Gentle Relection

Too many times, with too little effort, I found myself in the bed that wasn't mine. The danger of love is that everyone wants it. Like others, I also don't know what to do with it when I find it.

I have explored being alone, though my psyche doesn't provide for as much introversion as I would like. And so, like a buffoon, I put on the sharp looking self that provides a gracious smile and the simple joke. And I woo.

Or at least, I used to. And, assuredly as I am the same man I have been since I was a boy. I will be wooing again soon.

Though perhaps, not like before.

It has been five years since I allowed my heart to feel that complete trust. Not just because the woman that I loved was wonderful and it's hard to find. But because it was my fault that I lost her, and let her go, and gave no real fight to get her back.

And if I let myself truly feel that for another, the fear is that I would lose the fight for her. And fighting for love is something that I am no good at.

A dark sadness hits, but hope remains. Trusting that these fears are unjust, these dreams will come true. That though I am older, I am very young. I will always be young, eager, ambitious and kind. And I have now also become older, wiser, fearless and devout to myself.

A lighter sadness fulfills me most days now. A loss for loves not reached fully to their greatness, a hope for all those loves to have happiness, truly, without me. And despite the grief that it causes me. I look forward to the newest adventure.

One where I can bravely fight, for my own future, in all things.   

To Control the Past

I’ve come to the conclusion that existential crises, tend to happen to me only when I want to control time. When I want to go further into the future, or more often, when I want to control the past.
I’ve also realized that I go through existential crises whenever in a time of large change, specifically right now, is a change that leads to uncertainty in every aspect of my life.
Change makes me want to control time, and my inability to do so, makes me suffer a pretty severe existential crisis.
Feels better writing it down, since that’s what I should always be doing, more creatively I admit, but hey, it’s been a long couple of months for me.
The problem that I get when I have an existential crisis, and feel a need to control time, is that I keep on going further and further back into my life, and then I take a metaphorical tire iron to myself, beating the shit out of me for every mistake, past up opportunity, lie, theft, or broken heart(mine included) that I’ve left behind.
I know that I shouldn’t do that. I’ve never actually done anything all that bad. I have some minor consequences in my life that make it harder for me to think that I can accomplish the goals that I have set for myself in my life. I’m aware that I am not alone in this, the trick isn’t to overcome it, I think that that comes later. In a sense, I wish to embrace it, to allow my past to always be a part of me now, accept it, and then see if with that acceptance, I can use my past as a tool to overcome that which is blocking me. And I believe the thing that is blocking me, is fear of the uncertain future that lays ahead.
My mind uses the past on me, as a cheap justification for that fear.
I can’t be with people that I once loved. I can’t live where I once lived. I can live where I live now, I can do what I need to do for myself.
I’m going to hurt people along the way. At points I may lie, I may cheat, I may steal. I don’t know. I’m capable of all things human.
Because that’s what I am.
Human.

Tickets to the Rain

There was a rain, it was falling all over the city. And someone was selling tickets to it. And there was a line up that stretched for blocks, in the rain, for people to buy tickets.

People were waiting in line, patiently miserable as they were soaked up in the rain, because there was a sign all along the line that said in big, bold letters:

NO UMBRELLAS

So, in the line, that was in the rain, there was not one umbrella. And people waited for hours, for tickets to the rain.

Joel had been waiting for two and a half hours in the rain, and he was only about ten or fifteen minutes before he could buy his ticket. He was actually going to buy about three or four and go through the line and scalp the tickets for people that did not want to wait as long as he had for tickets to the rain.

He also could not wait to receive his own ticket to the rain. He was dreaming about it for the past month, as he knew most people had been. He knew that the line would be immense and he got up especially early to buy his ticket. But it seemed as if most of the city was thinking the exact same thing that he was. And he had arrived too late, and the line, had already formed a long expansive line, full of soaked sleeping bags, and soaked pillows. Because there was a giant sign that said in big, bold letters:

NO TENTS, NO TARPS

Underneath each sign, there was a warning, in smaller lettering that said:

Any violators will not be sold a ticket.

Conversation in the line was limited, in the downpour, to whispers about how much this was a cold, godawful rain. How they were miserable because of the rain, and how they couldn't wait to get their ticket to it. Usually it would be one person saying this, and then all those in ear shot would nod up and down in agreement.

Joel agreed with them, he was on of the ones that nodded his head up and down in agreement, he was never one of the ones to start a whisper. He was never one of the ones to start anything.

Joel was a small man, in stature, in health, in self-respect. He was small. He had a cough that never went away, and despite being so short, he still had a hunch that made him even smaller. He knew that he should stand tall, but after the forty years of hunching down, he would have to go see a specialist to straighten his back. He couldn't afford a specialist.

He couldn't afford one of those specialists because his self-respect was so small. And in order to keep it small, he would drink a lot of alcohol. He would drink it at bars to spend more money, and he would drink in bars so that people would have the opportunity to put him down. Which was easy, since in every way he was already so low to the ground.

