"Let's Get This Over WIth"

"Let's get this over with," Grief said quietly, her wings folded and her face set. Wrath, who was already at the door, nodded. He was under control but more than ready for action. Hatred and Love stood side by side, calmly awaiting what was to come. The final battle was upon them.

"Go," Hatred said simply.

Wrath kicked down the door with one blow, and was through it in a flash of red. Grief whipped through the doorway and disappeared into the shadows.  The Others had hardly had time to react when Hatred stepped over the broken door.

"So you have come at last," said the tall figure within. He resembled Hatred in many ways, but his face was contorted with malice. Around his neck hung a tarnished medallion, scarred and beaten as its owner. He destroyed and marred all that was shining and unbroken.

In the smoke around him three more entities stood. Once they had all been more than friends, but that was long ago. The rift changed many things.

With a roar and a howl, Rage and Despair were heard suddenly from the dark rafters above. Wrath and love intercepted them, while Hatred charged upon Hatred. The battle was joined once more, and only the dawn will find the victors.

Movement, Epilogue (#2)

When the water dried up, the city slowly, slowly ground to a halt. For a time the boiler worked with the slowed flow of water, but it worked at half capacity. The trains ran, but at painstakingly slow speeds. The clocks themselves ticked out long minutes. Some refused to pay their employees full wages, citing the city clocktower, and the lessened productions of the machines they ran. The first people to leave were only a handful, the ones who had been on the edge of bankruptcy already. Others tried to stay longer, to find where the river was blocked, or just to wait and see if it would run again. Time stood sill, and the rate of exitus grew by the uncounted hours. Random belongings of those who had left were strewn in the street, not worth heir weight in the long miles they knew were ahead. Few of the airship captains would allow anyone on board, save for an outrageous sum. One or too filled their holds with the hungry and the sick; the others filled theirs with the rich, packed amid cargoes of brass and coal.

The subterranean river had always flowed freely in the past, but the networks had never been mapped and they were not well understood. One would need a submarine, lights, enough coal and food to last for days. A compass to map by, and a master cartographer to wield the pen. The abandoned city was rich in materials, there was much that was not worth bringing away. The coal stacks were full, there were brass and iron aplenty in the silent refineries. But of men, there were few indeed with the courage for such a mission. And no such vehicle existed that could map the waterways.

The mayor of the city was a good man, and a strong one in its hour of peril, but there was no true solution to the dilemma of the river. He spoke with the greatest inventors, adventurers, map makers, and few words of hope were spoken. One man had been all three of these in his life, and he alone laid out a plan of acion, and blueprints of a strange machine. It would walk on the very bottom of the river, its hull would be smoothed like an airship so the waters of the river would flow around it and not hinder. His machine was far from finished, and it would take him six years, he said, to finish it. Then the true task would begin.

Movement

Not a breath of vapor rose from the smokestacks, not a single train moved along the glistening tracks. A silence and a stillness blanketed it all, and was more jarring than the noise and heat of the city had ever been. A tall man strode through the streets, the only movement in the metropolis.

All the Movements of the city were powered by a single boiler that stood in the center of the bronze, urban web. It was massive and ugly, ancient and beautiful in its own way. For what is more beautiful than something serving its true purpose?

The man checked his pocketwatch, and hurried on. The movement of this city had been still for too long, and it galled him like a stopped watch does an old watchmaker. He longs to see it move again, and count the hours with its patient hands.

When the water dried up, the city ground to a halt. It is an old, old story. Coal and water, water and coal; the twin pillars of the city gate were etched with those words. One without the other was mere heat, mere moisture, but combined, they were power.

He approached the center of the city at last, and a glad sound met his ears. He bent to the pavement and out hit ear to it to be sure. A rushing a bubbling of water, far below him in the subterranean river on which the city had been founded, again ran free.

The creases around his eyes deepened at the sound, but he was back on his feet in a moment, and moved with renewed strength.

The city would live once more.

I Wasn't Going To Say Anything

I wasn't going to say anything. I know, I know, I should I guess. Just one of those little things that happens. Maybe the letter wasn't important. Probably not.

The girl got up and just left it sitting there. She'd been reading it pretty attentively, so it must be something out of the ordinary. There are things like that.

She hadn't cried over it; at least, not obviously. Maybe she'd left it there on purpose?

Theoretically there was still time to catch up and give it to her. I could still see her bluish jacket moving towards the train station. It'll be awkward I suppose, giving it to her. It's not like I know her.

I walked over to the bench and looked at the envelope. A corner of something was sticking out a little bit. Oh, well then. The thing was mostly full of money.

Finders keeper's, eh? It might not be much, but I could use it. Haven't had a job in a year and a half. It doesn't depress me too much now, I've gotten over it. I just have to keep an eye out for ways to make money, keep my hand in the game, as it were.

And if this isn't a way to make money... what is? Well, technically I'm not earning it, just getting lucky.

That girl had kind of a nice coat though, and I liked the way she walked. Not because she was leaving behind an unknown sum, either. Let me count it.

One, two three, four, five, six... Twelve hundred? That's a good month's rent where I come from. Losing something like that... That could put a person on the street.

I glanced around, looking around for that blue jacket. Yep, she's still there, walking down the hill to the train.

Hmm, what should I do? Well, taken literally, I know what I should do I suppose. Fine.

I loped off down the hill, I could feel every irregularity in the sidewalk through the thin soles of my shoes. I haven't run like this in a dogs age, and that was under different circumstances.

I didn't yell to her, I was sure I'd catch up now. I just walked up to her, thrust the envelope towards her, and said "Merry Christmas."

I knew it would be awkward. It's July.

Her face went through about five emotions in as many seconds. Then she gave me a smile like I haven't gotten since that old guy mistook me for his dog in the dark.

Pssh, and I wasn't going to say anything.

(Dedicated to Caleb for some reason.)

The End Came

"I missed the end of the world."

The man spoke aloud, though there was no one to hear his words. He had only stepped a few yards from where his small plane had touched down, a remarkably smooth landing. The red and white plane was painted with pink and orange by the rising sun. There was still a chill in the air, and the young pilot's breath was colored white. His back was to the sunrise, and his face lay in shadow.

He stood in the smoking ruins of a once great city. The runway was clear until the very end, where aircraft of various sizes lay in blackened heaps. The tower had fallen, the terminal had collapsed, the remains of its glass roof sparkled in the waxing light of dawn. But over both of these he could see his entire city devastated. The proud skyline was rent and torn, buildings bent and fallen, like the teeth of an old, broken man. A bluish smoke curled up here and there, and dust obscured the streets.

He had flown over it on his way in, he needed to see no more. There was nothing left.

He pulled out a cigarette, and cupped one gloved hand around it as his match flared. For a moment it revealed the numb, cold look on the mans face, then he shook it out and carefully put in his his shirt pocket.

Commitment, Epilogue (#1)

(Original, read first)

She was a rather queer old woman, my grandmother, though it wasn't obvious at first glance. She did all the normal old lady things; gardening, knitting, cooking a bit, complaining about her back. Not much reminiscing over old times, perhaps that's what made her seem a little off. That and the fact that no one quite knew how old she was. Little things like those add up.

Alone in my study, the oak paneling gleaming in the firelight, I returned my attention to the box. It wasn't locked, it never had been, but it was a puzzle box of an old variety. I have a wide range of knowledge, most of it outdated and much of it useless; nearly all of it interesting. I know how to open such boxes as this, a few seconds pushing and peering did the job.

She used to tell me old stories of far off lands. Not quite your average fairy tales of princes and princesses, trolls and witches, but all of those featured throughout. The quests were different, grimmer, the princes fought harder, and died as often as they lived. The trolls and witches were old beyond old, and wise in wicked ways. The princesses were beautiful in different ways. There was a strange air about those tales, my grandmother was quite the storyteller.

The box lid was a little stiff, or perhaps my hands were clumsy with anticipation, but when I slid off the lid I did it with a jerk, and one of the two small round things inside rolled out onto my desk. They were apparently perfect spheres; one a bronze-gold, and one a kind of platinum. I slowly moved to replace the gold ball in the box, but when I touched it I drew back my hand with almost a gasp. It was hot as fire.

I took my coat off the back of my chair, and lifted the ball off my desk using it as a kind of glove. As I replaced it, I noticed for the first time a slip of paper tucked in the corner.

To the boy who so enjoyed my stories. Perhaps these will bring you one more of which my lips can never tell.

Retirement

The grizzled old space marine shuffled to his chair and slumped into it. His muscles were somewhat atrophied from long periods of zero-grav. Memories, love lost, lasers; he'd led a full life. But he was somehow disappointed, as he surveyed his many medals and commendations that lined his walls. There was one missing, one that he had always planned on obtaining, but had never quite found the right opportunity. The Silver Nova, the medal given to those who had given their lives in battle. Those who gave it and those who expected to receive it always considered it a fair exchange. In many ways it was the ultimate achievement.

But he had fought so long and had never won it. He had lost battles, he had nearly lost his life a dozen times over, he had been captured, escaped, and regained his command. Somehow he always came out in one piece.

Restless, despite his white hairs, he rose from his seat and strode to the open window, the curtains billowed in the night breeze. He looked towards the stars, naming them in his mind, remembering the scars he had won among them. He looked at his old, bony hands that had wrought such destruction in their day. In one system the natives gave him a name that roughly translated to The Steady Hand Of Justice. They would call him something different now.

