Creative Writing Contest, April 2007

Title: Aisle 10


The upside of being called to clean up a mess on aisle 10 is that I am able to get away from this incredibly repetitive workflow of restocking groceries. Having this opportunity will allow my brain to wonder along my slow path passed aisles 1 through 9. My sanity is at stake in this hellhole – this zoo of a job is getting ridiculous. All that is about to change. I almost forgot I had eaten an eighth of shrooms 30 minutes ago – my trip was about to begin.

I had passed three aisles without spacing out completely. I then passed two Alligators picking up baby powder and other baby ‘gator accessories – I'm hoping they didn't hear me say that out loud. At that point they appeared taken back by my species assumption; it was then that I realized they were actually Crocodiles. I quickly ran away from the marsh they inhabited.

Passing aisles 4 and 5 gave me chills. A very belligerent mushroom kept asking me where I could find Tom Atos while sitting anxiously in the baby-seat in a shopping cart. I kept telling the crazy old fungus that I've never met the acquaintance of such a man and vowed never to speak of him again. I figured that the fungus was going crazy seeing as it was imprisoned in a sealed package among other prisoners of war.

With a quick glance into the remaining 4 aisles, I kept being snapped at by Crocodiles asking for assistance. It didn't help that I was slowly creeping aimlessly in and out of the Croc infested aisles – staring down the beasts as they gawked at me. I was not going to stay in their aura for long; nor answer their crazy questions.

The exit of aisle 9 showed me the way, or rather Curtis did, as I got in an argument with the last lobster in the tank of death. Luckily I have connections with the seafood department. That lobster will not get away with making fun of my job title. Now my mopping equipment is ready for use.

A giraffe had made the mess. It was disturbing though apologetic and cooperative, despite being caught spying on our seafood department. I think the shit-talking lobster caught its eye as well.

Right next to the tall creature was a lake of purple glowing goo – I didn't even want to ask what it is. Nor does the long necked fool have much of an expression on his face either. As the commanding officer in the area my first priority was to quickly quarantine the area.

In light of the situation, the gentle beast had showed no threat to the crocodile population. Though it was fun to hold a diplomatic meeting with the outsider, it made me realize that I was only the peon in this fucked up kingdom of food.

As the giraffe offered his last apologies I shook my head and traveled towards my inevitable destiny. I quickly waltzed toward the back of the store ducking and dodging the crocs along the way. I started power walking once I caught sight of the troll in charge of this crazy operation. He quickly took a disliking to my presence. I then reminisced of the last 10 minutes and it made an impact on me. My journey allowed me to recollect my hate for this sloppily coordinated food source. Before he had opened his mouth I fed him a selection of words that would intrigue myself for the rest of the day - “I can't work in this zoo.”

It's funny, I remember working at a grocery store.

Title:Close Your Eyes
Close your eyes. Now, imagine a floating sphere sending colors flying in all directions like some sort of giant, alien disco ball, bisected down the middle and splitting like the chasm of a great fault line with a giant multicolored tongue protruding from the center, lapping like a limp flag in the breeze at some invisible lollipop set against a background of rolling rainbow static sine wave-hills. The sphere sprouts arms and legs and begins to rampage against the landscape, wrecking the inner corridor of the path between your eyelids and your brain. Now open your eyes and see the tree in front of the car growing tendrils out from its branches, leaves shapeshifting in and out of focus, materializing vividly and slowly fadi-

BUT WAIT! the laughter overcomes your thoughts, shaking your entire body to the ground like Keanu Reeves in a crazy spiraling wire-action windmill, neurons firing fast like bullets from an angry Agent Smith as you merge into the chair, sliding slowly into a serene hallucinogenic silence as your mind finds peace in the simple safety of the LCD clock on the dashboard.

It's 1AM, and the moon is full.
Time to go mushroom hunting.