That's why he was two and half hours late that morning for the line. He wanted to get up exactly two and half hours earlier, so that he could be one of the first in line.

If only I hadn't gotten drunk, I could have been here two and half hours earlier, and I wouldn't have had to wait so long in line!

For the entire time that he waited in line, that's all that he could think. That and how much he couldn't wait to get his ticket. He also couldn't wait to buy two or three, to make a couple extra bucks. He needed some money, he had spent too much at the bar last night, and now no longer had enough money to buy cigarettes. His hunch was extravagantly drooping in the rain because of all of this.

A couple of other people had been through the line in the past little bit, scalping tickets to people, for an extra fifty bucks. He figured that when he got his, he would only charge forty. That way people would not only buy them, but other people would hear that he was charging less, and think well of him for doing so.

He could see the booth now. A small table set up on the street, the police officers were guarding the man behind the table. He had a hat on, and a bright white tuxedo on. He was tanned and had a bright white smile that he gave to everyone who was buying tickets from him. He wasn't wet at all, because the table had a tarp over it.

Finally, Joel arrived to the front of the line. The police officers asked him for his identification, and he gave it them. Then they patted him down and searched his bag. They were stern and rude with him. They asked him what he was doing with a lighter, and when he responded by saying that he smoked. They asked him for his cigarettes, and when he didn't have any. They took his lighter from him.

Once Joel was there, the man in the hat and tuxedo extended his hand dramatically to him.

“Good day sir, in fact, great day! Sir. What is your name?” The bright white smile, hurt Joel's eyes as if it he were looking directly at the sun.

“Joel.” He mumbled.

“How many tickets Mister?”

“Three?”

“Three? But they're only one of you!” He eyed him with a sarcastic expression.

“My...sister, and her daughter, didn't want to wait in line.”

“Are they sick?”

“Yes?” He said as if it were a question, it was a long and high pitched tone.

“Well, okay then. Six hundred dollars then Mister.”

“Okay” And he gave the man six hundred dollars.

“What? No tip?” The man burst out laughing. Handing him three envelopes.

“Um”

“Next!” Exclaimed the man.

Joel was rushed off back into the rain. He was exceedingly happy. He ran to the back of the line, and immediately sold two of his tickets. Those around him thought kind things about the little man that didn't charge as much as he could have.

As Joel was walking in the rain, he had a small skip in his step. He pulled out the envelope and looked at his ticket, it had large bold printing:

ONE TICKET TO ENJOY THE RAIN

And he did.

I DID IT! www.twentyfourthousandwords.blogspot.com

You know what I did? I wrote 24 completely unique stories, all at least 1000 words in 24 hours!

I didn't pre write anything, I had no idea what I was going to write until I was writing it, and I finished with 4 minutes to spare!

Check it out at www.twentyfourthousandwords.blogspot.com

Apology, and Announcement

 I've been away for a while. I don't really know why, I don't have an answer to why I stopped for a bit, other than I did. And that's that. And I'm sorry if you were reading each one of my stories each day faithfully. I hope I don't have too many nameless, faceless readers in my life, that get a lot from these stories. I also hope that I do. Because, well, I want to be famous as a writer. Not overtly famous. I want to make enough money each year to get by, solely from writing. If you happen to read these and want me to write for you. Feel free to hire me. I am available, as it were.

There is a reason that I write this stuff, I love stories, I like to dig through experience and find things worth sharing, stories that have subtle and obvious metaphor, to allow for you to connect to. Because, in a sense, I connect to them as I write them. I like that I can connect to you, even if there is just one or two of you out there. I thank you, no matter what we are connected, no matter what we are friends.

I have a long road ahead of me, trying to figure out a story that has legs enough to complete a novel. Finding the time and the drive to do so as well. I hope that you are patient and faithful with me. I hope that you enjoy what I have to share.

I will be do something extreme in the next couple of days. Take it as my apology to any of my followers. I know that it is an apology for letting myself down.

I'm going to write twenty four, two page short stories, single spaced. In twenty four hours. And I'm going to film it. And then I'm going to condense that footage into a little documentary for all to see on the internet. Tell your friends. And here are the rules that I will be following.

No one can help me write, or edit them.

If I post one that doesn't quite fit the two page marker, it doesn't count. More specifically, that's one thousand words as a minimum. For each story.

If I post one that exceeds the two pages. Good for me. Still counts.

I am not allowed to write anything in advance. To be honest it will be impossible not to have one or two ideas that are sitting in my head. But they will not be on paper or document in advance, and I don't have even near to twenty four, so give me a break on that one. This will be verified by the filming and that I have friends that will be watching me very closely the whole time.

I will start at 8am on Monday, June 27th 2013. And I have until Tuesday, June 28th 2013.

