Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

Once upon a time i was sitting at home talking to my best friend jimi hendrix while we were watching our favorite show letterman when john lennon came in and started trashing our room!
So me and jimi got angry and politely told him to leave but he said no and called his friend Bob Dylan.

We made an agreement that they could have their own side of the apartment, if they payed half the rent, so we all agreed and put out hands together like in that movie mighty ducks.
Anyway I got hungry and went to the kitchen but my black friend was in the pantry eating all my god damn flour!
I got so angry at him it was a really angry day for me when all the sudden simon and garfunkle came over and we shook hands, they are nice guys and they went on our side.
Anyways, we got bored the next day, so all of us decided to go to Vietnam and go on a boat ride.
As we rode up the river, I started to question my sanity, my pure being.
What is this, some kind of matrix? Is this really reality? What is Kurtz really up t--
All the sudden we started singing the best song freebird when the lead singer of kansas appeared in the clouds, he told me to go on, to believe in my true being, he told be not to conform to others ideals.
Then we ate some cornflakes but there were only 4 cups so some of us had to share.
We continue'd to tow up river, when we reached a french safe spot.
Lennon sang them a song, which convinced them to let us in to have dinner.
While the other guys were seated on a table out back, mr guveranchi the french man invited me to sit at the family table, as a guest of honor.
There he told me lots of stuff something to do with them losing wars and americans have nothing to fight for but i was busy playing the new pokemon emerald for my gameboy.
Anyways we FINALLY got out and continued up river, my best friend hendrix said he was hesitant about going further up north but I told him to shut up.
We finally arrived at what seemed to be an ancient mayan temple ruin, there were at least 50 children guarding the entrance, and vietnamese men hanging in the tree's wearing no pants it was pretty funny.
Anyways all my friends phill collins bob dylan simon and garfunkle and jimi's guitars turned into guns and we shot all those people and there was blood and guns and James Bond blew up heaps of people it was so cool.
We proceeded up the many stairs leading to the entrance of the compound, when some annoying photographer came up to be and he was all wacking out and stuff like he had too much sugar so i punched him really hard in the dick and he cried.
I entered the kurtz compound after, and he was sitting there, i couldn't really see him but he sorta looked like a fat Marlon Brando.
Anyways he was talking about something like he was a god but i was too busy playing my game boy to listen.
After he stopped talking i shot him in the head with a rocket launcher and then we all went back to new york and had a big concert and i played guitar really good.

The horror, the horror.

A deep gurgle took place in my stomach, followed by sharp pains coursing through my bowels like lightning bolts. I knew I shouldn't have eaten the hot dog from that shady stand at the lake. The second that questionable foodstuff hit my stomach regret seemed imminent, but after a long and arduous day of swimming at Lake Nokomis I just had to have some sustenance. I could feel the sensation of liquid matter running through my system like a horse galloping for the finish line, unfortunately for me the finish line was going to be my pants; unless I took action, and quickly.

I was accompanied by two of my best chums, Cal and D.

"Are you okay man?" Cal inquired.

"Yeah, you keep stopping to bend over." D finished.

"Yeah guys, just a little gas is all, I'll be..."

and then it occurred to me. My facial expression went from semi-uncomfortable to complete dismay. We were 14+ blocks from Cal's house, and the only familiar toilet for a little over a mile. The sanitary porcelain goddess that awaited the arrival of the unholy matter brewing within me was too far from reach. I could hold my composure no longer, I clenched the cheeks of my buttocks harder than I'd ever clenched anything and began to waddle like a gimped duckling across the street.

"Where the fuck are you going man!" D yelled.

"I NEED TO FIND A BATHROOM; I'M GOING TO SHIT MY FUCKING PANTS!" I gasped; without looking back.

I'm sure I gartered the look of many pedestrians at that point. I made my way into the alley, looking for any where I could release the fecal demons clawing their way out of me. Upon my discovery of a recycling bin a glimmer of hope beamed within me. I made my way to it; the dull green surface had never been so comforting. A small amount of rainwater from nights passed was gathered calmly in one of the corners of the empty receptacle. It was almost artistic. A wet trump made itself known from my behind; the demons were growing ever impatient. I immediately pulled down my pants, victory was about to be mine, I relaxed my ass for a mere second when I heard mechanical sound. On the far end of the alley was a truck slowly making its way toward me and my new found sanctuary. I instinctively pulled up my pants and darted behind a garage. As luck would have it, the truck turned into its space promptly and I was left alone again to do business.

I hastily dragged the makeshift toilet between two garages and unsheathed my behind once more. The uncomfortable pressure around my anus amplified itself; the moment of truth was about to take place. With absolutely no pushing a long and mighty log shot out at of me at the speed of light. It was at that second I knew why I was able to even mildly hold back the liquid menace the fateful frankfurter had become. The log had been acting as a guard, shielding my red-striped boxers from what would have been quite warm to say the least. The linebacker log lay proudly in the rainwater of the bin, knowing it had served its purpose. Two seconds later a squelchy splatter comparable to that of Sewage being shot out of a fire hose at a brick wall was heard. I could feel sweat begin to run down my face. With my blue denim jeans dropped neatly to my ankles I continued my struggle. I felt like Mt. Vesuvius; Spewing molten liquid in a blazing eruption on the unfortunate people of Italy. I gritted my teeth and pressed on; the fight would soon be over.

All was well until I heard the opening of a nearby door; someone was going to their garage.
"No..." I uttered under my breath, my ass still flowing like Snoop Dogg at a rap concert.
I tried to stop the diarrhea, my attempt was futile. My Brain would not allow my ass cheeks to receive the third-degree burning my anus was being subjected to. I heard a gate open, my body froze. I'm not a religious man but I was definitely praying to something at this point. Whatever god that was looking down at my messy misfortune could at the very least will this person to go back inside and allow me to finish in peace. The entire bottom of the recycling bin was covered with viscous ooze. What was once a clean and green receiver of recycling was now being defiled to the greatest of magnitudes. The last few drips of deep-brown butt water were let loose, the nightmare was over. Or so I had thought. Just as I pulled my pants up and spotted some rhubarb leaves to cleanse myself, a boy appeared around the corner of the garages. No more than 8 he was, with a porcine build and a ketchup stain on the right side of his cheek.

"What are you doing behind our garage?" He asked innocently, burrowing his index finger into his nose to relieve himself of a booger.

"I was just making sure it looked right." I told him, too drained from my previous battle to make up a more believable tale.

"Is it? Let me see!" he said, nearly shoving me out of the way to go and inspect it for himself.

At this point the horrid stench of my mishap was growing stronger. The boy stopped in his tracks. I decided now was a good time to grab a few rhubarb leaves. Upon peering inside the bin, the boy began to retch; he collapsed to the side of the garage and voided the contents of his stomach right next to the bin. I guess the lumpy linebacker was too much for the poor lad.

I sprinted to the nearest private spot I could find, wiped, tossed my boxers, and began the walk back to my friends. The urge to wash my grips was killing me, but I knew I'd be okay once we came across a sprinkler or something. Cal and D were in the exact same spots I had left them, sitting patiently on the green boulevard grass with concerned looks plastered on their faces. Cal was the first to spot me.

"WHAT THE FUCK MAN! You just ran off and left us here." He said, his eyes betraying his anger with relief.

"Yeah, did you find a place to shit?" D said standing up.

"I did, don't laugh though." I said, looking down in shame.

"Is that so? Where'd you go?" Cal asked.

"I found this god-damned recycling bin in between two garages." I responded, my anus still stinging.

"Holy shit man." D responded.

"There was nothing holy about it D, it was the work of the devil in hot dog form."
They both burst out laughing at this point; the humor of the entire situation had escaped me; until I remembered the unfortunate child. Scarred forever by what could only be described as the most horrific anal creation since the very dawn of man.

Recounting the events that took place that day I cannot help but laugh, literally though, you can't make this shit up!

Bitter

by themanthelegend

"You're fucking killing me!" Jack cried out in the sheer frustration of not being able to control the situation. He needed to control this moment, to change it, somehow morph it to his will.

"Stop it... you're making me feel so bad." Sarah whispered at a squeak as tears rolled down her face; a face that seemed so different now that it had been said. Now that he knew she really wanted to leave. They had broken up before, but always on a hollow threat sort of basis, and this time was no threat, Jack could feel it.

"Good! You should feel bad. How can you do this? I.... fucking love you." Jack heard his voice tremble and felt he was really beginning to lose it," I love you so much." The words let out the way an exhausted breath leaves a marathon runner as he decides to quit before finishing. Drawn and defeated.

"I know." Sarah was barely coherent through her sobbing, "I'm sorry, but I have to do what's best for me." Best for her? Best for her? The words pounded in Jack's head. What does that mean? Had he truly been that horrible to be with? He realized at that moment he agreed with her but couldn't admit it. He forced the thought out like an uninvited intruder. He needed to be what was best for her, even though he wasn't, and possibly never had been. She wasn't even the best thing for him anymore, but being with her was better than being alone... sometimes.

Jack's tone was raised to almost a scream, "Don't do this. Don't leave. Please don't reject me!" He knew his pleas were pathetic, but he was so Goddamn desperate. The panic throttled him as he begged for this all to go away and for Sarah to love and adore him again.

"Stop. Please stop..." Sarah's voice was choked out by her own emotion, which Jack began to realize was as wild as his, and it angered him. He needed to be the more passionate one, even if he had to go over the top to prove it. Jack now clumsily stumbled into full freak out. He would say anything, any awful thought that came to mind: something extreme. It all seemed so unreal. Jack recalled his reoccurring nightmares that had played out the same way, mixed with images of their early time together. It had all been so sweet: warm summer nights, followed by stolen early morning kisses. An image that never left his mind too long was her hair in the fall they had met. How it was the same red as the changing leaves on the trees in Island Park, and how he had asked that random guy fishing there to take a picture of him with her. He was so proud of himself to be with someone so beautiful, and now he had turned it to shit.

"I hate my job. I have nothing. If you leave - I'll have no reason to live. "The odd calm that washed over his face visibly scared Sarah. It scared him too. His words hung as an awkward silence followed their release, and he found himself hoping they hadn't reached a point where Sarah might somewhere deep inside want him gone. After all, a dead man would never bother her again.

"Don't say that! " Sarah finally gasped out.

You know I can't handle this." Jack could no longer recognize his own voice. God, he had never felt like this, and it was true, he couldn't handle it. At this point in time it was the end of his world. The idea of living without Sarah was anguishing, it made his mind unravel. The same phrase bounced around in his head, in between every grim thought. "This can't be real." His mind screamed it, demanded for it to be true. This was the closest he would ever come to actually living out one of his nightmares, he was sure of it. The pain was so intense, and the idea of living without her had not even really settled. Somehow he had to fix this.

But Jack could not fix it, it was broken forever. The remainder of the night was similar to a black out, as he begged through a wet face full of tears, groveling. Sarah was mostly quiet, an open eyed as she watched Jack further destroy himself. Apparently her breakup tactic was cold silence and occasional crying. Jack figured that this was better than his tactic, the shameless demeaning of himself as he quickly lost his mind, topped off with screaming and wailing.

Later, the weeks that followed this night were only remembered through a foggy haze of pain. For months, Jack relived the same conversation over and over again, wishing he could go back and change it..... change everything. The embarrassment of the breakup was overwhelming. He wished that he would have let it end with some dignity. More so, he wished he had been better to Sarah. Been more patient, and shown her what kind of a man he could truly be. He was who he was, but Jack was at his worst when he was bored, and life got stale. He supposed she had experienced the brunt of that.

Jack and Sarah grew very far apart over the years and lived very different lives. Both full of twists and turns, ups and downs. Sadness and loss, mixed with moments of laughter and happiness. Life kept happening while they made other plans. They never spoke again and thought of each other less as time rolled on.

One thing was for sure though, that Sarah... was a real bitch.

Sophie was a very beautiful girl. She had long, dark, curly hair, Bright blue eyes, and incredible smile. She was a very outgoing person, who never judged. She had her best friend Jason, and the love of her life, a girl named Sarah. She had tons of friends in school, as she was very popular.

Jason was Sophie's best friend. He would do anything for her, as she would do anything for him. He has short blond hair, and blue eyes. He always tried his best to keep out of trouble, but it always seemed to catch up to him. This was ok with him because he always had Sophie to help him out when he needed it.

Each day, Sophie would wake up, pick up Sarah, and drive to school. They would meet Jason in the same hallway, talk for a little, and all go to class. After school, Jason and Sarah, would all go to Sarah's house, as Sophie worked.

Sarah was everything Sophie loved. She had short blond hair, Dark eyes, and was very playful. They had been together forever. They would always text each other during school, and call each other late at night, when they were not together.

Sophie's birthday was coming up, so each night that she had to work, Jason and Sarah would get together and plan her party out. They would talk about decorations, who to invite, presents to get, and where to hold it. She was turning 18, and wanted just a small party of close friends and family.

The time came. School was done, and Sophie was at work, like usual. Jason met up with Sarah, and together they began setting up for the party. Sarah started with the decorations, as Jason called everyone who was coming. The decorations were done, so Jason and Sarah decided to get their presents ready. Sarah got her a gold necklace, which was engraved "Together, Forever". Jason had gotten her a golden bracelet.