Title: Deliberations

It is always raining nowadays in the heart of the city. Streets become rivers. From the street, lights are often only visible on the storeys below one hundred. Well above, in the places only the wealthy tread, either skies are dark or the tops of clouds span the horizon.
On the hundred and fiftieth floor of the Wilfred / Hauser building, there is a boardroom with an oblong table and thirteen chairs. Twelve are occupied. In this place, my name does not matter, I am third. Across from me is Alexander, Second, who wears a dark Italian suit, black Italian shoes and has a clean crew cut. Next to him is Clara, Fourth, wearing a blue suit and simple black shores; her short red hair is dyed to contrast her black eyes. Where is First? I have heard him called both Frederick and Sebastian. Average height and build. And here is First-a plain grey suit, plan black shoes, a plan face.
Thirteen seats now filled.
-“Today we talk of killing a man. Is that the consensus?”
Thirteen hands are raised.
-“Let’s get on to specifics then.” The word is that Second came from an accounting firm. It is obvious anyway from his mannerisms. “When?”
-“As soon as possible.” Fourth is impatient.
-“Consensus?”
Thirteen hands.
-“How?” The way of things has always interested me.
-“I doubt this needs to look like suicide.” Second feigns lack of interest.
-“Hired gun or in-house operative?” The ranks attempt to sound intelligent by asking obvious questions.
-“In house.” Second always takes the more cost-effective route/
-“Consensus?”
Twelve hands. Fourth’s is not among them.
Quizzical glances provoke a response. –“In-house operatives are of value, and used only for important tasks.”
-“And you think this task unimportant?” Contempt is rich in Second’s voice.
-“Not entirely so, but it should be kept quiet. Hired guns are disposable”
-“But on-house operatives are proven successful, and quick to dispatch.”
-“In-house is the better choice.” Second picks sides only after the battle is decided.
-“Consensus?”
Thirteen hands.
-“Where?”
-“That depends where the target goes.” He has never lost the habit of the ranks.
-“I believe that the consensus is Here.” Fourth’s voice frosts the air.
-“Here?” Panic rises in his voice.
-“Consensus?”
Twelve hands. The fleeting noise of a silenced pistol answers for the last.
-“All numbers are increased by one.”
I am now Second, Clara is third. Truth is that his ignorance killed him, not the two of us.
-“We have a vacancy. Nominations for a thirteenth?”

Title: The Lament of Victor's Child

In the snow where I wake,
Blood is on my two hands.
Headless screams spill,
From dead promises now.

These deaths I disavow.
Though suicidal still,
Simply, none understand,
The bleak path I must take.

Haunting the new sunshine,
The silence is slaughtered.
Forcing up writhing wraiths,
From freezing mental graves.

It's their humor I crave -
The joy in their dead face.
A brief moment's falter,
As fire sweeps the pine.

Tortured flames are blazing,
In all of their horror.
Silencing the desires,
Of my bleeding heart.

And so I do depart;
Away with scalding fires.
I may have been a monster,
But at least I was something.

Context: What I'm submitting is a short passage written in the perspective of Roger Chillingworth, the main antagonist of Hawthorne's novel The Scarlet Letter. It's basically some of his thoughts. It is based on something that he said to Hester Prynne: "Let the black flower blossom as it may."

Title:I Know Not


I know not if it was seen within a dream or a trance. I have no recollection of whether it was a phantasmal hallucination or an unearthly omen. Nevertheless, it is clear in my mind. I have, without a doubt, seen the Black Flower.
Oh, how eerily beautiful it accentuated itself from its surroundings, and yet how terribly pernicious its existence was! Its demonic petals sprouted, superior to its stygian sepals, which protruded from the peduncle. The jet-black stem strategically placed the flower head in an ideal position. Burgeoning roots draw nutrients and water not from the soil, but from neighboring vegetation. The Black Flower feeds off of the life force of other plants with its parasitic strands!
Surrounding the majestic pistil in a geometric fashion is the contrastingly vile stamen, composed of bleak anthers and filaments. These tendrils of agony gracefully beckoned to the weary traveler; he is unsuspectingly lured to his doom at the hands of, not the stamen, but its seductive sister, the pistil. Ask not how I know, but the pistil's secretions of gaseous asphyxiating toxins are the Black Flower's favored weapons. Such idolization the traveler expresses for this floret of the infernal furnace, but he has not a single idea why, or of its power, its influence over his mind. I speculate that I was not at its mercy because it had directed its dreaded dominance over its ill-fated victim.
Yet with such a potent concentration of evil, how could the Black Flower be as elegant as God's angels and as magnificent as a peacock's tail? It not only looked honorable and virtuous, but I felt its honor and its virtue. I loved the Black Flower, but not as the traveler loved it. I knew its ways and its disposition. I sympathized with its antics and its morals. I linked myself to it with a spiritual connection. Let the Black Flower blossom as it may! For am I such a flower?

Title: Reprise

Thoughts are swirling in my head -
Am I living, am I dead?
Voices, voices, screaming at me,
Is this what they call insanity?

I broke myself to fill this cast
Left by my ancestors past.
Only to realize, eventually,
All I ever wanted was to be free.

Enlightened by my mistake,
I tore my bonds, with resolve none could shake.
To satisfy only myself was my new goal,
Little did I know of the final toll.

The path of temptation has ended;
My state is not what I intended.
I would sell my soul to feel,
Be it love or cold bite of steel.

All the women I loved have left
Leaving me broken and bereft.
Friends? They are long gone.
Will I never see another dawn?