He had risen through the ranks like a devouring fire, accepting each offer of advancement with the single caveat that he must be kept in the field, on active duty. He'd often wondered why no one tried to assassinate him, he suspected his reputation in combat had something to do with it. Though there had been so many deaths among the higher staff lately... Someone would stop the killer soon, no doubt.

He slapped the handgun that he still kept always on his hip.

As he turned away from the window, there was a flicker of movement. The old marine saw it in one of the mirrors affixed the walls.

And then the assassin stepped onto the small balcony, and was silhouetted in the moonlight. The figure was reflected subtly in every medal and every plaque upon the walls.

The veterans eyes narrowed. To give his life, here was one more chance. But he must give it in combat, there was no honor in the death of cattle in the slaughterhouse.

With a movement like a fine clock his old right hand flew to his gun, he drew as he turned to face his assailant.

They were both found the next day. The marine shot in the solar plexus, and the assassin who would never kill again, drilled right between the eyes.

Waste

"What a waste," the tall girl said to herself quietly, with sadness lining her green eyes. It was a dim, gray day, and the wind was cold over the rolling hills. It whipped her dark blue dress around her, and she crossed her arms for warmth.

The other girl sat on the stone wall nearby, her eyes likewise red rimmed. The funeral had been touching, but their grief went deeper. Their childhood friend never should have enlisted in the space marines.

Explorer

He had always wanted to be an explorer. To discover new lands, new animals, new ways of thinking. To name new lands. Bernard's Break, Two-Finger River, the Last Ford. Aged maps of places both real and imagined covered his walls, many places scribbled in. A figure or a creature would be etched in here and there, reminiscent of the days when maps were edged with sea monsters and whirlpools.

As he grew older he realized just how much of the world had been explored. Satellites swing constantly overhead, scanning and imaging the world again and again in a ceaseless, mechanical dance. Every valley seemed to be named, new animals were merely a slightly new variation of fly, or an ape with an odd nose that no one had ever seen. The world was not wild enough a place to hold his names and his dreams.

He searched on, unsatisfied.

So the maps came off his walls, one by one. He found the real, mundane names these places had. Hoover Dam had blocked off his Rising River, Vaulted Valley was all but destroyed in a volcanic eruption before he was born.

Then he discovered the way into a new world, a shining world much like our own in the early days. The sky was bluer, the grass greener, the animals even more strange and varied. No island was named, no river mapped. It was his world, though he named it after his mother. And he lived happily ever after, the end.

Pressure

So I'm a genius. I know, I know, everyone says that. But for me it's true, I guess. Genius is a bit difficult to define. I like the WIkipedia definition of the IQ test, which sates that it "test a certain kind of intelligence." Whichever one it tests is the one that spills out my ears. Strange phrase I know, try and get past it.

But seriously the pressure. people don't understand what it's like. They think that it's easy to be a genius, to have everyone look at you and wonder what crazy calculations are spinning through your mind. Like my head is a giant abacus, with gray beads.

My head is more like a very clear mirror. Whatever it reflects (on) becomes very clear, sometimes clearer than you'd like.

And I can't stop it, I can't turn it off. I just think, on and on. And on. Sun up, to sun down, often to sun up again. Then I sleep and dream clever dreams.

it gets to you after awhile. I was much happier as a kid playing in the mud in my backyard. People knew what I was, and expected me to act accordingly. A dirty little dude. Now they see some shining paragon of brilliance, and expect me to live up to that. The sons of guns.

Now it would be different if everyone was a genius (even though that would still be horrible). Everyone would be smart enough to understand that other people had their off days, their problems, their handicaps. I'm horrible at chess. I got over it. Eventually.

I go for walks. Long walks. They kind of help, but not too much. I feel like I'm a computer with a broken fan, just whizzing on and on until I crash from overheating.

For the sake of honesty I'll admit that being a genius has its good points. They just escape me at the moment.

I could write a book. It'd probably be pretty good. I could try and get better at the piano, become famous if not rich. I could write songs, maybe have my own band. I could go into some marketing company and possibly reinvent the so called art. Or I could go into fine arts,m there I might be rich, but I could never live with myself. I'm too good a scammer to fail something that subjective.

Eh, I'll play some Halo.

Commitment

"I made a promise." the old man said flatly.

I looked him over. He was dressed in cheap old clothes, the shirt too big and the pants too short. He struck me as a flaky old geezer, more prone to lying for a buck than to keeping decades old promises. He might have kept that shirt for that long though. The beard must have been older.

He pulled a small bundle from his coat pocket, and carefully unwrapped the object within. It could have been anything, but somehow I suddenly knew what it was. My grandmother's box.

I never knew what was in it, no one did I think. It made a chinking sound, and was very heavy for it's small size, most people assumed the mundane explanation of gold, or even silver. Perhaps it was because I was young at the time, but I always felt it was something more. My grandmother kept it on the highest shelf, and I once caught her looking into it when I came quietly into the room. She snapped it shut, and all I saw was a glimmer of light. I wasn't able to make it too her funeral; too many miles and too few dollars. They said they never found her will, though I never quite believed that she would be so careless as to not write one. Apparently she had other plans.

The old man looked at the box with love, no, perhaps honor in his old, red eyes. I felt that this was his last scrap of integrity, the last wall within which his conscience still reigned. Now that his task was completed he could look back and know, that of all the mistakes of his long life, and the cold, the hunger of a seemingly useless man, he had done one thing and done it well.

I didn't know what to say to him. It seemed a shame to give him five bucks and never see him again.

"Would you like to see inside it?"

The old an raised a bushy eyebrow. "No, I don't think so. After all these years, there's no way it can live up to my expectations, I suppose."

He raised one wrinkled hand in an arthritic salute, and shuffled down the street.

But now, looking back, I think he may have opened that box. For only one who knew what was inside it would never want to see it again. His burden was heavy, but mine is the heavier.

United

So long, so many hours pacing the polished floor of the Hall. A divided people are like sand under the foot of the enemy, again and I again I harangued my compatriots. Stone divided is merely a path on which to tread, but stone untied is a monolith that can obfuscate the mightiest foe. And they were all like, dude, calm down. So I have a good vocabulary and I get carried away sometimes; so what?

We are in trouble, they know as well as I. The very fact that we are having such a lengthy debate about whether or not to band together should be evidence enough that we must. The legions of our foes march ever nearer our borders, and still we squabble among ourselves. Yes, the world is wide, and we could fly far from here, to safety and new lands, but this is our home.

The real problem is that we're a bunch of punks. The feds are bad verging on pure evil, but we aren't the greatest people ourselves. We have our own kind of justice, and if no one gets hurt, no one gets charged. Every man of us carries a judge, jury and executioner on his right hip. Except the lefties.

We live a pretty good life, and we've found a way to get along in this harsh new world, far from the all seeing eye of Big Brother. We don't pay taxes anymore, because somehow when you ride around a herd of cattle twelve hours a day and sleep under the stars wondering when you'll have to get up for your next watch; it's hard to take a tax man with his little briefcase seriously. We just have other things to worry about. Like semicolons.

I took the makeshift podium to make my case one last time. I slowly pulled my pistol from its holster, tipped it upward and slowly pulled back the hammer. These men know the language of the gun.

"Look, it's simple. People are coming to kill you and burn down your homes. Are you going to sit there and argue, or stand up and draw your gun?"

Midnight

There was something about midnight that I always found particularly attractive. it's a very dramatic time when the hands on the clock line up. Assuming the clock is well made.

Time seemed to slow down as my eyes wandered from the clockface. The wind was soothingly brisk, and it gently rippled the water at my feet. But as I sit here tapping my fingers on the park bench, waiting for the clock on the brightly lit clocktower toll its twelve strokes, midnight suddenly seems like a frightening thing. What am I doing here, under the stars, when all sensible people are in bed?

If there's one flaw no one ever tried to pin on me, it's being too sensible. I stopped myself from double checking to make sure my automatic was loaded. I knew it was, I'd checked a dozen times or more on the ride here. I'm not used to carrying a gun. It feels heavy my pocket.

The second hand reached the bottom of the clock and started up the other side. It flashed across my mind that this, somewhat ugly, clock might be the last thing I'd ever see. There was so much more I wanted to do, it seemed a shame. But come to think of it, this was bigger than all of those hopes.

I wondered about the clockwork behind that face, the many hidden cogs, springs, fanbelts and who knows what that kept the hands in motion. It reminded me of all the movements of fate that had led me to this place, and the utter incomprehensibility of it all. The clock ticked on.

I had the paper bag sitting on the bench beside me. It was filled with cut up pieces of paper. For an instant I wondered why we hadn't used real money if we were so sure of success. I never had been, I knew as I know that this is a dangerous gambit.

The real problem was that we knew they wouldn't come unless I came completely alone. And it had to be me. And I'm not much good with a gun.

But that's life I suppose. Or the other thing, depending. The clocked ticked down the final seconds.

A gunshot shattered the silence, and I felt a searing pain in my ribs. He fired again as I slumped off the bench, trying to pull my gun from my hip pocket. I struggled, gun in hand, to face my attacker. The only surprise was that he waited until midnight. I brought the gun up and leveled it at him, my right hand shaking.