This challenge is aptly named. Twenty Four Thousand.

Thank you for your time.

S.R. Conley

Take Care of This Tale

Take care of my tale for me. I shan't be able to tell it past this point. I am a lost man, and I am running out of the time to care for it.

I lived a full life, a life that can be summed up in a page is a full life to some, and it is a full life to me. I have no wisdom, for I am not wise. Wisdom was not a path that I searched for or took. I was frivolous in my activities, and as such, most of them are not worth recounting. I would not waste my time in remembering them, nor would I waste yours in forcing you to take what precious time you have, in listening.

When I was a young boy, I imagined quite a bit, I would play games of great imagination. My father was going to grow a garden and bought a giant pile of soil and put it in our front driveway. For weeks as the landscaping to prepare for the dirt to be laid out into a garden. The mound simply sat there. To a child of five years old. That pile was a mountain. It is with a fond memory that I share what we did with this pile of dirt. I had a plastic sword, and many a toy gun. All of which I buried in the pile. And a large group of us children would start at the other end of the street and run towards it and dig for our weapons, and then we would have a great battle.

The sword would be at the top. The sword was the most powerful weapon of them all. The child who had the sword was immune to all other weapons except for a knife that was buried in the pile as well. Inevitably, most times, the child with the sword would win. On occasion, however, the child with the knife, would perhaps have the skill to overcome the sword and strike down the child with the most powerful weapon. In that case, the child with the knife would have both weapons, and would become the ruler of that round of play. On a tiny mound of dirt, five year old children earned glory.

All my life I have spent each day, experiencing all that I could to experience. I have had many lovers, and spent many a night downing fine wines and ales from all over the world. I have learned languages and ate all types of meals designed by each and all culture of mankind. I have played all sport, board game, video game that was available to be played.

My whole life, I treated as if it was a game.

But now, I as tell this tale of my adventures, all I can think of is how amazing it would be to spend what remains of my measly savings on a pile of dirt.

Save, I don't think I have any friends to play with.

With the Sun on Her Back

With the sun on her back. She made the decision. It wasn't a like a spark of lightning, it wasn't a moment that she would remember for the rest of her life. It was a soft, subtle decision, to make a decisive action. That would change her, and the rest of her life forever. In the future though, when people asked her what made her this way. She would look back, and be completely unable to remember.

There is a force, inside of every human being, that drives us, to be who we are, no matter what, despite ourselves. The decision that she made, with the sun on her back, facing out over the ocean, was to forever embrace that force. To never deny it.

She thought to herself. From now on, whenever I am confronted with doubt. I will ask myself, 'What would I do? And then I will act accordingly, and deal with whatever comes my way.

She went home. She saw her husband, gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him that she was leaving. It wasn't him, well, it was kind of him. But it was her fault, she had never loved him. She had lied. She was sorry. There was a lot wrong with him, and there was a lot wrong with her. It wasn't that. It was just that sometimes, you don't love somebody. It's okay.

She went to an ATM and took out all of her money from each account, of which there were many. Loaded them up in her backpack. Walked to the airport and bought a ticket to Europe.

No one from her old life ever saw her again. She was always okay with that. She would say.

No one from my old life knew me anyways.

Sacrifice.

Sacrifice is an abstract concept. And, as a concept, it's helpful to imagine it as some type of road. A path of sacrifice, can lead to values, and lessons, that would be otherwise, unattainable. Nobility, can be earned, through a path of sacrifice. Honor, and self respect may be acquired. The longer, the path of sacrifice is, the more there is to be received in the end.

There's a catch though. Although you can hope, for the acquisition of these lessons and values. It's not guaranteed. In fact. The whole notion of abstract paths is a lie. Life isn't a road. It's life. Sacrifice can be required, sure, but there's not much gained through it. That's the point of sacrifice.  To lose something, to give to another and to receive nothing in return. Perhaps, you can gain some sense of satisfaction, or maybe somebody will be paying attention and congratulate you. If you're lucky.

This is what is going through my mind when we realized that the plane was going down. Sure, I mean, you always think to yourself 'women and children first'. However, in practice? It's a bit more difficult than that. I start thinking to myself. Five parachutes. Twenty passengers. Ten of which are women and children. 

I think they used to do the whole women and children first thing to keep on with the survival of the tribe or race or species. All things of which, I personally feel no allegiance to. Time is running out here. People are starting to panic. I'm not the pilot, I'm not responsible for this. I'm not going to die so that some complete strangers live. Am I?

Everything that I've ever seen, read or heard on this subject matter, is telling me, as a man, that I need to let them live, and allow myself to die. That's what I've been told. One of the kids might cure cancer or something. I'm not going to do that. My life is expendable, to save them.

Is it though? Would they even learn my name? They don't look like the kind of people that would learn my name. Besides, what the fuck is my name? My name isn't breathing in air, enjoying a cool wind in the sun. My name isn't alive. I am alive. I want to stay alive.

