[Don Mariano Corsino]

Your Favorite Shirt

A shirt I have worn many times in my life. But even when I wear it over a hundred times, it still feels new. I wake up in the morning and prepare myself for work which I despise. As I look for my suit and tie, I see my favorite shirt hanged at an angle that makes all of the other shirts in my wardrobe seem like rugged clothing. I was always aware that people noticed my apparel repeating almost every weekend. But they do not understand what this shirt means to me. It's smooth material that when it touches your skin you feel like you're flying through the clouds, it's majestic design of the old-fashioned flowers from Florida back in the 80s, and it's color, a royal blue which could make anybody feel better just by looking at it. It may sound impossible that a man can love a shirt more than anything, but when a shirt is given to you by your father who passed away it has a lot of meaning. You wear it to fill it's empty feeling that used to be filled long time ago. This is more than my favorite shirt, it is a piece of my father who loved this shirt, I'm just wearing it in his honor.

War

[Mokrie Dela]

War.
Negotiations failing.
The world, crippled. In flames.
We are for ever doing things that can not be undone. Inventing. Creating. Sealing our fate.
Guns, missiles, bombs. Nuclear arms. Inter-Coastal Ballistic Missiles. Rockets that can be fired from a hundred miles away and level a city in the blink of an eye.
Lives.
Burning in the glow of a thousand suns.
Hell.
What's left? Humanity? We've destroyed that. The human race is one of war. Self destructing. It's in our nature, in our blood.
Destruction.

War.
Nogotiations barely even tried.
This world, lost.
We are beyond the point of no return.
Greed, hunger.
Invasion.
The nazis, arabian terrorists. Who are the real bad guys?
Government? Or us. Why don't we all stand up and say, NO?
What's the point.

War, you can not stop it.
Self sustaining. Like a runaway fission reaction. A meltdown. A wrongly named China syndrome. A reaction that can not be stopped.

The sexual point of no return. There is no stopping it, ejaculation will come. The moment a parachute fails to open. The living dead, waiting for the end.
Echos. Mirrors. Reflections.
Again and again, the world is eager to march into the fiery clutches of war.

Religion, the most bloody of excuses. In the name of God.
Omnipotent deities.
We pray. For peace. For fairness. To who?
To a God who's death and blind. Our prayers are ignored.
Still we give felatio to that god who doesn't care.
And still we worship war, marching to our deaths.
Suicidal.


Theme:
What can you want when you have it all?

[Eminence]

What can you want when you have it all?
I look up from my polished shoes to their polished smiles and feel like I just can’t hold it in anymore. Somehow, I manage.

It’s bad enough that their antics make me stand idly with the wretches in the self-service queue. Every manned till is overflowing, so I have the choice to wait in aisles packed tighter than tins of soup cramped into trolleys, or to... serve myself. And even then, I have to wait. Because of them.

Their nuzzling chins continue to frolic and they slowly scan a chocolate bar through the machine, then scan again, then scan again, then flip the thing upside down and giggle as they find the barcode hidden under the wrapper’s flap.

I look down at my watch. That can’t be right. I reach past my car keys and pull out my phone. It is.

I watch them continue to grin and grin back, staring into each other’s eyes, delaying every simple motion with yet another elongated gaze. From the way his arm tightly wraps itself around her shoulder, and the way her wrist lightly falls around his waist, you’d think they shared some sort of symmetry, some sort of connection. But there’s just no coordination; they fumble, they wait, they try again. The machine pleads with them to hurry up but they just. Won’t. Listen.

Instead, they smile.

No more. I can take no more.

“Honest to God,” I lean in, and shout, speaking out for the timid masses. “Would you two just hurry up and get a fucking room already?!”


The last one to finish

[Mokrie Dela]

Being a teacher sucks. Everyday I spend with spoiled little brats. I've forgotten why I got into this.

Those who can't do, teach - something like that right? I almost made it. I did the whole gallery circuit thing. London, Birmingham. Paintings that took hours, days, weeks, landscapes and portraits - i wasn't too good at portraits. I prefered the more sedate landscapes.

I'd experimented with viewpoints, styles, but watercolours were my favourite. Relaxing. That was art. Modern art - abstract sculptures... well it's just not the same.

So, with my career as an artist not happening, and the demand of modern living for money, i became an art teacher. Perhaps i could find the next Picasso, or something. Maybe the'd interview me on tele. I might not be that artist, but i'd be kick starting it right?

Wrong.
These kids keep handing in poor quality drawings of video game characters - one kid even drew this man in a hood, with his arms... i don't know, turned to spaghetti? At first i thought it was a reflection of our own lack of strengths, manifested in weak arms - ever heard the expression spaghetti legs?
But no. The guys name was Murder... Mercy? I dont know.
Then there was David. He didn't speak much. I think me might be autistic, but i don't know what that is exactly. Isn't it where they cant hear people?
Anyway his drawings? They're strange. It's like he's not even trying.

I'm about done here to be honest. What's the point? I'm sick of it.

And now exams are coming up. Great. No one cares!
So it's practice exam time. Each person has two hours to do a painting. Any kind of paints, any style, of something - whats the point in setting a theme?

