ADMIN: Regular Season Over

Alright, folks, the tallies are in...

Good sportmanship awards to Glen and Travis, who were the only ones who didn't make the playoffs who posted a story this week. Cudos to you two!

Now, here's how we proceed:

Myself and Dan get the week off since we got the #1 seeds.

In Red Division:
JONATHAN vs. ANDREW

In White Division:
AARON vs. MITCHELL

Let's open voting up for anyone who's not in the playoffs. For those of us in the playoffs, we can vote on games not in our division like usual.
Nevertheless, please keep voting everybody!

It's the final countdown.

& then...

He'd crossed a line that he thought was impossible for him to cross. He wasn't sure there was any going back. He was so distraught that he'd forgotten. 

Discovering El Rostro

     Pedro was six when he first believed in the Christ. His salvation was permanent and secret. Sister Rosa was more abusive than ever this time of year. He imagined she may have lost her own little one and put her grief into the strap that he and his brother Paco were at fault for straying beneath. When Paco died of cholera he was told this was God's punishment for a mischievous and seldom silent youth. Pedro was fortunate to determine this false, for he had made Rosa's lies a point of study and indeed the character of God was not consistent with such precision wrathfulness. 

    Another twelve kilometers and he might have spent a simple life amidst the loving family of sheep herders found in Jimenez del Teul. However he was a young boy with more instinct than intellect and his nose led him along a path less travelled. There were no phones and telegraph was reserved for important news, so after a short sweep of the grounds and a mile ride by Father Manuel he would be pursued no longer by any organized efforts.

    It was the holy scriptures of course that brought him safely along and demanded a boy of six be equipped to live in wilderness for the same number of months. He would read nightly by flint inspired candlelight the stories so mature and so earnest that he could only grow by decades no longer years. His focus became wisdom not the unproved wishing of a society forgetting its intentional purpose and the marks borne from creator's brand. 

    These Hebrews and their clear misbehaving he understood better than any child his age. His prayers became a chance for those who'd harmed him to find relief for their daily woes and for Pedro a days bite too for he had no reason to believe manna from heaven was a singular phenomenon.

    Soon Pedro came upon a man of sixty caught in wire, his own heart forcing death upon him as he bled a pool that muddied prison rags. Pedro's small hands and wise young mind were unskilled to respond to the unnatural trouble he'd stumbled into. Knowing no greater remedy to this man's wretched state he prayed for the family left fatherless and the poor shopkeeper who was led to thieving after the state claimed his every possession. 

    He hurried to this action he knew was now and would forever be man's greatest access to power. A single fervent request by Pedro was of course the most effective and suitable response to the deplorable condition and inconceivable depravity of this man's fate. Juan Carlos past fifteen minutes later into the arms of Christ where he knew the love of an eternal father and the significance of a God who can employ the lowly and diminished. Pedro lived only twelve years more but his wisdom and kindness taught many what a great privilege and responsibility it was for us all to bear the likeness of God.  

Ten Minutes

     I hold the cold metal detonator in my hand. It’s a simple device; two buttons, one to arm the bomb, and one to detonate it. I think back to the conversation with the man in the ghost-face mask. “Thieves and liars are the blood in the veins of our nation. And the vital organs are the buildings and monuments of this city.” He said that he had chosen me for my standing in the national “anonymous” organization: an organized league of anti-government hackers that plaster our propaganda onto the face of America in an attempt to rally the citizens of the country. We have drive but we never wanted to hurt anyone, especially the public. This masked man who told me to blow up this bomb had given me the choice between taking action with a detonator or to resume our hacking (which was a slow agonizing process, which is why this was tempting). This is going to kill more than politicians. It’s going kill innocents that are looking at the monuments. The explosions will cover not only the capitol, but also the Washington Monument, the World War II Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial. Sitting in my SUV I go over the proposed plan in my head. Detonate, drive away, collect ten thousand dollars. A seemingly small price for such a large feat, but my payment will be a revolution. At least that’s what the masked man has said. I arm the device and I detonate.

     Explosions rack the cityscape in front of me. I feel the shaking of the very foundation of the city. They last a full ten minutes. I hear the screams through the bedlam. I don’t notice the chopper heading toward me. I don’t notice the men with guns emerging from it. They rip me out of my car. They drag me to the chopper with more than half of their guns trained on me. I see them seizing the detonator, when it self destructs. I see a man being treated for burns.

     They take me to a prison that I’ve seen in every spy movie that I’ve ever watched. Concrete walls, concretes floors, and fluorescent lights throughout the entire facility. I tell them everything I know, which is little. They keep me on two meals a day in a room with no bed. One day they let me watch the five o’ clock news: headlines about the government abducting an innocent man, riots and protests, escalating violence, threats of terrorism. It comes together all the sudden. The masked man’s intentions had never been to ignite an army of sleeper agents; his plan had been to make a CPA from California a martyr--to make me a martyr. As if on cue, the men in suits explain it all to me and tell me how clever I am. They take me back to my cell and shove me in with a promise of an eventual execution. I’m happy though. I’ve done my duty.

     

By the Grace of Ba'al

-->

I work nights from my computer lab at home. I live alone with my dog Spudnik. We take a fifteen minute walk each work night at 3am. I find the deep night atmosphere peaceful. A week ago, I saw something that makes me fear the dark. Sputnik and I were rounding a corner on the far edge of the elementary school's field. Sput likes to do his business around there. I saw that night, in the deep distance, leaning between two buildings, something horrible. He wore a suit and tie, smoked a cigarette. But the form of his face was perverse to me. He looked to be a goat. Horns and all.

I told myself I had imagined it, that somehow the angle of shadows caused me to see something that couldn't have been there. Still, Sputnik and I avoided the school entirely.

I couldn't sleep. Never. Every time I closed my eyes I saw it. Him.

We modern men don't believe in fear. We've all watched enough movies to think it hype. So I told myself I would bury this sleeples nightmare.

We found him last night just where he was last week. I tell you no lie. We approached him. As I neared I braved a whisper, “Who are you?”