How meaningless this world has become
When all my desires add to this final sum:
Instead of yearning to live, to fly,
I step into the abyss and say good-bye.

Title:Caffeine and a Computer


I can't stand peace and quiet. Noise, commotion -- it keeps my mind busy. It dulls the senses, keeps me from noticing the things I would otherwise. And that's a good thing, because there's something wrong with my house. Something lives there with me.

Too many late nights I'd just like to forget. Pushing two, three, even four A.M., trying to get that last bit of work finished, alone at the computer typing away, I'd remain there, “in the zone” as they say, hearing nothing but the constant click and clack of the keyboard. My fingers would be firing away, word after word, the speed of a machine gun. Then I'd stop, briefly, thinking what to type next. And I'd lose my focus. And suddenly I'd realize how peculiarly quiet this night was.

Really quiet. Quiet, and cold too. It shouldn't be this cold, I'd tell myself. It's July. It's not cold. Not cold at all, no… but somebody's watching. Why is it so quiet? Why do I feel so god damn cold? It's late, it's so quiet, cold and dark, and--

There's someone in the room. Somebody in here with me. Somebody's watching me from the corner, behind the fireplace. From the shadows. But then I'd stop everything. I'd take a deep breath, turn on all the lights, and look around. The room's empty, idiot. What the hell were you thinking?

I started to get that feeling a bit too often, so I went to a psychologist. Paranoia, he said. Could be an early sign of schizophrenia, but is probably just a side effect of all the caffeine. I drink a lot of coffee, you see. Lots and lots. It keeps me productive. That's why I have all those late nights. I guess there's some merit in what he said, but…

If it's those few extra cups of coffee that are giving me the ability to really perceive what's going on around me -- to catch a glimpse of that dark shadow as it drifts by the corner of my eye, to hear those faint, muttering footsteps behind me in the dark, to feel the icy breeze of something breathing down on the back of my neck when I don't dare turn around and face what's behind me -- then no, that's not what I call paranoia. That's a heightened state of awareness.

So now, working those long, caffeinated nights, I always try to keep the TV on, or listen to some music, or something -- anything to distract me, anything to break the silence. I hate silence. It's in the silence that I become fully aware of what I hope is only my imagination playing tricks on me.

There comes a time, though, every late night, when I need to shut everything off and go to sleep. And on those especially cold, dark, quiet nights, when I click the button on my monitor and it snaps off, I pray to God that I won't see, in the screen's reflection, anyone's face staring back at me but my own.

Title:One

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
The cross hung loosely around his neck, draped across the blood-encrusted breastplate of his thick metal uniform. Brightly golden, it contrasted sharply with the rusty, dirt-stained standard-issue outfit of his sector.

He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters.
He grimly surveyed the landscape. It was barren, desolate, devoid of life. The ground weathered a network of cracks and holes; the sky was ashen, downcast.
He stepped forward, one foot irresolutely dragging after the other as monstrous, ragged cliffs loomed up on either side of him.
He stepped forward, listlessly, into the lifeless valley.

He restores my soul.
He struggled through a torrent of memories - they were the guardians of Korhal. They were the defenders of humanity. They had conquered the shadows and liberated nations. But all that filled his thoughts were the penetrating stares of lifeless eyes and the mutilated bodies of fallen comrades, their bones carved into the rocky landscape. And the salty taste of dried blood. And the whites of ribs and thighs thrust by sudden impact through flimsy armor ... And the hellish screams.
He stepped forward, one step closer to salvation.

He guides me in paths of righteousness, for His name's sake.
He walked slowly through the cracked, dried valley floor. And then, he heard it. A hum.
It was like a low buzzing sound, barely perceptible, but deeply penetrating - to the very depths of his bones. He shivered involuntarily; the cross chimed lightly against his armor.
He heard it again, buzzing more urgently, with greater intensity, enveloping his entire being. He shook, the hum vibrating the very core of his body. He clasped his ears, desperately trying to escape the sound.
But it grew ... louder. Louder.
He yelled, screamed, tried to drown out the noise. But still the hum prevailed over his hoarse outbursts.
LOUDER.
And then, far in the distance, he saw It. An amorphous blood-red structure, its tentacles sprawled haphazardly, feeding off the barren landscape. Its veins throbbed incessantly; it seemed to pulsate like a grotesque heart. Could it be the source of the sound? The demonic hum?
Suddenly, it hit him – it wasn't a hum. It was a voice. A deep, soothing voice pleading to him, calling out his name.
"Jim...JIM...."
He looked around wildly, but the voice only grew.
"Jim...JIM...."
He cried out and clutched his throat. He beat his head and slammed the ground. But the voice grew louder still. And harsher, more shrill. And more urgent.
"JIM...JIM...."
He tried to run and hide, tried to escape the damnable chant. But he was rooted in place as the hideous voice consumed his senses. And the voice grew in a head-throbbing crescendo. It was an ear-splitting scream, beat into his skull, rushing loudly through his temporal lobes.
"JIM...JIM...."
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.
The cliffs suddenly swarmed with flood of alien creatures waiting for the floodgate to be lifted. The whole valley seemed to be chanting the hideous keen.
"JIM..."JIM..."
The cross swung wildly around his neck, its chimes lost amidst the tumultuous onslaught of deep, grating alien screams.
"JIM..."JIM..."
His body contorted wildly in painful spasms. He desperately thrust out his hand to grab the last departing slivers of his sanity. And he screamed – the horrendous, deafening scream of one whose soul is torn apart from the body.
And the aliens leapt upon their helpless prey.
"JIM!"
The cross fell and shattered.
Then, there was silence.