I walked around, and no one asked for help. Most of the kids were chatting in whispers. I'm too broken to care. That David? He keeps hiding, every time I approach him he hides his picture. His face looks sad. I don't want to ask.

Time. It's done. Now i have to actually look at these...

Yup, as suspected, theres the poor, messy painting, in watercolours. The colours are running into eachother, and in parts the paper's thinned. I can even see the pencil marks... The subject is a man in a hood - what is it with hoods?! - holding a sword... i think. It looks like a phallus.

Another picture of a man in a car. Boring.

A footballer. Not bad, but it's severly lacking.

Finally to David. He shook his head. He's still painting! Come on, kid you've have twenty minutes longer than anyone else!

Finally I force him to reveal his work.

I forget to breath. I'm staring at a church and graveyard. A huge Yew overhangs it, casting a deep shadow on the beds of the dead. a gravel path meanders through the middle, and a shy sun peeks past a cloud, lighting the church.
The colours are amazing and... he's used oils?!

I begin to weep. The contrast! The darkness, reflecting the sadness of the dead, the path dividing in the middle - actually resembling a crucifix, the chruch lit by the sun, the light of God's salvation. The birds in the sky, the detail of the clouds and trees.

The single mourning window, dressed in black, her face veiled.

The bell for breaktime goes and David, along with every other student, leaves. I'm left standing there with my mouth open.

All is not lost after all....


Theme:
Underdog

[TinTinn]

Underdog

I cornered in on the suspect. He attempted to burrow the fence with divine shock. I know the record of this kid, but his life was much more important. His shirt was torn and covered with pink wounds from the rain. The boys chin quivered.

"Son, please put your hands up," I raised my pistol.

Tazers, pistols, they're all the same. It's all taken by chance whether God has mercey on your soul. But I never forgot the look in that boys eyes. I knew he had some messed up ideas on society as any stressed teen. The next minute, he just ran and screamed at me. I didn't realise he had just pulled out a twelve inch knife. I held the trigger steady and as quick as he ran towards me, he went straight back in the other direction, 'Pow, pow'. It seriously reminded me of a cowboy stand of.

"Know that's why I carry around this," I pulled out my pistol and swayed it around, the bartender chuckled, "And I haven't used it in so long, I don't even know if it works," the bartender challenged, 'Why don't you test it out, Underdog".

I shot but it revealed to be a petty blank.

"A well armed populace is the best defense against tyrann," the man laughs.


New Theme: Time is irrelevant

This post has been edited by TinTinn on Thursday, May 17 2012, 06:42

[Vercetti21]

Time is Irrelevant

Davis glanced at his wristwatch as he paced through the lobby of the busy office building. Twenty minutes late to work. Again. As he rounded the corner he heard the soft 'ding' of an incoming elevator, and a family of four scurried inside. Davis started running. He hadn't even had time to stop for his morning coffee.

Mornings - how he despised them!

"Wait! Stop!" Davis waved his briefcase over the air as if he were approaching the King's cavalry with a white flag. The family might have seen his desperate sprint had they taken a moment's glance to the left, but his cries fell on deaf ears. Just as Davis neared the elevator, the doors closed and the family sailed upward into complacence.

Davis hit the button to call the elevator impatiently, pushing and pressing as if it were a video game controller. The only other available elevator had been out of service due to building renovations for the past week, so he would have to wait until the single elevator went all the way up to the top - and all the way back down.

The elevator stopped on floor eight, and then proceeded to continue upward. Davis looked at his watch again.

This is ridiculous, he thought to himself. It would have been so much faster to take the f*cking stairs.

Just then, the lighted numbers above the hallway began to decrease. The elevator was descending. He could take the stairs now, or he could wait it out. Davis always had poor timing.

The elevator stopped again. Davis often thought to himself that he always had the worst luck. He looked at his watch. Then at the lighted numbers.

He ran his fingers through his bed-ridden head, brushing off flakes of long hair and dead skin cells. When the doors finally opened, a flock of businessmen slowly filed out of the elevator, scattering in various and important directions. Davis stepped in and impatiently tapped the button again.

He fixed up his tie as alas, the elevator took him to the eleventh floor.

"Davis, where the f*ck have you been?" his husky, old boss howled the moment the elevators opened. "You're fired, you little sh*t."

"Look, sir, I know I'm twenty minutes late but I can explain."

"No, you f*cked my wife!"

-

A Man is Most Honest When He's Wearing a Mask

This post has been edited by Vercetti21 on Thursday, May 17 2012, 17:18

[Mokrie Dela]

THIS DOESNT DESERVE TO DIE

Britain, 2020. War has come to the world again, and in its wake stands a crippled dystopia. Crime is common, and the world is a dangerous place, both inside and outside of city walls. Gangs roam the country, taking what they want, when they want.

People are scared. They fear eveything and everyone. The government, as useless as they are, have little grasp over matters.

Conformity is the new security. To be safe, you must be part of the machine. outsiders have a life span of weeks. There are no pioneers. No heroes.