He spit his cigarette out, answered, “I was a soldier in the Roman legion. We were set to smash Hannibal’s army. They were weak, having lost half their men crossing the alps. This we told ourselves. We formed a vertical front, ten men wide. Our line was incredible,100,000 long. We thought we would ram our enemy’s lines with so much momentum that nothing would stop us. We would roll right over them with all their elephant madness.

“We were wrong. Somehow, they devastated us. They let us keep our formation, but slaughtered the lines in front, one by one. We crept forward to our deaths. You could hear the gnashing sounds of our comrades meeting their end. They all screamed. What was it that was so terrible that caused these men of valor to scream like innocents? Who was this Hannibal? What sort of monstrous god is this Baal that leads him? And to what torment was he leading us?

“A rumor spread through our ranks that they were eating those in front: killing us by ripping our jugulars out with their teeth. My friend who stood beside me, began digging into the earth desperately with his bare hands. He was trying to dig a whole deep enough to cover his head. He chose suffocation over dreaded destiny.

“You ask me who I am? I am fear. And I never die, child. I wait for you.”

I bore all my courage to summon forth one more question, “Soldier, why have you become a goat?”

“I eat the world. Everything in it.”

I ran. I ran, but I did glance back. I saw him biting my Sputnik into pieces.

Too Jung to Die

(The following is based on true events and contains excerpts from an actual radio broadcast)

Date/Time: September 10^th, 1997, 11:47pm

Location: Desert residence, outskirts of Reno, Nevada

After the thunderstorm caused a power outage, Andrew passed his time in a fluffy recliner, soon dozing off to sleep with his left thumb securely bookmarking a pulpy paranoid sci-fi paperback. On the table next to him lay a battery-powered lamp, a his mom's old clock radio, and a copy of The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche (Carl Jung).

//BUZZ, CLICK!\\

The power popped back on around 1:15 am, jarringly waking Andrew from near-REM level sleep. The kitchen lights seemed far too bright, and the radio was tuned into Art Bell's Coast to Coast AM (one of Andrew's famous pastimes during his occasional bouts of insomnia).

Tonight's broadcast was something rather unforgettable indeed, since a very frantic caller fought through a mesh of powerful static:

"I don't have a whole lot of time...um...I was a former employee of Area 51...let go on medical discharge a week ago...and...(crying)...don't know WHERE to start...they'll triangulate on this position really soon...

What we're thinking of as Aliens ...they're EXTRA-DIMENSIONAL BEINGS...an earlier precursor of the SPACE PROGRAM MADE CONTACT WITH...uh...NOT what they claim to be...INFILTRATED...the MILITARY ESTABLISHMENT...DISASTERS that are coming...the GOVERNMENT knows about them....and there's...SAFE AREAS in this WORLD THAT THEY COULD BEGIN MOVING THE POPULATION TO...but they...THEY WANT THE MAJOR POPULATION CENTERS WIPED OUT SO THAT THE FEW THAT ARE LEFT WILL BE MORE EASILY CONTROLLABLE....(crying, breaking up more)...I started getting..."

Silence. The broadcast went dead. Andrew tried not to freak out, considering the storm...but he soon realized that the lights were all on...an insinuation that the electricity was fine.

He turned the radio to other stations, and none worked. Perhaps it was a short-circuit from a surge? He tested another radio in the bedroom, but it was also on the fritz.

After what felt like an eternal auditory blackout (though it was only two minutes), both radios simultaneously popped back on, and there was an echo of Art Bell apologizing for the radio silence, and a baffled attempt to explain what may have happened. (For some reason) Bell's conspiratorial ramblings this evening seemed all the more convincing.

*KNOCK...KNOCK...KNOCK*

It was 1:30 in the morning, in the middle of the desert, but those deafening knocks could have easily been confused for gunshots.

Andrew stared at the front door, which, at a mere 20 feet away, in that particular moment seemed larger and more ominous than any door he'd seen, or even imagined, in his life.

 *BANG!*
 Andrew was promptly jarred out of what one would assume to be pure catatonia by another tremendously loud noise.

He jumped back and looked down at the Jung book, which had just dropped and (perhaps mockingly) opened itself to the page he'd extensively highlighted earlier that evening regarding synchronicity, and the defeat of assumed coincidence.

Andrew shut his eyes tightly and prayed that this was a dream.  Just then, there were three longer, stronger knocks at the front door.

TO BE CONTINUED

New Single

Macy backed out of her driveway, 99.3FM still on a commercial break. They were playing that dumb ad for whichever hybrid car was supposed to save the planet. Finally, she heard the friendly voices of Jay and Monica. 

“Welcome back to Jay and Monica on KPST 99.3, where we are pleased-”

“Ecstatic, Jay!”

“-ecstatic to be bringing you the new, highly-anticipated single from The Knockoffs!”

“Their new album drops May 24th, and the single is called, ‘On Your Way Out’.”

The song started with some raw guitar chords and whizzing synth. Macy didn’t care much for The Knockoffs, but at least she’d have something to talk about with Jill at work today; the band was Jill’s one obsession. Macy stopped at a red light and reached for her coffee.

“You said you couldn’t stand me when I’m drunk

That I was just a punk 

That my ship had sunk”

Macy was frozen. Behind her, a car honked. The light had turned and cars were moving. She gunned it.

 “Well Macy if you feel that way, don’t trip on your way out!”

He was a punk. Ty was an impulse buy; sun-kissed hair, drummer in a local band, and seemed fun. And he was fun, at least until Macy got to know him, when she realized that he was rude, juvenile, and couldn’t keep his drumstick in his pants. She tried breaking up with him one morning, but he had a hangover (again) and he wouldn’t remember anything anyway, so she hastily wrote some lyrics– Ty had told her that she could probably write better lyrics than Quinn, their lead singer– and stormed out, never to come back. Ty called that evening with the untimely retort that made it into the single, to which Macy simply laughed and hung up. 

Once she was at work, Macy was able to distract herself with the stacks of papers to be processed. This lasted until lunch. In the break room, Jill forwent the bite of salad that was on her fork in order to leap up to greet Macy.

“So... you never told me you hooked up with Quinn Mayfield,” gushed Jill, hovering over the fridge door as Macy reached for her lunch. 

