The Rag Man

The Rag Man

The truth is, I hadn't seen Cricket since January. The last I saw of her was a shadowy figure in the snow, illuminated in part by a frosted street lamp, her silhouette altered by that ridiculous, oversized coat.

You ever have the sort of nightmare that you can't seem to shake? You wake up with your stomach on empty protest, and the thin skin of your back is crawling like you've slept on a bed of roaches. The air feels like water. Even though the day might be bright and sunny, or even if you find a lucky penny in the grime, or get the perfect job you've been waiting your life for, or fall for a prostitute with a grasshopper tattooed between her shoulder blades, you still feel as though you're trapped in an endless nightmare. Makes you nervous, jumpy. Itchy, even.

I don't know what I was thinking. My boss handed me an envelope that Friday. "Go have some fun, yeah?" Funny how a thin slip of paper with some figures written on it can be your passport to adventure. Drugs, sex, whatever. Money can buy almost anything.

I read something like that once, back in my high school English class. My teacher was some beak-nosed, balding professor who didn't care about his students, and didn't care if we cared. He would just sit at his desk, watching us with eyes that might have once been as sharp as a hawk's, but at the time, they were dull and glazed, like he was on drugs. Maybe he was. I was. We used to sit at the back of the class and do lines of coke off the desks, the good desks that hadn't been scarred by years of graffiti. Made the class bearable.

The only thing I took out of that class was how to use words. Words have power, words are power. They can be used to manipulate people, to convince them you aren't who you really are, to convince the old lady at the cash register that you already paid for your coffee, or talking your way out of a traffic ticket with some arrogant pig. Words are the ultimate trick, better than the pranks we used to pull when we were kids, like Kevin down the street used to pull, until he grew up but never grew out of it. Last I heard, he was serving ten down at Riker's for conning the wrong people out of the wrong money, like the innocent child who wasn't so innocent after all.

I cashed the cheque and took the money right away. I never saved any of it, just spent within a week, maybe even within the day. Rent was overdue, the fridge was infested with stale food, the water and electricity had been cut for months. Didn't care. Short-term pleasures were all I cared about - liquid happiness coursing through my veins, and a warm, unfamiliar body against mine. I knew the stack of bills in my back pocket would be gone by the end of that night.

The nightmare starts when you turn against yourself. I sure as hell didn't realize it when my words turned on me. Words can be used to convince people of a lot of shit, but no one is immune. It creeps up on you, slowly, before you even realize it's there. Imagine there's something creeping just outside the corner of your eyes. It moves when you turn your head, so it always stays where you can't see it. It's there, staring at the vulnerable area just below your ribcage, or the base of your neck, pawing closer and closer until it's almost on top of you, and you don't even realize it until its hot breath is on the back of your neck, its hands sliding down the front of your chest, it lets out a steamy moan, and maybe it even has a stylized insect sketched in purple ink in the crook of its back.

My point is, it's really easy to trick yourself. Day after day, in the dark basement of an apartment building, between the cold washing machines and dust and grime, your tongue pressed deep into some girl's mouth, hers pressed against the side of your cheek. You tell yourself, "It's okay," and eventually, you come to believe it. Slowly, it creeps up on you. You don't even know it until the one morning when you wake up. Empty stomach, skin crawling. A living nightmare, and you're trapped inside wondering how you managed to get yourself into this mess, how you managed to screw things up so badly. And really, you can only blame yourself.

The club was packed that night. I dodged the bouncers at the door and slipped in through the back. Francis was already waiting for me inside, his eyes unfocused, with some girl hanging onto his arm with a death-grip. She would have fallen down otherwise. The flashing lights and pounding music were hypnotic. Swirls of purple and blue. The girl looked at me like I was some sort of intruder. Her hair was greasy and her face was slick with sweat. Francis' eyes, on the other hand, were sharp as always, dark and hooded like he was tired, but alert and active.

"Ready to have some fun?" he asked, like he didn't know the answer. His eyes darted around the room, before he reached into his jacket and pulled out a tightly-wrapped, ragged bundle of toilet paper. At the same time, I reached into my back pocket, rifling through the thin wad of bills, the unfamiliar texture of money odd against my fingertips. Some people say money is the dirtiest thing we handle on a daily basis. It's covered in viruses and germs, traces of crack, fecal matter, and who knows what else. It's also dirty in the metaphysical sense of the word, covered in temptation and corruption and drugs and sex. I handed the stack to Francis as he handed me the sad, misshapen bundle. I wiped my hands on my pants, as the music thundered around me, a physical bass reverberation in my ribcage.

The real horror comes when you realize what you could have been. Unless you're an astronaut or a doctor or a fireman, you're probably not who you wanted to be when you were a kid. No child grows up with the goal of becoming a corporate investment banker, or a telemarketer packed into a cubicle. No ambitious kid with unlimited potential ever envisions himself being dragged out of a car, fucked out of his mind, and slammed onto the pavement with just enough force to clarify one thought - this isn't who I wanted to be.

I was standing in the middle of the club, trying to start the joint I had rolled up in the bathroom, trying but failing, the dancing bodies jostling me and making me fumble the lighter, until I lost it on the floor under the crowd. The smell of alcohol surrounded me, consumed me, mixed in with the tang of body odour and the subtle hint of cocaine. I patted my pockets with one hand for another light. Funny. With how often lighters get lost, you'd think we'd learn to keep a spare.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. A conscious, deliberate tap, not just a random bump in the crowd. "Need a light?"

I looked up and she was grinning. She was drunk, with a goofy look on her face, golden hair wild and tangled, her eyes unfocused. It took me a few seconds to notice she had a lighter in her hand, a cute one with some sort of flower design, a hippie-era novelty, but it worked and soon the familiar rush of chemicals flooded into my brain.