For You are with me.

-- Psalm 23

Title: Veni, Vidi, Vici

Congratulations Penn, you're the prince of a sport that is desperately trying to justify its own existence. Starcraft is an overblown spectacle, and you just became its drum major.

Disregarding his misgivings, Penn forced a grin and awkwardly hoisted the dingy plastic trophy and the oversized check above his unkempt hair. The sizeable audience that packed the cramped studio politely cheered on the new junior champion; meanwhile, a few despondent individuals who did not care much for niceties pushed their way towards the exits. Unruffled, Penn soaked the spectacle in as a dank breeze tastefully garnished the triumph and adoration. Surveying the crowd, he could make out a ridiculous banner that had his face photoshopped on a Roman Emperor. "Veni, Vidi, Vici," he muttered as the unceasing chain of camera flashes peppered him with blinding light. "That's rich."


~


"Looks like a wonderful player has come up, eh Remy?" Seth turned from the television screen to a lanky teenager who was quietly observing a dormant green beetle on a nearby windowsill.

"He just won one tournament, Seth."

Seth frowned. "He didn't just win Remy. He dismantled last year's undefeated junior champion in less than an hour. Give the guy some credit."

Remy tapped the pane lightly to aggravate the beetle. Much to the boy's disappointment, the oblivious bug continued its carefree slumber. Remy sat up and reached for the remote next to him.

"I know Penn has talent. He's aggressive, cunning, and prodigiously fast." Remy browsed through an onscreen menu and enabled subtitles. "But it's obvious that he doesn't care much for the game."

Seth stared at the black ribbons of white letters that lurched across the bottom of the screen. "So you think he'll just burn himself out before even competing professionally? Those are some pessimistic words from a current title holder."

Remy thoughtfully put his hands behind his head. "I hope he proves me wrong, but talent alone only gets you so far." Both watched bemusedly as the young boy onscreen fumbled for words in his speech to the crowd. The word "champion" never appeared once in the subtitles.


~


The quiet van ride home was a welcome relief for the newly christened junior champion. Penn massaged his trembling wrist as he looked out the window. The reprieve from the prolonged concentration and the thrill of conquest resulted in an euphoric lull that caused the young boy to lean his head back and close his eyes.

Now what? You want to make a career out of this charade?

Away from the cacophony of autographs and photographs, Penn could entertain his brooding thoughts. A pro-gamer had a very limited career, and future stability was traded for a shot at money and dubious fame. It was hardly the lifestyle suitable for a diligent young high school student.

The deluge of urban lights gave way to rhythmic splashes of street lamps as the van made its way out of the heart of the city into the residential areas.

Penn, it's only a game. You're lucky that you got paid for something so silly.

The crescendoing squeal of worn break pads and the gruff voice of the driver alerted Penn that he arrived home. With a nod of thanks, Penn exited the van and stepped out into the crisp night air. The streetlights cast an orange hue into the deep purple winter sky, and Penn made his way to a nearby bench. He watched the van drive off in a bustle of smoke and steam, and delicately reached into his pocket for the trophy.

It felt lukewarm in his grasp. The faux-gold that plated the plastic star hardly glimmered, and there was a sense of disappointment in holding such a lightweight accolade. It was just too easy to hold; it was too complacent.

Penn always imagined the glass trophies awarded to the professionals would be frigid to the touch. The night air would surely chill the trophy to an uncomfortable temperature, and one would have to gingerly cradle the corners of the base to ensure that the prize wouldn't slip through sweaty fingers. The award had a sense of life and fight to it, resisting the owner who held it. It signified the fickleness of the sport; victory was never mastered or assured.

Penn's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning around, he saw a young girl holding a stack of papers approaching his bench. Her dark brown hair bounced on her slim shoulders, and she wore a private school uniform.