“I didn’t,” said Macy, annoyed that she was thinking about Ty’s song again. She tried to change subjects. “Do you think the construction will be done by April like they promised?”

“Whatever, Macy. You heard the new single, I assume?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“So? It’s not like there are that many chicks named Macy in the world. And you’re from Monterey, which is where–”

“I know where they’re from,” Macy snapped.

“Jeez, Macy. Just asking.” Jill drifted back to her salad, and Macy popped her linguine into the microwave. By May 24th, Jill would know that Ty wrote the lyrics and she’d ask about it again. Macy sighed. Better get it out of the way now.

“Remember how I said I dated a drummer in college?”

ADMIN: New Opportunity

Everybody!

I have friends in interesting places...

Today we were offered a fascinating future. The gents over at latest-ufos.com are looking for some good short stories to help boost their website and traffic. THEREFORE:

They'd like to start their own league. Here's how it would work:

Every week they'd post a classic historical UFO occurrence, and provide information about that event. Then, the players in the league would write fictional stories (this time with a MINIMUM of 500 words, ironic, no?) with that historical event as the setting.

The league would last 6 weeks plus playoffs -- and first place gets $50 gift certificate to Amazon.

Sound worth it? Send me an email (dantestack@hotmail.com) if you're interested.

ADMIN: Week 6 Summary

Gentlemen,

Week Six introduced a new concept to Storyleague; rivalry. Mitchell (currently 2nd place, White Div) appeared to have egged on Jonathan (tied for 2nd, Red Div). Both players looking to make it to the playoffs sets up for a potential literary bean ball. Will Jonathan rush the mound, or will he just take a base? The world waits.

In other news, with one week to go in the regularly scheduled season, the third spot in each division is still in play. Will there be an upset? Also, congrats to the comeback story of the year, Andrew has gone from 0-2, to a formidable 4-2, with one win away from assuring himself a playoff seat.

Alright boys, duke 'em out.

Slight Left

     Downtown was the location but specifically where he had no idea. This wasn't his first trip to the Box but there was a bag over his head last time and the stress of death in mind. He couldn't go out at night since the abduction and became immediately suspicious of any vans as they passed him by on the street. When they dropped him off under a bridge near Acton he sat there four hours before taking off the bag. The thought of leaving home again and the guise of security was intolerable now but here he was two days later and determined to return. He knew what to do when he arrived but he would have to find it first. 

    Exiting the freeway he remembered them turning right and following the sound of traffic through a tunnel. He drove through every tunnel he saw but it was a blur from there so when he found it he was unaware and drove right by. He pulled over on Broadway and without regard for meters or red curbs would ask passers-by "where can I find the Box?". He heard them refer to the place this way many times though they never used anyone's names. Most of the locals ignored him or we're puzzled by the question. Some played along and gave false directions, perhaps to their place of business and others just begged for change. 

   Finally in a group, one young but formidable man stepped forward. He came right up to the passenger window and asked threateningly about his business there. Knowing little about the men who took him he was sure he couldn't pass for one of them. For all he knew, this was the gang that had taken him and held him in the dark for six days. He also had little confidence in his ability to smooth talk this gentleman. What he had now was nothing to lose and courage to tell the truth. He leaned over to speak to the young man in his window and told him this: "I am Jamal Sharif, I came here six months ago with my sister.  We came to be safe. Men took us and beat us. They brought us to the Box. I ran away but they still have her. I will find her. I will do whatever it takes. I will kill anyone who tries to stop me. I hope for your sake you will help me."

  The young man paused for a moment and looked around before responding. He pointed down the road and told Jamal to take a slight left beyond a red brick building and then he said, "I am Julio Jimenez. Find your sister and kill every one of those mother fuckers. Tell them I sent you." He stepped back from the car and joined his brood. 

    The directions brought Jamal to a place he'd past three times that day. The name brought him to his sister and the threat brought the peace he'd spent a decade to find. 

Yo Melvin

Yo Melvin,

Yeah that's right, dude, some people might call you a journal but I just named you Melvin. Please take a moment to dismiss all possibilities that I'll ever regard you as Dear, and you're on crack if you think the word diary will ever appear again on these pages. Fuck that, Melvin, you are Melvin, Yo Melvin.

I have to tell you, Melvin, I'm very new to this. And frankly, I think I've already screwed the whole thing up because I have never heard of anyone starting one of these things with a prologue. And before you start tweaking out, Melvin, that asterisk is not a typo, there are just some things in life that I'm not sure about and I've recently discovered the asterisk as a temporary fix. You know, something to throw down there to cover my ass while I continue looking for some answers. Not that you should be judging me, Melvin. Don't forget that you have no say. You could be something fruity like Jinky tomorrow if you don't play your cards right. So please, I am begging you, do not stray from the point of all this. I feel like I have humored you enough, and if you don't mind I will now be getting on with my life. You are more than welcome to stay, just try not to be a fucking distraction, okay Melvin?

Anyways, I just feel weird jumping right into a single day. I’ve already made the mistake of watching Pirates of the Caribbean 3 without seeing the second one, and I vowed never to let that sort of thing happen again on my watch to myself or anyone; this even includes questionable individuals like yourself. I can sense already that you’re a real nosy fuck, Melvin, so I’ll do my best to stick to the program set forth today, and you’ll know every little moment of this “whole life that I have ahead of myself.” You might even be exposed to a healthy chunk of my afterlife in the event that my ghost remains literary. But nonetheless, I have no choice but to catch you up to speed at least a little bit on the past twenty eight and a half years of my life. We’ll rush through the necessary details, and if you’re lucky I’ll fill you in on the minutiae as the pages turn. 

Alright that's enough. Get some sleep, Melvin.

Gold

Vibrating light cast through scintillating slats in the football-field-sized skylight decorated the ballroom with somersaulting explosions of color.  At the punch table, a mime broke his vows and laughed at a joke, told by a cowheaded man in a paisley tux.  Two penguins sipped non-alcoholic margaritas through a bendy straw.