I remember that from a book I once read. Things have two types of energy, potential and kinetic. Potential is energy that hasn't been spent yet. You use up your potential making choices, like getting a job at a fast-food restaurant, or moving to a different city where the cops can't find you. Kids have unlimited potential, and as they make choices and grow up, depending on the validity of those choices, they either end up as wealthy businessmen with nice cars, or wrist-deep in some poor bitch who can't see straight because of the heroine coursing through her veins. When you use potential, you turn that energy into kinetic energy. Kinetic energy is what you get when you're moving. Eventually, you change all your potential into kinetic, and then you're like Steve, who chose to spend all his potential at once, falling from the roof of a building, speeding up without control of your direction, until you smack into the pavement below.

You don't even realize it until it's too late. Everything is connected. Words, energy, power. You wake up in the morning, and you realize all your potential is wasted, and you're moving uncontrollably towards a future you don't want to see like a runaway train, with your bloodshot eyes swimming from how many shots? and that you can't blame anyone for it - not your parents, they were never there - and you can't blame society, or the apathetic people who look at you like you're a shitstain on the tablecloth, or even the slender girl with the pretty eyes and the tattoo that lingers in your mind like she's been burned in.

She took my hand and led me off the dance floor. We were both sweaty, panting, but ecstatic and turned on. I followed her out, and her slender fingers pressed against my palm like small spots of fire. My vision was blurry, so I couldn't make it out at first, but she had something on her back, in the dip of her low-cut dress, dark and oddly shaped. I brushed it with the back of my free hand, and when it didn't come off, I pressed on it with my fingertips. Somewhere in my mind said, "Tattoo," and I repeated it dumbly out loud.

Winter

He lay his head down. The damp cardboard was ice-cold against his skin, although he had a full head of scraggly hair to keep him warm. The extra clothes he had taken from the hotel coatroom were already coated with a thin layer of frost, which seeped with ease through the thick nylon coats and leather jackets.

The skies were clear, and he watched his breath leave him in a plume of fog. As he inhaled, the cold sapped at his lungs like a knife, and he coughed wetly. The pneumonia was worse, but hospital fees were expensive, and medications didn't come easily without a prescription. There were some peddlers on the street, but there was a slim chance of finding any black market pills at this time of the year. Instead, he pulled the wet jackets close, tucking them under his body to keep the cold out.

A police siren blared, frighteningly close, and he pulled himself deeper into the alley's shadows. The wind whistled, drowning out the sounds as it howled through the narrow passage, biting at his face with cruel teeth. He pulled himself along with both hands numb in the snow, using the cardboard underneath him as a slide. The rancid smell of rotten food caught his nose as he passed a dumpster, full of the week's leftovers. There were some things not even the homeless would touch, unless it was a matter of life and death.

A sharp hiss caught his attention. By the restaurant's back door, a small porch light illuminated a wall vent, pouring a hot steam into the air. The dishwashers were probably running for the night. He pulled up close to the pipe, grateful for the warmth. Luckily, the pipe was unoccupied, and free for the night. He wrapped himself up as best he could, but the night air still nipped at his face and ankles. He closed his eyes and nodded off to a restless sleep.

The stars were out.

Save Yourself

I wrote this a while back. Short, depressingly dark, and different than my current state of mind. But it's still relevant and real.


It's a very sad world we live in,
Where people kill themselves,
Mothers smother their babies,
And families are torn apart.

Close to home though...
We're so happy in our world.
There's a lot of peace,
And beauty,
In all that we experience.
Or is there?
I'm not emo,
No doubt you might think so.
I'm merely realistic,
To the point of fatalism.
I like to take the truth,
Not lies.
And what I see...

It's so harsh when your friends
Whisper behind your back.
It's cold when the people you love
Hurt themselves in vain.
It's terrible to feel that deep
Jagged wound,
Straight into your very soul,
Stabbed in the back,
By the people you believed in.
You thought they would understand,
But they understood nothing.
You thought you understood,
But you understood nothing.
Ignorance is not innocence,
But Sin.
Yes, you might have loved me,
If you had known me.
If you'd have taken the time,
To walk through the deep rivers
Of my dreams and memories.
Yes, you might have...
But no, it's alright.
It was a dark river we were both
Swept down...
And it was either you or me,
One or the other would live.
But I'll let you know.
You chose to save yourself...
And I would have chose to save you too.

Alone

If I die before I wake,
My soul to lose, or is more at stake?
In my mind the crying masses
Touch my body as it passes.

And as it drops there's not a sound
Just a whisper as it hits the ground.
Words are passed, memories shared,
"He was so young, I wasn't prepared."

All my friends go home in tears,
and leave me be, beyond earthly fears.
But life is much more harsh than this:
Men die alone, no one last kiss.

No hand to hold, no one beside,
Just the emptiness they feel inside.
No one to mourn, no grave to mark,
Their resting place far in the dark.

As time goes on, they fade as well,
No memories on which to dwell.
Unremembered, and unrecalled,
Discarded, trashed and uninstalled.

A Tearful Death

The Visitor
Oct 19, 2006

He was waiting for her when she got home.

He sat in the dark, on time, merely counting the minutes until she would return. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the blackness of the room, and the only sound was that of the ticking clock, counting by the seconds and minutes until she would return.

And suddenly, the front door opened, letting light spill into the room, chasing away the shadows. He rose as she entered.

For a few minutes they stood and watched each other. She seemed shocked, but then again, most people were, even though they saw him coming.

After a while, she spoke.

"I've expected you for a while," she commented in a weak but conversational tone of voice, as if she were talking about the weather.

"I know." he replied.

"You look more... weary than I expected. Not at all like I thought you would."

"Appearances are misleading. The occupation isn't the most rewarding in the world." He motioned to a maple dining chair. "Would you like to take a seat, before we end this?"

"Thank you. But if you don't mind, I'd like to have a cup of warm tea first, then lie back in my bed while you do... your business." She shuffled slowly to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

"Oh no, thank you very much," he replied, "but I can only stay for so long."