Why women first anyway? Isn't that kind of sexist? Are they more required than me? Aren't we all supposed to be equal? Kids sure, they're young. But the world has more women than it does men. So what the hell, right?

The pilots are putting on parachutes, children are crying. Men and women are screaming. I'm right beside a parachute. I could grab it and put it on and be free and alive.

Here's one thing that they always forget to tell you about sacrifice.

It's a choice.

The Boy.

It took us a while to get to this point. We traveled long, we traveled far. We made sacrifices. We lost more than we gained. Finally, we were there. We made it. Our travels had been worth it. For we were there. And the old man, was going to give us something that we needed, to make our lives better. We looked at each other with smiles on our face and waited for him to say something.

We were in his cabin, his cabin was confusing, because it wasn't nice at all. In any way, not even in an old wise way. There was a shocking amount of underwear hanging around. There were plates with molding food on them, and a lot of flies and other bugs, of types I had never seen, hanging around his place. He was dressed in a pink housecoat. Or at least, the patches that weren't brown from stains whose origins I choose not to speculate, were pink.

He took out a box. The box was filled with cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it with a match. And he sat in a old brown chair. We could see his junk hanging out. It was hard not to look. Then finally, after some scratching and adjusting. He spoke:

"I have a constant vision in my mind that haunts me. There is a boy, and he has long sandy hair, and a t-shirt and shorts on. He's caught in some type of storm. And, in truth, I do not know what kind of storm. The backround of my vision is an unnatural white. He's clutching his breast to a pole. He's miserable and alone. His hair looks fantastic in the wind. And that's all I see. Whenever I close my eyes, or if I just get lost in thought, this image comes to me over and over. I don't know what it means."

Then he politely asked us to leave.

We assumed that we wasted our time. That there was no wisdom there. We thought maybe we got the wrong cabin. He had just wasted our time.

Years later, my travel companion, whom I had not spoken to in as much time. Called me.

"Hey."

"Hi?"

"I was just wondering."

"Yeah?"

"When you close your eyes now. Or get lost in thought"

"I see the boy."

"Okay."

Hate.

There was so much hate in the air, it was hard to breathe.

Someone was manipulating someone, someone was accusing someone of something. Someone was purposefully doing it, while being completely unaware at how horrible the behavior was. Someone was so overcome with hate, anger and fear. That they didn't know that everyone around them was trying to love them. So she deemed the love that they gave her, inadequate and empty.

She thought that they were doing to her, what she was doing to them. When people are blinded by their hate, anger and fear, they only see themselves. When someone was kind, she waited for the catch, when none presented itself. She made one. She would spend days of manipulation in order to create one. She would make something out of nothing. Or she would take love, and talk about how selfish it is. Because, love makes you feel good.

So we're all hypocrites.

This writer wishes this was fiction. This writer wishes that this was just one person.

It's not just one person.

He hated himself so much, that there was no comprehension that he had value. That his value was not as quantifiable as others. That his value was his smile, his laughter and his joy. He didn't know his value because he never learned to express those things. Hate can lead to something that feels like power.

Hate is not a power, it's a force. It's a force that lives in all of us, that leads to an action of negative value. All actions of negative are pointless, because they go backwards instead of forward. They move against the goodness of the world. The actions of hate lead to more hate, hate has no point. So the actions are pointless.

That's why they hate, they are afraid of having a point. So they make sure that they don't. They hate. Hate keeps life, and lives pointless.

That's as far as this writer can understand it. That's as far as this writer is willing to try.

It's impossible to write too much about hate it seems. Since it's pointless, no matter what, whenever one tries to write about it. There is a realization that you're writing about nothing. There is no point. It's just hate. It's a waste of time.

Pink Elephants. A memory.

" I was reading something the other day, and they found an actual pink elephant!"

"No they didn't!"

"Yes they did! I read it in a magazine!"

"Which one?"

"Cosmo!"

I was clearly lying, but I was ten years old. So it was okay. I don't think that counts as a white lie, or a bad lie. Simply, a stupid lie. Serving no purpose, other than an exploration of the boundaries of what you can get away with in conversation.

I'm better at it now. But still, that kid had to go home and ask his mom if she read that there was a pink elephant is Cosmopolitan Magazine. That must have been a great talk for his mom.

"Mom, is it true they found a pink elephant?"

"No, who told you that honey? Pink elephants don't exist."

"A kid a school said he read it in Cosmo."

"They don't write about pink elephants in Cosmo honey."

"Oh, okay... Mom?"

"Yes?"

"What do they write about in Cosmo?"

Ha! I'm picturing the look on her face. Amazing.

I guess now you know what kind of kid I was. I miss those kinds of lies. The lies of adulthood tend to be so serious and believable.

Hard to navigate sometimes. You know?