It was exactly the type of party that Flat Eddie "Thatch" Burrello would throw - all absurdity and no substance.  This was the type of gala that only the richest of the rich could afford to throw, in order to impress the richer of the richest.

I sat there, in my calloused chair of golden leaf, shrunk to the size of a pea.  To say that Flat Eddie had invited me here would be a misrepresentation.  What had actually happened was that two plaid-suited juggernauts had showed up at my apartment door at half past three with a rented tuxedo, two sizes too small.

"They say you're one of the hottest artists in New York City," the heavier-set of the two bellowed.

"Who is they?"

He didn't respond, but his partner thrust the tuxedo into my hands.  "They do say that."

The first gorilla leered at me.  "Flat Eddie is having a party tonight" (no explanation about who Flat Eddie was).  "A couple of big art investors are coming.  You're to put this on and be there at 8:05 with three of your best works."

I told them the tuxedo was too small, that the pants would barely cover my skinny ankles.

The second man waved his hand dismissively as the muscular duo lumbered back out into the hall.  "Just don't sit down.  No one will be able to tell."

Well, I was sitting, now, in a glass ballroom of madness and debauchery, a famous failure.

A few months prior, I had spilled a can of acrylic paint across a poorly rendered landscape I had conjured up for my community college art class.  Being on a deadline, I had submitted the piece, which, I suppose, had caught my well-connected professor's eye.  The next thing I knew, my splattery neo-masterpiece was showing up in everything from the New York Post to the front page of Gawker.com.  At once, I was the creator of a metaphor for the disrespect technology had for tradition and for the eventual death of Judeo-Christian values.  I was quoted without being interviewed and my artwork analyzed without approaching the artist.

Now, here I was, at a bacchanalian banquet, shrinking into my gold chair, as suited investors admired two landscapes and a still life, all crudely drawn in improper perspective with some secondhand pastels.

They say lightning doesn't strike twice, but, then again, they had also apparently proclaimed me one of New York City's rising art stars.  My hand gripped the can of gooey green acrylic paint that I had brought with me.  The lid sat ajar.  I rose, hoisted the can over my head, and sprinted towards my paintings.  This is a masterpiece.

Son of a Bench

Christopher Brentley (age 37), in his charcoal-colored suit, took a seat at an empty bench beneath the atrium of a suspiciously quiet bakery. As he gently lay his suitcase down on the empty spot to his right, he noticed for the first time that one of the latches was broken (though the hook was still secure enough to keep it from popping open). After despondently attempting to mend the broken latch through brute force, Christopher immediately likened himself to a young boy attempting to fit a tubular block through a star-shaped hole, for, despite knowing that this would yield no success, he vented his frustrations by inflicting wrath upon inanimate objects.

This strangely triggered a sequence of seemingly arbitrary memories. Reminiscences these were not:

Age 8,

MOTHER:
“Honey, please swallow this. You won't get any better without it.”

Age 13,

TEACHER:
“If you don't score a 70% or higher on this exam, we can't let you participate in the Yellowstone trip.”

Age 34,

(EX-)WIFE:
“Of all the things you could have possibly done to destroy this...What are you, a child?!”

___________________________

Perhaps it's worth mentioning that Christopher's suit was stolen from a dumpster 8 hours prior, and it had 4 obvious tears: one in the left shoulder, two in the back, and one through the right pocket's bottom.

Mr. Brentley made a very conscious decision to ignore the thrift store employee's warnings as he tossed the (now acquired) mangled attire into a dumpster.

The contents of Christopher's badly scuffed burgundy suitcase were several dozen bundles of play-money. He frivolously tossed the suitcase off the bench (worthless green papers dispersing in the wind), and after a moment's reflection, he sorely lay down upon the bench (/his bed).

Common logic won't necessarily let us tie Christopher's' current failures to a simple phrase inciting a provocation of disobedience 29 years earlier, but that doesn't stop Chris himself from doing so.

--(Who cares if it was just medicine?)--

Age 38:

(please happen)

Adirondacks

Water gurgling along, the wind whispering through tall hemlock pines, swaying the giants back and forth as they creak and dance in the moonlit night. A low hanging fog huddles over the swift moving water entangling her frame like smoky fingers. She sits upon the granite rocks within the narrow mountain stream with her dark brown hair secured by a green bandana, it was one of her favorite accessories because it had belonged to her Papa. He had used it to wipe the sweat of his brow while working the land of his cow farm in upstate Vermont. Her eyes sparkled as the moon shone off her smooth tan face. She tilted her head upward and he could see her smile at him.

Then a bright flash of light…

The sun flaring into his eyesight. He looked back up, using his hands to shade his eyes, there was no one on the granite rocks.

He had come here 2 years ago with Kalen and they had camped out on this mountain stream, hiked the summit of several High Peaks and enjoyed the enchantment of the Adirondack wilderness. Life was joyous then, no concern about the next day, just enjoying each moment.

The stream bed was all dried up now, choked with dried leaves and strewn with the shattered skeletons of the giant hemlocks. The sun beat down on the granite stones now with no shade from its glaring stare. The man hadn’t seen water in over 5 days and he had drunk the last of his supply two evenings prior. The desire for thirst was heavy upon him but the sense of loss was even greater.

Kalen had been there for a moment; he could have walked across the water and reached out and touched her. Maybe hallucinations were setting in now. The man stumbled up the rocky trail until he found refuge behind a massive limestone speckled boulder. He found a comfortable spot on a bed shaped polished rock and lay upon its cool surface. He’d wait until the afternoon heat waned and then continue the search for water.

Fire hurtling across the night sky, smoke trailing its rapid trajectory, followed by an atomic explosion, knocking one back tens of yards with a sonic boom so large that all you heard was deafening silence. There was no time to react. There was no time to say goodbye. Time was gone…

Startled awake with his coughing, the ravine was filled with thick grey smoke. He could feel the heat blazing from behind, quickly moving up the stream bed feeding off the littered path of dead trees. The man began scrambling over the rocks hoping to out run the blaze but he wasn’t sure he’d be so fortunate this time.