"I understand." She placed her warm drink on the bedside table. Rubbing her thighs with her hands, she turned away from him. "It's a very cold night tonight."

"Yes, I know. I brought the car along instead of the horse."

"Is that a joke? I didn't know this was so funny," she said, but there was a deep resignation in her eyes, and a glint of humor about the situation.

"Well, life is what we make of it, is it not? Humor can be seen in anything, and in my... line of work, humor is a necessary function- we armor ourselves with it, to prevent despair."

"I suppose it is. I'm just glad this is turning out to be so easy. I was actually quite nervous, but now that you're here, I don't really mind at all. I suppose there's no turning back now either."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the ticking of the clock matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. Counting down the seconds, like a cruel Fortune, a despairing Fate.

"Do you have any questions before I do what I have to?" He moved from the shadows, took a seat in the chair opposite the bed, looking at her with his hands clasped.

"I... I do have one question..." She looked up at him with her eyes suddenly full of glistening tears.

"Yes?"

"Was it the drugs? Or just age? Or perhaps something else?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not the right person to tell you that. I'm here to do my business, and I'm passing through, just like everyone else."

She sat for a long while, without words, or movement. He sat equally as still and silent, waiting for an answer, a response, something.

Finally, she spoke.

"Are you going to kill me?" she said, her hands trembling as she reached for the cup.

He paused.

"You're already dead," He replied, touching her shoulder, and she was.

Taking the silk blankets, he tucked her in gently, closed her open eyes with tender love, and took the empty cup from her limp hands.

He pulled his hood over his head, picked up his scythe, and walked back into the streets.

The air outside was chilly. It matched the ice surrounding his heart, and the tingle of frost running down his spine.

He looked up at the full moon smiling down on him, and that was when the tears began to fall.

A Wrong Number

*Author's note: This is an older story, from about a year ago. It's the only 'non-disturbing' story I tried to write. I might have failed...


It was the middle of the night when he called.

"Hello?" Amelia said groggily.

"Hello? Who is this?" Came the reply. A man's voice. Deep, alluring, but that of a complete stranger.

"Uhm, you called me... it's four in the morning, who is this?" Amelia was annoyed. Wrong caller, she thought to herself, and prepared to hang up.

"Oh. Oh, sorry. I guess I got the wrong number. I'm really sorry for waking you up." The line went dead and Amelia slammed down the phone. Rolling over, she sighed and fell back asleep.

The next night, the phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"Oh. Sorry, I think I dialed the wrong number again."

"Oh, hi, it's you again. Yeah, I think you have the wrong number."

"Sorry. I'm just trying to call a shipping company to check my order, and the number is really similar to yours."

"No, it's okay. I was just sleeping." Maybe the man detected a bit of sarcasm in her voice, because he replied,

"Sorry."

And hung up.

The next night, the phone rang a third time.

"Will you get the number right?" Amelia blew up into the reciever.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, see, I have these big clumsy fingers and I can't seem to dial the number right... I'm sorry."

Sighing, Amelia flopped back onto her bed. "No, I'm sorry for shouting like that... the neighbours probably think I'm nuts."

The man chuckled. "Well, you can always let them know there's a man in your life... that'd drive any girl nuts, I think."

They both laughed. Amelia tilted her head and asked, "Hey. What's your name?"

"Danny. Danny Oxford. And you?"

"I'm Amelia. I'm not telling you my last name. You might be a pervert." Although she believed no such thing.

"Nice to meet you Amelia."

"Likewise."

"So, I formally apologize for calling you at this obscene hour." Amelia smiled at his tone of voice.

"I formally accept your apology."

"Well, then, goodnight Amelia."

"Goodnight Danny."

And they hung up.

The next night, the phone rang again.

"Hello Danny."

"Hey Amelia."

"Wrong number again?"

"Actually... this is gonna sound weird, but bear with me."

"Okay..."

"I just sorta... wanted to hear your voice."

"Uhm. Really?"

"Yeah. Even though I don't really know you."

Amelia was touched. Not many guys would admit something like that. "Well Danny, I'm 23 years old... I live in a small apartment building. I work for a telephone company during the day and study at night. I want to be a marketing executive when I get my degree... my favourite colour is green and like all girls, I enjoy candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach."

"Wow, that's a lot to digest. As for me, you know my name, Danny Oxford. I'm 25 years old, I drive a broken down Prelude... I work in retail, for Winners... I live in California, and I have a pet dog."

"You live in California?!"

"Yeah, why?"

"So do I..."

"Oh. Probably because the shipping company is in Cali too."

"Oh right. Haha... I thought it might be fate."

"Yeah... haha. Anyways Amelia, it was nice talking to you... you sound like a really nice person."

"Hey Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"Call me during the day."

"Oh. Oh! Sure, sure. Talk to you tomorrow Amelia."

"Goodnight, Danny."

The next night, the phone rang again.

"Danny?"

"Ohmigosh Amelia, I'm so sorry. I tried to call you, but I was sorta nervous and I actually dialed the number for the shipping company..."

Amelia laughed. A clear, musical tinkling laugh.

Danny laughed too. "I love your laugh. Even though it's night, it seems to brighten my day."

"That makes no sense!"

"I know. I'm not a skilled wordsmith, haha."

"Yeah..."

"So Amelia... I was just wondering. Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Nope. I didn't have that much time for one. and now that I do... well, they're all taken."

"Haha... I don't have a girlfriend either. Well, I did. I broke up with her."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!"

"No, don't be. She was cheating on me with my cousin."

I'd never cheat on you, Amelia thought, then shook her head. What am I thinking? He's a complete stranger... and yet...

"Well, anyways, goodnight Amelia."

"Goodnight Danny."

"Sweet dreams."

"You too."

And they hung up.

The next night, the phone rang.

"Hey Amelia."

"Danny? Can you quit calling me at night?"

