitar. There is no need to be emotional, as Octopus joining the band was a very unemotional experience; no need to move on and share your thoughts. Under this philosophy, Octopus was the most mysterious in a gang of unknown men, and that was fine. They encouraged him, and they all kept their hats on.

This brings us to last night. The air was cool, and the band was finishing off their show in their slightly stained suits fully buttoned. The evening had a small romantic feel to it; it had been snowing, and white sprinkled dust had settled everywhere around the two streets. The passionate playing of the music was like a fireplace. At every fading out, more wood would be thrown on. Two people had dropped by today to grab doughnuts and a paper between them, and they had nodded politely at the performers. It was little recognition, but easily cherished by the entire band. Gary had shut the small store early because of the snow, but the band agreed not to go off stage yet. They have a promise to their fans.

The day grew darker, and the beauty on the street corner went on. Quaint magenta lights flickered through the windows of the nearby buildings.
"Last one now guys?" asked Mr. Styles, adjusting the percussion.
"Yeah, I suppose so, getting pretty dark and chilly out here." replied Bobby Owen, the player of the small wooden piano. "I think one of these legs is nearly bust. Look how the whole thing wobbles about."
"Yeah, that thing's probably been on its last legs for years." said Big Mac, his teeth chattering. "What are we doing then? Blakey, Moanin' was it we said last time?"
"The trumpet bits might not be great, I'm fairly tired. I'm happy though if you guys are."
"I've practically already got the bass ready." Octopus chimed in, with a rare moment of definite thought.
"Hey, as long as that piano doesn't fall to pieces I think we're set." decided Mr. Styles.

The band got two minutes into the song, where Roger T moved himself with the sound of the trumpet. He was tired, but it wasn't a bit off like he imagined. Bobby Owen carefully played the backing, knowing that he could very well be playing the last song on his piano of so many years. Big Mac was the first to hear the change: the sound of shattering glass. He looked around him cautiously, wondering where it was coming from. He nudged Octopus who also picked up on the unexplained noise. Gradually the whole band noticed the anomaly, Roger T getting it last, as he continued to play himself and the trumpet. The band looked both frightened and fierce in their bewilderment.

Then they realised there was another sound, coming from the same direction. Now it was sobbing, and it was coming from the back of Gary's shop. None of the musicians went to investigate; they didn't move, glued to the spot. The quick breaths and whimpers became louder, until the originator stepped out from an alley that runs to the back of the shop. It was man dressed in rags, with empty bags hanging under his eyes. He looked like a scarecrow with his hay hair and bushy face.
"That song you were playing... what was it?" he forced out of himself, his jaw shaking. No one replied for seconds.
"Art Blakey, Moanin'." answered Mr. Styles.
"I've heard that song before... it was at a high school dance. I was wearing this expensive suit and had my hair done up really nice, like those sports guys you see. The band started to play and we all got up to dance. I was with this young lady. She wore this beautiful long red dress and gorgeous silky hair. Those were better times you see. Things got bad, they got so bad and thing is... she was so beautiful and... well, I'm sorry, I..."

The man had broken down. The band looked down at their shoes, but had to listen to the man's cries in their trained ears. After a minute, he snorted loudly and coughed. Without looking, the musicians heard his footsteps and his breaths became echoes in the silent street. Snow had begun to fall again. Octopus looked at Big Mac.
"There's one guy moving on in life." he speculated.
Big Mac replied, "He's movin' on, but he ain't enjoyin' it."