It was 8 pm, and Sophie was just finished work. She called Sarah, said she was going home, and she couldn't wait to see her. Her family, and a few friends were altogether, waiting for her to show up. They were all getting impatient, saying "where is she" or "what's taking her so long?". Sarah didn't worry because Sophie was usually a bit late.

A couple minutes later, Jason sent Sophie a text message.

"Hey, where are you? We are all waiting for you"

There was no response. This worried Jason, because Sophie was always quick to respond.

A few minutes later, the phone rang, Sophie's mom picked up. Her facial expression changed, she became very worried. After the phone was put down, she bursts into tears.

"Sophie is in the hospital" She screamed "They found her car in the ditch"

As soon as that message got out, Sarah bursts into tears. Sophie's parents instantly left, and headed to the hospital. Jason and Sarah went with them.

They got there, and rushed into the hospital. They ran to the nurse at the front desk.

"WHERE IS SOPHIE?!?!" her mom screamed "I am Judy Rose, Sophie's mom, I want to see my daughter!"

The nurse had a worried look on her face "follow me" she said, in a low voice.

They go to her room. She was hooked up to several machines. Tubes and wires were coming and going in all directions, all over her body. Every second one of the machines would beep, as it showed her heart beating.

Sarah couldn't stop crying. She sat there, and just watched as the love of her life was relying on machines to keep her alive. Jason could only watch, he was silence, scared to say a word. Sophie's mom was sobbing, hugging Sarah.

Sophie's dad was outside, he couldn't ever see his daughter like that. She was daddies little girl, and he loved her so much. He would put down his life for her, and to see her in a state where she was helpless, and he couldn't do anything to help, tore him apart.

At this time, a doctor walked in.

"Hi, my name is Dr. Kevin Stevenson, I would like to talk to you privately."

He closed the door to the room.

"I would like to talk to you about Sophie. She was in a horrible accident. We put her into a medically induced coma, so she would no longer feel her pain. We did the best we could, but she will not make it through the night. If you are catholic, we can provide a priest to give the last rites. If not, you now have time to say your good-byes."

At this time, the doctor left.

Her dad collapsed as he broke down into tears. He was losing the one person who he truly loved, and it killed him that there was nothing he could do. Sarah, and Sophie's mom were already in tears, as Jason was trying to hold it together. As much as he tried, he just couldn't do it. He broke down, as he was watching his best friend slip away from him. No matter what he did, she was leaving him tonight, and he couldn't stop it. He had known her since he was Three years old, and they did everything together. All those thoughts, all those happy times, all those emotions, were all going through his head, and he couldn't take it. He left the room, unable to look at her, and unable to handle the situation. He always was comforted by Sophie, and this time she was not going to be there.

Together they waited, watched, and mourned, as soon they all loved dearly, left them. Every one of them saying their good-byes.

"Good-bye Hun, you know I will always love you, and that will never change. You know each one of us loves you, and would do anything to change what has happened. Even though you haven't left us yet, we all miss you already" Sarah told her "Here, I want you to have this. This way you will know that I love you, that I loved you, and that I will always love you"

Sarah pulled out her necklace, and wrapped it around Sophie's neck.

"It says together forever, and when you are up there, I want you to look out for me, and everyone else who loves you"

Sophie passed shortly after this. Leaving them all, but finally at rest. Her body laid there, at peace.

3AM

It's three in the morning again. Three in the fucking morning. I should be asleep, but I'm not. It's the insomnia fucking with my mind again. It teases me, it taunts me, it tortures me. And my life's a fucking mess.

The phone rings. Again. Right on fucking time. It's those little shits across the street again. I know it is, I can see them in their window when I look through my window. I don't know why I don't just unplug the fucking phone.
"Fuck you" I say, my temper simmering ever so slightly beneath boiling point.
It's only when I put the phone down that I realise that I've actually pulled myself out of my chair and answered the phone. I heard it ring, but when did I get up and walk across the room? It's late. Too fucking late. Three in the morning. Again.

Those kids, I could hear them giggling on the phone, I could see them laughing at me. They tease me, they taunt me, they torture me. They're kids for fuck's sake, why aren't they in bed? Why aren't I in bed? Three in the morning, and the insomnia is killing me. But the morning grows on, and I find no rest nor comfort in my blistering solitude. Not even a wink of sleep or a whisper of peace. The phone rings, and it drives me fucking insane.

I rarely talk and barely whisper. No one to talk to but the delinquent faggots across the street. I rarely talk. I barely whisper. The phone rings, I answer, I always fucking answer. Three in the fucking morning. In the silence and monotony, in my ever long comatose existence, I crawl up in my chair and imagine the sound of the phone ringing. I rarely eat, I barely move, I never sleep. Three in the morning, and I'm still in the same situation, can't get to fucking sleep.

So much silence, so much isolation, yet I feel like I'm still in the middle of it all. Mother of all migraines, the sounds ring on in my head, with crystal clarity magnified a hundred times. It teases me, it taunts me, it tortures me. Three in the morning, the phone rings, and it's all part of the head-splitting tremors roaring inside my head. Did I just answer the phone again? Did it even ring? I can't fucking remember and I'm beyond the point of caring any more. Insomnia, it's my worst nightmare. Three in the fucking morning.

I'd take some meds for the headache, but I know they'd be useless, and the full rage of my splitting migraines would be back up to maximum in no time. I'd take some sleeping pills, but I fear the temptation to down a whole bottle would be too fucking much for me to handle. So the phone still rings and I'm ever awake. It's three in the morning, maybe it's time to put new batteries in my clock.

The Uprising

Word Count: 1,427 words

***Note: My story may not be very likely to happen, but it's physically possible and well, could happen.***

"I was awaken by the continuous blasts of gunshot; they seemed very near, almost a few feet away. I did not know where they came from, but I knew they were gunning for us. We were a small group of soldiers; about 20 of us remained. We were terribly outnumbered in both infantry and arms. We only had a few rifles, they had tanks, machine guns and air support. We were fighting a losing battle; there was no way we could have won then. If it weren't for the cover of the hills around us, we would have all been dead by now. We all knew there was no way we were to going to make it out alive and we were very glad about it. Indeed, we did not cower, we did not fear death. In fact I looked forward to my death on the battlefield, my death defending my land and earning the highest of ranks in heaven afterwards..." - 1973 Soldier.

Ever since 1948 the Middle East was never at rest. Claims on land and territory were argued everyday, non-political Arabs wanted to visit al-Quds (Jerusalem) at least once in their lifetimes. But it was not to be, not for them at least. Egypt had always been the supplier of rebellious leaders, however a man known as Tarek changed this tradition.

Born in Saudi Arabia, Tarek was the result of an affair his father had with a French dancer. His father Ahmed was a man of wealth inherited from his father. He was an alcoholic and was merely wasting away his life. Ahmed never stayed much in Saudi Arabia, the uptight lifestyle did not please him, he wanted a wild life of pleasure which he found travelling Europe. Not wanting to carry the burden of a child, he left his son Tarek and his house in the care of a well paid housekeeper.

Tarek grew up with the firm beliefs of Islam, and with an idealistic belief that he would one day be able to pray in Al-Aqsa Mosque in al-Quds one way or another. By the time Tarek was 18 years old, he was a fine, strong young man with a great will to spread the word of God. He did not need to work as he had quite enough money from his father, this left him free to try and make his dream come true.

By this time, the Arab world was about 400 million in population. He wondered why couldn't such a huge army band together and go take back Palestine, Palestine being referred to as Israel in the west, and Palestine in the East. He started preaching about his ideas, how they should take back their rights, how al-Quds was theirs. Utilizing popular websites such as Facebook and Myspace, his messages spread like wildfire across the globe, causing uproar in the west and a gleam of hope in the east.

It didn't take long for him to capture the hearts of the all the young men of the Arab world. Israel and its allies were beginning to fear an insurrection which could possibly wipe Israel off the map for good. Using their every-growing control over the Arab World, Israel had Tarek imprisoned. This only fueled the Arabs' will to fight.

On the morning of 21st August, Israel sent out troops to invade Palestine; all of it. Claiming the land as their own.

This was the spark that set the Arab world ablaze. They planned a grand attack on Israel aided by some of the Arab nations' leaders. 50 thousand soldiers were supplied to meet at the capital of Egypt, where they would march to free Palestine, and demolish Israel.

It was a great day for the Arabs, a mixed army containing Egyptian, Libyan, Iranian and many other countries' soldiers united under the name of Islam.

Israel quickly learnt of this great movement and was getting its own army ready. With tons of backup from the United States, it was ready to face this army. The world was about to witness a true blood bath.

Now these 50 thousand Muslim soldiers were like no other. They did not fear death; their belief was that death on the battlefield would reward them with the highest of ranks in heaven. They wanted to die on the battlefield. This belief made them truly a force to be reckoned with. They would either emerge victorious, or perish.

And so the Islamic army pushed forward onto Israel-ruled lands. They attacked swiftly and fiercely and they fought with a burning passion to rid the world of their enemies. Despite this strong will to fight, their highest goal was not to kill for their country, but to die for it.

Many lives were lost in this battle, both Israeli and Muslim, however Israel had retreated back into Al Quds; the ultimate prize for both armies.

Fearing the loss of their land, Israel arranged plans with the C.I.A to launch a nuclear warhead into Palestine wiping out the entire army. The launching was to commence the next day at 4:30 sharp. Feeling confident, Benjamin Netanyahu woke up early the next day to witness the demise of his most feared enemy.

He sat there, drinking his tea in silence gazing out of his window as the lands stretched out over the horizon. It was dark outside; he hoped the explosion would brighten up the night. The tea was now cold and neglected as he dreamt off with his thoughts. He was imagining how much land Israel could gain after this, with this huge army defeated the Arab world be in a state of fear and submission. "This is truly a revolutionary night," he said out loud.

*Moments later, large amounts of smoke creep up over the horizon*

"What? I missed it?" He thought to himself surprised, "Oh well" and he couldn't help but start laughing at the fact that he finally won.

*More smoke comes out and a figure is seen running*

"Probably just a survivor running for help," he said reassuring himself.

Suddenly the smirk on his face disappeared. He felt as if he had been kicked right in the balls, and punched in the gut at the same time. Rows and rows of men started appearing. The smoke he had seen was not actual smoke, but dust from the marching feet on the sand. Something went wrong, the nuclear warhead had not launched, the army was still alive and only a few miles away from the city. Israel had one last chance to defend itself, it was a slim chance, but there was no other option. Netanyahu quickly alarmed the army and all military forces. By then, the Islamic army had already entered the city...

A tale of great victory for the Muslims soon follows, and after more than 60 years, peace finally reigns in the Middle East...

After hearing of this great news, Tarek, now free, went to visit Al-Aqsa mosque, to enjoy the fruit of his labor; the land he sought to free.

As he entered the great, holy mosque, he was in awe. The very feeling of being in there, knowing that it was because of him that made this great change in the world, that he added another page to the great battles of history. He started praying, and asked God to let this peace be everlasting. However it was not to be, American troops were landing in the city; a compensation from America for not launching those nukes.

Tarek saw what was happening and prayed to God. The troops started terrorizing the city and entered the mosque. One again he prayed to God. They surrounded him and were threatening him with death. He prayed once more to God, with a tear in his eye. One man lost his patience with him and shot him! Tarek fell to the ground, dead.

He had not been praying for God to save him however, he had been praying that his last moments in this world would be praying to God. He wanted them to kill him there and then, at the end he shed a tear of joy. He gave the Arab world a gleam of hope; he wanted to prove that it was not impossible to stand up to Israel. He regained the land claimed by Israel, even if it was for a brief moment. And he died standing his ground against the enemy. He had accomplished his mission, and looked forward to gaining the highest of ranks in heaven, like any true Muslim.

Obsession

Another double shift done. One of the guys never turned up for work today, no phone call, no warning, nothing. I can't blame him, none of us can. It tends to happen a lot at the wonderful world of Meat Palace. People eventually realise they're above the place and just never return, While I just pretend not to notice that I've been there for 3 years, and counting. Do I think about leaving? All the damn time, but even this job is too good for me. I'm truly beneath everything. Probably the reason I readily agreed to work another shift at a place I can't stand, because it's all I'm good for. Sometimes when the manager asks me to work late I get ready to refuse but it's like the word 'No' doesn't belong in my vocabulary. I seem to have thrown that out along with the words 'morality' and 'virtue'.

I should just have a shower and jump into bed. Just get this horrible day over with, but I can't. I must do it first, I can't go to sleep without doing it now. The importance of getting the stench of hundreds of double Meat Palace medley burgers off my body and hair doesn't even register within me. I can deal with that. I can deal with the grease that lingers on my skin and the fat that has congealed under my fingernails just as long as I do what I'm craving.

It started as curiosity.

I remember the first time I stumbled upon this little pleasure of mine. It was purely by accident. I was just browsing one of my usual internet haunts and I noticed a picture that shouldn't have been there. It was wrong, so wrong. Obviously someones idea of sick joke to post, but it enthralled me completely. I stared at it in wide eyed wonder, drinking in the sight, until the image was printed in my mind, because I knew the moment I refreshed the page it would be gone, deleted by some quick fingered moderator. I didn't dare save it onto my computer, out of fear, not out of disgust.

The picture stayed in my mind for days until I gave in to temptation and searched for more like it. I was surprised how easy it was to actually find videos once I starting looking. I guess everyone just tends to avoid thinking about how easy it is to find just about anything in cyberspace. It's opened my eyes to a world I would likely never have ventured into otherwise. Thank you internet, you helped create this monster before you.