Guns are heavy.

I pulled the trigger, and then fired again before I could recover from the first shot.

Midnight is dramatic.

Alone

 Judgement by Will Tolkien

The chains felt heavy on his wrists. Heavy and cold. He had ceased struggling against them hours ago. It was no use. His strength was fading, and the night was growing steadily colder. It was very final, this fate. Very grave. They had all come to watch. Crept from their tents and shanties to stare at him as the men led him down the old gravel path to the pillars that stood like broken fingers in the field.

He glanced around. The other pillars still showed the remnants of chains—broken links hanging from rings driven in the stone. He wondered how it would end. Wondered if it would be painful. Did they cut the chains before they took you? Or were you simply wrenched away, arms and all? He would find out soon enough. No one ever lasted more than a night in the Field.

His mind wandered back…it had all been so sudden. The trial, the judgment. He had been sloppy. Too sloppy this time, and now it would be the death of him. Death. Yes, death for certain. He had avoided it for so long, danced the dance of risk and danger. All his life. And for what? To be chained to a pillar in the Field of Execution, awaiting the coming of those who would mete out justice upon him for his crimes.

Their justice was final. They had no mercy. No one escaped. But he was, after all, a killer, wasn’t he? How many men? Eight? Something pricked him, deep inside, and he spat on the ground, clenching his teeth. Eight, yes. Don’t coddle yourself, Joe. You remember them all. Their faces, their lives. You remember every throb of the blood that flowed in their veins as you choked the life from them, took from them the one thing that you had no right to take.

His eyes closed, and he could feel his heart beating hard in his chest, pounding in his temples.

For so long he had lived without thinking…for so long he had pushed it all aside. His life had been greed and the struggle to survive. But he had no right…now, at the end, he knew it. He deserved this. He deserved this fate. Here, alone. In the darkness. It was time to pay.

Suddenly he realized that the throbbing in his temples was not the throbbing of blood. It was a sound. Deep, rhythmic. It filled his ears and his mind, echoing across the Field.

His eyes opened slowly, and he raised his head. There was little light to see by now, but it was enough.

Above him, a shape loomed black against the sky. Thin and black and solemn.

It leaned forward, limbs reaching toward him, and he knew that the time had come.

His eyes closed his again.

He did not resist.

Alone by John 55555:

Just how he liked it. he sat alone, gazing out into space, sipping his drink. He'd made it carefully and it was perfect. He didn't mind the length of the trips, and never thought much about arrival or departure on his various drives through the void. He was not a man of action, he liked to just sit in the sunshine.

he reflected that unshielded by the Quartek Industries Space-Glass he would die in about five different ways if he sat in the sun, and thanked God in an absentminded fashion for the success and existence of that company. They had been started just to give the many inter-planetary "truckers" (archaic nickname) something to look at during their long flights, theorizing that this would cut down on the many mental breakdowns. Give a man a window to his prison cell and he'll have somewhere to exercise his mind.

He stirred his drink, not thinking about anything in particular, his brain as blank as he liked it to be.

After all he'd been through he was entitled to a little pace and quiet. His record as a pilot in System War I had easily gotten him this job as truckdriver, as his repuation for love of space and the sciences of space had gotten him his combat piloting job. He'd flown more missions than anyone in the force, and had more certified klls on his record than anyone.

The war had used all of his skills, it had shown him all that he had inside of him, all that he could become all the abilities at his disposal. He used all of them to the full on every mission, psyching himself up, training and going into battle in the perfect state of mind for victory. And he had always gotten it. He didn't exactl enjoy the fighting, but it seemed to fulfill him. Like a triathlon will use every muscle in your body, so did space-fighting use every skill in him. He aimed, fired and steered by instinct, timing his shot and steering with grace and efficiency. He would make moves instinctively, not always knowing how or why, his subconscious and his reflexes outpaced his conscious brain.

It was good to just sit still, flying slowly through space. He raised his to the stars.

In Writing by Grant

“My Grandfather gave me- say again?” the woman stumbled.

“That’s right,” the older man in a dress shirt and jacket replied, scribbling something down on the large file. “Your grandfather left behind a large number of books after he died. He was a collector or sorts, and his will stated he wanted to leave all of his books with you. He didn’t have much, and his wife and your father and mother are handling the finances. But the books, he stated as said here, was to go to his living grandchildren.”

She blinked, dumbfounded.

“That leaves you alone.”

Recomposing herself and sitting upright once again, she nodded. The young woman was in her early twenties and living on her own in a small one bedroom apartment. Where she was going to keep these books… and how many were there?

She wasn’t especially close to her grandfather, though she did love him, as one. He talked about himself often and often talked about her when they visited… but really, what did she truly know about him? She didn’t know who his parents were. What he was like when he was younger. She didn’t even know his exact age when he passed.

So why leave her, books?  Was it something he was interested in? Was he secretly a writer in his younger days?

Sighing, she couldn’t find it in her heart to simply throw them away, or donate them to anyone else, despite the fact that she’d never read any of it. Instead, she just asked for where she had to sign on the dotted line.

***

The three boxes that were brought to her house were filled with older books. She didn’t see anything she recognized and only as she sorted through them did she find some familiar in name. All the books were a little moldy and browner in the pages, but they were all in relatively good shape, she noted.

Finding a spot for them all in her place wouldn’t be easy either, but eventually she located a shelf that wasn’t being used for much anyway, and started taking things off and rearranging things. Until she could find a good home for these books, she’d leave them here.

Having the space on her shelves that she’d picked up months ago from Walmart or maybe Targets, she slowly placed one book after the other on the shelves. They stacked up together like a wall, each one fitting like a glove.

But it wasn’t until the last book, that she realized that it wouldn’t fit properly. All the shelves had been taken up with books, except for the top one. And this last book…

Reaching up high, she placed the book on the top shelf, where it stood against the side, all by itself.

Taking a few steps back, she looked at her work, finding all the books arranged properly quite satisfying. Maybe even tonight, she’d read some of her papa’s books. Find out what he thought was so wonderful about them, that he’d leave them for his only granddaughter.

With a smile on her face, her eyes slowly reached the top of that book shelf, where that lone book stood.

Her smile dimmed, and her eyes lowered a little. A new feeling of lamentation overcame her, as she resolved to move the book to her nightstand.

Enthusiasm

Patterns by John 55555:

It's a good thing to take pride in one's work and to be enthusiastic about one's chosen (or unchosen) medium of toil. He had been very enthusiastic while he lived.

The postmortem told us nothing, which in a way, told us all we needed to know. I at least had actually expected the purely negative results to the many tests. These kinds of postmortems have become fairly commonplace in my endeavors, and they always remind me of Sherlock Holmes' significant incident of the dog in the night-time.

Perhaps we will never know how they died, but I already believe I have discerned why they died. It was obvious almost from the start which deaths were merely to distort the edges of the pattern and which were the truly motivated murders. Whenever one of my operatives drew near to him, he lashed out. Sometimes like a intelligent, indeed, ingenius human, but other times like a wild animal cornered in its den. There must be two people doing these, the styles of murder are somehow distinct to me, though for no reason I can define. One corpse is as pristine as any of the others. I did not reflect long on the particular body before me. I said a silent prayer for his soul, and laid the docket of papers on the pile of identical ones.

But these things were not what was truly devouring my sleep and gnawing at the edges of my sanity. I have sent out many, many operatives to find the individual who destroyed our headquarters in Amherdst, and many of them found tracesm clues, leads to follow. These had plunged deeper into the web, weaving through the complex patterns of the world, sorting out the normal from the abnormal, and eventually, the paranormal. I cannot comprehend how they saw the things they did, found the clues and made the deductions from the shreds of theories that they developed, all leading to the two men that all of us seek.

Each one who had found these clues followed them up, drawing ever closer to the creature and the genius, following notions and seeming imaginings step after step, but each step was true.

But why, why had all of the victims been blue-eyed?

 In Sight by Will Tolkien:

It was a clear morning, and not a breath of wind stirred the desert. The buzz of insects was loud and harsh in the air that was now beginning to shimmer in the rising heat.

A flutter and a rush of movement broke the stillness, and a few insects scattered from the brush nearby, their rasping interrupted. A figure rose from the sand, tossing off the heavy sand-cloak that had covered him during the night. He stood and brushed himself off, spitting dust from his mouth. Then he turned toward the sun, shading his eyes.

There, in the distance, lay his goal. To the north and south, the horizon was flat and featureless. To the west, it was broken into gullies and dunes. But to the east…to the east, ragged towers and dark pinnacles rose against the sky. A city. Ancient and ruinous. The marks of a time before fire and destruction.

Jack felt a thrill run through his body—excitement, anticipation. He was almost there. Just a few more miles. He shook himself again, banishing the last vestiges of sleep. Soon he would walk the avenues of giants. Soon he would look upon the empty houses and sift from the wreckage what knowledge he could.

Perhaps there he would find answers to his questions...

He retrieved his satchel and tied the sand-cloak in a bundle, slinging both over his shoulder. The cloak had hid him well, and the night had been silent—free from the sounds of beasts or of men or of those who hunted men in the darkness.

He was ready at last. At last! He squared his shoulders and began the descent. It would be a hot day, but he scarcely felt it, so strong was his enthusiasm. The miles stretched before him, wavering in the rays of the low-hanging sun.