---

Daddy Said
"Don't cry. I'll be back soon. I love you. I know that the thought of daddy going far away is scary, sweetheart, but you know your daddy is always with you, right? Please, Lucy, don't cry. Keep the candle lit until I get back, ok?" These were the last words Lucy ever heard her father speak.
Thomas took his daughter into his arms and held her as she sobbed, shaking. Each warm tear that slid down her cheek and onto his neck caused him to fight the trembling of his own body. The thought of leaving his daughter at this crucial time in her life crushed him, but he knew that his duty to protect his country was what, in turn, would protect her. Or, maybe that was an excuse he embraced to deal with the loss of his wife. Maybe this was how he could get away from the misery. Maybe, if he were the same man he was before his first call of duty, these cowardly thoughts would have been truth.
Thomas developed a new sense of pride and self-worth during his two years being stationed in Iraq. Being in one life-threatening situation after another, every day, during most of those two years, really makes one appreciate life. War itself, however, is no respecter of life. Lives are lost everyday and one must deal with the loss of a brother more often than not.
War, however, was not all heartache and danger for Thomas. He began to see it as a sort of a blessing, not only for the new sense of self, but for ultimately giving him the mindset to deal with the war that was in his own heart. He had never forgiven himself for his wife's death, even though it was no fault of his. It was another case of an all too common occurrence according to the newspaper, "Drunk Driver Fails to Stop at Red Light: 1 Fatality." Thomas escaped the accident with only a cut on his cheek, just deep enough to leave a slight scar. His daughter, who recently turned six years old, had been left with her grandmother. Babysitting was her gift to them as they celebrated their 3rd anniversary. The pain of dealing with the loss is what led Thomas to enlist. He was sent to Iraq within two months.
It had been nearly two years since Lucy had last seen her father. Her father had been away on "missions", as he called them, once before. But, this time she felt something changing inside of her. Sadly, she did not share in her father's realization of self that war had created in him. She had begun to resent her father for leaving her. She would never blame him for killing her mother, but the thought sometimes lingered in the back of her mind. This was mainly due to the fact that he left shortly after her mother died, leaving her with her sickly grandmother. Her grandmother had purchased Lucy an entire box of candles the day after her father left so that she could keep the promise of keeping the candle lit, just as she did the last time he left. However, nearly a year later, she let a candle burn out and never replaced it. She had one candle remaining in the box and decided to put it in a small wooden chest where she kept her father's letters and a few of her mother's belongings.
Lucy turned to her attention to the doorway as she heard a muffled cry. She assumed that it was her grandmother coming to give her this week's letter from her father. He had sent her letters every week since he left. And as predicted, her grandmother was there and held a letter in her hand. Her grandmother stood there for merely a moment before dropping to her knees, motioning for Lucy to come to her. Lucy went to her grandmother slowly, confused as to what was happening. The letter fell from her grandmother's hand as she reached out to embrace Lucy. As Lucy watched the combination of the letter slowly falling, and her grandmother's tears falling quickly, she realized what must have happened. Each warm tear that fell down her grandmother's face and landed on Lucy's neck, caused her to fight the trembling of her own body. The two sat on the cold floor, sobbing, for what seemed like an eternity.
Lucy, now nearly sixty years old, lays in bed, too tired to sleep. She slowly crawls out from under her cozy blankets and walks wearily toward the closet. As she reaches up to the top shelf she lets out a slight groan and massages her wrists. She sighs through the pain and grabs hold of a small wooden chest, turns, and brings it back with her to the bed. As she opens the chest the room suddenly fades to darkness. Lucy sits silently for a moment, confused as to what just occurred. Out of the darkness came a quiet sob. Lucy turned her attention to the doorway, where she thought she hear the cry. There, she saw a little girl with tears in her eyes. The girl stared at her for only a moment before turning to enter the living room. Lucy reached for the handle of the desk drawer that was beside her bed. Her hand stumbled through its contents, and eventually found the box of matches they were searching for. Without thinking, she reached for the candle, struck a match, and lit the wick. For the second time that night she slowly crawled out from under her cozy blankets and made her way to the living room.
The little girl sat on a piano bench in the room, crying, with her hands over her eyes. Lucy stood for a moment and examined the girl. There was something very familiar about this girl. She slowly approached and put a hand on the girl's shoulder. The girl sniffed, wiped her eyes, and then looked up at Lucy.
"Why are you crying, little girl?" Lucy asked.
"Because you broke your promise. You forgot daddy. You left me alone in the dark," the girl responded through sobs.
"I don't understand," Lucy said. "Who...who are you?"
"My name is Lucy," the girl replied.

Lucy was stunned. Of course this is why the girl looked familiar. This child was Lucy, and from the looks of it she was only about seven years old. As Lucy was collecting her thoughts, the girl stood and pointed to the bench.

"There's something in there that you need to see. Grandma forgot to give it to you before she...well, you know."

Lucy opened the top of the bench. Inside she saw an old letter that was addressed to her. She reached for it and slowly managed the letter open. As she read, tears began to well in her eyes.