"Oh. Sorry."

"Haha, you have to stop saying that too. I stayed up tonight waiting for your call."

"Really?"

"...Yeah."

"Oh. I have a question."

"Shoot."

"Will you go out with me?"

Amelia sat for almost 10 seconds in open-mouthed shock before answering. "Danny, I hardly know you!"

"I know, but... hear me out okay?"

"Okay..."

"Well, when I called you that first night, it was a mistake, and so was the second night, but then I really started liking your voice and before I knew it, I had sorta, well, fallen in love with you, and I'm kinda embarrassed, but also kinda glad, cause I dunno-"

"Whoa, Danny, back up. You say you love me?"

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"You don't know me that well..."

"I can tell. Your voice, the way you speak. You can make me laugh. That's all that really matters."

"Uhm, then, I guess..." Amelia bit her lip.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Oh great! What time should we meet? And where?"

"Well, which Winners do you work at?"

"Uhm, the one near the McDonalds..."

"Beside the subway?"

"Yeah! Yeah, that's the one."

"Oh, okay, I'll meet you... at... how about that new Italian restaurant?"

"The East Side Mario's? At... say 7:00?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, sure, I'll meet you there."

"Goodnight Danny."

But he had already hung up.

The next day, Amelia put on a short black skirt and a white blouse. She slung her hangbag over her arm, applied her lipstick and perfume, and glanced in the mirror. [i]Not bad,[/i] she thought to herself. She skipped to her waiting car, ready for a date with her mystery man.

She turned up her radio, started the car and spun out of the driveway. She headed down the street towards the East Side Mario's, all the while thinking about Danny, his voice, and how he would look like.

Her cell phone rang. It was her friend Magda. "Hey Mag, what's up?"

"Hey Ammy, you sound bright and cheery. Let me guess, it's a man?"

"Ahahaha... you know me too well."

"Yeah, heh. So, who is it?"

"Oh, it's a secret..."

"Ooooooh! Mystery date!"

"Haha, yeah." Amelia swerved to avoid a speeding car.

"Hope you have fun then!"

"Okay, bye Mag." Amelia had hardly put the phone down when it rang again. "Hello?"

"Hey Amelia!"

"Danny! I was just on my way!"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I'm heading to the East Side Mario's..."

"No, I thought I was coming to pick you up! At the dock right?"

"I said meet there at Seven O' CLOCK! Not dock, haha."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, pretty sure..." Amelia eyed the oncoming traffic closely. One red car was swerving erratically. She began to change lanes, just in case.

"Oh. I guess I'll head back to the restaurant then."

"Yeah, I guess so. See you there."

As Amelia turned to put down her cell phone, the red car in the oncoming lane swerved to make a U-turn. Amelia looked up just in time to see the other driver look up too. After putting down his cell phone.

Through the windshield, they looked at each other. A red Prelude. His eyes were the perfect blue, but widened with terror, recognition, regret, love, and ultimate sorrow. And she knew her eyes must have looked the same.

Then they collided, in a shower of glass, sparks, flame, and the screech of twisted metal.

The Ninth Master

The Ninth Master
August 14, 2007

"He doesn't get out much, does he?"

"I don't know if he has any friends."

"I've never seen him even talk."

Jonas heard all their comments. The school hallways smelled the same as usual: cigarette smoke hazed the air, while the sharp scent of sweaty bodies clung to him like a living being. The comments would sound harsh, even if they did bother to keep their voices down, but Jonas continued to trudge through the littered corridors. There wasn't much interesting about the outside world nowadays. Not since he had found her.

Just this morning, he had whispered a quiet goodbye as she lay huddled under the sheets. Of course, she couldn't respond, but he felt her response in his heart. From the first day, he knew that everything else was a waste of time, and the only real thing was what she brought to him. And even as he passed under the doorway of his first class, he had her in his thoughts.

"Jonas, you're late again," the professor muttered. Jonas stared back blankly, until the older man looked away; it was their daily ritual, and neither of them really cared much anymore anyways. The teacher had become an annoyance, the student had become an oddity. Jonas' relationship with school could be compared to a fish's relationship to water. The fish lives in water because it has to, and even if it desired to, it could never leave without much struggle.

The teacher's voice drained like a unplugged sink as the day dragged on. Jonas found himself ever restless, fidgety and anxious. It was the same ritual every day, how he longed for the clock to tick by faster, for the sun to set sooner, and that every moment would bring him closer to her. Yes, it was true what his schoolmates had said. He had no friends, no human ones, at least. But as long as he had her, he would never be alone, never be unhappy, and the sharp words would bounce of his love for her.

And finally, the sharp twang of a school bell rang, signaling the end of another long, tedious day. The air filled with the sound of clashing desks, the rustle of schoolbags, and the muttered 'Goodbye sir," and "See you tomorrow, sir". Jonas packed up, and without a glance at his teacher or classmates, he walked out the door.

He went straight home. While others went to the mall, or hung out behind the school with drugs and cigarettes, Jonas pelted straight for his house, running all the way, even though his lungs crackled in protest and his brain pounded in response. Throwing open the door, he climbed the stairs on all fours, three at a time, ignoring his mother's calls, and slammed his bedroom door shut, locking it in once swift motion.

She was already there, waiting for him.

***

The next day, when Jonas woke up, he hopped out of bed and went straight to her, without bothering to turn on the lights. For five minutes, he basked in her warmth, taking her in like a seamless vision. He only stopped when he heard his mother calling, and then he knew it was time to go.

"Goodbye, love. I'll be back," Jonas whispered. He only spoke to her nowadays, so his voice had degraded into a harsh croak from lack of use. But he knew she didn't care, she didn't mind what his voice sounded like, only caring that he was there, and when he was away.

The ritual began again. Brushing his teeth, taking a shower, getting changed and eating breakfast. He did all this mechanically, because when he was away from her, his spark of life was gone, his soul was taken away, and nothing could compare to the emotions she aroused in him. He headed towards the school, once again a zombie, and arrived to the whispers and jeers of his ignorant schoolmates.