I read somewhere recently that somebody hacked into a news network and reported a couple of explosions at the White House, where the President lives. It actually affected the stock market for the day.

The thing that I don't understand about it is; if you have the power to hack into a news network and report fake news. Why choose something something so horrible? I get that you're probably a special kind of asshole that probably has issues beyond my own understanding. But imagine the mass hysteria if CNN had reported the discovery of a pink elephant.

That probably would have stock market too.

What I am.

It's dark outside, because it is night time.

There is a chill to the night, but it does not bother me.

There is no wind.

I see shadows moving as I walk under the street lamp. The outline of a body.

As I continue to walk the shadow gets longer and longer, the darkness of it fades.

Slowly into nothingness.

Then, near the shoes, a new shadow begins. The shadow starts off so dark it seems alive.

Then it fades again, only to have a new one take its place.

From my sight, I can relate more of myself to the shadow, than I do to myself.

To me, a creature is moving along this street. Of which, I have no relation.

I am a glimpse of life. Only for a moment. Until I fade away.

I am not the creature.

The creature keeps moving, despite me, forcing me to move on.

To fade away and be replaced.

I don't have enough time, the creature is moving too fast.

But as I dissipate. I know what I am.

I am a shadow.

The Way of Things.

 In a small town in the north, there is a warm wind that blows through it every spring, and people will gather, and share in conversation what it is that they are looking forward to in their lives. Expecting parents will relax and look forward to the joy that will soon be in their lives. Children already with them, will run and play outside, imagining new worlds and dreams, never imagined before. New loves and old loves, will feel at peace with each other, refreshed and excited for the unknown future that will soon be a happy present. All because of the warm wind that comes with the change of the season. All of these things, and more, are known. And all of these things, and more, are expected.

It is the way of things.

This year though, there were no new loves, there were no expecting parents, there were no children running in the streets. There was nothing to imagine, there were no new worlds, or, the new worlds were too dark to imagine. The warm wind, blew it's warmth on the town. But, like a widow crying on her husbands coffin, it fell on deaf ears.

Somewhere far away from this place, for reasons beyond most of the residents understanding or appreciation. A small group of people made a mistake. Because of this mistake. The town was dying. There were no jobs, those that still had them could barely afford their modest hard working lives. And they didn't know what to do.

This had happened before, they had heard the stories, they had heard about the darkness that swept across their continent. They had seen the movies all about it. 

In remembering this time, some of the people knew that they had to band together, to work together, they had to form large communities, and work hard together to survive. To give, when there seemed that there was nothing else to give. To create a community of struggle, compassion, and understanding.

The last time this horrible type of mistake was made, they survived, the town survived. In the time of absolute darkness. Where there was no hope. The people shone at their brightest. Brighter than they ever had before, or ever have since.

This time when the troubles hit. Everyone seemed to gladly leave the town, give up on each other, and keep what was theirs. To share none of it. To give to no one. To make everyone fend for themselves.

Eighty years since the last one, the world had changed dramatically.

When the old man that spent his winter taking his tractor out and helping pull cars out of the ditch, lost his farm. He had nowhere to go. His family had long since moved to the city. No one in the town took him in, no one offered him a meal, let alone cash to be able to take a bus into the city. No one wanted to help him. No one felt that they could, or should.

When half of the teachers at the school were let go, they started a protest. No mothers or fathers came out in support. They were left in the cold, protesting an injustice, unheard, and uncared for. No one felt they could help them, no one thought that they should. They all had so much to worry about for themselves.

More and more people fell on dark times like this, more and more people were left on their own. To face, a dark world of loss, alone, with no home, dreams, or hope.

People forgot how the land was truly won. People forgot what really happened in order for so many, to have it so good. People forgot that those that stand alone, fall the easiest.

They forgot because, they were told to. People started calling each other lazy. Pointing fingers, and breading hate.

In towns across North America, there is a warm wind that blows through it every spring, people gather, but they don't talk. Expecting parents scowl at the behavior of others, afraid of the world that they are bringing new life into. Children, already with us, are no longer seen, and are especially not heard. They are inside, despite the warmth. They are imagining what they are told to. They are dreaming dreams that belong to someone else.  New loves, and old ones, will look at each other, doubtingly. Always afraid to lose each other, knowing that they could, at any moment. Afraid of a future unknown, that will become a present, despite themselves. All while a warm wind blows in. None of these things, and more, are known. And none of these things, and more, are expected.

It is the way of things.

Welcome to it Now. (Prequel to Making them Count, Sequel to A Bad Situation)

Kelly was down on the ground with the bag of our shit, ducking down like a pussy. What was he expecting Jacob to do? Not use the gun I bought him? We couldn't pay rent, did he think we could pay for the drugs? Come on man, think!

But he wasn't much of a thinker, he was just some skinny kid from suburbia that wanted to see the real world that he had been sheltered from.

Well, you're welcome to it now, you piece of shit.