Lucy,
I am coming home very soon. Just one more mission and daddy will be coming home. I can't wait to give you a big hug and bunches of kisses. Grandma tells me that you've grown up so big! She sent me a picture of you a while back and I see you've let your beautiful blonde hair grow out. You look so much like your mother. I know you miss her, Lucy. Me too. She would be so proud of the young lady you are becoming. She is always with you, sweetheart, remember that. Just like I am with you when you look at the candle. Keep it lit, remember? Daddy said. I'm afraid this letter is going to have to be a short one, sweetie, but I will see you very soon. Oh, and Lucy? Grandma also tells me that you have been kind of sad, and a little distant lately. That's probably my fault. I want you to know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for forgetting who I am. I'm sorry for leaving you when you needed me the most. I'm going to be a much better daddy when I get home. I promise.
P.S. I hear its getting cold there. You had better stay bundled up! Keep that coat on, young lady. I don't want you getting sick.
Hugs and Kisses,
Daddy

As Lucy finished the letter, she noticed an old-fashioned candle holder sitting on top of a stand in front of the piano bench. She walked slowly to it and saw that it had a white candle sitting inside of it, which was similar to the one she currently carried with her. She turned to face the girl, tears now streaming.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I forgot who you are. Who I was."
The girl walked up to Lucy and hugged her tightly, then backed away and smiled. She reached for Lucy's hand that held the lit candle and guided it towards the candle inside the holder. They both nodded to each other in agreement.

---

(continued)

"Daddy said" was all that the child spoke as they lit the candle together. The girl then sat down once again on the bench, looked to the candle, smiling all the while. There were no more tears. The girl seemed to be at peace. Lucy also stared, mesmerized by the flame. She slowly turned her attention to the girl, but she was no longer there. She returned her gaze to the candle, but it too was no longer there. Standing there stunned, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness that was slowly filling the room, the flame from the candle now being the only source of light. She stood there, silent, staring at the flame. Slowly, she smiled. Then, spoke the only words that were left in her mind.
"Daddy said."

---

The girl just stood there, staring at the ominous glow of the candle in the graveyard where her precious Nana had been buried a few hours ago. Her Nana was the most precious person to her, because she gave her the great life she had today. She was very young, but she still vividly remembered the week when her Nana and herself had achieved their proudest moment...

It had been a scorching summer day in Slovakia, and the little girl known as Hlavinka stood next to her precious Nana's hands as they trotted through the town, being greeted by the friendly townspeople as they passed by doing their daily choirs or having a good time. Hlavinka's Nana owned a very famous Dairy outside of the town, and needed constant supplies to provide nutrients for her cows and equipment for her machinery.

She would need all the supplies she could get, for the biggest Dairy contest in all of Slovakia would be held in a few days, and the first prize winner would win the highest honor of supplying milk to everyone in Eastern Europe. The contestant with the best tasting milk would win the contest. Hlavinka knew that her Nana was sure to win, because she had been training for this event her whole life and always took good care of her cattle and kept the machines in good check.

Hlavinka and her Nana walked to the Auto shop to purchase some new belts and gears for their milking machine and were on their way to the market to purchase some hay for their Cattle, when Hlavinka stared idly at the candy shop window, seeing how the chocolate was getting made. Her Nana saw this and stated, "You like the chocolate, don't you Hlavinka?" Hlavinka responded, "Yes Nana, but I know we do not have the money for us to be buying the chocolate, but maybe when we win the contest I can buy some?" Her Nana laughed and replied, "Yes child, we'll not only have enough money to buy the chocolate, but we will also be producing the milk used to make the chocolate, which is a great honor indeed." Hlavinka smiled at what her Nana had said and happily skipped with her to the market.

At the market it was a madhouse, everywhere vendors and hagglers were debating prices on what goods to buy and sell. Hlavinka always found this funny, because she could never understand why adults bickered about the silliest things. "I don't know either," her Nana replied, "they should be happy that they can still put food on their tables in these tough times." Hlanvinka and her Nana finally reached a vendor who was selling the best Hay for the modest price. "You wait here while I buy the Hay for the Cattle," her Nana replied. Hlavinka nodded and happily dreamed of when her Nana and herself would win the contest and supply milk for everyone across the land.