Jack left the dunes behind as he entered the flatlands and the crunch of gravel replaced the swish of sand beneath his feet.

He readied himself, and breathed…

…and began to run.

 Enthusiasm by Andrew Velox:

Little Sally was excited. It was nine o’clock Christmas Eve, and even though her parents had sent her to bed an hour ago she could not fall asleep. She was wide-awake, her eyes open. She clenched her favorite blanket tightly, staring at the door as if she expected something to bust through any minute.

The minutes went by, and still she could not fall asleep. She could not tear her mind away from thinking What presents would I get this year? or When would Santa come? Santa. Her parents had taught her about the good ol’ St. Nick years ago, about how he wore his big red coat, his fluffy red and white hat. How his stomach bulged like a boulder. His hearty laughter always accompanying the large smile plastered on his face.

She remembered how she had visited him a few weeks before. She had even woken up early, just so she could be first in line to greet him at the local mall. She sat on his lap, and immediately she felt as if she was in heaven. The kind old man listening intently, jolly as ever.

“You’ve been a very good girl this year,” he had told her happily. She was ecstatic. She bounced on his lap, her auburn curls bouncing with her as she thanked him the way any young girl did when this excited: over-eagerly. The old man laughed again, truly enjoying seeing the happiness in the kids that came to see him.

Sally sat on her bed, smiling at the memory. She loved Santa. Almost as much as mommy and daddy. She looked at her bedside clock and saw that it was almost ten thirty. She yawned, the tiredness finally overcoming her despite her excitement of what was to come the next day. Her eyes closed but she quickly forced them open, shaking her head and staring at the door again.

But soon her eyes closed again, this time not opening until the next morning. She awoke before six, quickly jumping out of bed, grabbing her favorite blanket and teddy bear – Snuggles, as she dubbed him – and racing down the stairs, the enthusiasm filling her body. Half way down the Christmas tree was in sight, along with all of the beautifully-wrapped presents. Santa had come! she thought gleefully to herself.

She bounded down the steps even faster, rushing to the foot of the tree and tearing open the packages that had her name on it as her parents entered the room behind her.

Guilt

 Guilt by John 55555

"Guilty," the gavel echoed through the silent courtroom like a thunderclap. A woman began crying somewhere in the room, sobbing softly.

It had been a foregone conclusion, that's what the press would say. A mere formality.

But my client is innocent.

I couldn't prove him innocent, or rather, I couldn't even prove him not guilty. I tried so hard, I thought so long and so deeply, studied so punctiliously and widely, but to no avail. I looked at my client, a young man, and he nodded at me in a serious, understanding fashion. He knew what I had done for him, or tried to do.

The session was enecded the verdict given, and the people began to shuffle from the courtroom, the hushed sobbing faded. I wondered who she was, this lone woman who seemed to see what I saw. Not the guilty man rightfully punished that the rest of the world, the judge, the man's own parents observed, but the tragic sentence given down on the wrong, wronged man. Was she a witness? A sap, who deep down probably believed he was as guilty as the rest, but shed tears for all that? Most likely an overly emotional, self centered but seemingly tender hearted individual, shedding tears as she walked through life, sowing on the good ground and the bad equally, caring not who she was pitying.

My client seemed to be thinking along similar lines. He had no illusions about what the public thought of him.

I brushed back my hair with my hand, closing my eyes. The main problem is that visions are not excepted as evidence in a court of law. Otherwise we'd have been pretty well set.

I had a dream, not a natural, ordinary dream, but a supernatural one. I saw my client moving up to a darkened house. He seemed tired, as though from a long evening of labor,  and he didn't realize that he had arrived "home" to the wrong house. The door ws unlocked and he went in.

He was far from being alone in that house, and that he should have made the mistake that he did on the night that he did is a coincidence or a miracle. The real murderer was already inside. In that dark place, that terrible night, many things were in motions, many coincidences collided in a burst of incomprehension. What emerged was a terrifying illusion, that my client had killed a man and his wife that night.

 By Micah Arkov Kakaru:

http://supergoggles.wordpress.com/2012/06/25/imagination/

Guilt By Andrew Velox:

I knelt silently before the grave, the small white card a temporary gravestone.

Adriana Martinez

1974-2012

Loving Wife and Mother

My eyes couldn’t leave her name. As much as I wanted them to, I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but let the torrent of memories rush upon me. I remembered the first day we had met, how I had spilled her coffee accidentally, walking without paying attention to where I was going.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, taking out a napkin and handing it to her, picking up the fallen cup. “Here, let me buy you a new one.”

I would’ve thought she would have been furious at me, but instead she simply smiled and accepted my offer. I smiled back, and together we walked back to the coffee shop.

It seemed so long ago now. A lifetime ago. Yet at the same time, it seemed like just yesterday. We shared a coffee together afterwards, and somehow I had had the courage to ask for her number, and even more of a miracle was that she had given me her real one. That was one of the greatest days of my life. I remembered our first real date…how nervous I had been, how much I had prepared for it.

“Dude, chill, it’s going to be okay,” my best friend Aaron said to me.

But I couldn’t help it. I fidgeted nervously, wringing my hands together and pacing the backyard. I had set up a table accompanied by candles and a waiter in a tux: Aaron. Every she didn’t show seemed like an hour.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes, it’s fine! Just look at it, it’s perfect,” he replied. I had to agree, it did look pretty nice. But that didn’t stop me from worrying. I had never felt this way about a woman before. I remembered just two days ago when I had only met her because of my clumsiness. I remembered the lovely conversation we had, where we discovered so many similarities. I remem—

The doorbell rang. The intense desire burned in my heart all the greater and I rushed toward the door.

A tear fell from my eye. She had loved that date so much, the perfect smile of hers always present on her face. Yet I couldn’t see it. The memories were all a fog, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not see her face. Why? I asked myself, but could think of no answer. I shook my head quickly, trying to forget, focusing again on the happy memories. Yet that only made it worse as after every smile from every memory I realized that that was what I lost. Her. Gone forever.

I buried my head in my hands as I remembered the day I proposed. A beautiful dinner at a fancy restaurant, with a garden and balcony overlooking the ocean. I remembered how happy she had been when I got on one knee, but I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see her smile, her face.

It was the guilt. I had done this. It was because of me that she was dead. I should’ve listened to her when she begged me to leave my job – an undercover cop infiltrating gangs. It was dangerous. I knew that the moment I slipped up, the moment they found out, my family was dead. But I thought I was good enough. Good enough to evade their discovery forever.

I was wrong.

More tears fell. ”I’m sorry,” I whispered to the stone. Hoping I could say it to her, but knowing that I never could. I only wished she knew…knew how sorry I was. But it was too late now. She was gone.

I tried to think of other happy memories – almost every moment we had spent together; our wedding, the happiest day of my life; the birth of our child, the second happiest day of my life. But I couldn’t. Now all I saw was her body with a hole in her head, a pool of blood under it. The duct-tape on her mouth, hands, and feet. The look of fear in her still-open, dead eyes. This picture of her face, her half blown-off face, would be the only one I could ever see again.

The guilt consumed me.

Aaron approached from behind, probably wondering why I was still here, hours later after the funeral.

“C’mon, man,” he said, “it’s not your fault.”

“But it is.” The guilt wouldn't let me think any differently.

 The Hunter By Will Tolkien:

It was dark in the tunnel beyond the door. Water dripped and ran in little rivulets, collecting in puddles amongst the pebbles that littered the floor. It had been raining all week, and the corridors were damp with it.

The lantern sputtered as it swung in the draft that moved through the small room and then out into the tunnel. It cast a yellowish light on the group of men that crouched or stood around the walls.  They were almost ready. The weapons were almost prepared, ammunition was stocked. It was tricky business, loading the powder in the damp, dripping quarters, but they had no choice. One man held his coat out like a tent while two others worked to fill the small, explosive caskets.

There were eight men, but only five rifles to go around. It was all they had, since they had been forced to abandon the last outpost. They would have to wait until the searchers moved on before they could retrieve more. Until then, five rifles would have to do.

Harmon shifted on his feet, letting his gaze wander the room. He felt uneasy about this venture. Everyone did. It was like a knot in his stomach, but there was nothing for it. It had been a day since the drum-beater came, and it was only sheer luck that had saved them then—sheer luck that no one had been outside when it had stalked through the ruins. The creatures did not usually hunt during the day, but this one had.

Harmon swallowed and blinked. His eyes settled on the man sitting in the corner, head back, eyes half-closed. His name was Foster, and out of all of them, he had the most invested in this plan. The trouble had all started two days ago, when his oldest daughter was taken. It was a shock when she didn’t return, and it had been all they could do to keep Foster from going out there alone that very night. But there was no point. There wouldn’t even be a body…

He felt guilty at the thought. It was Foster’s daughter, but they had all lost someone close. Harmon sighed and pushed off from the wall. It was getting towards noon. They would have to move out soon.

 The lantern sputtered and popped, and Foster sat up from his chair. His eyes were hard in the flickering light, one hand gripping the long-barreled rifle that sat across his knees. The other men had finished stowing the supplies and weapons.

It was time.

--

Harmon was the first out of the tunnel. It was a gray, drizzling day. The sun was just a patch of brightness overhead, shaded by low-hanging clouds. He had allowed his eyes to adjust to the sunlight before creeping into the open, and now he checked the horizon, tense and ready.