"You're late again, Jonas," the professor muttered, once again falling into the same, repetative routine. Jonas barely muttered a response, taking his usual seat at the middle of the class.

Balls of paper flew, whispers rebounded from student to student, and the teacher droned on and on, and all throughout, Jonas just kept an eye on his watch, every tick a crash in his heart, every moment bringing him closer. Then, as the last tick of the day snapped past the 60 minute mark, the bell clashed again, and the students jumped up in unison, grabbing bags and wayward pencils, and all heading out as one herd.

Jonas, again, dashed for home, his jacket trailing. He could see his house now, and in his house, his room, and in his room, he knew she waited. So he kept his eyes on the prize, and almost didn't notice as he bolted into the busy intersection, at least until the SUV came out of nowhere and broke both his legs at the knees.

***

Jonas awoke, in a brightly lit room. At first he couldn't figure out where he was. His mother was there, and one of his old friends from school, from far back when he actually had friends. He could feel a sharp pain in his lower body, and when he tried to stand, the pain came with such intesity as to make him gasp.

"No dear! Don't move!" his mother shouted, holding both his bandaged legs still. The sharp tang of anaesthetic hit his senses as he realized what had happened. Immediately, he knew, and struggled ever the more fiercely, until his mother called a doctor, and he felt the needle pierce his arm. Then, the world faded as he fell into darkness, his thoughts focused on only her.

It was a while later when he awoke. He knew, because the lights outside his window were darker, and the staff seemed a lot quieter. He turned over, and spotted his friend sitting in the dark. Dredging through his memory, he pulled up a name.

"John," Jonas croaked, his throat dry.

Instantly, John stood up and leaned over the hospital bed. "Hey Jonas. It's- It's been a while."

Unsure of what to do, Jonas tried to smile, but his face had forgotten how to, outside of her presence. Instead, he coughed uneasily, and John sat back down.

"You know, we missed you," John began, staring out the window as he tried to find words. "After you stopped hanging out with us, and just stayed at home all the time. I don't know what happened... we all assumed something bad, you know."

He turned to look at Jonas now, who almost felt a twinge of regret. But his mind quickly focused back on her, and he responded, "I- I had something-"

Jonas paused. His situation finally hit him. He couldn't walk back to the house, no matter how hard he wanted to. She was alone now, without him, and the thought was like a dagger in his mind. As he mulled over his options, his panic growing, he could only see one solution.

"John," Jonas rasped. "John- I know I haven't been the best friend. But, I need you to do something for me."

John leaned in, listening carefully. "We go way back. I'll do whatever you need, whatever you-"

"But," Jonas interrupted. "You can't tell anyone. Seriously. I'll give you 500 bucks to keep your mouth shut."

Looking shocked, John tried to protest. "Jonas, man, I'll do it for free, you keep your money, I-"

Jonas silenced him with a wave. "No, because if you do tell... I'll hunt you down, and I'll kill you. So the money is for my peace of mind, so I know you'll keep quiet about this."

He continued. "You need to go to my house. I have the keys here. Just go, when no one is around. Head for my room, and push the bed aside. There's a trapdoor no one else knows about. It leads down to one of the closed-off rooms, boarded up when we moved in. Go down there."

Jonas coughed. The medication was making him drowsy. With a last effort, he gasped, "Bring food. And water. Take care of her until I get back."

And then he fell back, fainted from strain and stress, while John looked on, with a look of astonishment on his face.

***

Jonas felt her shaking him, pushing at his shoulders like she had never done before. Then her face blurred, and she turned into John, who was shaking him, whispering something anxiously.

"Jonas! Jonas!"

"John, did- did you go?" Jonas looked up into John face, but the latter's expression was unreadable.

"Jonas. Who is she?" John's face was cold.

"I- I found her."

"How long has she been down there? How long have you been keeping her?" John's sharp questions were like daggers in Jonas' heart. He had never told anyone before, and if John decided to go to the police, or his mother...

Jonas swallowed hard. "It wasn't me. I... obtained her, a long time ago. I can't tell you where. I just feed her, and keep her down there, and whenever I feel the need to, I-I go down, and I... I play with her."

He burned with shame. He hadn't imagined it would be this way, with his old friend watching with such a harsh expression.

"So," John said with contempt. "She's your sex slave. You're just keeping her alive, like some living sex doll, for your own pleasure, and whenever you feel the urge, you go down there, into that tiny room, and you just fuck the hell out of her?"

"John," Jonas pleaded. "John, please."

"You can keep your 500."

"No! John, please, you- you can't tell anyone!"

A slow smile crossed over John's face. "No, I'm not going to tell anyone. But neither will you."

And with that, John pressed a pillow over Jonas' face, pushing down with all his strength. Jonas screamed, his mind going black from the lack of oxygen, but the sound was muffled by the cloth and feathers. He kicked, but that just sent a sharp sting of unbearable pain up his legs, and he screamed all the louder. But it was no use. His mind faded, his fingertips and legs going numb, and all he could think about was her.

And the last thing he heard was John's voice, deep in his ear. "She's mine now."

***

John pulled the pillow off Jonas' face. Now he looked calm, at rest, like how he used to look before he found her. He spent a moment looking at his old friend's body, and felt a twinge of remorse. None of this should have happened.

Then he opened the room door. "Doctor! come quick! Something's wrong!"

The lights flicked on as the nurses rushed in. The doctor arrived seconds later, and John stepped back to let him in. Within 5 minutes, the diagnosis was complete. Jonas has suffocated, most likely brought on by complications and blood loss. The bruises around his face were from the crash, and his inflamed windpipe was from the weeks and months of silence he had gone through. It was an accident.

John almost felt like crying for his friend, but his excitement was too great, and too fierce. Another few hours, and he would be back in that room, where she lay, trussed and tied, waiting for him.