Except one. He who roams the streets of London. The Man in the Mask. He has no name. A vigilante, holding the sword of justice and liberty with his own hands. A man, mere mortal, elevated to that of a god, standing up for the little guy, protecting the weak.

But for all his good, he has been branded a terrorist. He's a criminal, a bad man, they say. He should be stopped.
The masses, staring at the televisions, standing at the steps of great halls, nod in agreement. Yes sir, No sir, three bags full sir.
By night, the man risks death and imprisonment, just to protect those who need it. Crime rates - if they were noted - had fallen because of him, and elsewhere local people had begun to do the same, albeit on a much smaller scale. A masked vigilante neighbourhood watch program was born, but carefully kept hidden from the overseers' collective eyes.

The man with no name, the man with no face, the almost mythical phantom of the night, speaking the one truth that everybody thinks but dares not mutter. The true nature of humans - the good side. To help one's brother. Society, intergrety.

Who is the man, people would ask, for months.

Well that question would be answered on one important day. The night before he attacked a mugger. But the mugger wasn't real, nor was the victim. Guns were drawn, and the man was captured.

He was taken to the gallows in the middle of town, as crowds gather to watch his death.

"This man!" The voice bellowed, "Is nothing more than a man. He is a mechanic by day, but by night a criminal." Of course, they were not going to admit anything else were they? "He will pay for his crimes, and be this a lesson to you all; you will be accountable for your actions."

I swallow hard as the rope is placed around my neck. It strikes me as a barbarian way to do it, but then that's this hyper-modern age isnt it? It's cheap.

A man steps forward from the crowd. "You hang him, you hang me."
How wonderfully cliched. Another steps forward.

For a second, i think i'm saved. When i put on that mask, i become free enough to stand up, to be the truth in the heart of the lie. We are not safe in their arms. Only in our own.

But then the foor falls away from me, and the world jolts. I see armed police step forward to restrain the 'protesters'. I can't breathe, and pain fills my neck.

I wonder if....




Theme:
Integrity

[TheJonesy]

Interesting story, Mokrie. I found it a little odd that it quickly changes from synopsis-esque story-telling to a first-person narrative, but enjoyed how it left the fate of this world to be later developed by the reader.

----------

Theme: Integrity
Title: One Man's Garbage is Another Man's Treasure

"Why the sudden change of heart, Sammy? ...May I still call you 'Sammy'?"

"Call me whatever the hell you want. This doesn't change anything. Actions heed consequences; I'm sure someone of your experience knows just that."

"I'm simply questioning your compliance - or lack thereof. Did your conscience fail you? Is any last trace of what you call an obviously offset morale code ripping at the seams? Is this man of blue suddenly..."

"Enough. You have no room to talk."

"Do I now? I'm sure your duties serving the city hold a candle to your, what would it be, extra salary. If I may call it so, your 'under-the-table' finances."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not. I'm the bad guy. The bad seed planting an evil plot along all the alleyways, rooftops, and other infectious buildings rooting themselves in this two-faced town. This face that you choose to see, it speaks no truth, it shows no love, no order. Any accusation I may spit out is nothing more than garbage."

"You're right."

"How so, officer? What can you inquire about me that concerns the type of person I am?"

"Do you not think committing several counts of murder and theft accounts for anything? You're a criminal. The scum beneath this city."

"That's harsh words coming from you, officer."

"I find it rather fitting."

"Fitting for one whom thrives on deviance from the law? Is that what makes me 'scum?'"

"Yes. You make your mistakes, I take you away. It's a spectrum, and we're on the ends."

"Spectrum? I like that idea, but one does not exist between us. How can there be a line drawn between two similar objects?"

"I'm not you."

"You're right; we are very similar, but - unlike you - I don't wear a uniform."

"It's much more than a uniform! It's honor, integrity..."

"How can you question my integrity when it is yours in question? Despite what the man upstairs tells you, the world isn't black and white, officer; rather, it is only white, produced by a spectrum of colors, combining as one."

"You make no sense."

"Au contraire, officer. People live by beliefs; a right one holds dear. There are so many. It's what makes this world so colorful. Whether you like mine or not, it still exists, and it's still a colorful addition. It is the individuals like you that disrupt this balance."

"There only exists the balance of justice. You're painting yourself as just a hypocrit."

"You only speak these truer words of yourself. How can you accept bribes from 'scum' like me and still be able to sleep with yourself comfortably, knowing you hide behind a badge? I am myself, everyday. Before you choose to lay judgement unto others, you obviously need to fix that mirror you choose to not look into."

"I said enough!"

"Before they take me away, officer, I'd like to say, 'See you soon.' For once they strip that blue from you, everyone will see that you're only black underneath."


Next Theme: Booze and bandages

This post has been edited by TheJonesy on Tuesday, Jun 19 2012, 04:13

[Mokrie Dela]

Thanks, the switch was deliberate. I wanted the shift to be from narration to something more personal.



There's a fine old tradition in this family. Me pa, he would get all antsy for a fight. Me, I'd learnt to stay outta his way. Me ma had little choice.
There was something strange about that day. If I remember right it was when the Irish national team was cheated out of a place in a competition because of some cheese-eating surrender monkey. He was pissed in both meanings of the word.
Somehow he'd avoided the fights at the pub and on the streets. It's a merry old town we live in, but it's a good craic most of the time.
That night though...