The other men followed when he gave the signal. They spread out along the path that ran through the ruined cluster of buildings. It had been a good shelter, and the tunnels beneath the burned-out complex had hidden them for months. But that was all in jeopardy, now that one of Them had visited the camp. Harmon shivered at the memory—how he had heard the rhythmic noise of them echoing from the surface. The sound did things to you. They were all sure of it. It messed with your mind.

They found tracks on the path—triangular indents in the wet earth. Unmistakable. They led westward. That was good. They would draw its attention. Draw it farther from the settlement. They had done it before. They would do it again.

The men went in file, close together. The rain fell in slow curtains around them, obscuring the horizon like a mist. It was a blessing, because it meant they could walk easily, without fear of being heard at a distance, but it made the going slow, tiresome. The tracks continued across the flat, scrub-covered plain to the west, and then down into a shallow gully. The thing had crossed there, and then circled north.

Foster lead the way, rifle clenched in one fist. Hours passed, and still no sign. The trail was old, and the men were getting tense with each passing minute, but Foster kept on, his face taught. It was personal for him. They all knew it.

They stopped to rest after another hour, crouching in the gray drizzle as they took their bearings again.

Suddenly, Harmon heard something. Faint above the patter of the rain, it throbbed in his ears, and he thought for a moment that he was imagining it. But then he glanced at the other men, and knew that he was not.

They stood in unison. The rhythm came from the north, over the next slope. It was still far off, but it was there.

The time had come.

--

Harmon and four others lay prostrate against the muddy hillside, straining their eyes through cracked spyglasses as they watched and waited. The other men had taken the decoys west along the hillside. They were explosive shells designed to draw the creature away with smoke and sound. They would lead a merry chase.

Foster had gone with them. He would have it no other way. An hour had passed. They should be returning soon, after they had lit the fuses. Harmon swept the field before him and the hillside, searching for any sign. It was hard to pick out the creature from the background of the burnt field, big as it was…

There! Hazy and indistinct through the mist and rain, he caught sight of its thin, black frame again as it stalked westward. The drums were very loud now. Loud and insufferable as always.

He gritted his teeth, and sighed, blinking the moisture from his tired eyes.

And then suddenly the field was alive with movement. Harmon saw a figure leap up out of the mist to his left, running fast. It was Foster, rifle in hand. Fool! He was heading straight for it. He was dead for sure.

But then Harmon was up and running before he knew what was happening. Behind him he heard the footsteps of his companions. This could be it. This could be the end. They couldn’t let him do it. They were in this together.

His heart thundered in his chest as he sped down the slope, covering the distance between him and Foster. The rhythm of the beating drums was almost deafening as the great, black thing reared up on its spindle-legs, flinging raindrops high into the air, and then struck forward.

A shot rang out, and the flash of the muzzle leapt up in the dimness, striking sparks from the body of the drum-beater as Harmon hit the dirt, rolling, breathless. The thing seemed to stagger back, thin and yet threatening—

—and then…then it was gone, gone into the mist and rain, and the drumming noise went utterly silent. Gone.

Foster yelled in rage and threw the rifle down, shaking his fist at the heavy, implacable sky.

And then he too fell. Fell to his knees, and Harmon watched him as he wept bitter tears into the dirt.

By Aimee Aderia:

 Prison.

There are people in the world who go there. People who have committed atrocities against society are locked up there. In their own unique way, prisons unite many different kinds of people by making them see what they have in common.  Murderers, thieves, and debtors find themselves tied together by one thing.

Guilt.

So why, may you ask, would make anyone want to flee to such a place?

You see, that's where my world and your world are different. You say, "Marry for love," and we say, "Get rid of the girl,". Highest bidder gets the prize.

The funny part is, though, that even though young girls are not valued as people, our honor, our integrity, our purity, is the basis of our family's honor.

And for those girls who are unfortunate enough to compromise their honor, it can mean death. It means the worst kind of death; murder at the hand of your own father.  If the family reputation is marred, then the one wicked enough to do so is better off dead.

It doesn't matter if the girl is head over heels in love, and planning to elope with her sweetheart. It doesn't matter if she was caught holding hands with a boy from the town. It doesn't even matter if she's been raped.

Guilty, all the same.

And so the prisons here have been introduced to a new breed of inmate. The one's seeking refuge. The constant security and armed guards offer more security than any family could. The concrete walls and blazing floodlights blanket them instead of hand-woven blankets from home.  Is that what your vision of a safe haven is?

A world where this has come to pass, where young women fleeing to prison to be safe from their vengeful families, is a sad world. It is a guilty world. Guilty of unspeakable wrongs and no person can possibly fathom what it will take to set things right.

Fog

Fog by John 55555

The fog descended, over my domain. I saw no horizon, and I felt no pain. The world seemed blunted, the colors seemed dulled, my cause did not weaken but my hand shook slightly beneath my gauntlet.

The grayness obscured the terrain. My steed looked from side to side, trying to stay aware of his surroundings.

I called out, high and clear, "Aswall! Aswall"

I listened carefully, reigning in my charger so his fain footsteps would not cover the chance of a returning cry. My horse walked on through the day-shadows of the mist.

Aswall had long ago left our father's lands, to find himself and his fortune abroad in more active, richer countries. His deeds were great, and many heard his name and of his courage. One too many.

One too many. For one night when he stopped at an inn, a rival warrior, I shall not call him a knight though he claims that title, paid the base innkeeper to put certain powders into his ale. Only by this could he be defeated, by slyness and foul stratagems.

My armor clanked as I rode through the moor, watching ever for the canyons that I knew slashed this barren place.

A man like my brother Aswall is not one to long be kept captive. I know not how, but he escaped that dark dungeon even as I tried to redeem him by ransom. He fled into the misty lands east of the remote keep. I questioned his jailors long before putting them to the sword, but they knew nothing of where he had gone.

And that is what brings me here, my horse's hooves thumping on the damp earth, my armor clouded with the moisture of the mist.

Why had he fled this way? Why did he not stay and fight, or journey to more hospitable lands? He had been known to have strange visions, to be moved by their messages, ending in greater deeds than any other of his quests. Perhaps the spirits called him to this place, it is not a land where men dwell, and legends speak of strange apparitions, events, happenings in this place.

A light shown far away through the fog. A world of light opened before me. Sounds filled my mind, many voices, inhuman, strange. My horse reared and tried to flee, only to be stilled by multitudinous, invisible hands.

The vague shining in the fog took form and shape, pattern. Odd hued beacons had been lit in a circle, in the center Aswall knelt, his arms restrained behind his back, though I saw no bonds. His eyes were closed, he seemed to be concentrating.

"Brother." I spoke, my voice ringing unexpectedly loud.

He raised his head and his eyes blinked open to look into my own, he said one word, "Run."

By Micah Kakaru Arkov

 http://supergoggles.wordpress.com/2012/06/25/bloody-stupid/

 Sea Fog by Caleb Cederak

Nick held Taylor close as they sat at the edge of the pier, a blanket of fog slowly dissipating as the morning sun came over the horizon. The constant lapping of gentle waves rolling by the pier splashed up against the edges of the concrete structure, accompanied by the occasional seagull squawk. The water was icy cold, usual for the Atlantic in February, and the air was similarly chilled.

As Taylor held her arms together from within Nick's coat, he wrapped his own arms around her, letting her head rest against his arm. They had decided on a whim to come and watch the winter sun, to enjoy one another's company in the frigid cold.

"When do you think you'll be back?" Taylor asked, smiling up into Nick's bright green eyes. Her breath was cold, escaping in visible puffs.

"When we're done," Nick replied, holding her a bit tighter. "No sooner, I'm afraid."

Taylor frowned, almost on the verge of crying. If she did, her tears would turn to crystal flakes within moments. There was enough chill in the air to ensure that. She inched her head up to Nick, placing a soft kiss to his lips.

"You're warm," she said, giggling.

"I know," Nick told her, giving her a gentle kiss back.

"Why are you doing this?" Taylor wondered. "I've read the news, love. I know what could become of you. My brother"-

"I know," Nick interrupted in a whisper. He knew how much her brother's death had affected her. He had only been nineteen years old, still so young, so much ahead of him. "I know. I only want to serve my country. I only want to put an end to all the fighting. Besides, I hear Europe is a beautiful place."

"Let's not talk about wars and Europe," Taylor replied, rubbing her arms together. "I won't be happy again until you return."

Nick gulped. There was no telling when he might return. In a couple years perhaps? What could change by 1919? Nick wasn't sure. "How long would you wait for me, love?"

The fog was nearly gone as the sun climbed higher into the sky. Taylor smiled sweetly when she replied, "I would wait for you…forever."

Weather

 The Weatherman by John 55555

He shuffled his papers and took a sip of water. He was about to go live. He sometimes wondered at what chaos would result if he didn't do his bit, and the populace went on their way guessing randomly (even more than he did) at what the weather of the day would be. Or still worse, if he violated his sacred trust and foretold the wrong weather, causing absolute chaos in the streets when thousands of people didn't carry umbrellas in a thunderstorm.

He snapped out of it as the red light blinked on.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there is no weather tomorrow."