Penn smiled and waved. "Hey Claire."

Claire smirked. "Congratulations on winning Penn." She stood next to the bench, and looked at the trophy. "You would think they'd give you something nicer for all the effort you put in."

Penn grinned. "They gave me some money so I'll forgive them. Do you have the chemistry notes from this week?"

"Yea. Good luck though, this material is dense." Handing the papers to Penn, Claire thoughtfully looked at Penn. "Will the teacher give you an extension for the midterm?"

"I don't know, we'll see. I don't think he'll accept being the champion of a computer game as a valid excuse."

Claire laughed. "If he does, then I'm going to tell him I'm the Solitaire champion and get an extension too."

They both chuckled in the dark. It was refreshing for Penn to finally talk to someone who was not enamored of the world of electronic sports. The streetlights seemed to sparkle in rhythm to their mirth, and a cool draft began to pick up. As the laughter slowly faded away, Penn looked over at Claire nonplussed.

"Wait, what is Solitaire?"

Title: His Broodling Romance


Trained to stand at attention in organized lines,
Torn by glave wurms, by zerglings, by hydralisk spines,
Plagued by loathsome defilers when things went amiss,
Saved by medics' restorative, sloppy-sweet kiss.

So much death! Whether led by a noob in campaign
Or neglected by oov or Berserker,
He had shuddered as buddies were cloven in twain
Friends no more, only snacks for a lurker.

Each engagement was slaughter, at best a retreat,
And he heard, whether crippled and fed through a tube,
Or by dropship withdrawn, or on blood-crusted feet:
"Kekeke, I am Kor, kekeke, you are noob!"

Leaders cared not a whit if he lived or he died -
They'd just macro some more. His importance denied,
He had hijacked a dropship to flee far away
With his squad and his favorite medic one day.

They had feared a decree from the dread UED
That would pay for their heads. In their panic,
They had woven a path through galactic debris
To a planet most hot and volcanic.

Disembarking on Char, they had wandered aside
(Else his fellow marines would for blowjobs implore).
Here their romance would blossom, he'd make her his bride,
Safe from Zerg, far away from the mocking of Kor.

But not all would be well in their blissful embrace.
Blood was pouring all over her beauteous face,
Half her torso exploded, and in her demise,
Two insatiable broodlings sprang out of her thighs.

He looked upward and noticed the queen, high aloft,
Full of rage and of bloodthirsty malice.
Stim wouldn't work, and his rifle went flaccid and soft
Like a geezer bereft of Cialis.

He was covered by buddies, the broodlings were slain.
He was weeping; no prospect of love lay in store.
In the meantime, the queen fled to higher terrain
As it hissed, "Kekeke, you are noob, I am Kor!"

Title: Momentum

There was once a man named Momentum,
Who traveled wherever his whims sent him.
Across the seas, and around the world.
And over mountains his weight was hurled.

He went so far and so fast on a race around the Earth.
That eventually it started to roll beneath his girth.
The planet spun as Momentum ran away.
And that's why it's still spinning even today

Momentum shifted strides from time to time.
Whenever he tired of his same old line.
Eventually Momentum slowed, and he suddenly tripped.
And Away from the Earth his feet were ripped.

And all of a sudden Momentum was lost.
And all of a sudden his tireless muscles were cross.
"We're sick of taking you everywhere," was their silent scream.
And so Momentum tired and beaten, lay down to lie and dream.

And in his dream Momentum met Inspiration
And together they sparked something called Motivation.
And with life in their steps, and grace in their stride.
Motivation and Momentum went ahead side by side.

Title: Cold October Evening

"Hello and welcome. Can I start the two of you off with some drinks?"

The husband smiles at me and takes off his finely cut jacket. "No, thanks. Maybe some wine for dinner, but we'll just start with water for now."

"Very good, sir. May I interest you in some Pellegrino or Panna this evening?"

"You wouldn't happen to have any Perrier, would you?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. But we do have some good old Eau de Municipal."

The wife's ears perk up. "What's Eau de Municipal?" she asks.

"The waiter's just being funny, Brienne," the husband says. "It's tap water."

"Oh, that's cute!" The wife giggles. "Eau de Municipal. You make it sound like it comes from France."

Part of becoming a waiter is learning to sigh inwardly. Ten years of practice. I'm a master. Kazuo Ishiguro's Stevens would be proud. I smile. The husband says, "Tap water will be fine, waiter."

I come back with the water, read off the specials, and take their order to the kitchen. Another couple comes in. We've had these two a couple times before. Before the husband's suit even touches the seat, he snaps, "Waiter! Where's our bread?"