The moment I clicked play on the first video I knew I was signing myself over to the devil. I never felt such a strange array of emotions swirling inside of me as I watched; Repulsion, arousal, anger, longing, anxiety.. It was too much to deal with but I continued observing, trying to convince myself that I was just intrigued, not battling with an inner demon that was begging for freedom. I refused to touch myself that night, despite wanting to. The next night when I watched again, I didn't stop myself, and I remember openly weeping as I shamefully climaxed into my hand.

My mild curiosity became an unhealthy interest.

Why can't I stop? I wish I could stop..

I know it's wrong, I know I'm a sick twisted son of a bitch but it draws me in, like a drug, I'm left wanting more, and like an addictive drug, I let it consume me, let it control me. My thoughts have turned dark since I started and I'm constantly awaiting my next release, and everyday I need that relief quicker than before.

Taking a tissue from besides my computer, I wipe up my mess, the dirty seed that I allow to flow from me, it flows easier now than it used to. Before all of this it used to almost be a struggle, like a chore, I would do it just to ease myself, to get off some tension I was feeling, now I do it whenever I can, once everyday without fail. It's never a challenge now either, just the thought of sweet beautiful golden locks surrounding an angelic face made of luscious pale skin, deep blue eyes with a smile that hurts to look at..

I feel myself coursing with desire again, so soon.. I feel ashamed. My heart cries for more while my stomach crunches in disgust. My body and mind are both torn over what I do, but I can't control these needs. I wish I could, I wish with every fiber of my soul that I was strong enough to stop. I tried before, at the beginning of all of this but my thoughts and dreams got the better of me and I gave in to my desire.

I turn back to my screen and replay the video I last watched. It's a good one. Such a beautiful girl, I wish I was the one who ruined her, wish I was the one who made her cry as I force her down and take her wildly. Her sobs seem to echo in my mind as I continue to watch, driving my lust to even greater heights. Such a beautiful young girl, her body is so small and light, easier to break. I breathe in deeply, wrapping my hand around myself, never taking my eyes off her. Such a beautiful little girl. Where's your mama little girl? She can't protect you from this, she can't make it go away, she can't stop me from hurting you.

My unhealthy interest became a mounting fascination.

My eyes close as I reach my orgasm, her crying still loud in my head. Such beauty I can only dream to see in real, to touch, to feel, to taste. I'm craving it more now than before. It almost isn't enough to watch through a screen. I want to be there, I want to be the one who holds her, makes her do things she is too young to know the meaning of, to be the one who gets to witness the innocence die in her eyes..

The moment has passed and I feel sick with myself again. I clean up, shut off my computer and make my way to my lonely bed. I hope I can fall into a peaceful sleep but it's never the case. My dreams have plagued me since the first time I watched those kind of videos, some psychotic bullshit for my sub-conscious, as if I'm not aware that what I do is sick and perverted already.

I lay back against my pillow, my hand on my stomach, begging for the ache there to ease. I'm aware suddenly of a damp feeling against my cheeks. I'm crying myself to sleep again. I'm truly pathetic, a waste of space, a truly disgusting individual with no hope in life. I deserve to die for what I do, for what I WANT to do. Yet here I am, still breathing, still dreaming, still wanting..

At some point my mounting fascination became a hobby of sorts.

My walk to and from my dead end job has become a favourite task for me now. I pass a play school everyday, and while I know that it's wrong I just can't stop myself from looking as I go by, watching the girls as they play in the grounds, kiss their mummies and daddies goodbye and trot off to greet their teachers, their little skirts waving at me as if in invitation as they skip around. I've had to force myself to move on once or twice, even caught the watchful eye of a young mother before. No point her giving me a dirty look, I give myself that same look every time I see my reflection, but it never stops my yearning, never stops the wicked fantasies that run through my head. It never stops..

One of the little girls keeps grabbing my attention more than the others. She's the one I see now when I close my eyes. The perfect little angel. Her feathery hair floats about gracefully as she runs around happily, then it falls to near perfection when she stops. Such a thing of beauty. I find it hard not to stare. I think my lungs left my body when I heard her laugh for the first time. It was contagious, a joy to hear, and just made me want her more. She looked at me one day as I walked by, watching her from behind the fence that protects her from me, and she looked up, found my eyes and smiled. I could have died right then. Her eyes appeared an endless ocean of blue, and her smile was enough to make the Gods themselves weep. It's becoming harder to tear my gaze away from this precious child. She is the sun to my midnight. She is the light, and I am darkness. Perhaps then we can be happy in the shadows.

I don't want to draw any unneeded attention but I can't contain myself much longer. My heart calls for her, my fingers ache to feel her, my lips burn to taste her. I want her. I need her.

I WILL have her.

My hobby has become an unmitigated obsession.

Title: The Price You Pay

Additional comments: This story is fiction.

Another horrible day had come to Dale Jarridton. The teenager was failing miserably in school with no family support and no friends. He did 'hang out' with some other students at school, but they were not his friends.

The bedroom door slammed shut as Dale hurled his school bag on the floor and cussed. "Hi, Dale," came a voice of his four-year-old sister, the favorite person in his life, covered in bruises. "Hi, Vievie" replied Dale in a happy tune. This was the only good part of the day in the life of Dale Jarridton.

Dale sat down on the couch to watch the footy. "Dale, do the dishes and the washing now!" shouted Dale's mother from across the house. Dale, you can imagine, did not do the chores happily, but angrily. After doing the chores, Dale sat down to watch the TV. Two minutes in watching, his older sister snatched the remote and flicked the channel. Dale just walked away angrily into his room - this was not the first time it had happened and he knew he would not get his way.

Out came the iPod. For about an hour Dale listened to Metal, mainly Death Metal. After all, he was in an angry mood daily and this fueled the flames and made him feel more powerful.

Suddenly, he felt it. He knew he needed it. Dale cussed repeatedly to himself while searching for it. Finally, there it was! He injected the cocaine into him, which his 'friends' gave to him. The only reason Dale was still 'friends' with them because he never tried making friends with anyone else due to lack of confidence.

Dale looked at his watch. It was 6:00 PM. Dad was due home soon. A shudder rushed through Dale's spine, and the same happened to everyone else as the father entered. The dad, swearing as hard as he could due to a bad day at work, grabbed Vievie the four-year-old, as she tried to run away, went into his room and locked the door. You could hear the little girl's screams in agony and the dad cursing at her while brutalizing her. Dale and his older sister looked at each other angrily and sorrowfully with tears in their eyes. Sometimes Dale wondered if the only reason his father created Vievie was to have someone else to punish after Dale and his sister leave home. He swore to himself one day he would kill his father for all the pain he put him through.

The father was as bad as a father can get. Repeatedly the children would see him injecting cocaine into his system, bring girls back from clubs and lock himself with them in his room while the mother was away and he would beat his children.

"Now get out and stop ruining my life!" the Dad's door opened and Vievie flung out with a broken nose. The mother, filled with tears just like every other day, grabbed Vievie and consoled her while she fixed her nose as best as she could.

Dinner was not a pleasant experience. The father would force the family to eat at the table with him. Everyone hated the father except the mother who somehow found a way to love him.

After dinner, Dale went into his room, hoping that Dad would not beat him again for his bad grades. His hopes were crushed soon later. For a while Dale listened to his iPod then went to bed.

Dale woke up. He looked at his watch. It was 3:00 AM. Dale could hear some moaning. Could it be? Surely not! Not while Mum is in the house. So Dale thought... he was proved wrong when he took a peak in the living room. Sure enough, there was Dad having sexual intercourse with another slut. Imagine the anger flowing through Dale's veins!

Dale went back into his room, trying to control himself. He injected himself but that did not calm him. A fire lit up in his eyes. He was not going to put up with anymore. It's time for revenge to cure him. This was it. This was the day!

Dale grabbed the wood-axe from the shed. He quietly entered the living room. He was now close to his father who was too busy to notice Dale. Dale was shaking while shedding tears. "You can do this," he told himself. Eventually, he swung the axe into the back of his father. The girl screamed. In an instant, many thoughts just went through Dale's mind: "I have just committed a crime. I will get arrested. I must remove all witnesses so they cannot tell the police which way I escaped." He killed the girl.

The rest of Dale's family, who were still alive, came running in to see what the commotion was all about. The mother saw the father and cried, "What have you done?!"

"I had to do it!"
"No you didn't!"
"I had to!"

Vievie, at this point, was in shock.

"Give me the axe now!"
"No, Mum!"
"Give me the axe!"

Dale, without thinking straight due to the cocaine, killed his mother. Vievie screamed, however, no sympathy came from Dale, seeing as he was drugged and had lived his life being exposed to children being beaten on an every day basis. He killed Vievie. The older sister ran away. Dale could not kill her. Dale dropped the axe and ran away as far as he could, taking a few personal belongings, including cocaine.

When he was an adult, Dale Jarridton became a drug dealer, rapist, and homicidal murderer. Eventually he committed suicide. His older sister became an addict to heroin and a prostitute who was kidnapped by one of her customers and never to be seen again.

Dead End

Air's getting frigid. Doesn't even feel like summer came. It's a cycle that I've become so used to that, quite frankly, it's becoming hard to care. I put on my coat, I take off my coat, put on my shirt and shorts, take them off, put my coat back on.

The birds are going south again. Off to Mexico, or wherever the hell they go. And here I am still, sitting on a park bench near the Monocacy, throwing rocks into the creek, watching the ripples form. There's a bird hopping next to me right now. Stay for a while, give me a little company. No? Well, have fun in Cancún. I hope you get swine flu.

I see Martin Tower in front of me. About the only slice of civilization around here. It's our little Empire State Building, pathetic as that may sound. I live in a quaint little town, one of the oldest in the country actually. Set in a valley, near some nice countryside, fit snugly between Allentown and Easton. I hate it.

There's not much to do here. No one to talk to. No one to hang out with. All my friends set off for colleges and universities a long time ago. Hope they're having fun down there. They drop by every once in a little while, but other than that, we don't really keep in contact anymore.

I wonder if they remember me. I remember some of them, forgot some of their faces though. Some of them have probably changed a lot in the five years since graduation. Heard Peter just got engaged to Alyssa. It was bound to happen.

Some of them visit me, drop by when they're in town.

"So what are you doing these days?"

This place is a brick wall. I'm a brick, and my job's keeping me plastered in.

That's what I'm doing these days.

My job. I work full time at the local Applebee's, serving people their little heart attacks and strokes and heartburns. I just barely scrape by. I live with my aunt who superglues herself to the couch and feeds on her little soaps like her life support. In her little one-bedroom apartment in Southside, above that fat black woman who spends her time crying about her kid who got shot in a gang fight and below that Latino man who used to be on the FBI's Most Wanted List.

I have a savings account. I'm going to college someday. Just don't tell my aunt that.

"And you're gonna leave your aunt here without any money or food?" she'll say, shaking her head, those damn hair rollers wobbling around. They only make her hair look worse.

Don't know when I'll be able to save up enough money with such a minimum-wage job, though. When I'm old and senile, probably.

But for now, it's just me and this park bench under me. For now, it's one, two, five, ten years of walking past dingy brick-and-mortar buildings and those fat women on the phone speaking Spanish like there was no tomorrow, throwing their ripped garbage bags on the side of the street without a care in the world where they end up.

For now, I'm just throwing rocks into the creek, watching as the ripples form, watching as the current takes them away.

We all Fall Down
Not sure it this fits in a genre, hopefully it doesn't. The ": ."s are to add an extra return.

Dear Mum,

I heard you banging on the door and calling for what seemed like ages, you've probably heard that I haven't been seen for days. I went to the doctor and said I was depressed becoming apathetic, we were able to joke and he told it'll pass, I'm still waiting for that to happened.

I still like writing though, here's my story and I hope you like reading it. I would have let you in, but I don't much care for visitors any more.

Love,
Simon

Simon died at home two days ago from starvation, his last story is also on the table:

.

My teacher is always giving me detention and for what? She didn't like that my story had stories in it and I refused to change it. This is creative writing and I should be able to write anything I want. I think I'll burn the school down tomorrow but first I'll post my plan on a forum so people know not to mess with me. Here's the story they didn't like:

It was a cold summer night, the moon was full and the sun was about to come up. No time for a tan, I've got to bury the body.

Earlier tonight some guys approached me in the park and asked for a cigarette. Since I don't smoke I told them I didn't have any. They asked for a dollar so I pulled out my wallet and gave them two.

They grabbed my wallet, threw me to the ground and stabbed me over and over again. The last thing I remember before I bled to death was an uncircumcised dick sliding up my arse and more of them reaching inside several wounds before a warm substance fills them. That's why I have to hide my body, so no one will know what happened to me. At least I've got my book:

.

Oh my god this is so fucking awesome!! You finally got your test results and are hoping to get into to the women's group you applied for before you turn 17.

You worry about the contents and think 'What kind of group requires a blood test?'. Hell, you don't even know what they're looking for because they sent it in on your behalf as a medical advocate. It doesn't matter, those getting to know you parties over the last four months are worth it.

All the other girls are looking at you, waiting in anticipation and you notice some are holding back a smile. You tear the envelope open.