The very cameramen gasped in their places. What could this mean? He sensed them saying to eachother, with the cameraman's special brand of silent communication. Has he gone mad?

I continued, "I have analyzed the weather patterns as usual, only to find a rather unusual answer to my scientific rites. There will be NO WEATHER tomorrow."

It was true of course. I had often and often considered lying to the world, to see what would happen, but this was not one of those times. The cold front moving in would vanish, the warm front would dissipate, the winds would die down, the humidity would equalize.

"Yes dear viewers. It seems that tomorrow, Tuesday June 26th, the world will end. I would like to take this opportunity to bid farewell to all of you who have encouraged and given my work meaning for so many years, trustfully carrying that umbrella into the sunlit mornings, only to be justified by a rainy afternoon"

"I believe in the Bible there is some mention of the end of the world, and how it relates to the weather, telling you that if you are caught in the fields to return not for your coat. I echo this advice.

"You heard it here first folks."

 Flares by Will Tolkien

Rain pelted down, and a faint murmur of thunder filled the clouds far above. She shivered and shifted her position slightly, careful not to rustle the stiff grass. Her hair was dripping in her face, and she yearned to lift a hand and brush it aside so she could see. But she could not move—not a muscle. Hold very, very still. Don’t even breath. That was what they had always told her. Very still, and you won’t be seen. They listen for you, so you have to be quiet.

Before her, the ground sloped upward into a low rise, and then fell back into the flat, empty plain. But the plain was not empty.

The sound of the drumbeat was steady in her ears, drowning out the sound of the rain. Her heart leapt with the rhythm of it, and she shivered more with fear than with the cold. They had told her to be careful. All her life they had told her. Her father had told her that…and now she was caught. Caught in broad daylight, on the open field. Now only the sparse grass and the gray shade of her clothing could hide her. She was helpless. Alone.

Beyond the rise, she could hear it moving—the metallic rasp of limbs, the crunch of long spindle legs. She had only caught a brief glimpse. She couldn’t even visualize it now. No one ever could. It had been such a shock, coming over the hill, feeling the rain cool on her face, the crunch of the burnt grass. It had only been a short walk from the encampment, not far.

But then the shape had loomed before her, and the drums sounded out, and she had hit the ground so hard it drove the breath from her lungs. She was sure some of the grass-blades had punctured her skin. They were like knives, but she had to bear it. Maybe it would miss her…maybe it would go away…

The drumbeat was starting to get to her. A steady increase of panic. She couldn’t tell if it was coming from the thing beyond the hill or somewhere else. What if there were two? Her teeth were clenched so hard they ached.

Thoughts and ideas began to race through her mind. Visions of the horrors that might await her. She wondered who was drumming. What tireless hands beat that steady rhythm? Were they human? Machine? No one knew what happened when They took you. For centuries it had been that way, and still no one knew.

It was getting dark, she thought, but that couldn’t be right. Not yet, unless she had really been laying her that long…she couldn’t tell. The rain was steady. She was soaked through, and her limbs were caked in mud. Still the sound of the thing went on behind the rise. She was tempted to lift her head, just a little, just a glimpse. Maybe she would do it—end this torture. Look the thing in the eye and—

—No. That was not the way to end it. She thought of her father. She saw his face in her mind’s eye. He loved her. She would not give herself up.

Suddenly she remembered the flare-gun. It was in a side-pocket of her trousers, safely tucked away. Her father had given it to her. It was no weapon, though. It was a signal. She couldn’t use it…but all the same, it comforted her to know that it was there.

Thunder broke out overhead, and she realized that the clouds were growing very dark. The storm would worsen soon. Maybe it would drown out the drumbeat. That would be a mercy. She couldn’t take much more. Her heart beat fast, and her breath steamed as she exhaled. She strained her eyes upward, trying once again to catch a glimpse of the thing that hunted her. Nothing but brown grass, and darkening sky beyond. Nothing but—

Sudden lightning lit up the sky before her, and the hillside leapt into stark silhouette as the thunder crashed. She twitched, and her heart pounded in her throat at the sight of the black, spindle-thin form that loomed suddenly above her.

In an instant she was up and running, splashing, sliding down the hill. Her breath tore in her throat. It had found her. It had found her. She fumbled at her side-pocket, fumbled for the flare-gun. It was her only chance. Her only chance!

But then she slipped, sprawled on her face in the sucking mud. She heard it behind her. It was coming. It was right above her!

She rolled instinctively, arm outstretched, and the flare gun leapt in her hand as she squeezed the trigger. Red light blossomed from the blunt nozzle, and then she was suddenly blind, eyes burning in the crimson brightness, struggling desperately to rise.

The gun fell from her hand as something seized her foot in a grip like iron, and she screamed loud and long as the flare blazed up over the darkling field, arched, and petered out.

And then, nothing. The rain, and the thunder, and the drums beat on.

 Weather By Andrew Velox

Lightning flashed across the sky, cracking the dark abyss of the midnight sky if only for a moment. Thunder followed, rumbling loudly, the sound reverberating through the ground. The rain fell, first just a single drop, then two. The duo multiplied into dozens and hundreds. Thousands of small globules of water crashed to the earth. Puddles began to form. Rivers and lakes began to swell. The torrent was unending, unrelenting.

Another white dagger pierced the sky followed again by the thundering roar resounding in my ear. For the briefest of moments I could see the silhouette of a tree as the light struck from the clouds to the earth. The charcoal ceiling became darker and darker as more and more droplets fell.

I spread my arms out toward the heavens, the beads of water pattering down upon my clothes and face and hands, rendering my hooded cloak worthless. I embraced the rain, and soon my whole body was soaked. A flash behind me, another growl of thunder. The reverberation seemed to flow right through my entire being, my heart pounding faster and faster and harder and harder with each new rumble. I had never felt so alive.

I gripped the staff in my hand even tighter, the ball on the end of the black rod crackling with energy, visible electricity coursing through the entire orb. I held it higher and the lightning met with the electrified orb, the energy flowing from the rod to my body.

I began to rise into the air, the midnight voltage surrounding me, the sheer energy lifting me up. For the first time since the storm started, I looked back down at the man still on the ground before me. My piercing blue eyes glowed brighter than ever as I faced the eyes of my attacker, now not as confident as he once was.

I kept my gaze and began to form a ball of electric energy in my hand.“The weather is mine,” I thundered as I released the attack.

Priorities

 Banks by John 55555:

The police officer, Greg McDougal, stood in front of the bank, as he had so often these cold days. The light snow swirled around the hem of his long coat, and the wind bit at his face. Months ago a notorious bank robber, Ranch Lazorchak, had sworn that he would rob the vault of the gold and valuables it guarded. Ever since  that day the police had kept a twenty-four hour watch over the place, and so far they had encountered no trouble.

The guards priorities were simple ones. TO feed his family he must have a job, and the job best suited to him was that of the protector. As a protector his goals were equally simple; his own life was a lower priority than the life of any innocent, his gun and his body would prove this if necessary.

The gold in the vault was a priority too, but not one to die for. The life of a man is worth more than trinkets.

---

Ranch Lazorchak sat in his Rolls Royce, his thoughts and his face wracked with hard thoughts. He had sworn that he would have the gold from that vault, and he was a man of his word. The bank had proved a more difficult proposition than he had anticipated. A policeman stood guard night and day, the vault was of a new type, the walls and windows were secure.

He looked down the hood of his car, gleaming black and tinged with a yellow shine under the streetlights, with new snow settling onto its surface. He still owed money on it, and despite escaping from his last hiest, the pickings had been slim and his coffers were becoming depleted.

He spoke to his wheelman. He would have his gold and keep his world, or die in the attempt.

 Drumbeats by Will Tolkien:

Dust scattered into the air as he entered through the doorway, breaking the silence that filled the burned-out shack and the fields beyond. The soles of his boots rasped on the wooden floor-planks, and he cursed. He had to be careful, and that meant silent. After all, They could be listening.

His gaze swept the dim interior, lit by the red rays of sunset slanting through cracked boards. The dust floated upward in clouds around him, sparking in the ruddy half-light as he moved forward, bending slightly. He had to be quick about this. It was a risky chance, and there wasn’t much time.

With careful steps, he made a circuit of the small shack, mentally noting its contents. A shelf to the right—layers of dust, otherwise empty. A twisted bed-frame against the far wall. A large wooden crate to the left. He tried the lid…padlocked. A table beside it. Papers scattered on it—mostly ash.

He stopped, closing his eyes for a moment, and wiped his brow. He was sweating, and his heart was pounding. The silence was heavy, and his ears strained for any noise outside. He willed his breathing to slow. He had done this before. Prioritize. You’ve got time.

A metal bar hung from his belt. He unclipped it and moved to the crate, twisting a tattered piece of cloth around the metal shaft. In the back of his mind he was calculating the time until sundown. The red shafts of light moved slowly up the wall before him as the sun went down. He would have to be precise. No mistakes.

The cloth-covered bar slid cleanly through the ring of the padlock. A quick wrench and a twist. He cringed as the rusted metal protested, then gave way. Almost soundless. He was good at this by now. The lid was off, and he rummaged inside.

Nothing. Rags and some empty containers. Nothing at all. He sighed again, resting against the side of the crate. Another wasted journey. He would bring nothing back tonight. Maybe the bedframe could be salvaged—it was good metal—but otherwise…The sun was almost down. It was time to go.