To Be Continued…

The Maze

Patrick awoke in the dark. A creaky melody sounded from the depths, like the merry-go-round in a carnival of yesteryear. He had no recollection of how he got here. Suddenly, wall-mounted lights flickered on, as if he were in a theater, only he was the subject, not the spectator, of a cheesy horror flick.

The lights revealed that he was in a hallway that extended in both directions. He decided to follow the lit path. As he walked, he noticed it getting slightly darker. He looked back from where he started; the wall lights had turned off as he past them. He took a careful step forward, staring at the next light as it extinguished. 

Patrick patted his pocket; his phone was gone. There was, however, a slip of paper that read, "Turn off the lights before you leave."

There was a scream from around the corner. Or was it a draft? 

Now behind him: another scream. Wheeling around, Patrick saw it: flesh like a corpse, only partially transparent- and racing toward him. Patrick bolted in the opposite direction, only to see a second visage, this one seemingly enflamed. Somehow, he noticed the hallway extended to his left, where he instinctively ran. The lights clicked off as he ran, and the two specters started to gain on him. 

He turned a blind corner and discovered a large blue screen. Heart racing and head muddled, he just stared at it. The shriek of his pursuers startled him, and his hand slammed against the screen just as they stretched out-

The shriek changed to agony, and they shriveled to the floor, electricity pulsing through their bodies until they popped into two blue mists.

“This is unreal,” gasped Patrick. Another scream from somewhere in the building. He had to get out.

He quickly made his way through the hallways, never finding anything resembling a door. The halls got progressively darker. Twice, he caught sight of a red glow, but ducked into a separate passage to evade it. 

It was now pitch dark, or close to it. Somewhere, there had to be a light still on. Either that, or he was on some infrared camera as some serial killer munched on popcorn. 

Keeping his right hand on the wall, he waded through the darkness. And then he started to see the hallway, growing redder. The scream behind him was all he needed to quicken his pace. 

Left turn- no lights.

Quick right- no lights.

Another right- a faint blue glow around the next corner! If it was one of those electroshock things, maybe he’d be alive a few more minutes. 

Patrick broke into a sprint. The red phantom was getting closer. He’d hit the corner in 3, 2, 1...

The glow came from an icy figure, dripping with dark blue liquid. Patrick ducked under its skeletal claw, only to fall into the grip of the red monster. Lifeless, he fell to the floor.

Game over.

The Roaring of the Engines

            He shot across the night sky as he accelerated. Taking a corner, (perhaps a bit too fast) he routed all of his reserve power into the main thruster. “Crap!” The thermal coupler failed and now he was overheating. Of course he new he had no business being surprised. That coupler wasn’t even built for racing, let alone handling that amount of energy in the engine. Thinking fast, he disengaged the secondary coupler and allowed the engine to engage its failsafe and shut down. As the roaring of the jet turbines stopped he started gliding lower and lower. He quickly reengaged the engine and, had it worked? Yes! Yes it had! the both couplers were back online. But now he was behind Jorinn and he new that he might have lost the race altogether by letting that happen. Jorinn was the top jet-bike racer not only on his home world, but also in the entire league. He cursed under his breath, (not that he could’ve heard himself over the engine anyway) now a racer that he didn’t recognize was gaining on him. He took a risky move and went full throttle. A burst of speed, then he was neck and neck with Jorinn. He said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that his bold acceleration hadn’t blown up the engine. Suddenly Jorrin maneuvered across the horizon to the left and released a spray of  aerosol. Then, his monitor went black, his goggles with his head’s up display was gone too. He was now flying by his naked eye, an almost impossible task. He had heard of this gas before. It wasn’t gas, really, it was a substance comprised of microscopic electronic leeches. Robots that sucked all the power out of anything they landed on. He wasn’t as preoccupied with winning anymore as he was just staying alive. All his onboard computer systems were gone as well which meant that he had no way of seeing how his bike was holding up to all the power surges that he had been putting on her. He had his basic jet systems but that was all. Then, the moment he had been waiting for arrived. His onboard systems rebooted and he was back in the race and still in second since the others had slowed down as well (the only good thing about leeches was that they effected everyone who fell into the trap). With Jorinn so far ahead he decided to go big. He dumped ALL power that wasn’t absolutely necessary into his engine and gunned it. This was it, the final stretch. There was Jorinn, ahead of him. He saw the lights of the stadium, so bright he may not need his screens. He decided to risk it. He rerouted his onboard computer display and screen power to the engine. A burst of speed. And then: A photo finish. “Curses!” He had it! He hoped that the race that he had just put everything into hadn’t been wasted. He hoped the cameras saw him win.

I Have No Idea, but Helena Does!

      At that moment Helena realized she could do anything she wanted. Her only adversary was time. Time and all the rules of physics and whatnot. Even those might have some leeway, if looked into. The question was now, of all the things in the world to do, what would she choose.

     Her first thought was to name herself as ruler of a new township. New Thebes had a certain ring to it. Secondly, a darker thought emerged. She could do a take on the early stages of the film Fight Club, and go to therapist after therapist lying about her life. What jolly fun could be had making up devastating after devastating backstory?! Helena would never know. She ruled against it.

     Next up Helena pondered on priests. They're interesting folk, right? Choosing God over women, that's gotta put a man in a strange place. Maybe she'd comb the world over for an honest priest that could really tell her why he does what he does. What with all the hoopla these days over resigning popes and molestation scandals, that sordid ground seemed a bit fragile, so again Helena turned her thoughts elsewhere.

     Then I thought,' Helena thought, 'I could spark a war between alcoholics and chain smokers, but what fun is in that? Everybody dies one way or another. Why be judgmental for someone who picks their poison?'  Helena really did have these thoughts. Promise.

     Finally, Helena landed on snaping duck necks. She knew it wasn't the best idea she'd ever had, but she was getting tired of thinking. 'I was getting tired of thinking,' Helena recalled.

     This is where I intervened. I happened to be walking my dog that day, and I see this obese woman nearly drowning herself trying to get at some little ducklings. They were quite little fellas. Now, of course, Helena had no real chance of getting ahold of those mallards, because she was a slow, lumbering landlubber of a woman. These ducklings had already learned the ways of the world in their short lives, and staying alive was something each of those little critters was keen to do. And do well.