It started with a crash as he came through the door, like a one man battering ram. Ma had been a dear and kept his dinner warm - I only remember there being mash an' gravy. But while he was wetting his lips, his dinner was drying up. That was the first thing out of his mouth, after she'd served it up; she had stayed up half an hour later to be a good wife. The smash, as I heard it from upstairs, was the plate hitting the wall. I went down to see me ma cowering in the corner.

It's a sharp sound, quite high in pitch. It's one thing when a man hits another man, but a woman... I dunno, it sounds different.

The next few minutes are a blur. Maybe I took a knock on the head, or maybe my minds trying to forget, either way, we fought. The alcohol had numbed him down; he didn't feel it as much as me. But I was faster.

The fight ended when the Garda turned up - you didn't dare disobey them. We both had the lonely sleep that night, though with a few bruises and cuts, I think I came of better. I left the police station in the morning and went home. Pa was being held longer; the drunken fool had clocked an officer.

Me uncle was there with his pa. they looked like bodyguards.
Ma was packing her cases.

She gave me the choice of course. Stay, with him, or leave with her. Even though he was a drunk and a wifebeater, he was still me pa, and I loved him dearly. It was a hard choice. When sober he was a decent fella. But me ma, she was the one that always suffered.
It had to be her.

So now we live in some place in Herefordshire. There's an RAF base down the road. Pa hasn't called or written to us - he doesn't know where we are but how hard is it to call me grandpa?

It's a shame that's me most vivid memory of him. It's been years and can I say I regret the last time I saw him was in a fight?

I guess he finally met his match. Don't ask me to say a few words, Father. I have no kind ones to say.

New theme:
Sleep deprivation

This post has been edited by Mokrie Dela on Wednesday, Jun 20 2012, 01:23

[Ziggy455]

Scotch. Scotch should always help you sleep. I can vaguely remember times where I’d take a few glasses and sleep like a baby. Now, things are different. My nightmares are more vivid than ever, and that makes sleeping a drag. I wake up each morning and travel to work with a sort of detached view on things. The sleep I yearn for never seems to show up, and has left me just like Tiffany did. Christ, I’m such a f*cking state that even human functions are abandoning me.

My boss caught me micro-sleeping at my desk and I was warned for incompetence. I came home again late and sat in front of the TV for hours, and then my PC. Endlessly flicking from website to website, channel to channel over meaningless sh*t. “NOW NOW NOW! THE NEW SLIMMING BELT! ONLY 19999999.99! BUT 199999.9999 FOR YOU YOU you!”, “Hey guys, check out my new blog! It’s totally hip and about f*ck all, but read it anyway because I’m a lonely c*nt.”

Masturbation, cigarettes, pills, scotch, masturbation. None of them work. I look at the clock: 2:34am. I know I should be sleeping but it gets to such a late time that I end up just thinking about Tiffany or my life. I worry about sh*t at the worst of times, and even though I know somewhere deep inside me there’s a voice asking me to sleep –the voice of reason?- I just get back up and stare away into the TV or something else until the sun rises. The hour has jumped from 2am to 6am. I feel that sh*t feeling in my gut that today will just be the same. I look out of my apartment window as the sun rises, and I promise to myself, “Tonight. Tonight I’ll go to bed early...”.


Next theme: A six sided die.

[El Zilcho]

"What have you left to give, Mr Reynolds?" Her voice cut smoothly like a sushi knife through hot butter. Its allure matched her gorgeous, flowing brown hair, immaculate and at ease, yet rich and mysterious. One would swear it fell around her shoulders like serpents. At rest, but dangerous nonetheless. Duplicitous.

"I, I don't know. But I need this Ms. I'll do anything." While He squeezed his kuckles in frustration, She smiled seductively. Reaching out an arm, She clicked open an ornate ivory box at the edge of her desk. Carved onto it were a tapestry of torture and fire; illustrations of men boiling in cauldrons, demons piercing children, and good men led astray by blind prophets. Far from your average clutter.

In doing this, Her movements were subtle and curvaceous; as eye catching as the black dress She wore so commandingly. Just a glimpse of her figure would have a man distracted for the entire day, if not week. Taking a deliberate age so as to fully entrap Reynolds, She finally produced a single die from the box. Black with white dots and sharp corners, mercilessly unergonomic.

"You strike me as a strong, determined man. Would you care to gamble for what you seek?" The room was hit by an inescapable chill. The box snapped shut, independent of anyone or anything else. Mr Reynolds tore his eyes from it and up to Her. His gaze was pinned down by Her brilliant green eyes, tearing his last line of inner defence to tatters. She held intangible contact with him for what seemed an eternity, entirely motionless until he responded.

"I suppose I am, not that I have a choice. He paused in consideration, but his hands were tied from the start. Yes. What am I betting?"

"Yourself." She was forthright, sadistically enjoying the ease with which she forced him to writhe in discomfort. She was adept at pinching at you from the inside, stirring your instinct until you were a slave to evolution, a crumbling wreck and a drooling child all at once.