He stood, brushing dust from his trousers. Outside, the wind was beginning to pick up, and he could hear the dry whisper of the burnt grass that spread in all directions, forever. One more glance around the shack. It was a rare find. Still standing after all these years. It was a shame he hadn’t found anything. He clipped the bar to his belt again and turned to the door…

…but then he stopped, and turned back. Something had caught his eye.

There, in the bottom of the crate. He stooped and brushed away the rubbish and the clinging dust, then held it up to the fitful light.

It was a book. Much-frayed, and the leather cover was scorched, but otherwise intact. Pretty thick too. He stared at it, squinting. He couldn’t read the cover-page. Too dim in here, and it had been so long…

For a moment, he was uncertain. He knew what the others would say when he got back. It was a lot of paper. Good kindling. No time for sentimentality. This was life and death.

They were right, of course. A book wouldn’t keep you warm. A book wouldn’t keep you from being captured by the drum-beaters out there…Survival was the priority.

The priority…

No. Not this time. The book slid neatly into a pocket of his leather pack. He would bring back something after all.

A familiar sound came floating over the plains as he left the shack. The horizon was aflame with the dying sunlight, and the fields were black against it. The noise throbbed faintly in his ears. A rhythm. The beat of metallic drums. Machine-like. Unrelenting. Always searching...

They were far off tonight, seeking through the darkness. But he would take no chances. No more risks.

He slung his pack over one shoulder as he fled into the glowering night, away from the sound of the drums. The extra weight of the book tugged on his shoulder as he jogged on.

It felt good.

Diamond

 Diamond In The Sky by John 55555

 

The Flowing Star was a theory, I can still picture some astro-physicist waking up in the middle of the night shouting "gc = infinity!"

It was a nice little notion, a star somehow turning into a a source of unlimited energy. I'm not a scientist, I'm a soldier, so don't ask me to explain it. My job is to gain control of this diamond in the sky, not convince you that it is possible. Personally I'm not sure it is physically possible, but it does exist, and it is real.

The  denizens of the cosmos have long sought energy in all its many forms, draining stars, diving into black holes, trying to convert space itself into energy. Energy is truly the currency of physics, without it nothing is possible, and with enough of it, the maddest dreams of sentient beings can be realized.

To harness this force will in a way be easy, and in another nearly impossible. It would be nearly impossible to not collect it, once within range, but to store it, to survive it, is another matter.

In all honesty, I do not expect to live beyond this mission, to see this new sun rising on the universe, shedding its light on the mysteries of creation.

Thank goodness the time of giant crews and punctilious manual control are no more, replaced with the mechanical minds of computers and the blind eyes of sensors. I alone will die for this. For mankind has many enemies, most likely more than we could ever comprehend, and this diamond in the sky is a prize of great worth. The varied eyes of the extra-terrestrial species will not ignore this new light, nor sit idly by as man bends it to its will.

The lights are already slashing on the holographic displays. Millions of tangents chart their way accross the void, all curving toward the same end. For all of the intelligent life of the universe to share a common goal is an inconceivable event, and yet here it is, right before my eyes.

It is ironic that this common thought in all our minds, identical, each one indiscernible from the next, is the one that will result in the greatest battle in the history of creation.

 

My Diamond by Andrew Velox

I picked her up at her house, ringing the doorbell once and waiting for her to answer. Less than ten seconds later, she did. I gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek and led her to my car, her hand in mine. I opened the door and helped her in, making sure her dress wouldn’t get caught. I closed it behind her before walking around the car and into the driver’s seat.

We arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes later; not much traffic on a Wednesday evening. I once again opened the door for her and paid the valet. I buttoned the top button of my suit jacket and interlocked my arm with hers, opening the door for her as we entered the restaurant.

“Reservation for Wills,” I said to the attendant who greeted us. He led us to our table and I pulled back the chair for her as she sat down.

“This is lovely, John,” she said to me as I sat down. I smiled and thanked her.

He had a lovely meal with pleasant conversation throughout, and when we were finished, I asked, “Some desert and champagne?”

She smiled her perfect smile at me. “Of course,” she laughed. I ordered two glasses and a chocolate mousse cake to share.

When we were finished we took a walk through a series of gardens outside the restaurant. The smell of flowers filled the air, and the stars and moon glistened above as crickets chirped. We came to the end of a walkway that ended in a balcony, overlooking the ocean.

“What a beautiful view,” she said.

“I agree,” I said, but I wasn’t looking at the ocean. I was looking at her. She caught my eye and smiled, taking my arms and wrapping around her. I held her close, just staring out into the shadowy waves below, the faint sound of them crashing against the sand filling our ears, the saltwater smell rising to our noses.

I wanted to stay like this, forever, but I knew we couldn’t. We had to leave eventually. But for now we were there, and I cherished every moment.

I released my grip and pulled away gently.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing, nothing at all.” I held her hands, staring into her eyes that were as blue as the ocean itself; her flaxen hair flowing gracefully in the wind. I reached into my pocket and felt the tiny box with my fingers. Inside I knew was a diamond ring – it had cost a fortune, but for the perfect girl it was worth it. I knew the perfect girl was standing in front of me, holding my hands in hers.

I released the box from my grasp, joining my hand to hers again. “I love you,” I whispered as we kissed. She was my diamond. My everything. The most precious thing in the world to me. I reached into my pocket again and knelt down to one knee…

Balloons

 Balloons by Andrew Velox:

I opened the door to my basement and stepped down the wooden stairs, leading into the expansive room where I did my woodwork. I flicked the switch up, and immediately the room was filled with a yellowish light, complimenting the many wooden objects around the room nicely.

I came here every day after I got home from my job. To sit, to think, to work. It was my place; a room where I could go, escaping the loudness of the world, escaping almost life itself. Just me, my tools, and my bourbon.

The beginning of what was to be a boat was in the center of the room, resting on wooden workbenches. It was going to be the third boat I had built, and once again it was going to bear the same name as the others: Julia. The name of my daughter.

I didn’t want to think about her, but there was no stopping it now as the memories started to fill my mind. I walked over to a metal stool in the corner of two large work tables. I poured myself a glass of bourbon and just sat down, thinking. Thinking of her. She used to be my everything, my all. Until she was taken from me all those years ago.

I shook my head desperately, hoping to shake the thoughts, but there was no use. I took a large gulp of the warming liquid before setting the glass down on the bench. I buried my head in my hands and let the tears fall as they always did. And as the memories came back, I could see her face again…

“Daddy, daddy!” Julia called happily. “Look, balloons!” I took her by the hand, leading her to the balloon-seller.

I tugged on my hair, angry now. Frustrated. I hit the table with my fist and screamed. “It’s not fair!” I shouted to no one before breaking down in tears again. I couldn’t take it. Day after day, night after night. I wasn’t willing to let myself forget but I couldn’t live with remembering. I was torn.

“That one!” she exclaimed excitedly, pointing to a pink balloon hidden among the dozen others.

“No, no, no!” I shouted again. I stood up quickly, slamming both fists against a cupboard door. I begged my mind to think of something – anything – else, but all I could see was her face. Her beautiful, perfect face.

“Look, daddy! Isn’t it pretty?” She proudly displayed her balloon to everyone, skipping gleefully through the carnival crowds.

“Stop, stop!” But it wouldn’t. It never did. A gunshot sounded in my head.

“No, no…baby!” her precious, tiny body dropped to the ground, lifeless, a pool of blood forming under her dress.

“No, no, no…somebody help! Anyone!” I shouted as loud as I could, rushing to her side, picking up her body in my arms, pressing her against my chest. “No, no, please!” The tears were uncontrollable. “Somebody help, please!” I pleaded. I could see many people on their phones, but I knew it was too late. She was gone.

I looked up toward the sky, crying out in pain. I could see the pink balloon floating away.

And my last of her memories sailed off into the sky along with it. She was gone.

Rising by Will Tolkien:

The wind was gentle above the rooftops, and day was cool as the balloon ascended. It was free now, rising up over streets and shingles.

A park passed away beneath it, and children looked up to watch its bright color vanish over the treetops. A child much like them had held it only a short time ago, grasping the string with small fingers, careless and happy.

And then the child had let go, and the string slipped from his hand, and he had watched it tearfully go. It was inevitable. But now it was free. Up, up, away from the houses and the tangle of tree branches. Up into the open air.

An eddy of wind caught it, and the balloon danced for a moment before resuming its ascent.

A flock of birds flew past, keeping a wide berth of the round, rubber thing. They were wise from experience. They did not hinder its flight.

Now the air grew thinner as the breeze died away. A cloudless sky opened as the balloon began its final climb, arrowing upward, faster and faster.

It would soon end, this journey. It was inevitable, as the balloon began to swell in the heat of the upper air.

But it was free, for whatever limited time it had—free to rise unhindered, higher and higher.

Higher, as the sun beat down upon it.

Higher, as the earth fell away into distance and haze.

Higher, until its bright speck of color was swallowed up by the sky.

And it was gone.

Air in a Balloon by Caleb Cederak

It's hell to get old, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. My 86th birthday…what a joke. For a man that has spent years making friends with gin, liquor, tequila, bourbon and the like, lighting up more sticks full of cancer than I could think to count, here I am on my 86th, and they thought to bring balloons. Who the hell are they kidding? A few pieces of latex decorated with words and colors, full of helium so the grandkids can inhale it for a few laughs later. I suppose that's nice, let them enjoy their youth. It doesn't last forever, that's for damn sure.