Jacob was pretty scary though. I have to admit. Even I was freaking out at him. He looked like he really liked using that gun. Staring with that kind of creepy intense hatred.

He looked up at me after a minute though, because we were all, sort of frozen. Staring at the two guys, now just two bodies. He said:

“I've never done that before.”

So I kissed him. To make him feel better.

“It's got a real kick to it”

Fucking creepy.

Kelly was still on the ground, crying. He had no idea what was going on. We had to pick him up off the ground. He pissed himself. Pathetic. Then he just started screaming at Jacob.

You killed them, you killed them, you killed them...over and over. As if, we hadn't realized that he had killed them.

We got him in the car, and we went back home, mostly so that Kelly could shower off the piss smell. Maybe he could get back some dignity while in the shower too.

Jacob was cool a cucumber though, I hate to say, he was, he looked intense. Well, even more so, he always looked like an intense guy. Like he didn't want things to go badly, but he was always willing to act accordingly in any situation. No matter what. It was in his eyes. Steel, stark blue. I was staring at his face when he was killing those guys... it was the same look he had when he was laughing at something so hard that he lost control of himself.

In all honesty, I'm glad I peed before we left.

Jacob checked the news, but there wasn't going to be anything. Like, that only happens in shows. When they're creating a believable world, the real world doesn't care about two drug dealers getting shot.

Two hours later, we're all just sitting there. Jacob reloaded his gun and put it in his pants. We all had a bit of our new weed. I was giggling at the television, it's always so easy to tell they are actors faking it when you're high.

Kelly seemed to calm down a bit. A bit. But then he saw the flashing coming from the bag. A little red dot. He screamed at Jacob and me.

What the fuck is that?

As if we didn't all know.

A Bad Situation (Prequel to Making Them Count)

I was scared, because it was scary, so it made sense.

He brought a gun! I don't know why, but he had a gun. This wasn't the kind of operation that would require a gun, was it? I didn't think so, but then again, I've never done anything illegal. Either had he I bet, I bet he just brought one because he's seen movies and television.

I've never seen a gun in real life before, either had Sharon, but she was playing cool. I guess I was playing cool too. It's important to play cool, when someone has brought a gun, and is playfully pointing it at your face and saying bang bang bang.

Fuck, I'm even laughing. Fucking Jacob. I'm so uncomfortable right now.

I guess we need a gun in case our deal goes bad. But I thought we were just going to pick up like a couple pounds of weed and then sell it. What could possibly go wrong right? I mean, yeah, like, a lot. But not like, gun worthy shit right?

It made me uneasy, like maybe Jacob didn't have his share. Like maybe he was planning something else.

I told him to put the gun away, jokingly...nicely. It worked. I said that we were going to be late picking up our stuff.

The three of us are roommates. We've only been living together for like, a couple of weeks. When Jacob can't come up with rent. Either can Sharon. I'm fine, I have a job, not a good job, but a job. I can pay rent. That's when Sharon said that she knew some guys who wanted to sell a fuck ton of weed, and we needed to just buy it, and then we would sell it, and everything would be fine.

Money is money after all. Of course I agreed.

So yeah, now we're in a car. Jacob's I guess. Never saw it before. I'm realizing like, half way there, that it's probably stolen. I really wish I knew this guy better, but Sharon says he's cool. So he must be cool right? I know Sharon pretty well.

I fucking thought I did.

We pull in to the back alley. We get out of the car. We wait.

We waited for what felt like an hour. It probably wasn't, I was just really stressed out. I couldn't get it out of my head that like, maybe I was making a huge mistake. I know that if anyone who knew me growing up could see me now, they wouldn't be overly impressed.

But I had never really been that impressive.

A car pulled up. Two guys came out. I had a brown paper bag that was supposed to have to money in it. I walked up to them, said hello. They didn't say anything back. I gave them the bag. They gave me a black duffel bag. I walked away, with my back turned.

Just head towards the car, that's all I was thinking.

But that's when I heard the shots.

I dropped to the ground. I peed myself.

Not surprising.

*Authors Note – One more perspective to wrap up this story, coming up soon*

Non Fiction. Some thoughts and imaginings.

My favorite moments, have been the moments when I've been able to take a step back and feel as if I am floating through my life, outside looking in, and I can appreciate the love, dreams, hopes, and beauties that are comprised in it, allowing me to feel at peace. There is a sigh involved. My shoulders fall back and I am relaxed.

Maybe it was a song that made me feel this way. Maybe it was just a beautiful smell. Or boredom that shaped itself to bring me back to a charming memory.

In those moments I can laugh to myself and smile. Not even bothering to look around to see if anyone is looking. Just smiling and laughing.