It's from a pathology centre, no surprise there. The leader, Jessica, takes it from you and unfolds it. You read at the name of the group from a demountable plaque on the wall."WOMen", a cute little name that's somehow reassuring. A smile emerges Jess's face and she says, "Congratulations, you're H.I.V. Positive. Welcome to the war on men, you may only have 15 years to live, but they'll be the best years of your life". You shouldn't have picked a cult that has unprotected orgies to "Get to know you better".

A pamphlet is shoved into your hand. Jess tells you it contains a copy of a detective's account of one his cases and proves all men should die if they have more than one girlfriend in their lifetime and that God has proven it, and also if they don't like a certain band:

.

. . .You've got to accentuate the positive, Eliminate the negative. . .

"Damn it, it's the Andrews Sisters again!"
Dave was in witness protection and he hated the upbeat music because it made him feel like he'll never have a good life again. In fact, he never had a good life to begin with on account of marrying the first girl he met, someone who still beats the shit out of him today.
"What's wrong with the Andrews Sisters?", a detective inquires.
"Turn that shit off I don't want to listen to it!". Dave is getting agitated so the detective turns it off and the D.A. returns to his questioning.

"What happened the day of the shooting?".
"I was selling my car and I noticed this guy fell over it, he was bleeding in my trunk so I popped him in the face with a wrench."
"And then you shot him." the detective interrupts. The detective thought if he could provoke fear it would make Dave look guilty. He was right.

"I didn't shoot anyone! He was shot before I saw him! I did see the shooter though and I was cheating on my wife with her. I didn't she know was a dealer!", Dave is certain he won't be able to prove his innocence in court.

The detective turns off the microphone and calls it a night, reminding Dave to get his story straight and calm down or there will be consequences during the cross-examination.

When the detective wakes up Dave is gone, and so are his handcuffs. The Andrews Sisters are playing on the radio.

Dave takes the long walk to the station. "It'll be over soon.", he says to himself, accentuating the positive. Going over his life piece by piece, he eliminates the negative. He latches on to the affirmative by cuffing himself to the tracks and by leaning his head towards the train he doesn't mess with Mr In-between.

A small boy and a girl were running in the wild.
Two lovers, who just wanted to have some fun.
But at the near by, one mean boy stalks.
He doesn't like when the small boy smiles.

One day after school, the small boy is heading home.
Mean boy comes from the snow, starting pushing the boy.
Left and right, does the small boy go.
"Why you always tease me? Why don't you leave me alone?"
"Because you're so pathetic and I don't like you to smile."

Mean boy keeps pushing and pushing 'till the small boy cries.
Mean boy starts laughing and finally the small boy pushes back.
Mean boy fell down, looked like it hurt.
Small boy doesn't care; he just wants to get home safe.

Faster and faster the small boy goes.
Right on his tail, the mean kid runs.
"The bridge is ahead, if only I could make it there..
The other boy wouldn't follow; I would be at home - free."

The small boy puts his hand to the edge.
He tosses his feet, tries to get on cross.
But oh no, what did the small boy do..
The feet did slip and he falls on the ground.

Mean boy catches up and the small boy is pin down.
Looking for a way out, looking for a hole to hide.
There's nothing the small boy can do.
So he burst in tears once again.

"What's wrong, did the cat take your tongue?"
Few he knows, as the small boy squeezes his fist..
A punch in the face and then small boy is gone.
Running towards the small girl away from the pain.
Leaving the mean boy bleeding middle of the snow..

As the lovers unite, small girl sees something's wrong.
She holds the small boys hands and the boy starts to share.
He explains how the mean boy is so mean.
How it would be so much better if he wouldn't be real..

Small girl sees how sad the small boy is.
"Maybe a gift would cheer you up" she says.
So she takes a clean paper and a really black pen.
Starts drawing and the boy start smiling again.

A really big head and a really mean face.
Holding a paddle and breathing fire.
The small boy starts laughing, "Hey I know who that is!
That is the mean boy, with his meanie eyes."

As the girl draws, two figures start to shape.
Little boy and a girl holding hands together.
And the mean boy has been drew the papers corner alone.
He can't break our happiness; he will always be alone..

In the snow little boy and the girl walks.
One hand holding a hand, one hand holding the paper.
They walk, 'till they reach the abandon house near the lake.
They hang paper on the wall, "now everyone can see what we see"

But as they though they were alone..
Mean boy was watching, he was hiding in the snow.
"First he made my nose bleed, and now he found his smile again.
And what's this? They made fun out of me and hang paper about it in the wall?
This I can't let happen, this I will not let be!"

Suddenly boy and girl flinch as the mean boy jump from the snow.
He tackles the small boy to the lake and the boy slides top of the ice.
Girl screams as the cracks is starting to see and hear.
Ice breaks down and small boy falls in to the icy water..

"I hope he learns the lesson" does the mean boy say.
Waiting next to the ice, when does the boy swim to the top?
He waits and waits and nothing comes to the surface..
The small boy has passed out and now sinks deeper to the bottom..

"..Maybe it was too much" mean boy starts to think..

..Minute passes and the little girl starts to cry..
..Mean boy is confused; he just stands there and watch..
Does not dare to say he can't swim..
Does not dare to admit, there's no more hope for that little boy..

..But then..
A stranger heard the little girls cry.
And as he sees the mean boy stand, he knows what's going on.
Quickly he jumps to the icy water and after second or two..
He carries the small boy back to the up.

Little time it took, but now little boy opens his eyes.
Small girl smiles and kisses little boy to the cheek.
"What would I do, if you would be gone?!"
..Mean boy crouches next to the small boy and says:
"Listen, I'm sorry, I hope we can put this all behind?"

..

.."Of course."

.."But only if you start smiling, since smile is all what matters?"

..

.."Sure"..

In the end, all went well.
The boy and the girl on the paper still hold each others hands.
And the boy with a paddle in the corner found a friend.
Now he isn't alone any longer and now smiles with the other friends..

Piece of paper just hanging in the wall.
Through the snow storms it remains.
And each year when the snow starts to rain..
I will visit and watch the drawing in the wall.

Little boy and a girl.
By TheKekeMaster

This story is not a fairytale. Yes, it rhymes on some part, mostly doesn't, hopefully it passes your judgement. Kinda true story, with an different modifieded ending.

Dusk Part 1

The first time I heard the song "The Son Never Shines On Closed Doors" by Flogging Molly, I was driving along the Washington coast, making my way back up to Seattle. The sun was descending into the water, shining bright orange and gold through the trees, creating long shadows that lay parallel to each other. I only saw the light in quick flashes as my car entered and re-entered the small areas of illuminated pavement. The radio was silent, my little league baseball team's equipment rolling around in the trunk provided the music. I hoped to make it back home by midnight. Marie wouldn't be pleased about me coming in so late, but it was necessary. I was coming back from seeing my mother for the very last time. What was left of my mother anyway.

I didn't want to put her in a retirement home. "The woman that raised me on her own deserves better than that!" I'd scream at Marie. Of course her argument was we just couldn't afford to look after her ourselves. She always knows the price of everything, the downside of marrying a banker. We fought like that night after night, neither one of us giving in. Some nights I'd leave intoxicated with rage and return early in the morning drunk off something else.

She finally won when she threatened that there could only be one woman living in the house. Marie has always been a cruel mistress of ultimatums. Sometimes I really hate my wife.

Tired of the repeating tracks of yelling I heard in my head, I decided to turn on the radio in hopes I would flood out the screams. I came in at the end of one song, and there was a brief pause between songs. Then I heard the intro to "The Son Never Shines on Closed Doors."

One member of the band stroke his guitar while the other accompanied on his mandolin, striking gentle chords that melted all the ugly fights in my head away and mad me feel a nostalgic warmth from my childhood.

It was rare sunny day in Seattle. The kind of day where the warm sunlight gives a gold glow to everything. I was playing in the championship game for my high school's baseball team and we were losing. I remember sitting on the bench and giving hope, staring down at the sand absent mindedly, just wanting to get the defeat over with, Then the other team made a few mistakes and we were able to bring their lead down to just two. In the bottom of the ninth we had two of our players reached first and second, and to my horror, it was my turn at bat. With shaky hands I took up the bat and my team's fate. In an instant I was already at the plate and down two strikes. I took a step out the bat and prepared for failure, but then I looked up into the stands, and my mom was there watching. She had never made it to any of my games before; she just couldn't squeeze it in between the two jobs. But she was there now, and in the moment we made eye contact time stopped speeding by and began to go my way. I was able to see her face ease into her smile, the smile that only a mother could share with her child. The smile that lets you know "hit or miss, I'm still proud of you."

I stepped back in the box with anew determination. Time still moved slowly as the pitcher eyeballed me and began to wind up. I could see each individual part of his body moving, like a machine with the evil intentions of destroying me. The ball released from his hand, and to me appeared to be traveling agonizingly slow. As it inched towards me, I judged that it was heading straight and close to the outside corner, my favorite spot. I felt every muscle in my body begin to work in tandem as I swung. It was like swinging underwater. My eyes went shut for what must have been an eternity, and then I felt the familiar shock travel up the bat and my arms. As opened my eyes I finished my swing and time finally returned to its normal pace, as the ball flew quickly vanished. I ran to first knowing it was unnecessary, I'd been playing all my life and I knew a home run swing when I felt it.

This was confirmed as I stepped on first base and heard my team shout and jump off the bench. I had won it, but the strange thing was, I wasn't happy because of it. The thought of the trophy never occurred to me as I rounded the diamond. The only thought that prevailed was my mom sitting in the bleachers, her smile beaming down at me.

That was the sensation that returned to me as the intro played, in that brief moment, I could feel my mom's smile beaming down on me once again.

I had become so wrapped inside the memory that I almost didn't notice the words that were being sung through the radio. The voice was really scratchy, and seemed very haggard, but at the same time, also very wise. He sung of a man who goes to visit "the woman who has labored since the say he was born" only to be told that "the sun never shines on closed doors." At least that is what I heard it as at first. The singer's story began to dust off a memory that I had been trying to bury with haste in my mind, a memory that was much more recent. For it had happened earlier that day.

My mom had been at the home for a few months, but my coaching kept me too busy to schedule a visit. Once the season was over, I was finally able to come see her The only facility that I thought would give her the care she deserved was across the state from Seattle, but distance didn't matter as long as I knew she was getting the help she deserved. I arrived early in the afternoon. The clouds covered the sky entirely, but the sun made its presence felt by making the cover glow with its rays. The name of the rest home was the Sunset Arms. The sick irony of it made me nauseous. The nurse told me that my mother was sitting out on the back porch.

As I stepped out onto the porch the splendid green gardens in the back of the home was terrible contrast to the sight inside the veil of screens. The viewing area was full of other elderly people who were just mere shells. Their faces that could once tell a lifetime of stories were blank. One would have to check to see if they were actually alive. The realization that that is what the workers here get paid for made my stomach rise and churn. Out of respect for who the people once were, I fought off the urge to bolt for the bathroom. The worse part was that out of all these blank slates, I couldn't see which one was my mother.

I found her in the area farthest from the door, the light of the koi pond reflected on to her face, helping me in identifying her. I greeted her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, but she was unresponsive. To my terror, she shared the same unexpressive gaze as the rest of the people in the room. "Mom it's me, Richard. I came down from Seattle to see how you are doing." She looked into my eyes and for a brief moment I thought that maybe I had reached her.

A smile formed across her lips. The same smile from that day over twenty years ago. Same, but different. It wasn't her. The smile was just a physical response of a body; there was nothing behind it. My mom wasn't there, she left years ago. This body before me was just a remnant. Her faced blurred as the tears began to well up in my eyes. I couldn't be here; I couldn't see her like this. The contents of my stomach were now erupting upwards as I turned and ran out of the porch, and out of the building.

Dusk Part 2

I was able to get to my car door as I vomited. I wobbled on all fours as I tried to recompose my self. By this time I had acquired a number of gawkers, because it isn't everyday you see a weeping, vomiting man in a parking lot of a rest home. Tired of all their intrusive gazes and the thought of my mother slowly withering just fifty feet away, I climbed into the Escort, and headed back north.

The tears had stopped after an hour, but as the song played I pulled the car over and began to weep once again A woman now joined the man singing the chorus. Her voice was a beautiful opposite to the hoarse voice of the man. I realized I had misinterpreted the song. They didn't mean the sun, it was son. The son never comes to the mother's house. The Son Never Shines on Closed Doors.

As the song concluded, the full band of what sounded like six or seven people joined in and sung "We all go the same way home." They're right. As we grow up and move into our own homes, we realize that the ones who raised and watched over us as children will some day leave us in death. They may be gone in a physical sense, but in a way, they live on forever. We instill the lessons they taught us to our own children, and they shall pass those on to their children, and so on. Their love and wisdom are always within us. We use them as the foundations of out homes, as will the next generations. We will all have the same home, and we all go the same way to get there.

"That'll be $2.40"

"Huh? What?"

"That'll be $2.40 kid" says the lunch lady as she stares at me with a glazed over look. If I could read minds, the lunch lady's would be saying "can you just hurry up? God, who am I kidding, I have nothing better to do then serve these damn kids food, why couldn't I have just gotten my G.E.D or something?"