     I asked Helena if she needed any help. Helena thought no, then said, “No.” Then I invited her over for some tea (I’m a writer, you see, so we like to drink tea or brandy – I’m the tea type, so that tells you the type of writer I am… aka, not the any good at it type). I’m starting to think that Helena might be a good subject to write about, so I ask her why she was out trying to string little avian necks. She says, “Of all the thoughts I had today…” She pauses to take a swig of tea, “That one seemed like the best.” I asked her why she thought she had to think to do something today at all.
     She answered, “Well, I suddenly realized I could do anything I wanted.”

ADMIN: THE DAY THE POOP DIED

For me, the battle of the week was between Jonathan's vociferous poop chronicles Andrew's Kaufmanesque new media exploit. Despite Andrew trying to vote against himself, he picks up the win.

This brings up an interesting dilemma. With two weeks left in the regular season, there looks to be a good chance that there will be a tie for Third Place. The top three players from each league move on to the playoffs, so how should we decide how to break a tie for record?

Ideas?

Reprise

~ fading into the ash of sunset, left with dull memories of what may or may not have been... always knew how this was going to end, hand on my heart and you nowhere to be found.

Did the Fire Make a Difference?

Daniel pressed the “delete” key for what felt like the hundredth time. In reality, it was more like 16, but when a copious amount of effort is invested in writing a story with no true resolution, each stroke wiping it away was akin to tearing off bandages stuck to sore flesh.

There was no way around it: he was wasting time now. His head gently landed on his desk before he dozed off. His dreams opened doors, but those doors closed the moment his keyboard reappeared in front of his face and he regained control of his consciousness. (If only there was a way to keep those doors open...)

Fast forwarding a year later =========>

Experimentation was inevitable for a college art student. Daniel's major wasn't art, but he intently hung around bohemian undergrads in hopes that it would expand his mind.

The largest step in his “expansion” was the long-feared but anticipated journey into psychedelic drugs. It worked for all of the greatest artists and musicians, so why not him?

After psychologically tiptoeing beyond his paranoia (a process which took several weeks), Daniel finally did his first hit. The “Spirit Molecule” twisted his mind into a new state. Within this state, he wrote a short story. His blog post spread like wildfire, and it wasn't more than a week before he started getting pursued by publishers.

His story garnered unending acclaim and popularity, spawning everything from t-shirts to internet memes and even a parody sketch on Saturday Night Live. It was rare that the short-form written word inspired such celebration in the digital age, but Daniel had broken down a new barrier with his unique flavor of rhetoric.

So what was the content of this pop-culture phenomenon?

It was a 478-word description of a coloring book page featuring a fireman saving a cat from a burning tree.

________________________________

Audience, please enlighten me

Because I'm probing for the secret

But there seems to be no key

Will I ever learn to find it?

No answer will satisfy

Because “true” success is all fake

And all the brilliant writers die

In mediocrity's cruel wake

Pink

There was a lot on the mind of Garrison Knight as he stood at the Lexington Market platform, waiting for the next train.

Always on the move, Garrison didn't often get any time to himself to think.  But today, the 9:06 Light Rail was five minutes late, so Garrison Knight thought about his entire life.

The pink hue of the hair ribbon was what caught Garrison's eye first.  Its floppy ends bobbed in time with the assent of the six-year-old girl, nodding her head in mirth at some funny joke that had slipped out of the puckered mouth of her teddy bear.  Her left hand held her mother's hand tightly.

Garrison had once had a daughter.  Well, he still had a daughter, for all he knew, though she hadn't wanted to see him for many years.  He had used to buy her hair ribbons for her birthday - a gift that became a father-daughter tradition.

That was before his job at the steel plant had forced a solo move to Sparrows Point.  "You're a shoo-in for promotion to line boss," Mr. Bellows had said.  Mr. Bellows had lied, as usual, but Garrison had found other sins to occupy his time.

Garrison's stomach muttered.  He had overslept and missed his morning meal.  Garrison ran a tight schedule, and making the morning train had meant listening to his stomach's running commentary.

The pink ribbon continued its airy dance.  Garrison had planned to keep up the annual tradition of hair-ribbon-buying well past the age at which hair ribbons stopped being cool.  A gesture of affection between father and daughter could not be defined by the laws of fashion.  But, last he had heard, his daughter was going to school in Oregon and Garrison didn't remember her address.  He didn't remember a lot of things these days, save for the mundane details pertaining to schedule.

A childish cry broke his concentration.  The ribbon had escaped from its nesting place and was spiraling towards the train tracks.  A single tear escaped the little girl's eye, but her mother held her back.

The ribbon alit, perilously, in the very center of the tracks.  Garrison looked at his watch, but it seemed to have stopped a long time ago, frozen at 7:48 a.m.  And then he broke his schedule.

On the train tracks, enveloped in a concrete canyon, Garrison could barely hear the shocked murmur of the confused crowd.  He bent down and grasped the ribbon.

The canyon shook.  People screamed.  A bright light shone directly into his eyes.  He couldn't see the ribbon any more.  Black.

Later on, a blurb in the next day paper would remark on the death of a homeless man at one of the stations of the Baltimore Light Rail.  The man had no identification and investigators couldn't understand what had prompted him to suddenly leap into the path of the oncoming train, instead choosing to classify the death a suicide.

The Birthday Party

“Hey, Catie. Happy 13th Birthday!”

“Your parents are getting divorced!”

What? That’s a weird way to say thank you, he thought to himself. His parents just dropped him off at the party. Everything was fine. Kids these days are so misinformed.

“Uh, no they are not.”

“Not what I heard.”

He was getting tired of his small town and its smaller problems that make room for big boredom and bigger rumors.

“Whatever. Can I put my coat somewhere?”

“Sure. Oh and you gotta try the cake!”

One nice thing about kids, they can change a difficult subject on a dime. Adults should take a page from this playbook more often.

“Yum, this cake is delicious. I love chocolate raspberry.”

“Me too! Hey maybe you’ll get two cakes now on your birthday.”