"Wha- we spoke about this. I thought that was off limits."

"Your family then?" Her rouged lips pursed in a smirk at this. He was putty. She tore into him with glee.

"Fine." Reynolds said, followed by a sharp intake of breath. She purred, the sound of her satisfaction seemingly penetrating the room from all angles. He was dejected; all other options beyond exhausted. His house would be repossessed within the week; barring the sort of deus ex machina She specialised in. The failure he'd bring his fledgling family would crush him beyond repair. Something had to be done to save them. Even if that meant damnation.

She proceeded to hold the dice between her thumb and forefinger, rotating it playfully in the manner of a little girl and a fly,
"I play fair, despite what the righteous say." Sarcasm laced her beautiful pronunciation "Pick 3 numbers between 1 and 6. A fair split, no? Always." That last word reverberated with a deeper, macabre tone. It didn't seem to be Hers.

"1. 3 and... 5." Reynolds gulped. A mob of butterflies threatened to overcome his stomach. Sweat broke on his brow like Pacific waves. He couldn't rise to the occasion with strength, but he knew that this simple and fleeting moment of life would forever rule his destiny. He was within Her clutches.

Lifting her slender arm, She dropped the dice and watched as it tumbled across the oak desk, bouncing and careening for an age. Every time it seemed to settle, it took energy from some unknown, untapped source and continued its journey across the expanse of the table. Both He and Her watched intensely - Her with a predatory, detached glare, and Him with the glazed eyes of a cornered deer. Eventually, as if in ether, it slowed to a halt. The dots facing up. Menacingly.

She stole his gaze for a moment more, before either could react. An instant of détente. Before the inevitable conclusion reared its ugly head...

Delusions of Grandeur

[Ziggy455]

She seeped radiance. Her bright blonde hair shone as bright as any sun, or street lamp. Max found her, intoxicating, inescapable. She floated through the hallways on heels of angel wings. He was certain that beneath that angelic face, with rays of light permitting their heavenly casts upon her, that she was a sweet girl. Max sat at the table and let his fork full of beans splat onto the white plastic surface with ignorance. Jessica Hardy found her own table and sat down on it. A few moments later the minions arrived, all of the men who surrounded around her seemed to invade the personal space with defying closeness. Jessica didn’t seem to mind it.

He couldn’t take his eyes of her. She was in conversation with somebody but those big brown eyes flitted right in his direction. He shot his head to the left, dropped his fork and jumped up to recoil from the remaining beans that barely missed his jeans. Eyes shooting back up, he looked back at Jessica who was in mid-conversation with another fanatic guy.

“So sad.” Said somebody across the table. Max shot his eyes to the man and noticed it was himself.

“What is?” he asked while he sat back down.

“Oh nothing, nothing at all.” He replied, his face buried in a magazine.

“No, go on.” He said to himself, perplexed and curious at what he had to say.

He lowered his magazine, turned his head to Jessica and then back to himself; eyes moving from one to another like he was watching a tennis match. He closed the magazine and leant forward.

“How many guys do you think invade her personal space?”

“In a day?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t know. Uh…a lot?”

“That’s as best an answer you’ll get.” He continued to flit back and forth.

“Is there a point to this pointless conversation?”

“Go and talk to her, but do not, I repeat, do not throw yourself at her.”

“While she’s surrounded by the bubble invaders?”

“No, now!” He shot back to her, “There! Frozen yhogurt! Go go!” I looked over and Jessica had made it away from the group to grab what I, myself had noticed. I coolly walked up to her as if to grab an apple, I accidentally nudged her and she immediately turned with a look of annoyance. “Sorry.” I replied, to which to turned back around like I was just a nuisance. I was really. I noticed myself reading the magazine in front of her. He kept his gaze forward.

“You’re blowing it.”

“Shut up.”

“What?” she said, turning back around.

“I uh, nothing.”

“f*ck this,” said myself suddenly in front of me.

“Hey, Jessica, can I ask you something?”

She seemed taken back by the sudden change.

“Uh, sure.”

“How many of those f*cknuts invade your personal space every day?”

Her eyes exploded wide, as if the pauper had just told the princess to f*ck off.

“I don’t know what you’re implying but-“

“Do you like their breath on you?”

“What are you, some sort of creep?”

“No, I’m just curious as to why you’d torment yourself with that everyday.”

Red face, eyes wide. She was getting ready to snap, I could feel it. I nudged myself.

“Please, just stop now. You’ve f*cked this for-“

“I’m not as creepy as to get inches away from your face and consider us “friends”.’

Suddenly something came across my face with a stinging slap. Suddenly I dissapeared and all that remained was the normal me. She slapped me again and walked off with venom in her voice.

“Yeah, I didn’t think that one through, sorry.” He said back at the table with the magazine. “Guess she wasn’t as angelic as you thought, huh?”


Next theme: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

[Tyler]

Just get in the car. It's not quantum physics. Open the door. The door's not jagged and ripped. Buckle your seatbelt. It's not pressed against her... she's not swaying on it. Turn the keys. The engine is fine and so are you. Breathe. You can still do that. What can she do now?