As I finish contemplating what this poor soul is thinking, I reach into my pocket and pull out three dollars. At first I'm pretty content with the fact that I'm able to get so close to the exact amount I owe just by pulling out random bills, but then I realize that this lunch lady is going to give me the same glazed over look as before, maybe even a worse look while she's thinking "Really?! You really don't have 40 cents on you? How can you not have change on you? Aren't you constantly buying unnecessary bagging clothing and you don't even get change from the cashier!? So help you God you poor miserable child, So help you God (even though I'm wearing clothes that fit me, but I'm pretty sure she's thinking this because of all the stereotypes of teenagers these days)". I hand her the money slowly, as if it were some kind of nuclear weapon or other cliché item from an action movie. As she grips the money, she releases a slow sigh, which confirmed all the thoughts in my mind. She hands me my food and my change, and I grip my change while giving the lunch lady the kind of glance that says" I'll be prepared for our next encounter miss lunch lady, I have change, so you won't be able to give me those dirty looks again, you filthy mediocre chef".

As I walk away, I look up to the sky. It is a magnificent sight. The sky is the brightest shade of blue imaginable and was decorated with white clouds that complimented the shade of the heavens above. I pull out my old ipod mini, slide the onyx black headphones in my ears, and start listening to "Blow your mind" by Styles P, mainly because the lyric" the sky couldn't be a brighter blue" felt fitting for the weather. I walk toward the basketball courts where my friends were. I finish my lunch as I arrive, and saw my friends playing, while some kids watched from the sidelines. I approach my friend Jerry who was watching aswell.
"Yo, what's up Jerry?"
"Uh nothin' much, what's up with you?"
"Nothin much either, just came from the cafeteria, that same lunch lady was giving me dirty looks again"
"Chill, she probably has a crush on you or sumtin"
"Dude, that's gross. Either way I'm sure she's got something against me"
"Chill, it's not a big deal"
"yea I know, but...whatever"
I give up trying to plea to Jerry that this Lunch Lady had a deep hatred for those with style and who are so cool that they are beyond being described with such words as "awesome" or "amazing" or even made up words such as "flydilicious"(it's an odd combination of "fly" and "delicious", but I honestly have no idea were the "di" comes from). I continue to watch my friends playing and completely ignore Jerry's words. He said it's not a big deal, but that Lunch Lady was mentally disrespecting me while I was paying her. It's like buying a computer from Bill Gates while he's calling you an idiot. He'd probably be saying" You idiot, your so unsophisticated. I bet you have no idea how to use a computer, let alone know how to use a computer designed by me, the master of all electronics, Bill Gates. You know how intelligent I am? I basically invented the internet or something like that. Do you understand how hard it is to come up with the idea of connecting people together through technology for the sake of sharing information? I bet you wouldn't, you knave, you serf. How about you get back to planting vegetables you serf" and as Bill Gate's continues to yell 14th century insults at me, I'm digging into my pocket looking for the $20,000 I owe him for the computer. That is the equivalent of the situation I have with this lunch lady. My friends start calling me to play basketball, so I leave my Bill Gates fantasy to go play ball. Even now that I'm playing basketball, I'm hoping that tomorrow's lunch will be a little less confrontational.
Yesterday was tough and I have done a lot of thinking about the lunch lady thing, and I decided to just let it go. It was dumb and Jerry was right, it's not a big deal. So now, as I get in line for lunch, I won't care if the lunch lady gives me any dirty looks or thinks about how much of a failure I am for not having change. So I grab a white tray and choose what I'm going to eat. I decide on a slice of pizza that doesn't seem deadly and some salad that looks like it has e.coli (it's school lunch, so it's the best I'm going to get). I slide my tray up to the cash register, and make eye contact with the Lunch Lady. I know I said I wasn't going to argue, but the moment we made eye contact she shot me this glance. This glance was the most arrogant looking glance I have ever seen in my life, and it was just oozing with the words "I have to deal with you again?". I ignore the glance with all of my will power, and start feeling better that I did and I return to telling myself" I'm not gona argue, I'm not gona argue". She looks at my tray and starts pushing buttons on the register. She was probably entering my information into a log so if I die from eating this food, then the government could find the perfect statistic chart to put me in. She finishes her button pushing on the cash register and looks up at me and says" That'll be $2.40". I feel incredibly happy because this time I'm sure that I have the amount I owe, thanks to the change I received from the Lunch Lady yesterday. I put on an arrogant smile while I reassure myself that "it's okay to be a little cocky, it's not like I'm arguing with her or anything". After shooting her that arrogant smile, I search my pocket for the money I owe her. My hand slides into my left pocket and begins shuffling about the random items I keep there to try to find the $2.40 I owe her. As my hand begins to ruffle about my pocket, I begin to notice that there is nothing even remotely paper shaped in this pocket. I quickly pull my hand out of my left pocket and begin to look in my right, franticly. A sense of impending doom reaches me as I realize there is no money in either pocket.
"Do you have the money or not kid?" says the Lunch Lady.
"Just wait a second, I have it" I reply.

I reach into my back pockets, knowing there is no money there but still hoping that there is. I find nothing in there except lint and a paper clip, as if that would help me right now. I start to remember that I had forgotten my $2.40 at home this morning, while I was trying to figure out what to do about the Lunch Lady. I start to panic and start checking every part of my clothing that could be holding some kind of money, even though I was sure I had none. Just as I was about to check my socks for a few bucks, the Lunch Lady says "Kid, do you have the money? If you don't please just leave the line". As she spoke those words, I looked up at her. As soon as I looked at her, my eyes were introduced to the worst of all glances she has ever given me. Not only was this glance arrogant, not only was this glance more glazed than a donut, but this glance said" You have now just proven all my doubts about humanity. I always had some thoughts that humans were evil, but always told myself there was some good in everybody that would triumph over the evil. I always believed that until you came into my life. I am completely sure that humanity is now doomed. Honestly, how can another good willed human being waste his own time and everyone else's by picking out what's going to nourish him just so that when he reaches the cashier, he pulls a stunt like the one you did. You are a disgusting human bein. I have heard stories about serial killers, animal beaters, and rapist, but you are worst than them all. I know I had previously said that you needed the help of God, but not even God can help you, you miserable excuse for a living being." As soon as that glance finished uttering those words into my mind, I cracked.
" You know what Lunch Lady? I'm sorry for not having the money but you have no right to continue shooting me those dirty looks you've been giving me everyday since school started"
"What? What dirty looks?"
"You know exactly which dirty looks, the dirty looks you give me absolutely every single time I come and pay for this poor joke you call a meal"
"Kid you must be crazy; I have never in my life shot anyone a dirty look for any reason"
"Don't you dare stand there and lie to me!"
"I'm not lying, the closest thing I have come to giving you a dirty look is when I'm checking you out!" said the Lunch Lady. The moment she said those words, every single student in the cafeteria stopped what they were doing, including the two boys who were about to fight. They stopped and just stared, with their mouths gaping open, at what the Lunch Lady had just said. Even I'm a little stunned, but that did not change the fact that she had given me all those looks, which were not dirty anymore, but "Dirty".
"You disgusting pedophile!" I yelled.
"Calm down, I never said I wanted to do anything to you, I just thought that you were attractive for a boy your age"
"That still doesn't give you the right to scan my body with your disgusting old eyes every chance you get!"
"We'll don't worry, I wont be checking you out, now that I know what kind of boy you really are, you can't even afford to pay for your own lunch!"
"What!? WHAT!? Are you serious?! Well even though I can't pay for my own lunch, atleast I'm not some dirty old pervert who is so desperate she has to check out little boys while serving food at her minimum wage job in a high school cafeteria. Did you even finish high school?
"You disgusting little child, you know what I did finish high school so I don't have to take this from some poor child, Security!"
The security quickly came and were "escorting" me to the Principle's office, but before I left the cafeteria I looked at the Lunch Lady yelled" Oh I'm a dirty disgusting child? Well you know what, you're a whore!"
I was then escorted to the Principle's office, were I was given 10 days suspension for "Disrespecting a faculty member"," using fowl language" and "trying to steal food from the cafeteria". The Lunch Lady was also punished. She had to go to 5 "How to deal with children" classes, but got to keep her job and soon got a raise because she was dealing with the students better.

Word Count: 1,814--Hope you enjoy.

As the Thread Breaks

"Honey, are you sure?" Rebecca Anson called loudly from the kitchen as she haphazardly opened and closed cabinets and drawers, making certain to generate a great clatter of noise. "I'm not finding the hotdog buns anywhere. Are you sure we remembered to buy them?"

"Yes, Becky, I'm almost positive," replied Paul Anson from the dining table in the next room. He smiled reassuringly at the other two guests at the table-the Johnsons-a smile that he knew showed a few more wrinkles around his eyes than he would have liked.

"Well, dear, I really don't want to keep the Johnsons waiting while I tear apart the house looking for a bag of buns." She sauntered into the tight dining room from the doorway behind Paul and rested her hands on the carved, wooden back of his chair. "I'll just go run to the store real quick and pick up a new bag. That'll give the hotdogs some time to finish grilling."

Paul sighed quietly and closed his eyes, imagining the bag of buns crammed in a small but easily visible crevice somewhere in the cellar. "Becky, I think we can-"

"I'll tag along, Rebecca," Dennis Johnson exclaimed sprightly as he hopped up from his chair. Rebecca's smile grew; Paul's narrow shoulders slumped.

"Why, only if you would like to, Dennis," she said brightly as he trotted to her side.

"It would be my pleasure. We'll take my car."

Paul gazed blankly at his wife and Dennis as the two walked almost hand-in-hand through the adjoining living room and to the front door. "When can we expect you back?" he managed to croak just as Rebecca had opened the door to let Dennis outside.

She paused in the doorway and glanced outside for a moment at Dennis. Then her grin flashed, a dazzling line of white. She turned back to her husband. "Oh, we won't be long, dear; you just prepare those hotdogs for when we get back." The door slammed shut behind her.

Paul continued to stare at the door, tried to retain the image of his wife's figure on the white, wooden surface but lost those meager details quickly. He returned his gaze to the plain, dull white tablecloth draped poorly over the plastic card table and concentrated on its individual, fraying fibers so as to avoid contact with the woman seated opposite of him.

Sarah Johnson recognized this habitual behavior and tiredly accepted it. She allowed her eyes to languidly crawl along the table's cheap, temporary adornments: the bright blue ceramic vase at the center of the table with its tacky, fake flowers; the tasteless heart-shaped napkin holder beside it, overfilled with frilly, white napkins; and the four sets of clear, plastic utensils and paper plates, crowded partially with canned fruit, coleslaw, and barbeque beans. Hotdogs and hot dog buns had yet to grace the table, an observation that tightened Sarah's joints and muscles with anger and anxiety. Their absence coincided too nicely with her husband and that woman's own absence, and-as Sarah noted when the knots in her stomach spasmed painfully-hotdogs and buns probably too adequately described the two's current activities.

Suffering in her reserved frustration, she tore her eyes from the table and glared out the room's floor-to-ceiling window and onto the Ansons' fenced, partially-landscaped backyard. Since the tablecloth's threads had long lost their therapeutic use, Paul had begun to gaze out the window as well. With a desperate eye searching for an escape, Sarah focused on each specific detail she could discern from the unfinished yard: its bare patches of dirt, its hastily-placed red gravel mounds, and its multiple, unkempt hills of unused rocks. Paul, having seen all this every day, resignedly watched only the grill outside on the wood porch. The hotdogs were already grilling, and soon they would need to be turned. Paul brushed the thought from his mind. Instead, he imagined the underside of each revolting link of meat slowly blacken and flake apart as it cooked above the lively flame.

He brought his eyes back to the tablecloth and slowly drummed his knuckles against its surface. "It's a nice day today, isn't it?" he said pathetically, unable to stand the silence or Sarah's presence any longer. "If you want to, we could even go outside for a-"

"How can you even act like this?" she snapped abruptly, glowering at Paul as he traced the cloth's folds with one long finger. "It's been three months, Paul, three months, and you are still able to act as if nothing is happening."

He sighed. "Sarah, we've had this discussion before and-"

"And we've gotten nowhere because you avoid the conversation each time; you're too afraid to face the fact that your wife is fucking my husband." The man's eyes flashed and fixed on the woman. She cackled weakly. "Finally able to look me in the eyes..."

"Please don't talk about Becky like that."

Sarah laughed again, but her tremulous lips were unable to twist into a smile, and her eyes were unable to show satisfaction. Instead, she grimaced as she hissed, "I can't talk about her any other way, Paul; I can't. I can understand why others think she is a nice woman, but how can you still? You know. I can't even sleep next to Dennis anymore without thinking of her. How can you stand it?" She looked at Paul vindictively but also pleadingly, her eyes just beginning to glisten with an all-too familiar sheen.

Outside, thick, black smoke began to trickle from the small openings of the grill.

Inside and blind to what lay beyond the compact dining room, Paul watched Sarah for a moment longer before dropping his gaze back to the table. As he picked at the tablecloth, he sighed, "I know that she will soon realize what she is doing is wrong and that she will come back to me."

"But how do you know that?" Sarah cried desperately, grasping the edge of the table with her round, stubby fingers. "How do you know she won't run off with Dennis?"

He squirmed. "I just do."

"You can't, Paul; this time you can't." She was almost leaning her entire body over the table in an attempt to project her message to him. "We have to face this now; we can't let it get out of hand!"

"No."

"Yes!" she choked. "I can't handle this anymore. I can't handle coming here every weekend so our spouses can run off and fuck each other. I can't handle being in the same room as you and your wife and acting as if we're friends. I can't handle looking in the mirror and realizing I'm not pretty enough to keep my husband faithful. I can't handle it anymore, Paul; I can't!"