I glanced back down at my cake. Had I already blown out the candles? I didn't think I had that kind of wind left in me. I looked to my sides, perhaps one of my kids did the work for me while I was busy thinking about…something. What the hell was I thinking about? Oh well, at least the kids are still there to help dear old dad. Not that they're kids anymore; my youngest is in his early fifties. It wasn't as though I'd be enjoying the cake much anyway. My sense of taste went to hell around my mid seventies and that kind of sugar would give me a headache sooner than a hammer to the temple.

I looked back at the balloons and frowned. They start out inflated, full of life, floating as high as they can. Then time gets to them, slowly, their life is depleted. The grandkids, in their search for a quick chuckle, will drain the life of a few like vampires. And even the ones they ignore will be dead soon, motionless on the floor. Give it a few days, their time will come. It's the fate of every balloon to die. It's the fate of every man to die.

I think floating is for the young at heart. Truth be told, I don't even have my heart anymore. It clocked out early on me and I got a transplant from some guy who just happened to share a blood type with me. What a waste of a fine organ on a man that has punished his own for decades without end. Not sure what my family thought they would achieve with that move. Buy dad a few more years while he keeps lighting 'em up? Sure, put a little more air in the balloon. It's coming down eventually.

Balloons by John 55555

He glanced at the clock, thrusting his hair up from his forehead with one sweaty, graphite darkened hand. Five in the morning.

He turned the clock to face the wall and returned to his work. The mysteries of graphic novel composition were many and varied, from the mystery of how the reader fills the gaps between panels to the creation of entire worlds, the art form was one of infinite difficulty and potential. He cracked his knuckles as he walked around the room a bit, stretching his cramped legs, stiff from the long hours on his drafting stool.

A burning desire had driven him these many days and nights, supplemented by coke and pizza. An idea had slowly filled his mind, a world, a reality that he had dreamed of since he was a child, creating ever changing characters and realms until it seemed as real to him as the world in which he lived. The entities wrought by his imagination seemed to strive ever forward, acting and reacting relentlessly within his mind, each collision resulting a more complex, realistic tale. The threads would split and converge, meet in time and space, sometimes traveling parallel, or in no apparent pattern only to meet in a flash of brilliance. It was a story of everything, adventure, dreams realized and dreams shattered, the thwarting and assisting of man's hopes, birth and death, love and hatred, favors returned and vengeance sought.

He took up pencil, ink and colors in turn, reproducing the images written to the deepest parts of his brain, coming up with no story lines, characters, and events as he worked, faster than he could record them. He traced the borders of each panel with a ruler, and made the regular, even curves of the thought bubbles and word balloons by hand. He carefully drew each one, and the little tails stretching down the character's to whom the thoughts or words belonged. He worked swiftly, but with a steady hand, rarely restating a line or dipping his pen into the white correction fluid. His mind was clear, his hand and eyes acted together in perfect harmony to the rhythm of his thoughts.

He knew what each character said in each balloon, in each caption and thought bubble. He paused and looked at his hands, which had done so much for him over the years, but they could not help him in this. He did not know how to write.

Train

John 55555's:

A black creature charged across the plains, spouting steam and fire into the cool night air. There is a stir of movement in the engine that is not parallel to the reckless speed of the juggernaut, a fluid gesture alien to its mechanical drive. A figure moves in the masking vapor, a boy shovels coals into an inferno, feeding the beast of iron and physics. He wears a cloth over his nose and mouth, and two bright green eyes shine from his smoke blackened face. His posture and movements, his mixed caution and recklessness spoke of long experience despite his early age. His father had worked this line long before he was born, the steam was in his blood.

Whenever the hunger of the engine permitted, he would pull down his bandanna and thrust his head into the clean, rushing air of the darkened prairie. The chill air would clear his thoughts and his lungs, but there was another purpose to his action as well, there had been talk of robbers derailing trains to scavenge the valuables from the living and the dead.

He shook his head and set his blackened kerchief back in black, but just as he left the window he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. A split second later he knew that the robbers were coming, the track would already be blocked.

He pulled on the emergency brake with both hands, hoping to stop the trains mad momentum before it hit the barricade he knew lay in wait for it. But then a shred of doubt flickered across his obscured features, and he released it, only to thrust  more and more coal into the furnace.

His fathers invention had been made for just such a purpose. It would be disrespecting his memory not to try it.

He pulled a lever fixed to the side of the controls, it was of a different metal and jarred strangely against the other shining elements. Something grated and a metal arm flashed past the window, the mobile track segment moved smoothly into place of the engine.

It was built as a small hill of track, to be laid over any barricade. The timing would have to be precise.

His eyes creased as he smiled under his mask. He looked forward to the challenge.

Andrew Velox's:

 The Train

I sat on a bench, nervously looking down at my hands. It was almost time. He had been gone so long, it was hard to even remember what he looked like. Those memories dying fast, like his fellow soldiers. Yet somehow he had survived. He had made it through all the gunfire, explosions, and other horrors of war. He defied the odds.

And he was coming home. I looked up again, hoping to see a train in the distance, but there was nothing but the track as far as my eyes could see. The wind picked up, piercing my cheeks, and it was then that I noticed for the first time that tears were flowing down my face. I was ecstatic, knowing that now for the first time in over two years I would see him.

I looked again, but the train still hadn’t come. I fidgeted with fingers, crossing them over each other, wringing them together. My heart burned with desire, love, happiness. Yet also in worry, in nervousness. Does he still feel the same way about me? I had asked myself over a dozen times. It had been so long…

I shook my head vigorously, pushing away the thoughts. No, of course he still cares about you…you’re in love. But I wasn’t convinced, so I played with my hands all the more, even going so far as to remove my gloves then put them on again, repeating that over and over. Because it was better than thinking.

But it didn’t help. It seemed like our own life had been a train, moving so quickly yet stopping all of a sudden at times, letting more people or things into or out of our lives. Our marriage let in both our families together. My first miscarriage removed a part of our lives. My second pregnancy, this one healthy, opened the door for another member of the family. But then his leaving for the war did the opposite. It was again just two of us at home, me and our child. Our beautiful, cheerful child who had to live his first year and a half with no father.

But it was all worth it. I knew the reason why he had left, and I agreed with it. Fighting for one’s country is one of the best things someone can do. And someone has to keep us at home safe.

Yet…

I buried my face in my hands, wiping the tears on my gloves. It had been hard – but knowing he was out there, not just fighting for no reason, but fighting for a purpose – was enough for me. And I loved him for that.

My heart began to burn with joy again as I realized that he was finally coming home. The tears came again, but I just let them flow as more and more came: the train that was bringing him home was approaching.

 Will Tolkien's:

Caleb Cederak's:

I flicked the switch to my lamp and sunk the room into darkness. I quietly opened the door to my room and shut it behind me. The train was moving smoothly across the plains in the dark of midnight. Many of the passengers were asleep, with an occasional soul roaming the hall like myself. I passed between a few cars and took a seat in the cafeteria car, staring out at the stars. I wasn't sure where we were, only that it was in the middle of nowhere, far from the lights and sounds of the New York that I was accustomed to.

I could actually see colors in the sky among all the stars, wisps of ethereal blues and greens haunting the shadowy skies. As I sat there, staring longingly out into the vast emptiness of space (because most of it really is empty), I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I glanced over my shoulder to find a young woman smiling at me from a couple feet away. Her long, auburn hair complimented the glossy emerald of her eyes, eyes examining me behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. She couldn't have been a day over twenty four. An odd fact considering I am nearing the end of my thirties much too soon. Was there something truly interesting about an accountant from the city to her?

"Something interesting out there?" she asked, taking a sip of a drink in her hand.

"A lot of interesting things out there, yes," I chuckled.

She took another sip. "Do you mind if I sit down with you?"

"Not at all," I replied, gesturing to the seat across from me.

She took a seat, removing her jet black jacket and revealing a white t-shirt with a band name on it. Red Hot Chili Peppers. I knew the name, but couldn't associate it to any music. She set her cup on the table and gently pushed it toward me.

"It's cocoa," she grinned. "Do you want some?"

I admired her confidence and accepted, taking a small sip. It was a bit sweet for my taste. "Thank you," I said, pushing the cup back her way.

I turned back to the window and continued my search of the skies, a search for nothing in particular.

"So, where are you headed?" she asked playfully.

"Visiting family. I'm from New York myself, but my parents live out in Nebraska. I suppose it stands to reason that I'd want to leave the lands of endless corn fields and unexpected tornadoes."

She giggled, so full of life, still clutching on to remnants of youth. "That's what I've heard about Nebraska, of the little that people talk about it. I'm heading out to Oregon myself. Born and raised, actually. New York was my vacation."

"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I was rather enjoying staring up into the sky," I replied. I felt a bit awkward, but the young lady brushed it off as nothing.

"It's fine," she assured me. "I'll look with you. It's lonely here tonight…not just for you and I."

I stared back up into the sky, scanning trails of color intermingled with the light of stars, the suns of so many other galaxies and my own. "It's lonely everywhere, I suppose."