Everything is fine, we're in the car now. Check the rear-view. Back up and pull into the street. It's a nice day. Everything is fine, we're driving past the neighbourhood stops. Stan's drug store on the left. Dillon's grocery on the right. There's a gas station a street over, and then the schools beyond that. Everything is fine, we're on our way to the schools.

Turn the wheel. It's an easy flick of the wrist, now. But before that it was against our face. Every little crevice along the wheel left marks that you could feel that stayed there until we got back in the car. Check the rear-view. The road is where it should be. The roof of the car looks up. The seat rumbles along with the wheels. It's the only sound now. It's a good sound.

Everything is fine, we're going to meet some friends. There are people on the road and on the sidewalk and in the shops and in the schools and on the playground. We are still okay. Breathe. Turn into the lot and wait. Everything is fine, we're still breathing.

Roll the windows down. There's no shattered glass on the ground. But it is hot out and the sun is baking us. Someone is laughing at the playground. But that makes sense. Nod and close your eyes. No. Don't. Don't close your eyes and think of hers. Her eyes are just frozen and horrible. They stare at nothing and they yell for you. You will not find them again. Forget them.

Everything is fine, we're just waiting. Close your hands and stop them, they're shaking. Breathe. Look at the school and the bricks and the trees and the see-saws and the swings and the merry-go-round. Everything is fine, we're just supposed to be here. Remember?

--


Sand

[Dr-Mayhem111]

Sand

I have always had trouble sleeping but I never why, maybe I'm afraid of not waking up or maybe I'm afraid of what I might dream of. After days of not getting any rest, I must try sleeping at least for a while and wake up quickly. I close my eyes and feel my body getting rid of all of the stressed that was stored, my muscles were finally being relaxed, and I was at peace.

After feeling all of that wonderful feelings I started to dream, but for some apparent reason... I was dreaming I was stranded in a desert. I look around and see nothing but sand, hills made of sand, little sand particles hitting your eyes as the wind blows right at your face. I was as if I was actually there because I was feeling the blazing hot Sun and the heat from sand burning my feet.

I'm so confused and scared as well, I started to run in hopes of finding a way out of here. I ran and ran for what felt like hours but it looked like I went in a circle because everything looked the same. All of that confusion made me forget I was dreaming and made me think I was actually in a desert suffering from the heat. After almost ten hours of walking through an ocean of sand I started to see an water source just a few miles away, I ran with a little smile on my face.

I finally made it, it was beautiful. I stood there looking at an ocean with cold water. I fell on my knees on the hot sand, moved my hands towards the water and feel the coldness touching my skin, I get a handful of water so I could drink it. As I'm about to drink the water, I woke up. I looked around in relief knowing that I was okay and not stranded in a desert. My phone rings and I pick it up, it's my friend inviting me to the beach, I declined and decided to go to a pool, where there will be no sand.

Your worst fear

[Coat.]

A lump sat in the back of my throat and my lips began to dry. The aircraft shook aggressively which woke me from a daydream, reminding me to check my altimeter wrapped around my wrist. The interior was gloomy and very dark; nearly impossible to read our alitude. A few men snored and huddled beside each other while I sat awake; my head tilted to the right, staring 30, 000ft down.

I swallowed with force to heave the dense lump back down my throat.

You would think that people in this situation would be nervous. I looked around again to see everyone fast asleep; yet, my knees quiver either from the coldness or the adrenaline pumping through my system. To calm my nerves, I squashed my hand into my tight pocket and opended a packet of chips. Everyone has there own resolution to nervousness; biting nails, shaking your hands or feet on purpose but I prefured to munch into a packet of plain chips.

I spat out the chips as I realised they lasted awful. Then I realised I some how snuck a packet of chicken flavoured chips.

The plane rattled like a maraca and suddenly, I felt my stomach growl. The pit of my stomach squabbled, following me gagging a few times. Any chip other than plain, made me sick. I always guessed it was the presurvatives in it, but I had no clue.

I gagged again.

"You all good back there," asked the co-pilot standing at the end of the hurcules doorway.

I gave him a thumbs up. My head barely visible in between the group of snoozing men.

It was only a short time after that I vomited all over my mate fast asleep. I sniffed the cold hair to escape the smell of puke. A man behind me chuckled.

"Don't worry about it laddy," he said with a strong Irish accent, "The altitude sometimes makes you qweezy... nevermind,"

He passed a hankie for me to blow the puke out of my nose.

"I'd give you some water but I drank all mind. I hope I don't wizz on exit," he joked, "In, out, arch, piss!" he continued.

"Thanks," I passed back the hankie but he had drifted off back to sleep again. I knew I needed some shut eye but it was like one of those nights were you sit in bed, wide awake for the entire night... tossing and turning. I checked my altimeter. The green light on the ceiling flashed.

"Wake up boys. Oxygen, breath... it's go time in 10 minutes," the pilot called through the megaphone. My worse fear was about to happen.