***

It was dark. She knew that, and only that. She didn't know much anymore.

The creaks came from above, like thunder in her ears, and the light shining through the cracks rarely reached her milky-blind eyes anymore. Her wrists and ankles, rubbed raw and scarred from the thick ropes, moved imperceptibly across the dusty floor. Her mouth moved soundlesly beneath the gag; she had forgotten how to talk a long time ago.

And then, the door opened again, and like an animal, she winced, her legs tightening, preparing for the usual. But no, this time it was someone different. She could feel his hands, his voice in her ear, his tongue moving across her unresponsive body, and then she could feel him press between her legs,deep inside her.

No, she didn't know much anymore, her mind long broken, trained, brainwashed. But still, she let loose a scream of despair deep within the still-sane part of herself, a shriek that would never be heard, as she passed once again, and again, from one master to another.

Sacrifice

Sacrifice
May 28, 2007

Home in the Valley of Darkness.

Too many problems,
Not a day goes by,
Where I don't wish
People would just...
Get along.
So many people,
So many problems,
Not enough solutions.
What can I say? What can I do?
There's not much you can do
To put things to rights.
Yes, we try, but yes, we fail,
And honestly? I'm a little
Sick.
Sick of people doing things
Just for themselves.
Sick of the selfish nature,
The idea that
'Someone else can handle it'.
Sick of the apathy,
Ignorance,
Hypocrisy.
You can say, 'Let someone else
Handle it, just this once.'
But
Who else will do it?
Would you sacrifice yourself?
Would you die on a cross?
Be shot for justice?
Take a bullet for a stranger?
Would you hate life,
To make another's life better?
Where do we go from here?
Where do we go
From a world of Insanity?
To the other side of Despair?
Honor? Courage?
Outdated concepts?
Too many questions.
Too many problems.
Not enough solutions.

The Last

Jake stepped out of the hatch.

As far the eye could see: Destruction. The houses of men were reduced to rubble. Tines of lumber and metal thrust out of the ground like sharp spikes, and holes and craters littered the dry earth.

The air was dusted with a brown tinge, and the sun was blotted out by the thick black clouds. Everywhere was dark, and gray, and bleak.

"Hello?" Jake cried out. "Hey! Anyone out there?!"

The silence was the loudest sound. Not even the whisper of wind, or the rustling of leaves. In fact, the trees were all gone, as was any other living thing. Only Jake. Alone.

He lowered himself to the ground. The hatch stuck out of the ground like some sort of vile insect, the metal coating flaking in the harsh air. Rusted pieces fell to the ground like red snow. The sound of his shoes against the cold earth thundered like drumbeats through the hollows of the city.

As he walked, Jake remembered. The loud bang, the bright flash from outside the kitchen window. Ma dropping the onion she was mincing, father pushing him into the hatch, and then silence. Silence for the longest time, days upon days, until he finally gathered up the courage to open that door, the hatch to hell.

The wreckage of skyscrapers towered around him like vast alien structures, and the forms of ruined cars and vehicles came out of the mist-like dust. No bodies, no animals, no living being for miles and miles. No sound. It was a silent world: the silence of death.

Jake felt something touch his shoulder, and he ran for cover as rain poured down from the sky. Pools of water collected in the basins and craters of the earth as he ducked under the tilted edge of a skyscraper. Thunder crashed, and lightning streaked across the sky, heralds to death and destruction.

Jake huddled in the cold, cold world, pulling his coat close to his body. Alone, while the hiss of acid rain corroded and discolored the metal city. The overhang above his head creaked, and he shivered in fear and cold as the storm raged above.

A piece of metal made a decent cover as he headed out in the storm. With one hand, he held his coat closed, and with the other, he held the steel sheet above his hunched head. Rain slammed into the pane, pattering with a thousand hits as Jake made his way through the city.

The dust had subsided, by the acidic rain choked his lungs and blurred his vision. Thunder had deafened him, and lightning had blinded him. The smell of ozone filled the air as a bolt struck the wreckage of a distant tower.

Jake walked, and walked, not knowing what he was searching for. The rain drummed against his head and his feet matched the rhythm, as he plodded through the broken city. Eventually, his foot touched an edge, and he looked up.

The ocean. A distant horizon, and grey waters. Unpassable, lashing out with tongues of mist and spray in the violent storm, crashing against the shore with the clash of a thousand cymbals. A broken statue of justice and liberty, her crown and head long destroyed, and her book sunken, and her torch extinguised. Only her feet still stood, a testament to Ozymandias, and the horror of humanity.

Jake looked down. Rainwater collected at his feet as he bent over. He sobbed, and choked, as he reached out his hand. His fingers strained, his knees shaking, and tears running down his wet face. And then, at that instant, his life fled his body, the strain and shock greater than his body could withstand, tumbling him onto his side, his eyes wide-open and blank as the rain fell in pools around him.

At his fingertips, just out of his grasp, sat a single white rose, growing out of the broken concrete and pools of acid rain, shining in the grey world, under the black skies and weathered wreckage: a symbol of innocence gone awry - and a fitting memorial over the grave of mankind.

Cure

There was once a baby who was born with a terrible, deadly syndrome. It had a 100% fatality rate, and there was no cure the doctors could apply. He had it from birth, the doctors said, and that it had developed in his mother's womb when he was still in the embryonic state.

As the child grew up, he became aware of his state, and as all kids will do, he became curious. He constantly asked his parents many questions, most of which they did not have the answer to. But even as he grew older, the syndrome took its toll on him. He became more and more depressed, always searching for an answer, and not understanding.

Throughout his short years, he spent his time working, and playing, but never did he forget his questions. Why he was cursed with this, he did not know, but it felt like a cruel joke. He met people that were afflicted with similar syndromes and felt a connection with them. However, many of the others did not question themselves and never wondered 'Why me?' Eventually, he left those to discover his answers alone.