She stood over the table with her fat arms propping her. Tears hung dangerously from the corners of her eyes as she waited for an answer. Paul stared emptily at the heart-shaped napkin holder and then dropped his gaze further to his lap. Sarah exhaled painfully and sobbed. She fell back into her chair and covered her eyes with her hands, smearing cheap black mascara across her eyelids with the heels of her palms.

Unable to ignore her weeping, Paul constricted tighter and tighter into his small frame. His breathing came heavily, but it seemed like the air had become too thick, suffocating him instead of sustaining him. In agony, he clenched the cloth at the knees of his slacks until his knuckles had whitened. The polyester fabric was the only thing he could grasp now, and he held on desperately as Sarah's anguish faded and slowly soured into contempt.

As the Thread Breaks cont.

Still tearing, she pulled her mascara-smeared hands from her face and glared at Paul. "You're disgusting," she spat. The mascara had spread neatly all around her eyes, making her chubby face now look horrifically and paradoxically gaunt. "You're too weak to even keep your wife faithful; is that it, Paul? You weren't strong enough to give her enough reason to stay and she left you and stole my husband. Now you're too weak to fix things." She paused and focused oppressively on Paul, ignoring the excess tears that had leaked from her eyes. They gathered blackness as they slid down her face. They fell heavily upon her plate.

Paul looked up but didn't loosen his body. His pale eyes held an anger, but it was a tired one, a submissive one. "I'm not weak," he spoke, his voice a harsh monotone. "You don't understand, Sarah. I'm 45 and aging poorly. If I approach her now, she might leave me...and if that happens, I will live the rest of my life alone. That's worse than right now, far worse. I can't live alone; I can't stand looking for another beside Rebecca; and I can't risk my marriage."

Sarah maintained her forceful gaze, but her lips began to tremble again as Paul finished. "Paul," she stammered, failing to sustain the strength in her voice, "we have to deal with this. We can't-"

"No, Sarah. Damn it, no."

Although her lips moved, she could not speak. Tears began to stream down her face once more. She attempted to speak, but she choked and could only manage to whimper and watch Paul pathetically. Finally, with a muffled sob, she stumbled away from the table. The door to the upstairs bathroom slammed seconds later.

Paul listlessly watched his plate.

A small housefly had landed on the edge of his plate. Hesitantly, it zig-zagged to the relatively large helping of beans, but before its digestive juices could touch the food, its primitive brain directed it toward the fruit. It hovered above the syrupy pieces tentatively before again changing its mind and landing on the coleslaw. From there, it skittered mindlessly over all three foods, pausing only occasionally and momentarily to test the foods' surfaces with its proboscis. By a faint understanding of the fly's mind, Paul passively reasoned it must have realized his presence and the potential threat he posed; however, for some inexplicable reason, the creature chose not only to remain in such uncertain territory but also to continue to move on the plate without settling.

Paul reflexively brought his hand against the plate, catching the fly with the side of his bony palm before it could escape. He could feel its body crunch against the paper plate. As his hand lay among the mashed food, he remained still as a realization registered slowly in his head, the realization of the gravity of one weak fly's pitiless death. Then, as it fully came, he ignored it. When he finally returned his hand to underneath the table, he never took notice of the mess of food on his palm or on the tablecloth. He simply continued to watch his plate.

Outside, black smoke from the grill billowed.

END

Eye-Work

I sat in the chair with my eyes closed thinking. I bet most people on the other side of my eyelids think I'm seeing the doctor about some anti-psychotics or some anger management. My right shin resting on my left thigh, my fingers crossing over and resting on my crotch with my fore-arms reaching up my stomach and my head tilted down. I could hear the walking of steps down the mostly empty hospital corridor as nurses and patients banter alike about how their treatment's going, how they're going to see their grandchildren or some holiday plans. God, I'm surrounded by people double my fucking age looking like an angst idiot with my eyes clothes as though deep in meditation so I don't throw up.

Roughly four days ago, I was at home with a few friends. About every so often we'd hang out. We'd sometimes have some weed and kick back. However, this time, Jamie brought something extra. He told me earlier over the phone he was bringing "Wow" over. Confused after, I put the word in a search engine and got World Of Warcraft up. "What the fuck is that retard doing bringing that nerd shit here?" was the first thing I could think of. Jamie was always the outsider of the group who would turn up every so often and had another group of friends we disapproved of. Although we got into the philosophy of "don't ask and I wouldn't tell you any lies" about him. Not to mention, we really didn't want to know what he got up to with those crowds.

First my friends Jay and Rick turned up and we had a beer or two talking about how the spurs frashed the fuck out of villa two zero. Just as I had gotten up to get some more beers while the commercials for Sky Sports was on, the front door bell went off. I went to the door, unlocked it and opened it to find Jamie there. He stood there with short blonde hair, rimless glasses, acne and that pathetic sour look he always had. He was wearing his Chelsea football shirt and jeans. "Awrite mate?" he said while stepping into the house. "Ah nothing much Jamie, yourself?". "Eh, bit of a pain gettin' ova here, fuckin' shitty traffic".

He walked into the lounge while I went to the kitchen and yelled "want a beer?". "Naw mate, although if you could get me a glass of water it'd be brill mate". So I grabbed a few beers, decapped them and poured a glass of water using one of the smaller glasses. He wasn't worth the small price of getting him a bigger glass. At the time I hoped the water filter had packed in so his water tasted especially worse. Then I figured, as I walked back to the living room carrying the beer and water, if the filter packed in would I taste the difference? I don't drink water on it's own and only use it for cleaning, tea, coffee and squash as far as I could remember off the top of my head.

I get back to the living room to see Jamie waving about a see-through small plastic bag. However, instead of weed as usual, it had some white squares. I gave him his water which he replied "thanks mate" and handed Jay and Rick their drinks. I took a swig of beer as I sat down on the sofa next to Jay. "So what's Jamie showing around?" I asked as I took a swig of beer "what's this he's got here for show and tell ?".

Jamie then smiled at me "this mate, is LSD. I managed to grab a few real cheap and figured I'd bring along some". Now, I've heard all sorts about LSD. From the positive of it being enjoyable and mind-expanding to the negative about how it leads to people going down a seedy road and people can do very stupid things while hallucinating. Using what knowledge I had, I was happy to do it on the condition someone watched to make sure we didn't do anything stupid. So we planned it out. Rick was very cautious about taking LSD, frighten stiff, so he was happy getting drunk and watching me, Jay and Jamie take LSD making sure we don't do something stupid (obviously taking less care of Jamie, it was an unspoken idea).

So we each placed a piece on our tongues and waited for the effects. Me, Jay and Jamie were laying on the floor staring up at the ceiling while Rick was on the sofa on his third beer already. It felt like forever until something occurred. Jay begun humming. It started off as soft like something you could easily contribute to something outside the room, but it begun rising like someone was turning the knob on an old radio or TV unit. Soon, it was creepy like a ghost had entered the room to toy with drunk or stoned individuals and others to dismiss as paranoia.

Jamie was the next one to move, he stood up suddenly and walked out the room giggling while Jay was talking to himself sat up from his laying position. I was about to consult Jamie about the LSD being faulty when it suddenly hit me; violently, yet so small. It begun as everything deteriorated into absurdity. The rest, I know it generally but for some reason could not put the vague ideas into words. All that could be said is we ended up all okay, no-one was harmed physically as far as were aware. It was afterwards, a day after during breakfast, I felt something strange yet familiar. The furniture begun to change and mutate into something that felt familiar at the time but I could not remember where from (although my gut feeling said it could only possibly be from the LSD trip). What was my plate began to rise up in size while my slice of toast got thinner and thinner. The television I was watching began to distort it's self into a weird impossible triangular shape while the voices became increasingly muffled. What I was seeing and hearing gave me a headache and made me feel nauseous to the point of throwing up what looked like black tar onto the purple worn carpet.

This had lasted for the past few days. I called in ill for work due to the hallucinations and ended up arranging a doctor's appointment about a day ago. As though a stroke of bad luck, soon after I put the phone down after the call, I passed out. However, Jay came around to see if I was okay and noticed me in my boxers and shirt face down in a puddle of vomit. So I ended up in hospital. I explained what happened after they stabilised me , forwarded me onto an expert; and now here I am. Due to my stability, they told me to wait outside his office until I was called. They gave me meds but the hallucinations still gave me a slight headache and made me feel a little ill still to see the world before me twist and rot into a world unreal.

I finally got in and saw the doctor, I bet he thought I looked like a right dick. I had to borrow Jay's old shorts he never wears and a pair of trainers he also never uses. White shirt with vomit on it, bright green shorts and a disgusting yellow pair of trainers, what a fashion statement I'm making. He explained I'd have to deal with this for the rest of my life or at least until there's a cure; and it was a very rare disorder caused by psychedelics and possible genetic crap. The doctor said it was called HPPD or HTPD or something like that. The only thing out currently was pills and therapy which I had to deal with both, the pills on a six-hour-basis to lower the intensity of the hallucinations and therapy hour a week so I don't feel as sick.

Fucking Jamie and his fucking drugs. When I get back, I'm going to remove his teeth with my fist for destroying my life, the cunt.

Word count: 1,381.

Irony

"Who are you?"
"Hmm... Well, I am a man, caucasian, ask me my age and maybe I'll tell you... I am rather handsome..."

The grin that had formed on Stanton's face as he was describing himself swiftly turned into a wince, as a knuckle sandwich punched his visage. However, his demeanour rapidly returned to the cocky attitude he was holding.

"Who are you!?", asked in a louder voice the interrogator, "Who do you work for!?"
"Okay, okay... I'll tell you... your momma hired me, she doesn't want you to be a naughty boy no more"

Another fist irrupted the perimeter of Stanton's face, a face that was getting darker by the second. The interrogator then gave a look to the two gorillas behind Stanton. Both of them promptly seized and dragged the latter into a new room.

"I already had a bath today", said Stanton.
"Who are you and who do you work for?" was the only response he got.

Stanton was gasping for air after being plummeted in a water tub. His eyes looked down at the water's surface, one which now also contained quite a bit of haemoglobin. But water and blood were far from being the only substances lurking in this pond of sorts. Chlorine and whatnot harshly ripped through his throat.

"Okay, I'll tell you what you want to know... but only if you throw some bubbles in this mix"
"I am not amused... and I am getting really bored"

Electricity and water are not a good combo. Screams filled the room completely as sparks flew from a taser gun and through the wet body of Stanton. "Seems you are getting dry", whispered one of the two guards in Stanton's ear, just before pushing his upper body into the tub once more.

"...", this time Stanton said nothing.
"Make no mistake, I will break you... it's up to you how much pain you desire to endure"

Three more times Stanton was dipped into the tub, electrocuted and asked his identity and allegiances. Three more times, his throat suffered the taste of the compound in the tub, burning slowly as it filtered to his guts. Three more times screams were eaten by the blackness of the dark.

"Enough... I'll be honest this time... it is not going to work honey, I'm already on a relationship"
"You are rather funny, I will give you a comedy to die for then", the interrogator had a faint smile on his face.

Stanton was dragged once more to another room. Strapped to a chair and unable to move, he was preparing for the worst. The interrogator brought a little table with knives and blades of all sorts. Stanton could not help but wonder if those instruments were sterilized. He grinned again.

"I already had my annual check-up chomp"
"And maybe it was the last one you had in this life... congrats", a more prominent smile formed on the interrogator's face. Screams continued for a while.

"How did it go?", asked a man to another outside a room from which laments could be heard.
"Good", answered a man holding a blood soaking scalpel, "I think he is ready"
"Did he talk?"
"No"
"Perfect, then he is ready"

"Well, I guess you will live for another annual check-up mate"
"Hmm... how cute", responded Stanton. He was lying on a hospital bed, bandages covering his thorax, a tube sticking from his nose. "Was the... 'surgery' really necessary?"
"I avoided all vital parts"
"But you touched all the sensitive ones"
"I'm sorry"
"I know... but it is ironic isn't it?"
"That I have to hurt you to make you stronger?"
"No...", said Stanton, and after laughing a little continued "that you tortured me with that idea... and that I feel weaker than ever"
"You will get better, you just need to rest a little", finished Lieutenant Gray as he moved towards the room's door, "I hope you understand. As soon as you are in top-notch condition you will be briefed"

No more than a week later, Stanton was back on his feet. He had prepared for almost six weeks to go undercover. He was not quite sure what the mission was, but Lieutenant Gray emphasized the fact that he would have to overcome great pain. No more than a week later, Stanton was getting all the information of what would be the most important mission in his career... in his life. He was told that his torturing was an important preparation as well... in case he got caught. No more than a week later, Stanton was ready for an extremely dangerous mission that would most certainly end his career... and his life. Most certainly, but not completely. No more than a week later, Stanton was walking home in his last night before going undercover. He just wanted to rest. No more than a week later, Stanton truly met irony.

"Give me all your money", said eagerly a male voice from behind Stanton. A cold artefact was touching Stanton's occiput, so he slowly started reaching into his back pocket. "Hurry!" shouted the voice pointing his gun at Stanton.