Next story: Ride the snake to the lake

[Mokrie Dela]

The Shelby Cobra was my daddy's car for years. As a kid we'd go for drives in the california sunshine. Sundays would be spent at The Lake - i've no idea what it's called.
But daddy got ill. No he can't even walk to the bathroom. Not long left, we all know it but no one dared speak it, at least until the doctor came out.
Days.
Gone is my strong daddy who'd fight the world for me. The burley man who'd lift us up and spin us around, evenwhen we were ten. Where was my daddy? Was he still in there?

He had gone downhill, and even now didn't seem to know we were there.

One moment, brief but beautiful. He managed to turn his head to stare at the keys on the end table.
"One." He breathed, the word barely audible. "One more."

My heart was breaking but dammit! no man should die, withering in a bed like a dead flower.
Sure daddy, one more time.

I'd passed my test only a week beforehand. The engine started with an angry snort, but it started. Daddy smiled, weakly. He was happy, for a moment.

The drive was relaxing, and reminiscent of my childhood. It was longer than I remembered.

We finally arrived at the lake. I was thankful that i remembered the route.

I guided the Cobra - the Snake, daddy called it - right up to the water. It was late, and the sun wasn't far off setting.
"We're here Daddy." I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. His eyes opened and immediately my daddy returned. He smiled, no longer in medical pain, but now in joy. He sqeezed my hand, with more energy and strength than we've seen from him in the last year.
"Thank you." He said. His voice, while still weak, was animated.

Together we watched the sun set. It was the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen in my life, beating even the meeting and marriage of my wife, and the birth of our son. The scene was perfect, and we watched it in silence, our hands clasped together.
Finally as the orange turned to purple, i turned to my daddy.

I hadn't noticed his grip loosen, nor his head slump. I knew he wasn't sleeping.
"Goodbye Daddy." I said.


New Theme: The eyes of an Alien

[Coat.]

Morkie, that story was touching.


Graham had been working out in South Dakota's woodland for months. That's the thing that worried me. How could he have left everything he owned. Not how, why. More importantly, how could he have left his mother to me. Whining at me; 'the soups cold', she'd say. Why did she have so much hope that her son would return. Did she not see the other workers returning from the woodland. Battered and bruised.

Cuts as deep as the ridges in the sea floor.

That didn't seem to matter to her. Months went on, and she sat at the window sill throughout many seasons. She held Grahams necklace; a woodbeaker. For what. It angered me to think that he left his family to me to create a new life. No, that's just nonsense. I have my own mother, who I visit every week. I lay flowers over her and stand with grief.

Grief as meaningless as life.

Didn't Grahams' mother listen to the media. He was taken and he wasn't returning. She didn't care. I was the one to care. Care for her health, my own health and hoping Graham had his health rich. At the same time, I was hoping he was buried beneath the forest floor. I would of rather been there. Against the moist tree leaves, not having to worry. I wouldn't be lonely. I'd know that Graham and the other loggers would be out searching for me. Coming to think of it, is my deepest dream, in Grahams reality; is he sleeping with the moist leaves and knows freedom is on the way.

The media stopped carrying, and the rescue team threw the hats in.

That morning I woke up. To expect to see the his mother. She wasn't there. The emotions rushed. Did I want to her gone, and did I want Graham dead. Where did she go. Only god knows. This day must had meant something deep to her.

Deep as the ridges in the ocean. Beneath the layer.

The layer. I grabbed the key chain, accelerating down the main road. Driving red lights and dodging traffic. Until I got to the edge of town. I entered the gloomy forest; knowing someone was here. A woodbeaker got my attention, as I drove deeper and deeper into the forest until.

There.

She laid in her night gown. Her grey hair spread along the tree leaves. The woodbeaker stared blankly down at her before taking flight. I rushed towards her; hoping for a pulse. No pulse. I began to furiously dig. Nothing. Where had he gone and why was she here. I knew asking all these pointless questions weren't going to help.

Maybe the media were right. Perhaps Extraterrestrial life took him in their fancy craft. Far away from this hole.

They went up and beyond the ridges of humanity. I would had hoped he had glanced at the eyes of an alien, rather than suffocated in a pit of pain and hope.


Next Theme: The abandoned junkyard

This post has been edited by Coat. on Saturday, Jun 30 2012, 04:14

[blitz]

I'm sort of new at this...so...


"We're here." My uncle said. We got off the truck and he led me past his house and into a huge junkyard, surrounded by metal barriers and a huge gate with a sign that read "Do Not Cross". He was wearing his work clothes and he patted me on the shoulder as we got closer and closer.

We eventually reached the gate which he opened with a rusty key he scavenged for in his pocket, then he twisted the key lightly in the keyhole, to my surprise the gate snapped open and before it stood the most amazing riches any child could ever desire.

Massive piles of metal, odds and ends, trinkets. It was all beautifully scattered wildly along the plains of the junkyard. "Go ahead" my uncle motioned, and I looked at him in the eye and smiled. Then I proceeded to walk slowly through the path in the junkyard, stopping briefly at every pile of junk I encountered. I turned back, to notice, my uncle was gone.