I force a smile and come back quickly with the bread. "Can I start the two of you off with some drinks?"

"Water."

"Very good, sir. May I interest you in some Pell-"

The wife interrupts. "Just get us our water and be quick about it. Tap with lemon will be fine."

"Very good. Two glasses of Eau de Municipal coming up."

The husband looks at me sharply. Under his metallic hair, I can see his mind deliberating whether to admit his ignorance and inquire after this new and unfamiliar term. The wife relieves him of his consternation, asking, "What? What's that?"

"Tap water, madam." And I add, "And fortified with Prozac."

The husband looks at me aghast. "What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you hear about the drugs they found in our water supply? It's been all in the papers. Prozac, estrogen, anti-anxiety compounds."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, ma'am."

"I thought you were trying to be funny there."

"Never, sir."

"And we'll have a bottle of Pellegrino instead of the tap."

"Certainly, sir. Right away, sir."

As I'm getting the expensive H2O, Arya comes in. She nudges me. "I saw what you did there with the crank." Even in her brief stay here she's already waited on him more times than she'd like.

"What did I do?"

"You know just as well as I do you'd have to drink a couple million glasses of tap water before those chemicals actually have any effect on you."

I shrug. "Hey, the customer is always right."

She smiles at me, and I add, "…and I get 15% when he is."

She throws up her hands. "They want to blow their money on Pelle-crap-o, I'm not complaining. I don't feel sorry for that guy. Must be tough going through life like that, feeling so self-important."

"Way I see it, his wife is penance enough for him."

Arya takes a quick drink of water herself, from the tap. I smirk at her. She laughs. "Don't look at me that way; you and I need all the Prozac we can get."



"Amen."

"Thanks again for foisting the Pellegrino on him. Watching that made my week."


Her words stick with me as I collect my money and depart. My feet are numb with pain, but I drop by a nearby convenience store for a cheap sandwich anyway. As I'm waiting in the checkout line, someone taps me on the back. A pretty, young blonde girl. She looks about 28 or 29. I wonder why she's trying to get my attention.

"Hi!" she says. "Remember me?"

Her face wanders through my memory for a while, searching for something to connect to. All of a sudden it comes to me. She used to work with me at the restaurant, eight years ago.

"Catelyn! I haven't seen you in forever. How's it been? What are you up to?"

"I'm doing great. I'm actually working on a Ph.D. now."

"Really? That's fantastic. What are you studying?"

"Philosophy. I'm defending my dissertation on nominalism in a week or so." She smiles. "You look really great. Have you been working out?"

"Uh huh. Thanks." I hand my sandwich to the cashier, and I'm smiling now, too. I pay for my food. This night is looking up.

"Ah, I still remember those days. Like the time I tripped over someone's baby while holding that huge tray?"

"Haha, yes, I remember that. I felt so sorry for you, everyone was angry and upset at you, and I thought to myself, she's just a poor college girl."

"I can't believe the things I had to go through." She pauses. "What about you? Where are you now?"

"Me? Ah, I'm still over at Cersei's."

"Really." Her smile suddenly flickers. As I realize why, my face begins to flush, again. "Wow," she says softly. "Has it been that long?"

"Yeah. Eight years." Part of becoming a man is learning to wince inwardly. Thirty-four years of practice.

She takes her change and forces another look at me, sympathy almost dripping from her eyes. "Well, I have to run. It was nice seeing you."

"Yeah, nice seeing you too."

We go our separate ways outside the shop. I think about Catelyn. How different our paths have been in the past eight years. She's doing her dissertation soon. The highlight of my week was swindling an old man into a bottle of Pellegrino. Anger (at her? At myself?) flares up within me.

It's a cold October evening, deep into autumn. My feet hurt with each step to my apartment. I catch my reflection in one of the store windows. He looks tired.

Title: War and Death


Tears of red flow down my cheek
Replacing tears of sorrow with that of anger

Clenched fists
Eyes full of hate
Looking forward at the oncoming storm
I look where what once stood has fallen
Where what once was full is now broken
When will this stop
This anger,
This hate?