Damnit, why’d she have to come back to this. His parents were not getting divorced. Only yellers and fighters split up! The closest they’d ever come to fighting was when his father closed the soda bottles too tightly so they were hard to open. That doesn’t dissolve a marriage. It’s typical effect is a preservation of carbonation.

“I’ll have one cake, for my one house, and my one life.”

At that moment his fork slipped and knocked his slice of cake onto the floor.

A dram with a young minister

The young minister sat alone at the bar.  His long, thin fingers trembled as he reached for his glass of malt.  A middle-aged man entered the room and took the seat to his right.

'I knew you were telling the truth, at least you were saying what you thought was true.'

'Inspector…'

'Call me Len.'

The young minister didn’t finish his statement and there was an anxious silence as he stared with catatonic eyes at his drink.

'It’s a shame when men of the cloth fall into this shite,' Len corrected his words immediately, '...stuff.  It's all too common these days.  In the end we’re only human.'

'That’s what makes this whole thing so devastating for me – we’re human.  Inspector,' the young minister corrected his words immediately, 'Len.  This isn’t supposed to happen.'  His eyes remained fixed on his drink.  'To be human is to be something profound…'

'I only know what I know.  Do you know what percentage women have been victims of rape in this country in the past decade?'

'More than fifteen per cent...'

'Aye, it’s awful.  When I first started with the police, the first rape case I took kept me up for days.  I had to take a statement from the victim.  She was about the same age as Ms Flynn.  She couldn’t look me in the eye and she couldn’t stop shaking.  Why they had a bloke interview a rape victim, I don’t know.  And the man was her fucking father.'

The young minister remained silent.

'It’s an awful mess, but you learn to live with it.  In the last fifteen years I had two fellow officers go down for this.  These were men I knew and trusted, but they were still men. … Listen, Alan, James did what he did and it isn’t right, but you’ll have to move on some day.  Not today, but at some point you’re going to have to move past it if you want to keep on living.'

'James was my mentor.  I didn’t think he could do such a thing.'

'Alan, you’ve only been a minister here for six months.  Things are moving so fast for you, a talented young minister.  You’re still that – a young minister.  Eventually this idealism will wear off. … What are you thinking?'

'I’m distraught, to be honest.  My heart’s broken for Izzie Flynn, my heart’s broken for James’ wife and kids, my heart’s broken for my congregation, my heart’s broken for the Kirk.  My heart’s broken for James.  My heart’s broken even for me.  I believed him.  I gave him the opportunity to confess so many times and I remained on his side because I believed him when he looked into my eyes and told me, “Alan, I couldn’t do such a thing.”  Well maybe he couldn’t do it, but he did, if that makes sense.  I feel deeply betrayed by one of the few people in this world I absolutely trust.'  The young minister corrected his words immediately.  'Trusted.'

The Assyrian battering ram

     No rest for the weary. This siege had taken everything out of Benjamin. The Assyrians had come with their iron, their battering rams, their massive army that had been labeled undefeatable. Well, he had been praying constantly and had been burdened heavily by this hopelessness; this dark cloud over the heads of his people. He went to the grinding stone and started to unsheathe his sword. But then he decided to go get something to eat instead. He went to the tents, where the food would be. He walked around looking for any sign of stew or meat anywhere. Not finding any, he decided to talk to his friend Enoch to see if he had any bread or wine. While he walked, he thought about Sennacherib and his army and the way that the Assyrians terrorized everyone who wasn’t already in their empire. It was sickening to see their greed. But it was pointless to think such things. It was impossible to stop their relentless war machine.

     He reached Enoch and asked him if he had anything to eat. He told him no and disappointed, Benjamin decided to go to bed. He silently prayed for his city, for the impossible odds that they faced. Silently and quickly he drifted off to sleep.

     He woke up with a start. It was early, but he could already hear that the entire city was in a panic. Without putting on his full armor, he ran out of his bunk house and went to the wall. An immense crowd had gathered at the top of the wall, and all of them were pointing and shouting at a scene in the enemy camp. Only when he reached the top of the wall did he see and (more prominently) hear what the spectacle was. What he heard from the massive camp was complete silence. What he saw from it was nothing. No driving war machine, no busy soldiers preparing for a bloody battle. The only soldiers he saw were lying prostrate on the ground. They appeared to be motionless—dead. Had there been a guerilla attack that he hadn’t been informed of? Had their been disease in the enemy lines? All these questions and more were posed in Benjamin’s head when he heard the news: “The Lord has delivered us!” He heard one archer say. “The Angel of the Lord has stricken our enemies in the night!” Said another young infantryman. Praise be to God, for he had delivered them out of their most dire circumstance. He had risen up against the enemy and triumphed. There would be much celebrating in the city tonight; drinking, eating, being merry. They would praise and worship God tonight. They would erect altars and burn offerings. This victory was the Lord’s, and he would be praised for it. Benjamin uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving. “The Lord is indeed with us.” And then, he realized that he had eaten nothing in over a day’s time. He would find Enoch and they would share in some bread and wine, and they would celebrate together.

The Human Experience

I attempt here to tell a story of lovely Jude. I will try to tell the facts alone.

Jude’s Mother and Father are the nicest people. So nice. They raise their only boy to be a sensation. His instructors are Brahms, Bach, and Galileo. Jude is the beloved, and he knows it.

When he is twelve he asks why God made the animals. Mother says he created the animals to show his creativity and his love. Jude asks how love was embodied in the centipede. Mother says that we know God is loving because he cares even for creepy critters like centipedes. Jude asks how God could love the animals, but make them kill each other. (Jude, Mother and Father are all vegans.) Mother says that in the beginning all the animals were calm and friendly to one another. She adds, “God made all the animals equal. They all had their special skills, and they could all talk. That’s why Eve wasn’t surprised when the serpent spoke to her.”

“You see,” she continues, “It was man’s sin that did it. That’s what made the animals go mute.” Jude never forgots this.

On Jude’s twentieth birthday he asks his first girlfriend to marry him. She blushes, then declines. Jude is sad. He walks the streets wondering how this world could be so simultaneously alive and dead.

Jude is a beautiful creature. His long black locks highlight his sky blue eyes. He takes care of his body and his resume. Mother and Father teach him to never underestimate the power of a manicured smile.