Slowly, the symptoms began to show. Over the years, his bones deteriorated, his speech slurred and his mind began to fade. His skin first became loose, then spotted with all sorts of blemishes. He had trouble walking and was eventually confined to a wheelchair, and soon after that, he began to constantly feel tired.

Even as the syndrome took its toll on his body, he continued to question it. He considered many answers, none of them satisfactory. There seemed to be no relief, no reason, and no end to the question... why? Furious, he cursed everything around him, he became enraged, and he refrained from speaking to those closest to him, convinced that they knew the answer and would not tell him.

And finally, one day, he died, his questions all unanswered, as the syndrome took its final grasp on his body and soul. Finally, cured... finally, rid of the disease we call 'life.'

Illusion

I once met an invisible girl.
She was unnoticable, like made of glass.
Her invisible hand reached out and touched my own.
She was clear, unseen to all except me.

To ask me to describe happiness?
It's like asking the rocks what it's like to fly.
Or to ask fish about deserts.
How can you describe what you have never felt?

I don't know how to seperate the two.
Those who have fed my distaste for humanity.
And those who as yet have not.
Can illusion meet reality?

She touched my arm, but I felt nothing.
And soon she was gone too,
Just a memory of what I could have had,
A memory of what could have been.

Sun will shine,
And moon will rise,
But we who walk under their light,
Are doomed to tread in darkness.

The Bad Ones

One more goddamn day,
Swimming in this pool of sharks,
Marked with blood,
Stained with sin,
Disturbed beyond all reason.

You will remain behind,
Power unrestrained,
Delivered unto death,
Pain, like crying in the dark,
And shivering in the cold outdoors.

Evil cannot cover its eyes,
Nor deafen its ears, or close its mouth.
Leave the weak, clear your mind,
Walk away from your memories,
And fall down by the forsaken air.

Close your eyes to this devastation,
Hold yourself now, never give in,
Look behind, the mass destruction,
Try to relate to your suffering,
Light your path beside your feet.

Hold me now, replicate love,
Give in to darkness,
Evil will conquer you,
And you will walk alone,
Trying to escape.

Cry, child, and let the bad ones take you away.

Flag

"We view flags with special reverence because they have historically served as symbols of the collective identity of those who fight under them, symbols proudly carried into battle at the forefront of attacking forces and waved to rally troops in disarray or retreat. The colors of a Civil War regiment embodied its honor, and the men chosen to bear them made up an elite. The post of flagbearer was deemed an appointment of great honor, and those who trooped regimental and national flags into battle were especially brave, for colors "drew lead like a magnet." A fallen bearer's banner would quickly be taken up by a fellow soldier, and many men willingly exposed themselves to enemy fire (often at the cost of their lives) rather than allow their regiments to suffer the dishonor of allowing their flags to touch the ground. Yet it was not the flag itself that was important so much as what it symbolized: that so long as the banner waved, at least one man from that regiment lived on, and thus the regiment itself continued to exist."


Flag
February 11, 2007


Bullets flayed the air around the soldiers as they dug themselves into the trench. The situation was hopeless. At least a hundred enemy soldiers, versus a small regiment caught by surprise. The base was captured, the enemy were ready and armed, and worst of all, the flag had fallen, signifying defeat and dishonor.

The soldiers contemplated their options. There weren't many. Die now in a last stand, or die later, slaughtered like pigs in a hole. There was an unspoken code between the soldiers in the trench. Die with honor, or die with shame.

"Jackson!" Private Tare cried, "Over the top!"

The remaining twenty-three soldiers all leapt over the edge of the furrow. The sound of explosive rounds filled the air. Ammunition instantly tore into a soldier, and he fell facedown into the dirt. Jackson screamed as a bullet clipped his helmet, luckily deflected by the plating. Clouds of dust flew into the air as the enemy traced long gouges into the earth. The sound was immense, tremendous, incredible.

The ground shook and splintered as the lead rounds pounded away, seeking the warm home of a human body. Private Birch fell as he was pummeled with metal slugs, and a group of soldiers dropped like screaming flies as a hand grenade made its arcing path to their position, going off with an enormous snap.

"Hold men! Hold the line! Don't let -" The incoming command was cut off by a violent scream as the chittering of bullets rained down on the officer. "AHGGGG!"

Men dropped as the metal pellets came racing like a storm from hell. The smell of gunpowder mingled with blood filled the air as dirt ploughed up in their faces. The men kept running, falling, dying.

Sweat dripped from Jackson's forehead as he reached the flag first. The fabric was torn, smeared with mud and dirt, pocked with bulletholes. With a groan, he pulled up with both arms. The enemy turned their sights on him, and a stray round clinked off his helmet as he ducked down low.

Soon, Tare and Slim joined him, screaming as they struggled to lift the heavy weight. Ammunition continued to storm around them, as more soldiers joined the effort. Enemy tracers found them, ripping soldiers with lead slugs, the flag dipping and swaying, only to be stopped by the stiff hands of the dead. The treeline offered minimal cover, as soldiers fell, and more came up, like waves lapping on a shore.

"AGHHHH!" James screamed as a bullet tore through his leg. Private Stax was killed instantly, not a moment to scream, as rounds punched through his neck, shaking him like a rag doll before he slumped into the dirt. The heavy flag swayed once again, before Tare propped it up with his body, covered in dirt, sweat and blood. Screams filled the air, as soldiers died without a chance to gasp.

Whistling filled the air as a sniper fired a round straight through Jackson's helmet, leaving a neat hole leaking blood. He fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut, as Tare sobbed, trying to dig the base of the flagpole into the muddy ground. Xavier put his weight into it, until the back of his uniform flew open as his chest exploded, a slug punching through his heart.