I wish I could forgive
Those who trespass against us
But then once again
I look into the sky
And remember all the fallen
This hate I harbor will never leave

This war will never end
In life only two things are eternal
War and death

Title: Four-Leaf Clover


The child crept out of his cradle
The birds chirped at a dawn of a new day
The foundations of the house were laid and mighty they stood
The Irises opened their buds under the breeze of the gentle wind

A young bird leapt away from its nest at the heat of the blazing sun
A house was built under the tarnished soil
A sunflower has grown and has faced the luminous sun
A slight wind of heart has come

The winds of change came and erased what was done
The house was rebuilt stronger than ever before but nevertheless fragile
The bird has become two but one in heart built by hardships
The once flower became an anchored tree

The rain came and ravaged the eroded house
The once bewitching flowers withered under the might of nature
The lonely bird laid dead in the snow without any trace or sound
The wheel of life goes on…

Title: Dying Embers


Sparkling Fire
Keeping away the dark
Like a Moth I feel drawn to you
Hovering in the space between shadow and light
Not even this glorious flame can last forever
Slowly I get closer and closer
The diminishing of such a beauty is heartbreaking
As the fire is reduced to embers I get too close
My wings catch ablaze
Plummeting into the darkness I fall
Left on the ground like a worm
all I do is stare at the flame,
My light,
Dying along side me
Powerless
At last we're together
It isn't so bad

Title: I Love Teamliquid

I love teamliquid with a deep burning passion. It engulfs me and lets me say things I would normally say only when urinating. Which reminds me, I really like urinating.

Take the other day for example. When I was pissing at school I was yelling stuff at my penis. I yell things like, "You stupid cunt! Bring your n00b ass over here and piss like a MAN!!!" at my penis. It makes me feel big until I find I can't get an erection, then I stop yelling and the erections come back. My psychologist says its a condition, but I like doing it.

Anyways, back to my pissing, I was yelling at it when a guy came in. He was about 4 feet tall, 80 lbs.

"Damn fucker's looking at me strange." I thought, "Better go mess up his face."

"Hey fucker," I yelled at him as he tried to go piss in the urinal all the way on the other side of the washroom, "You think you can look at me funny and get away with it you little shit?"

I wasn't done pissing, but I still turned.

"Yea, that's what I'm yelling at. What the fuck you think you're doing looking at me wierd? You think you're better than me you fucking punk?" I said while making a two fingered gun with my left hand, pointing at my penis, urine spilling over the floor.

"No man, please," he said hurriedly as I walked over to him, "Chill." He was apparently trying to hurry his pissing at get out of there because I frightened him. He knew I was going to beat the shit out of him for looking at me funny. I could see it all over his face. He was a coward for not turning to face me right then and there, a coward for not pissing all over the floor.

I took a knife out of my pocket and held it to his penis. He didn't dare face me, the insignificant turd was trying to turn away from me as I held the knife over his penis, sifting it through his tiny pubes.

"Ya like eggs, Timmy?" I asked. His piss was really jetting out into the urinal.

I put my penis back into my pants and did up my fly.

His piss started to die down. I cut into the top of his penis; very slowly it went in. I could feel the moisture of the blood that was coming out on my hand though none of it actually touched me.

"Oh fuck," he uttered turning and jerking away.

"Ya want AIDS, little boy?" I asked as I cut my palm open. I walked to the closed window where he was hiding, back facing me, whimpering with pain.

I walked behind him. I reached around his left side with a downwards cupping motion. I went to grab his small, almost undecended testicles. I could feel them in my hand, they were tiny. I clenched my hand tightly; a squeal of pain came from him, not unlike a pig which had just had its throat slit. There was blood slowly dripping from his penis, to his hands, to the ground.

It smelled good.

He tried to run- I tripped him.

He lay there on the ground, looking up at me in the same way you see a dog looking at you after you yell at it. I tensed the muscles in my left hand to collect a little blood in it.

"You like looking at men funny there Timmy?" I asked, not really wanting an answer.

He tried sliding himself away with his legs. The idiot was crying. He was in an almost fetal position, tightly holding his white, bloodstained boxers over his penis with both hands. I felt powerful.

I came closer and kicked him in the ribs. The same umph sounded as when you punch little kids or small animals. He flailed his legs at me. It was a pathetic attempt at defending himself, but what would you expect from a 14 year old boy who has barely reached puberty?

I caught both his legs under my right arm. Some of the blood pooling in my left hand poured over the side and was hanging like a cherry on the back. I clenched it into a fist to cover it in blood.

I jerked him so that he lay on his back and smiled at him. I kneeled on his chest and smeared the blood onto his face. I pried his mouth open and forced him to lick my palm. I leaned into his chest until I heard a snap.

When I removed my hand he was unconcious. I picked him up and placed his bloody face into the bottom of the urinal he was pissing in. I pulled his pants down to his ankles and placed two C size batteries into the sphyncter of his rear end.

As I left I heard the sound of the urinals all flushing and imagined the poor boy drowning because that was the urinal that didn't drain fast enough.



And that's why I love Teamliquidt- don't you?