"Easy now cowboy", retorted 'the mission man'. He did not feel threatened by this petite thief. He did not feel afraid or anxious. He was very calm and in control of the situation. In what looked like the movement of a superhuman with enhanced abilities, Stanton turned around and took the gun from the hostile aggressor. He never made it to his back pocket to acquire his wallet. The thief neutralized, it was time for the big speech. "It is ironic you know... the Southeast cartel's drug business is the reason why this city is crumbling. It is the reason why people don't have any honest jobs and are reduced to assault and thievery. It is really none of your business, but I work for the DEA and am going undercover in an effort to shut down the cartel for good... so you have inadvertently tried to stop the sorry situation in which you and many others are... it is ironic and sad"

"You want to know something even more ironic?", said yet another voice, again coming from Stanton's back. "We work for the Southeast cartel... so thank you very much for the tip lad... we really appreciate that you, so... inadvertently, have helped our organisation" This time not only did Stanton feel a cold artefact on his occiput, but also a very hot piece of lead rushing through his cranium. He was not going on a mission that would most certainly end his life anymore. Most certainly, but not completely.

<Insert title later>
By: TrevorW. (Remember MLA and to spell check...maybe)

My story has no actors. My story has no stage. Hell, my story has no plot or meaning. That's right no deep seeded meaning will be found in any of the words to follow this rather poorly written into. Rather, I just didn't know how to start writing my story so I just included this to make it seem like I had a creative purpose behind where I chose to start. I'm not a good liar though, so I am sure you can tell that I honestly have no talent. No passion either. I just write because I can. I write, I suppose, for the pure time consumption entitled to the task. Plus women find the sensitive writer type to be extremely interesting.

Anyways I'm going to start writing now. That's right just like this. I don't think my English teacher would like how I am starting this though. You're never supposed to say "Anyways I'm going to start writing now" or anything of the sort. "Just do it" or so they say. I never did pay attention in class and every time I spoke I got the damn word digression shouted at me. Hell, I think I hear it now.

Digression. Digression. Digression.

Listen now, it's time to start:

The name is Chase Freewing and I am a 23 year old college drop out. I work as a janitor for a dump on Main Street, you know the place. It's a local shop that sells clothes and what ever other useless crap you could ever need. It's a swell little place, don't get me wrong, but the pay is shitty and the people even shittier. Boss man Taylor is the biggest bastard that ever walked the Earth and he only gets meaner by the day. I think he's about 102 or something like that. He's a damn walking corpse and he likes to use that as an excuse to boss me around. Fucker.

Anyways I digress. I do that a lot. I think that's why I got kicked out of college. I was a med student, but I could never finish a paper. I would always get caught up in some protégés side project that was sure to win me some major prize. The thing is I never finished those either. I never finish anything. I'm just not a doer. I'm a thinker. Besides I would much rather spend my nights jacking off in my bedroom or watching movies than doing class-work. I would write too, but it was always about people living their depressing lives and dealing with other depressed people. Nothing that would ever be widely published and defiantly not what I needed for class. Not to mention my vocabulary sucks and so does my writing. I think I mentioned the writing part though.

Digression. Digression. Digression.

God I do that a lot. Fuckers. God how I hate it how they used to yell that in class. I would just start talking about some amazing topic and then BAMB out of fucking no where they would start yelling that damn word. They never listened to any free thought. That's too scary. Yes, it's much better to conform to the ideas of the man by the black board. We get our A's and our fancy letters that way. Pft, idiots.

College was a waste of time for me and if not for any other reason than the lack of free thought. All they do in those institutions is: whittle away at each pupil's mind until they are just another conformed clone to march onto the workforce. I couldn't let that happen. Hell, I'm glad I dropped out. I got to keep my dignity and my sanity. My wallet is kinda empty though. I could try to publish something to fix that, but I think I said that my writing is garbage so there is no point in that. Rejection is just too damn annoying and I'm afraid of success anyways; so I lose either way.

Don't try to analyze me. There is no point. If you can't tell this isn't just a story, it's my life. This is my Dear John letter to the world. Hell, by the time the poor bastard that reads this even gets here I will already be dead. Hanging from the rafters probably or maybe I'll use the gun on the table. Maybe both. Yes, that would be some way to go.

Now tell me that isn't a poetic way to end a poorly written story. Hey, don't blame me, you read it. Idiot.

The only light in the room comes from the laptop sitting on my bed. It's late and I have to be up in the morning to go to work. I work at a small water park/mini-golf place outside of town. The pay is good and I get a lot of hours, so my weekly paycheck ends up being fairly substantial. Plus, I get to watch the drunks try to play mini-golf. It's only a summer job but it'll take care of some of the student loans. God, I wish college would stop being so expensive.

An item on the taskbar flashes orange.

Tina says:
hey stranger ;)

It's my friend Tina IM'ing me. This is how I'd like to spend all my evenings: relaxing at home and chatting online with one of my best friends. Tina and I are extremely close. We first met when I was in 7th grade (she's a year ahead of me) and we've stayed friends all throughout high school and through half of my college years and three of hers.

Shit. Has it already been that long? I can still remember being in 7th grade, scared stiff and surrounded by unfamiliar people and sensations. And now I'm going to be a junior in college. Christ, I feel old.

Tina always was and still is a vibrant person. Over the course of 6+ years, we've shared everything with each other, things I wouldn't talk with my parents about. Tina's been with me through the bad and the good. She calmed me down when I was near-hysterical about my GPA in my first semester of college, tried to make me stop thinking so hard about the distant future, and listened as I moped and moaned about being single.

David says:
so how are things going?
Tina says:
ugh
David says:
uh-oh, what now?
Tina says:
my b/f jeff

Again? This guy just doesn't get it. Tina's already going through a lot right now and she doesn't need more stress from her boyfriend. I hate seeing this happen to her. The guys she dates usually end up being colossal assholes. She really deserves better than this.

David says:
what did he do this time?
Tina says:
it's not just one thing, it's just a bunch of stuff he does that frustrates me
he'll call like two times a day just to say he called
he'd rather spend time with his guy friends
and I think he may be cheating on me

Well, this is new. Slightly better than the last boyfriend who was pressuring her to have sex and called her a prude for refusing, but that's like saying getting punched in the mouth is better than being kicked in the groin. I wish she'd find a guy who really loved her for who she is. Someone who, once she's told him that making horrible jokes about women really offends her, would get the message and stop. Tina is such a wonderful girl and considering all the shit she's been through with her home life, she needs to be treated like a queen. If I were dating her...

No. I'm not going down that road again. I've burned myself before by being too emotionally attached to someone I cared about. I still have the memories of therapy to prove it. It's not worth another trip to that dark place in my mind.

Still...

It might work out. I mean, Tina and I have practically shared our souls with each other. We've even gone as far as to talk about each other's sex lives. Or, at least what I can share. Tina was the first person I've ever shared something like that with. And there was that time I flat-out asked her if she thought our relationship would go somewhere. She said she didn't know, but probably not right now. But feelings change as time goes on...

No. Best just to wait this one out. Don't go in with any expectations. If it's meant to be, it'll happen. That's what mom always says.

David says:
ugggghhh; this is ridiculous
you deserve better
Tina says:
thanks

And now comes the silence. This is why I like IM better than phone conversations. With instant messaging, you can have a moment where there's no conversation and it's perfectly fine. You get more than 3 minutes of silence over the phone and most people get uncomfortable. There's always a need to talk and if you have nothing to say, then the conversation ends shortly. Plus, I can always multitask and surf the web when I'm chatting online. I'll check my Facebook. Hmmm... nothing too interesting.

Has it really been 6 years? Wow. I can look back on my high school photos and I cringe a little. I was always so high strung and uptight then. Ever since I went to college, I haven't been the same. I've changed for the better. I'm more confident, easy going and not as liable to freak out. And the people I've met! I can't think of a group of people dearer to me than the members of the rock climbing club I'm in, besides my family and close friends, of course.

David says:
penny for your thoughts?
Tina says:
hmm?
oh sorry
i was just thinking about how i needed to lose weight

Another of life's mysteries surfaces. I'll never understand why women who are not even remotely overweight still feel they are fat. Tina and I ran track in high school and she had the perfect body for it. Lean, muscular, and fast, compared to my tall, skinny, and slow. We haven't run track since high school, but my metabolism never seemed to quit. Tina packed on the Freshman Fifteen and then some, but it didn't diminish her overall body image in my eyes.

David says:
you look fine *eye roll*
Tina says:
no i don't
my butt's too big
ever since i quit running, it exploded
David says:
oh, for the love of all that's holy
you had a nice butt then
you've got a nice butt now
Tina says:
lol oh really?
David says:
would i say it if it weren't true?
Tina says:
lol you know, some girls would slap you for saying something like that
David says:
well, i'm not talking to one of those girls, now am i? ;)
Tina says:
you're terrible, you know that, right?
so you admit you were staring at my butt all those times in high school? :)
David says:
guilty on both counts lol
Tina says:
no wonder you had such a hard time on the hurdles heehee!
David says:
hey! it's not my fault i couldn't get my legs up past my ears...
Tina says:
haha!
but seriously, jeff and i were at a party a week ago and he made some comment about how runners have such nice legs and asses; i told him that i used to run track in high school and he snorted and went, "suuuuuuuure..."
David says:
jackass
Tina says:
i know
i'm thinking about dumping him
David says:
really?
Tina says:
ya; he's been such a dick to me ever since we started dating
and with school and everything, he's not making things better
David says:
how are classes going btw?
Tina says:
horrible
i'm pretty sure i'm going to fail my poly sci class
David says:
that sucks
i'm sorry :(
Tina says:
it's okay
David says:
shit, i gotta get some sleep
i'll talk to you tomorrow night
Tina says:
okay, see you then
David says:
tina?
Tina says:
yes?
David says:
you know you're a wonderful person, right?
jeff doesn't know what he's missing out on
and i kinda feel bad for him because he doesn't realize how great you are
Tina says:
*blush* thanks Dave
David says:
'night Tina
Tina says:
good night David
***Tina has logged off***

As hard as it is to have these feelings for her, I can manage. I have something special with Tina. A friendship that's open, honest, and built on trust. And while I can't say we're dating, I know that she'll always keep an open place in her heart for me. That's all I really need: to know I'm loved.

***David has logged off***

Anyone Home?
Note: Some names where changed to preserve anonymity.
_______________________________
My father was never home. I say this like it's a bad thing but really, it was never his fault. He left because of us, for my mother and I. He left because it was his job. My father was the Regional IT Manager for a company whose motto read: "improving children's lives in developing countries." At the time, the company's name was Plan International, but today, it's just Plan. We lived in a developing country and I was a child, but I didn't see anything wrong with my life. My father wasn't always there but when he was, he tried to spend as much time with us as possible. It's just he never had enough time.

Whenever he left, in the beginning, I would cry a lot, but as his travelling became more regular, I stopped. It was now a routine. Dad came, stayed for a bit, and then left again. I was fine with that. As far as I was concerned, he was out saving the world and he always knew a lot about computers, he still does. The house was never without one of the machines. There was his IBM Personal Computer XT, with the buzzing monitor and static glow from the default green text, a model that was actually discontinued in 1987; or his IBM PCjr which he used during his brief stint as an elementary computer school teacher, perhaps the trendy IBM convertible, the one he liked to show off; or even his Compaq LTE, the one he got in 1990, the one he still uses today, just to strike a conversation.

Some say he could talk to computers. In fact, he hardly ever interacted with other people whenever he travelled. He told me that he would just show up and get to work. This company had hundreds of different branches throughout the world, linked together through an intricate network system, Dad's system. All on his own, Dad had linked all these different branches into one workable network, and this back when the internet was still new. People were still trying to figure these things out, but Dad already knew.

Go back a couple of years, spring of '83. Dad graduates from Harvard and has no money. He decides he really wants to see the world so he joins the Peace Corps. The Peace Corps lands him a teaching job outside of the United States and for two years he teaches.

He had always been interested in computers and technology. He always read about the machines because he knew that eventually, they would become a part of modern life. Much of what he knows was self-taught, gathered from various books and repeated moments of experimentation at home, all alone. He did take a few Computer Science classes at Harvard but says they did nothing for him. On his résumé, he always listed "computer knowledge" as part of his skills and now that he was in a third-world country, he was one of a few people capable of operating a computer, so he stayed.

This is why I didn't exactly grow up in the United States; this, for some reason always confuses people. English was not my first language; I learned French first pretty quickly and then had to make friends before I could even speak English. I got into the habit of always having something to do so as a kid so I was always busy.

School was my only opportunity to have fun. I did more work at home than I did at school, so I enjoyed learning and going to classes, a thing my friends never really understood. Again, words like "boredom," "free time," and "sleepover" weren't in my everyday vocabulary. Friday nights, I would sometimes go into town with my parents (accompanying my mother so she wouldn't be alone,) to dine in restaurants and meet some friends: their friends. As a kid, the word "friend" meant someone at least 30 years my senior, someone who could smoke, someone who didn't always have their parents around.

My mother was always my friend. I would tell her all about my day and then call my dad at night to tell him the same, over the phone. She was the physical embodiment of the parent while a lot of the time, my father was just a voice. Naturally, I became attached to my mother and told her things I could never tell my dad. It wasn't until recently that I realized how much this hurt him, how on certain nights he would get quiet and practically say nothing to me. How on his next trip, he would purposefully miss the Tuesday night phone call and leave us waiting. It never donned me to ever pick up the phone and call, to find out how he was doing.