Soon, only 2 soldiers remained. Then a sharp crack, and only Tare was left, crouching, crying, covered in filth and blood and sweat, hanging onto the thin metal flagpole like a child to its mother. He looked up. The flag stood straight and tall, flapping in the wind; beaten, torn, defiled and broken... but still standing. He gave a tearful salute.

Then he was blown away in the next hailstorm of metal.

The Call

The Call
February 7, 2007

She was going to kill herself.

It was decided. Life was going so badly. School was a mess, and her social life was in the trash along with her broken dignity. Her friends had abandoned her, and her family was totally clueless. Even she didn't know who she was anymore. The bedsprings creaked as she sat back on the pink bedspread. She reached into the small, white pill box.

25 pills. Enough to cause a lethal overdose in an elephant. She tipped them out onto her hand, the split-colors tumbling out onto her pale palm. There they were, her gateway, her escape.

She plugged one into her mouth, chasing it down with another one, and a gulp of water. The drowsiness began to take effect. Her mind swirled with memories of her friends. Her family. Her life, her sadness, her despair all seemed to fade away at once...

She poked another one between her reddened lips. The capsule pushed past teeth, rolled across her tongue, and fell the unfathomable distance into her throat. She took another one.

Her eyes began to tear up. Thick salty drops fell onto her palm, and she tasted the tears with the next pill she swallowed. Her hands began to shake. Another one.

Another one. And one more. Each pill was harder to swallow. Her throat clogged with tears, her body shaking violently as she rocked herself back and forth with increasing rapidity.

One more would be a lethal overdose. The point of no return, the invisible line that seperated life from death. She looked at the pill. Her only chance to turn back.

She swallowed the pill.

The phone rang. At first, she thought it was her fading mind, her grip on the concious world slowly loosening its hold. But no, it was really the bedside phone, ringing away like Death's messenger. For whom the bells toll...

She sat, cross-legged in her loose nightgown, legs awkwardly and haphazardly slumped. The phone rang, and rang. It rang, until she could bear the tension no longer, and snatched the phone up.

With her quickly failing life, she whispered. "H-Hello?"

A burst of static squealed from the other end, and the soft buzz of a disconnected line met her ear. With a sob and a sigh, she turned to hang up the handset.

"zzzzzzDOzzNOz-AAAA-HELLO?" A voice screamed from within the phone.

"H-hello?" With the unexpected link of human contact, she was suddenly desperate to talk to someone, anyone, before she passed on. "Hel-Hello?"

"zzzzzISzzzDON'TzzzzNOzzzz" A voice emanated as if from inside a long tunnel. "zzzzzzzCALLzzzNOzzzAzz- DON'T DO IT! DON'T DO -"

And with that, the line died. She set the handset down by her side.

She sobbed, confused and scared, once again, a young girl. Then she picked up the phone. Tapping the disconnect switch, she dialled emergency services.

"He-Hello?" She whispered, her voice a mere shadow. "I- I took some pills, and- and I think I... I think I need some help..."

***


10 years later, she walked into her new apartment condo. Her boyfriend lugged the boxes behind as she set her handbag on the new countertop.

"Just set them down there. Thanks a bunch hon, I'm going to go snoop around." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before bounding upstairs.

The rooms were all empty, vacated by the previous owners. As she walked through the blank hallways, the children's room jumped out at her. If all went well, there would be someone to fill that spot in just a few years. She twisted the engagement ring on her finger anxiously.

There was also that other part of her too. She stood in the doorway of the kid's bedroom. For a second, she saw a younger version of herself, planted on a pink bed, dressed in a thin slip: gaunt, forsaken, ready to die. She shuddered, and the vision passed.

For years, she had always wondered about that mysterious call that had not only saved her life, but had given her a second chance. She had never told anyone about it, not even her closest friends. But she was ever grateful. Unspeakably so.

Passing into another room, she was surprised to see that not everything was gone. The previous owners had left an object in the middle of the room, attached to the wall by a thin cord. A single telephone, of the antique variety. Spin-dial, made of brass, very ornate and unique.

Playfully, she took a seat beside it. She admired the designs, the shapes and spirals, the hook of the handpiece and the rounded edges of the base. Then she picked it up and held it to her ear.

A soft voice came through the line. "H-Hello?"

An Act of Mercy

I've been having those dreams again.

It's Deja Vu all over again. Once again, we meet the enemy, and once again, he is us.

First to go, last to know. It's the way it's always been.

We don't shoot to kill. We shoot to survive.

Once I was walking down the lazy streets of urban Toronto when I stopped a movement out of the corner of my eye. A small flare of pink stood out from the side of the street, a tiny spot of color on an otherwise bleak pavement.

On a whim, I stopped and bent over. To my horror and eternal pity, a small featherless bird lay there, just out of the nest, crushed on the concrete. Its wings were broken and it took laboured breaths, struggling to survive in the cold of the autumn.

I looked above for the nest, but there weren't any nearby trees. I sumerised that the bird must have fled the nest on its 'first flight' and, unable to fly due to malnutrition, the wind, or other circumstances, it had landed here, in the middle of the technological forest, the urban jungle.

And I looked again at the small creature, this pitiful bundle of down and beady eyes. I knelt next to it, wondering how the numerous cats and dogs of the neighbourhood had not yet noticed this tasty morsel. I looked on helplessly, tried to see some way I could save it, but from even just a cursory glance I could see it was beyond rescue.

I looked down at my watch. 10:09. With a heavy heart I picked up the tiny creature, this godforsaken life, this tortured soul trapped in a broken body. I brought it with me, crossed the street, approached the train station. I ascended the steps, feeling the warm body through my fingers, the broken bones jutting out against the soft skin. And then, I reached the tracks. From the signs above, the train was due in another 3 minutes. I breathed a soft prayer through the cold air, and placed the bird on the tracks. Then I forced myself to walk away.

The next day when I went back, there was no trace of the bird. I pray it miraculously flew away, but to this day, the memory of that little bird still haunts me in my dreams.