When Hlavinka and her Nana were done shopping for supplies, they headed back to their farm to feed the Cows and repair the machinery. When they got back, the farm hands all greeted them happily with warm smiles and waves. Hlavinka returned their waves and headed with her Nana to the barn to feed the Cattle and repair the milking machines.

After fixing all the machines and feeding almost all of the Cattle, Hlavinka and her Nana finally reached their prized cow that's milk they would be using for the competition; her name was Mildred. Mildred had milked the sweetest tasting milk in all of Slovakia; thousands of people from all over would come year round to taste some of her delectable milk. She was Hlavinka and Nana's ace in the whole for the competition.

After feeding and milking Mildred, Hlavinka and Nana started getting ready for bed, for the trip to the contest would be held in Slovakia's capitol, Kosice, and they needed to get up bright and early to make the trek there.

"Rest up little one, for we shall be leaving bright and early tomorrow," her Nana had said. "Alright, Nana," was her reply. Early the next morning, Hlavinka and her Nana woke up, got dressed, brushed their teeth and finally waited for the farm hands to load their truck with Mildred's milk for the competition. Once they were finished, Nana started the truck and pulled out of the Dairy, heading to the Slovakian Capitol and their destinies.

The trip was long and tedious, taking many hours to get there, but when Hlavinka and her Nana finally arrived in Kosice, they were happily greeted by the tourists and staff of the competition, making sure that they felt welcome in such a foreign place. Hlavinka was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the big city and couldn't take it all in at once.

"Don't worry Hlavinka, we will win this competition and bring honor and glory to our farm," Nana had reassured her. "I know we will win Nana, we have tried so hard all year and our work is going to pay off soon, they'll see," Hlavinka replied back. Nana chuckled at her Granddaughter's enthusiasm and agreed whole-heartedly.

Finding a good place to park, they headed to the registration booth to enter themselves into the competition. The registration officer was a deadpan man who looked very serious and stern. "Name?" stated the officer. "Nana and Hlavinka Yelnats," replied Nana. "Alright, your booth is number 24, good luck, you're going to need it," replied the officer.

After registering, Nana and Hlavinka went back to the truck to unload the milk onto the carriers and to the booth. The process took a long time, but with fantastic results. People started gathering around the famous milk and took little sips of free samples that Hlavinka and Nana started giving out as a promotional tool; even if they didn't win, they could still get as much publicity as possible.

"Nana, we should get ready for the competition, it will start soon," Hlavinka had stated. "You are right young one. Come, let us prepare the milk for the judging," Nana had retorted. They poured the milk into very nice wine glasses; they needed all the help they could get to impress the judges. But, it didn't matter if they had poured it into a clay mug, for Nana's milk was the best in all of the land.

The judges were very old, but very wise and experienced in the fields of milking and dairy-based products and would know which milk to choose to be produced throughout the land. Every booth they visited had the same cycle: arrive, drink, review and decline. So far, all the booths the judges reviewed had not been to their liking.

Finally, they arrived at Nana and Hlavinka's booth. Both Nana and Hlavinka were extremely nervous, they weren't sure how the judges would react to their milk, but they had hope in their hearts. After what seemed like hours, all the judges finished their milk and started reviewing. When they finished discussing, they all came to a unanimous conclusion. "As the committee of Slovakian Dairy Association, we hearby decree that Nana and Hlavinka's milk is the best in all of Slovakia and shall be distributed all over Eastern Europe; you should be able to pick up the milk in a few weeks."

Hlavinka and Nana were ecstatic with the outcome; their milk truly was the best in all of the land. Thousands of people screamed and cheered for the victors, they were glad such humble folk had won the competition and now they could taste Nana's fresh milk year round...

"That was five years ago, today," said Hlavinka said to her deceased Nana's grave. "Even though you are dead, you still give me hope for the future, Nana," Hlavinka said while tears streamed down her cheek. With her final goodbyes she said, "I will continue you legacy Nana; I shall milk the cows everyday and take the milk to market to be distributed to the people and I will remind them just who helped provide such wonderful milk." With that, Hlavinka put flowers on her Nana's grave, blew out the candle and waved goodbye to her beloved Nana, ready to start a new day tomorrow.

THE END.