I'm not the first person to write about this kind of moment, or feeling. I hope I am not the last. While somethings are redundant. I don't see how space battle after space battle. A group of rebel travelers trying to overthrow a king. Detailed descriptions of horrible living conditions in some places of the world. The struggles for love, peace and respect are more unique, and more worthy of our attention and writing than that of happiness and love. Tragedy is great. All life has tragedy. Most life has happiness. But the reminder that we all share, every now and then, the moments of appreciation and happiness, can never be redundant, if those other subjects aren't considered to be as well.

Back to the moment, perhaps you already know it. It's imagining yourself on a beach (Which in my personal experience has always been better than actually being on a beach) and hearing ocean waves, calming and breathing and feeling alive. Basking in wonderment, allowing each wave to overcome you, because despite knowing why they wave, that doesn't take away their power.

Sometimes, I can get a little silly with my imagination to get me to that place. I'll imagine giving and alien a hug. The spaceship comes down, and they say greetings, and I hug them, and give them all the love that I have in this world to offer. And the alien creature and I run skipping down a boardwalk.

Sometimes I'll imagine bunny rabbits dressed up like people, walking along a rainbow road. Trying to act like people, but it's hard. Because they are rabbits. They're having fun trying though. They aren't dressed up like real people. They're dressed up in nineteen twenties dress. Like The Great Gatsby.

 Always puts a smile on my face.

UNTITLED

There is a soft hand touching my back. It's gently moving up and down, on it's way up I can feel the blunt part of the finger tips. On it's way down, it's nothing but skin. I wonder, which way I prefer. I can't decide which one is better. I hope, that these sensations will continue long enough for me to decide, and longer still for me to enjoy my knowledge of the preferred.

There is a breath in my ear, it says I Love You. The touch hasn't stopped. God, if you look upon me now know that Samurai have killed themselves for less. This moment can never be repeated. This pure joy and ecstasy can't last. I might as well stop after this moment. Nothing will top it. I'm in love, and there is no tomorrow.

Passion is to suffer, to suffer is to live. A life without passion is no life at all.

Don't take me back to the old moments. Don't push me back in to a world that doesn't hold on to this. Don't. Please, I need this.

Passion is to suffer, to suffer is to live. 

I'm not alive without this. I wasn't alive before this.

I'm meant to live without it.

Making Them Count

There was a shattering explosion and we knew that there was nothing we could do. Panicking did nothing. There was going to be nothing but pain soon. The three of us, were about to go down.

I wanted to react, I wanted to do more than panic. I wanted it to be over quickly. I had the means of making it happen too. They were going to be coming in from all sides. I knew I had no time, the room was no longer a room, it was a war zone. There was no exit or cover, they were going to come in, and try to arrest me. I wasn't about to let them. I was about to let them shoot me.

They were looking for a reason, I was going to give them one.

I had a gun. I'm not much of a gun guy. Never respected them much. Never though too much about them. I'd fired this one a couple of times in a back alley. Taking care of some business. It was a six shooter. It had a hell of a kick.

I took it out while I was diving down from the explosion. All panic left my body, all I could do was aim. The first cop came in, I fired and he went flying back. Into a couple of his buddies. They were trying to sound serious. But I could tell they were excited. Who wasn't? I guess Kelly. Kelly was crying with his hands up behind is head. On his knees. In the way. A cop was approaching him.

I didn't want any of us to last. I shot Kelly in the head and the bullet passed right through into the cops groin.

Longest thirty seconds of my life. I had no idea how I was still alive. Four shots left. Making them count was all that mattered.

Sharon was screaming at the top of her lungs, and a cop was dragging her by the hair, her feet were fighting. A loud crack came from my hand and the flailing feet stopped moving. Another crack and the cop didn't have a hand to hold her corpse with anymore. His scream was worse than hers.

Two shots left.

I was never a violent man. The sight of all the blood was starting to hit. I had no idea how I was still alive. Clearly people were shooting at me. How was I not down?

I tried to get up. I couldn't. I looked down. Most of the blood I think I was seeing was pretty clearly mine.

Good. They got me.

They were staying back. The cop with no hand was moaning. So I shot him.

One shot left.

There was that fucking stupid ceramic pig that Sharon had bought for me. That fucking piggy bank that I had to pretend to like but hated. The cops were clearly waiting for me to bleed out or something. Somehow that fucking pig had survived all the chaos. I wasn't about to go out knowing it was still there. The fucking eye sore.

Empty.














*Author's Note - A less violent prequel will come up at some point. Hope you enjoyed this though.*

Trip to the Bathroom

A translucent film was slipping like a cloud over her vision, making everything seem as if it was underwater. Her perception was joyous to the change. She looked at her hand and they seemed almost cartoonish. Rounder, and smoother. Less flawed and less real. She giggled on the mattress. And scratched at the bed bugs.