---

The average passport only contains about 24 pages and resembles a pocket diary. Most of these pages are intentionally left blank, empty spaces for visas and ink stamps, but most people will never need 24 pages. My father however, was now travelling so frequently that even a single page from his passport surpassed the average traveler's entire passport repertoire. Pages would be filled with fingerprint smudges, ink-stamps, visas, and dirt smears. Additions would be made to his passport quite frequently and with these, pages would look out of place, uncomfortable , altering the shape of the book, transforming it into a monstrous tome documenting the history of his life, outwardly reflecting where he'd been. Each time he used his passport, his life was sprawled out onto a counter, carefully organized. It slowly transformed into one of his journals, his own little pocket diary, except now he wasn't the one writing the stories.

Whenever he was home, he would usually abandon his passport on top of the dresser in the master bedroom, with everything else. This thing that placed the world at his fingertips would instantly become just another object, a book of no particular importance. Alongside his collection of: fragrances from around the world, multiple shaving razors, fancy after-shaves, sample hand crèmes, and enriched body lotions. Dad left his other aging passports in a cluttered pile, next to these artifacts, unkempt. His trophies, these tickets to "living his dream" had now become nothing more than part of the "dresser apparel," as he liked to call it. This "dresser apparel" was all that reminded us of him whenever he left.

I've never been close to my father. It's rather unfortunate since he truly does deserve a loving son who's not scared of talking to him. Sometimes, when I'm home, my mother will ask me if I've started drinking yet and I'll reluctantly glance over at my father; he never says anything. Part of me wants him to confront me about the issue, and to ask me if I've ever had sex, gotten high, or even smoked a cigarette. He won't ask me because he's scared of me and in the same way, I'm also scared of him. Like father, like son I guess.

I can talk to my friends about my father and I'll even call him Dad in front of strangers, but I have never said it to his face. To get his attention, I'll say "hey" or tap him on the shoulder but I'll never call him Dad. I almost did it once but corrected myself, mid-sentence, opting for the more appropriate "Mr. Hansen." Everyone else calls him that, so it's much easier for me. I can count the number of times I've truly cried on one hand and none of them are because of my father. I'm an only child so I've never had anyone else around the house and I feel that the relationship with my parents has stemmed from this absence of any siblings. He's not my dad or at least, I don't think of him that way. I don't know if this is a bad thing really. He's never actually yelled at me or called me out on anything and that's because he doesn't truly know me. He's afraid to yell at me. He's been away for so long that I've become the stranger in the house; whenever he comes back, he recognizes my mother but I'm somebody else.

End of Part 1.

Do some research and you may read about it in Psychology Todayy; children whose fathers were rarely home. How I'm supposed to have dropped out of school at least four years ago because I never had anyone to look up to, not even an older brother. How right now, I'm supposed to have committed at least one crime, abused alcohol, or sold some drugs for money. I must be the anomaly.

You may even read about these kids who run away from home and then become something else; something unrecognizable. Almost like the way my father saw me every time he'd come back from a trip. Show these kids to their parents a year later and they've become a complete stranger.

"That's not my child," the mothers might say. "He would never have done any of that. I know him." Yeah, those mothers, they think they know their kids but most of them end up blaming themselves once they realize the truth. The fact that they actually have no idea who their children are outside of the house. You act a certain way, a different way, usually according to the situation. In the classroom, at the dinner table, around the parents, at the mall, even in a public restroom: it's a little different every single time.

I am telling you all of this because if you ever meet my father, you won't see it. Not in his eyes, his hair, or even the way he dresses. He doesn't look like somebody who's been around the world at least five times. He doesn't always have his hair neatly combed or properly cut and sometimes, he even forgets to shave. All that "dresser apparel," he doesn't use any of it anymore because we don't need it to remember him; now, he's always around. He's the physical embodiment of that voice we once connected to the "dresser apparel." He looks apathetic, slightly lethargic: like someone who's only interested in tomorrow's weather. Ten years ago, three hours of sleep and a cold cup of coffee was all he needed to stay awake at a conference. But today, he looks much more broken-in. As if he's been trying to fit into his own skin all these years.

He can no longer donate blood because he's travelled to certain countries that don't pass the "General Guidelines" of the American Red Cross and it's been five years since he last left the country. Back on his own turf and he feels more uncomfortable than he's ever looked.

"24 years out of the country," he recently told me over the phone. "Relentlessly travelling around the world, rushing from place to place repeatedly, doing all that stuff... That's all over now. I'm starting to get old. I need to start living again." Dad had been living his dream for 24 years, his dream of leaving the country, the passport taking him along for the ride. He still has the passports today but they don't have him anymore. Now, they really are just objects. Retiring his passport could have been the best thing for eight-year old Mike but that was twelve years ago.

I am now twenty years old and I see him whenever I'm home, much more than I did before, but I'm hardly ever home anymore. At 47, he's just like everyone else, with a much more stable job where the most travelling he'll ever do involves a trip to the local Staples superstore to pick up a few missing office items. Now, he works for IBM and still has a passion for computers, which he's managed to share with me. This is his reintegration into society, his becoming normal again. I'm still not sure if I know what that means.

"Hey man, you sure you're ok to drive?"

I tear my eyes away from the nighttime scenery whipping past my backseat window, setting aside my muddled thoughts to address my friend's query. He is staring at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes searching for any sign of inebriation or slowed reflexes - for any reason to prevent me from embarking on the next step in my journey home.

I consider his question quietly for a moment, questioning my own decision to drive home tonight. Do I feel drunk? How many beers have I had? Not a lot, right? I don't think I had a lot. But what if I get pulled over? I'm definitely over the legal limit, and a DUI...Christ. Plus his sofa is pretty comfortable...

A beep from my watch settles matters - it's 4:00 in the morning and right now all I want to do is get home and curl up in my own bed.

"Nah, man. I'm fine. Just a little tired," I mumble, almost believing it.

I lose myself in thought once more, replaying the night over and over again in my mind. What if I had done this? Said that? Talked to her? Avoided him? The myriad of possible outcomes seems plentiful, all of them exponentially better than my current situation: driving home, alone. Again.

It slowly dawns on me that we have come to a stop, and are idling outside my friend's house. I note my car parked a few feet in front of us, and slowly put the pieces together: my friend is waiting for me to move my car so he can use the vacated space. It's the city - of course there is no other parking at four a.m.

I also know that this is the final test. My friends watch me keenly, judging my every move. The possession of my car keys will be decided in the next few minutes, and may be lost due to a simple stumble or slurred statement.

I pop open my door and tentatively lift one leg out. The difficulty of this maneuver unnerves me, but I mask my slow progress by searching for my keys. Left pocket? Nope. Right pocket? Not there. Wait...

Panic courses through me. I pat down all of my clothing, even my shirt (which doesn't even have pockets). I dig my hands underneath my butt, probing the leather folds in case my keys slipped out during the ride. Did I lose them at the party? Where did I set them down? Did my friends take them while I wasn't looking? Those bastards! Who are they to tell me I can't drive! They weren't watching me the-

My hand finally closes around my keys. Left pocket. I am definitely too drunk to drive.

I take a deep breath and pull myself from the backseat. Careful not to overestimate the effort needed to rise, I catch myself before stumbling forward. Keeping one hand on the car, I try to strike an 'I am a sober, upstanding young gentleman' pose at the passenger side window, hoping my travel companions don't notice that their car is necessary for my maintaining an upright position. I give one final salute, afraid to engage in any conversation, knowing that one misspoken word will rob me of my ticket home - I break away from the stability of their auto and lurch towards my own.

I concentrate on each step, making sure my leaning is to a minimum. Unfortunately, at some point during the night I lost the ability to move my arms correctly while walking. Fairly certain that I resemble the Frankenstein monster, I abandon my plan to look sober and instead try to get to my car as quickly as possible.

Keys at the ready, my outstretched hand reaches for the steadiness of my own car. Misjudging the distance, my hands meets empty space and I stumble forward a few steps before my palm makes contact with the car roof. I turn and sheepishly grin back at my friends, though I cannot see them through the darkened windshield. I imagine the conversation inside ("I mean, shouldn't we stop him? Dude, I think we should make him sleep here tonight...") and my grin immediately fades.

With a new resolve to demonstrate my soberness, I glance down at the grim task ahead of me. Using both hands, I slowly try to discern which key on the ring appears to unlock a car door. Selecting the most likely choice (I'm pretty sure it's the long square one), I jab the key towards the lock.

I miss, of course. No matter - I'm sure many sober individuals gouge a streak across the side of their car door on a regular basis.

Second attempt - let's do this. I hold my hand as steady as possible and inch closer and closer to the lock. Finally I make contact - metal on metal. Good sign.

I wiggle the key in the general area of the lock until I feel it sink in. Pushing it home and turning it, I open the door and look back at the judges, waiting for my scores. I hear the click of my friend's car as he slides the gear shift from P to D, preparing to pull forward and take my space. I guess I passed.

I give one final nod in their direction, in gratitude for their positive recommendation, and slide into my car. I note that finding the ignition is markedly easier than unlocking the car door. I ruminate on this inconsistency briefly, and conclude that my current seated position is the key element - since my concentration is now no longer split between (1) finding the key hole and (2) avoiding the unexplained magnetism of my face to asphalt.

I turn on my car and take a deep breath. I whisper slogans of encouragement to myself: You can do this. Maintain. Just take it nice and easy. You'll be home in no time.

Checking my mirrors a dozen times, I finally conclude that it is safe to pull into the street. I slide gently from the safety of my parking spot. On the open road now, I know that there is no turning back. Home or Bust.

I see my friends pull into the relinquished spot before losing their reflected images around a sharp turn. As my eyes linger on the mirror, I vaguely recall needing to concentrate on something. Something important...

Shit! Certain that my lapse in attentiveness has lead me towards an imminent collision with some small child, I twist the wheel hard to the left, overcompensating for the gradual turn I am making. I swerve across the yellow lines in the road and hear the blaring horn of an oncoming vehicle. I twist back hard to the right, easily missing the approaching sedan, and manage to even myself out within the confines of my own lane.

My palms become sweaty as I wait for the lights and sirens to appear from the darkness. Certain that my display of driving ineptitude has been witnessed by the police, I slow my car to a crawl as I descend the hill. I am already going to prison for drunk driving - why add a speeding ticket to the mix?

Minutes passed, and a stoplight gives me an opportunity to twist in my seat and glance around at my surroundings. By some miracle, it appears that officers are not surrounding the vehicle, waiting to pounce on this dangerous intoxicated derelict in his '93 Altima.

My feeling of relief is quickly quelled by two thoughts. First, that I still have a long way to go before I am safe in my own home. And second, that I should be ashamed of myself. This sudden humiliation takes me by surprise, and I immediately delve deeper into this revelation (while paying attention to the road, of course).

Yes, everyone knows that one drink is enough to cause the impairment of one's reflexes, and here I am with an incalculable amount of alcohol in my system, driving a two ton cube of metal and glass down a busy city street. And it is not as if I have deluded myself into thinking I am sober - I admit that I am as inebriated as any wino you can find lying unconscious in the gutters. Yet I have ignored my friends' attempts to prevent this current predicament, forsaken all of the teachings and warnings about drinking and driving I have absorbed over the years, and all because I want to sleep in my own bed. The fear of my breaking a legal wrong is quickly overtaken by a wave of shame - the disgrace of breaking my own personal code of conduct.

Despite this shadow of dishonor which has descended upon my mind, I know that there is no turning back now. I knew the stakes when I first shifted my car into 'Drive' - Home or Bust. I concentrate on the white streaks of paint zooming by outside my window, careful to align my car in perfect sync with their twists and turns.

Despite my efforts, I still find a part of my mind drifting back to the evening's events. I wonder what is going on right now - Whether people are still drinking? Dancing? Laughing? Who went home with who? What that girl in the jean skirt is doing right now...

I smack my steering wheel in frustration - irritated with my own shortcomings. My own cowardice. Lost opportunities. A man can handle many disappointments and failures in his life, but regrets are by far the hardest to accept - even those simple regrets wrought from a night of drinking and reflected upon during an inebriated voyage home.

Regret, shame, fear, disappointment - these are frequently the aftermath of my drunken escapades, I admit to myself. True, the time with friends is fun, and the party had its moments, but my major decisions from the night leave much to be desired - and what does that say about me as a person? I have clearly moved into the 'Philosophical Drunk' stage.

The introspection which occurs at this stage of intoxication is never pretty, and engaging in such soul-searching could turn lethal when behind the wheel of a car. Tempers tend to flare. I wisely push such questions from my mind, focusing instead on the road.

A well-known speed trap lies at the bottom of the next hill, I remember. Slowing my odometer an extra 5 mph, I cruise past the dark parking lot, glancing amongst the bushes out of the corner of my eye. Looks clear. Focus on the road.

By now I am more tired than intoxicated and am feeling better about passing a breathalyzer test. However, a pair of headlights flash in my mirror, signaling that my tenuous optimism was misplaced. I slowly ease off the accelerator and curse quietly under my breath, preparing myself to walk in a straight line and repeat the alphabet backwards (Z-Y-X...W....). The headlights inch ever closer. I am certain the observant officer can now see my eyes in the mirror, wide and filled with fear. At the last moment, the encroaching car swerves into the passing lane and crawls past. Daring to look across, I see tinted windows, unmarked doors and a driving posture no officer of the law would adopt.

Not a cop. I drop my head and gasp a sigh of relief. That's when my car hits the telephone pole.

Contest Closed!

Judgements may take up to 2 or 3 weeks. Expect Zerok to post the next contest long before that.