I continued through the path and at the distance, a sudden flash of light seemed to appear. I blinked wildly, to justify wether I was seeing things or not. Clearly, I wasn't. There it was, the flash again. I walked slowly and carefully towards it, it was isolated, away from any other pile. My hands were pressed against each other, and a thin layer of sweat had formed on my forehead. I wiped it off with my hand, exhaled deeply and continued walking.

I eventually reached the shining object, but to be honest, at first sight, I was disappointed. It was partially covered, it seemed to be a cube of some sorts. Only a corner stuck out of the hard sand. I bent over and started clawing the floor, furiously wanting the object. My fingertips began to bleed, but I didn't care.

As I dug deeper, I managed to get a clearer view of what it was. A lexicon of some sorts, with alien like markings to the sides. I pulled it up, holding it highly with both my hands, and a tornado of lost memories and dreams blew in front of me.

A cabin in the woods.

[Ziggy455]

It lay dormant between two beautiful, yet scarred, red furs. Ivy spread all over it from the deep foundations beneath. All sorts of wildlife had sneakily burrowed their way underneath and into the old cabin many years before. When inside the warmth of the boxed in main room was like a sauna without such steam. Michael remembered it well. Of course it had been years since he had returned. His father had been dead for seven years now, and when he was -barely living- he spent most of his time up here. Michael knocked down the ivy in the front doorway with a kick, bringing down the dark green natural curtain with one swipe. Inside it was dark, yet Michael could make out the room like he'd never left. He stepped inside and felt that familiar feeling he felt last time he was here. When his stomach dropped. The room was wooden and bare, except for a single mouldy chair that was next to the fireplace. He moved to it, rubbed his hands over the course fabric and sighed as he remembered that night.

He was fifteen at the time, his father and mother had been going through a rough patch, and as the cabin was only a walk away from the main town, Gerald, had found the cabin to be a relaxing escape. He spent many nights here for many reasons; be it, arguments, drunken brawls, and when the in-laws were over. He remembered how dead his marriage was on the inside, and it made him wonder. It made him realize that he was just trying to find excuses to keep the small dying flame going. Eventually, after another argument, another excuse over Michael, he had decided he would spend yet another night up here. He called Ryan, his one true friend over for beers that night, and the two decided to recap on the days events at work; the intoxication getting worse.

Michael sat perched on the curb. He stared at his bike and waited for his watch to beep before setting off. He stepped onto his BMX and waited, thinking about what his mother had told him to do. "Bike up there, tell your father we need to talk, and then come right back! Do not do anything else, Michael! Promise me." He replayed it over and over even when he was speeding up the nature trail to the Cabin. The sun was setting over the town. The cabin gave a beautiful view of the residing forest and town. It was something Michael realized was a good reason to be up here. He took a breath and got off his bike. He walked up the steps and could hear something from within; voices? Two people?

He slowly opened the door and let it swing as it revealed an image that would bore into Michael's mind. Lay sprawled on all fours was Mister Ryan Clerkall, Dad's best friend, naked and panting as Michael's father f*cked him from behind. Both of them moaning and sweating vigorously. Gerald didn't notice his son watching him as he f*cked Ryan further and further. He felt guilt but he also felt something else, something deeper, something that that right. Ryan, in pure ecstasy turned his head to notice Michael who stared in complete rage. "Oh no!" he said before pulling off Gerald's dick. Gerald, infuriated with not being able to finish shot up. He turned to the doorway and stopped dead. For a moment father and son looked at each other, and Gerald, who was usually on the end of dishing out violence, felt like a child himself. A small child that had been caught doing something wrong. Michael spat onto the cabin and slammed the door shut on his father.

Hypocrisy

[cammi]

LUST


Michelle gripped the pistol for dear life, more bangs came from upstairs. A tear streamed down her smooth face out of her sexy blue eyes. Another bang came from the staircase. It was the top stair. She cautiously dashed to kitchen, she opened the large refrigerator door and crouched behind it. Now it was the lower stair. And again. A few seconds after, a darkly dressed man appeared in the pitch black dining room.

A torch beam searched the room, so did the man. He yanked drawers out and opened all of the cupboards. Michelle was unaware what he was looking for. Suddenly, he lifted his balaclava from his face. Michelle knew who is was, her ex-boyfriend, Damian Ghost. She wanted to stay still but her feet started to ache, she tumbled to the floor. In a state of confusion, Damian dropped his torch and slowly walked to the kitchen. He saw Michelle.

She hobbled to the couch and Damian pinned her on it, she unbuttoned his shirt as he lifted her blouse off. The kissed violently, rough love they called it. It got a bit too rough, Damian pounced down and accidentally headbutted Michelle. She was knocked out, Damian climbed off her and continued searching the room. He took his passport off the TV stand. Michelle shouldn't have still had it, they were apart for almost a year. He carried Michelle and her passport out of the house and into his Chryster and to the airport.

"This is it baby, we have waited so long for this. Away from here, away from your parents. We can finally live our life how we want. You shouldn't have broke up with me, we could have done this earlier" Damian repeated.

Michelle let out a smile as she continued to listen to Damian's rambles.

This post has been edited by cammi on Thursday, Aug 2 2012, 19:12