Title:Wives in War



There was something about her husband when he came back from Iraq. Maybe it was just in Debbie's head though. Maybe it was just because of where they had to sleep.
A few weeks before he arrived there were Army aides from the psych ward that "briefed" her and other wives on what to expect. They sat around in a circle at the base school and it was like attending a PTA meeting. A young woman was dispassionate and professional:
"Your husband will have flashbacks."
"Don't worry about his anger."
"It's normal behavior."
The woman told them to let their husbands take their anger out. She said they shouldn't be surprised if their husbands knock them around. She said, Don't call us unless he actually chokes you. She said, You'll help the healing this way.
They sat around and exchanged ways to let their husbands blow off steam. Then the aides brought in little cartoons reading:
"LOOK FOR PSYCHOTIC EPISODES."
"HAS HE LOST INTEREST IN LIFE?"
"IS HE DRINKING TOO MUCH?"
They tried to figure out ways to be more alert, to be more wary, to baby-sit their husbands more professionally. Debbie thought it was a little like trading family recipes. The other wives thought it was just a practical joke.

The Veterans Affairs hospital was a depressing place. The doctor who greeted her at the hospital had a self-satisfied look, of smugness refined by those who think they know something of extreme importance.
"Good morning ma'am. After you see your husband, you must sign a few forms. We're going to do some tests, keep him around for a while, and we'll go from there."
"Tests?"
"What it is," he explained. "Your husband filled out a form when he returned from Iraq and after calculating his answers we didn't like what we saw."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we're going to do some tests."
"What's this form exactly? I don't see what there is to calculate," Debbie persisted.
"DD-2796. The basic Army form personnel are required to fill out when returning from combat zones," he said. "They check boxes that describe experiences."
"Experiences, right. And you run tests. What the hell is there to calculate?"
"We ask simple questions: ‘During such and such deployment, did you feel that you were in great danger of being killed?' Or: ‘Did you see anyone wounded, killed, or dead during this deployment? Did you kill anyone yourself? Women and children? Mark all that apply.' These kinds of questions."
"But there's nothing to calculate."
"Ma'am, I wish I had more time to explain, but I have patients waiting. Just please stop by the front desk."
He walked away clicking his pen.

When Debbie went to see David she kept recalling tips from the "brief." She tried to think of ways to calm him down if he got suddenly angry. The thing with war veterans is that you're not supposed to make any sudden movements if they go into one of those fifty-yard stares. You're supposed to sit still and wait for them to come out of it. If you move suddenly you could trigger something – they could try to kill you.
Debbie found David in his room staring at the latest CNN footage. He hadn't noticed her until she said his name.
He looked toward her and it was scary, his blank, "what-are-you-doing-here?" face.
"Debbie?"
"It's me and Michael. We came to stay the night."
David appeared to be searching his memory.
"You know, they're all over the TV."
"David, let's turn off the TV and talk to Michael. Don't you want to talk to your son?"
"No. I don't want to talk," David said. "I just want to watch TV so I know where they are."
"David, please. Let's turn it off."
"I said I don't want to fucking talk," David shouted.
Debbie hesitated, but she walked to the television and turned it off. The aides in the brief said she was going to have to be firm. Like she was going to take care of two kids now. David's face remained blank, like a statue she had once seen. Debbie said, "You don't have to yell honey."
David looked at her seriously. "I didn't yell."

They fell asleep to the sound of the television, Debbie in a chair and Michael on a blowup mattress.
Halfway through the night Debbie woke up to Michael sobbing. She looked toward his small body, which was curled up like a comma, drifting away from her in sleepy subconscious sorrow.
"Mikey, what's wrong honey? Come here baby."
He turned over and came to her soundlessly. Debbie saw that his face had become the very color and shape of sadness.
"I h-had a bad dream," Michael cried. He clutched her legs and every time he sobbed a great breath of air went through him in that huffing, reluctant way a child cries.
"Let's pray, Mikey." she said.
"I don't wanna pray," he said. "I had a bad dream," he repeated.
"What about?"
"Dad."
"What about him?"
"He's dead," Michael said at last.
"Of course he's not. He's right there," she said. "Why would you say such a nasty thing ?"
"Because it's true." There was neutrality in his voice that Debbie could not deny; she saw that he believed his dream.
"He's not dead Mikey. That's not a nice thing to say. I don't care what kind of dream you had."
Debbie took her son by his chin; they looked at David soundlessly together.
Michael broke away and murmured, "OK Mom."
"Let's get you to bed."
He crawled onto the mattress and when she leaned to kiss his face he turned over and said, "Goodnight Mom."
"You don't want to say your prayers?"
"No, I'm OK."
"But you might have another bad dream."
"No I won't. They're not real anyway."
Debbie stood there between her son and husband for a couple of minutes, watching the rhythm of their bodies as they slept and, before going to bed, said a prayer herself.