At age twenty-nine Jude falls in love again. He loves everything about the girl: her puffy cheeks, her rainbow colored socks, her affection for dolphins. The quirks all add up to the very definition of love. She left him.

Jude takes a walk.

He walks by a pond. School is out for some happy ducklings. Jude stands there. They’re so cute. They come up to him. They do not fear him at all. An old, mean memory returns to him. His first girlfriend loved meat and hated Jude’s resistance to omnivorism. She wanted him to suffer for his faith.

Pinkies, she explains, are what ugly baby rats are called. They are blind, naked pink things with four legs. Often they are fed to snakes. When a pinky is dropped into the cage of an already satiated snake, the pinky, alone and cold, cuddles up to the serpent. The snake lets pinky warm itself against her smooth skin. Pinky sleeps with its enemy. It bonds to her, as it should to its mother. A day or two or three later, when the snake decides she’s ready to engorge herself once more, she consumes pinky whole.

The littlest duckling quacks. Jude weeps badly. He moans aloud. He breaks its little neck. He breaks all their little necks.

That’s the story. That’s all of it. I was Jude’s second girlfriend.

There is too much pain in the world.

Admin: Old Hickory gets the win

After Old Hickory talked with me, and since a couple of you voted for him, and his opponent didn't post at all, he gets the win for week 4.

Strange Climate

     Lowell was very tired. He had eight hours left and that meant another five or six trips. For years the blue collar workforce had been divided evenly. Those with excess credits could buy ships equipped to shrink eight hours into four. Lowell and the rest were lucky to fit their eight in a twenty hour day. Administration's greatest achievement had been dividing the middle class in order to weaken it. Lower had been successfully eliminated they said, successfully redefined to be a part of the middle. 

     Another desirable and expensive invention would steer his ship for him. Though the weakening hands in front of him were all he had at this pay grade. It wasn't his fault or even the mechanic responsible for his ship when the strut retainer failed. Shit happens. Lowell's spent claws slipped and the yoke shook violently as his ship plunged helplessly into the pull of a foreign mass. He should've quit then and strapped in for the ride but a swift strike from the wheel saw to it he would go quietly all the way to the surface. 

     The administration discontinued the term planet decades ago when definitions ranged from the traditional natural mass orbiting a star to a space station with at least 65 zip codes. This caused frequent problems for shippers like Lowell who were often given instructions vague enough to strand them a thousand miles from their actual destination. Lowell was an old pro though so he was sure this was not the correct target. 

     He awoke of thirst eleven hours after being knocked unconscious before tumbling to the dark golden body. It's belt was so thick the stars were no longer visible and he too was undoubtably obscured from sight of the shipping lanes. Angry to find out how long he'd been out he wondered why he couldn't have stayed asleep just one hour more. In fifty minutes his oxygen would be spent and had he stayed asleep he would have passed peacefully. Now he felt compelled to attempt survival, a burden he knew all too well coming from the south wing of station eight. 

     He'd heard stories of shippers stranded for years on rocks with suitable atmosphere though none of them were catalogued. It was to the point where any civilized Naut could only trust an artificially produced climate. In forty minutes Lowell would have little choice but to try his luck in this untested atmosphere. Another helpful gadget could identify atmospheric makeup outside the ship but who could afford the monthly payments? 

     Lowell recorded a transmission to be repeated over the radio waves as long as his battery could sustain it: "My name is Lowell Dillon, a human aboard Gen5. I've run aground some mass at approximately 4.1256.0008. You're listening to the words of a dead man so listen carefully. The administration is 95 percent alien. They cannot charge you for knowing but you must discover a plan to reclaim control of our race as I have failed to do so myself. Please remember me as part of the resistance."

     

Jason's Revenge

The call was Pro Right 46 Counter, but all Jason needed to know was the direction (left) and the snap count (2). The defense ran an even front, which meant no one lined up over center, so Jason and the middle linebacker had seen a lot of each other all game. 

“Green 93! Set, hut! Hut!”

Jason burst out of his stance toward #48. The linebacker got a good read on the play, but took a deep angle, meaning running back Matt Davis had a wide open field. And then Matt came into Jason’s view, making a nice move on the outside.

Jason followed, but with less urgency; there was little he could do now to influence the play. Either way, he’d need to get down the field to call the hud–

The ground leaped downward. The world was sideways. Grass was coming through his facemask. Jason’s ears were ringing. 

Jason’s first reaction was to find the punk’s number. He got up and whirled his head around: #33. Outside linebacker, maybe. Not even a starter. Jason hated cheap shots. Worse still were cheap shots by two-bit players when they’re just pissed that they’re down by 20. Jason seethed; the idiot had knocked his chinstrap loose, so he had to run to the sideline. He called in the backup, and whipped his helmet off. Furiously working to fix his hardware, Jason had only one goal for the rest of the game: hit that bastard as hard as humanly possible.

There were virtually no chances to exact his revenge. #33 wasn’t in the game the whole time, and when he was, he was nowhere near Jason’s blocking assignment. He wouldn’t stoop so low as to hit him after the play. That would make him just as much of a jerk as the other guy. No, it had to be legal, and it had to be jaw-dropping. 

As Matt raced down the sideline late in the 4th, with the safety trying in vain to catch him, an idea exploded into Jason’s mind. The tight end who lined up on the field goal unit across from #33 had just gone down with an ankle injury. Jason sprinted to the sidelines to get Coach to sub him in. Coach said ok.

Jason settled into his stance, frozen until the snap. #33 looked in at the ball, imperceptive to the daggers being stared at him. ‘Good,’ thought Jason, ‘He’ll never see it coming either.’

Suddenly, the defense rushed to block the kick. Jason stepped inside to get a hand on the inside rusher and prepared to launch himself at his target. Only his target just stood there lazily, as if he had better things to do than play football, or was daydreaming about the cheerleaders. 

‘That little punk!’

During the obligatory post-game “handshake” line, the sum total of Jason’s revenge was that he lowered his hand when #33 passed by and didn't say “good game”.

It was not satisfying in the least.