She was forgetting where she was. The walls were blank and bare, their color and texture was oppressive. She needed to pee. She needed to find a bathroom. She needed to find the door out of the room. She needed to stand up. She needed to make sure that she was wearing clothes, because she didn't know who or what was on the other side of the door. The door that needed to be found. She needed to find pants at the very least. There were no pants. She needed to find a sheet. There was no sheet, other then the kind with elastic on the corners. It smelt bad. She wore it anyways. She needed to find the door. She found a closet. She found the door. The air was different. She stepped out of the room.

It was a hallway. To her left was a full wall mirror. It showed her. In her sheet. She looked at her face and it started to mold and become different. It was fascinating. Her cheeks were becoming dark black holes, and yet for some reason they weren't sucking in her eyes. Her skin was raising and shifting, as if the texture of her matter had become fluid, and something was throwing tiny sand pebbles into her one at a time. It grew more and more uncomfortable when she realized she couldn't control it. It wasn't enjoyable. She needed to turn away. She turned away. She was in a hallway.

There was carpet now, on her bare feet, and it wasn't nice. It had long fibers that should have felt warm and comforting, but instead they were hard and brittle. They stabbed at her feet. When she looked at it, it was rushing like a wave, telling her to get out. Telling her she needed to be away. She walked into the bathroom. It was a door. It was a door to the left, she knew that. That's how she was able to find it without thinking. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror and turned off the light. She peed in the dark.

In the dark, shapes came out of sound. The sound of her breath. The sound of her passing water. The echos her noises created from the walls. The walls were responding to her. They were rejecting her. All of her, they didn't want to it. They didn't want to absorb her. She couldn't blame them. She was a weird monkey. They were walls. They didn't have too much in common. She giggled at her thought, and her eyes adjusted to see her hands. She like her hands, they were closer and further away than they had ever been before.

She loved the darkness. As long as she could see her hands.

Zeus

The amber lights coming off the building were barely luminous in the cold dark winter storm. It was the kind of imagery that could remind one of the end of the world. Yet, it didn't stop over a hundred cars from lining up their way through the driveway, into the parking lot. Patiently slipping and sliding. Never honking. They made their way there, to see the boys play the game.

They weren't the brave ones, the ones in cars. But the kids that had to walk to meet up with friends, not a long walk for most. Maybe fifteen minutes tops. In a cold blizzard an eternity. But friends were waiting, and game was about to start. So kids walked silently in the dark. Trudging through slowly, in the deep snow covered short cuts. They made their way there, to see the boys play the game.

For some of the kids who were new to the town. It came, as a bit of a shock, that the boys would be so celebrated in this backwards, small town, for basketball. It didn't seem to fit with the stereotypes. It would seem more likely that football, or baseball, or hockey would be received with crazed passion. That these would be the games that hundreds of people would show up to, to watch. Not basketball. The new kids didn't realize yet, that if there was a sport being played, that was traditionally considered to be a man's sport; the town was going to show up.

It was that kind of town. So boring, the life blood of the town depends and thrives on the performance of any sport played by a small group of sixteen year old boys. Value of character for everyone is measured, judged, rewarded and punished by the proximity, enthusiasm and envy that is showed for the boys who play the game.

They were sixteen year old gods. Some of the players were good old boys, who didn't see it that way. Others took the glory that they received, willingly and gladly, inherently knowing that this wonderful time, like all things; would end. But there was the one, there was always one. The leader, the Zeus, of the group.

He was great at each sport. Football, he was the star receiver. Baseball, he was the star hitter. He casually played track and won each event. He was star forward for his hockey team. For him, his future only seemed to have the problem of deciding which scholarship was he going to take? Football? Baseball? Basketball? The future seemed bright and unlimited.

Except, no one in town had ever seen any scouts. There was always talk about how, surely, scouts were going to be coming to pick up "our" boy. Take him to the big leagues. They would get him a scholarship and he would head off and make his town proud. Make his school proud. It wasn't any pressure for him. He believed them, he believed that he was just naturally going to make it all happen. He had so far, he had no reason to think otherwise.

He won the game in the blizzard. He won most of the games. Even when the team didn't win, he did. He always won. He won that year, and the next. And when it came time for school to end, and for the group of kids to move on, that's when it dawned on him. No scout had taken him. No scholarship was headed his way. He wouldn't be playing university sports of any type.

 In fact, he wouldn't be going to university at all. After the summer, it seemed that he disappeared. The town didn't wonder about him. This happened to most of their star athletes, they all left town. Never to be seen again. No one really knew why.

Eight years later, he was heard from again. In a small town not too far from his old one. Working as a bouncer at the pub. He was bigger than ever, clearly not naturally. He had a boy of his own, kid was four years old. Already playing catch like a champ, at least as far as he could tell, every second weekend.

Back in the town.The amber lights coming off the building were barely luminous in the cold dark winter storm. It was the kind of imagery that could remind one of the end of the world. Yet, it didn't stop over a hundred cars from lining up their way through the driveway, into the parking lot. Patiently slipping and sliding. Never honking. They made their way there, to see the boys play the game.