Morkaj

The wooden hut was leaking, as it had been for the last three days. Morkaj knew he had to re-thatch the roof, but the fire-watching every night was taking its toll on him. The monsters beyond the edge of the village were getting bolder with every passing cycle of the moon. The warriors had told Morkaj that he needed to make the fire brighter to keep away the monsters. The wood-cutters weren't bringing in enough wood to support the fire though. Every time the wood-cutters would go to chop wood, another one would be killed by a monster. Morkaj feels the village dying, slowly. He took the fire-watching position so he could be alone during the night and gather his thoughts. Soon, he would have to leave this village, and being disconnected from the other villagers would make it easier to ransack their food and weapons.

Three more cycles of the moon pass. Morkaj has accumulated enough dried meat, arrrows, spearheads, and water-skins to last him for one solar cycle. As the sun begins to set, Morkaj gathers his supplies and sits down in front of the fire to watch it until the sun has completely set and his eyes have adjusted. The sun has completely set. Morkaj picks up his animal-skin bag full of supplies, takes a long look at the dying village that gave him his life, and walks away into the wilderness.

A wild cat eats Morkaj the very night he walks away from the village.
The monsters overrun the village and eat every man, woman, and child.

Mark and Amy

Mark, an army veteran, with a beer belly developed over the course of 20 years of hard drinking, was throttling his wife around the throat with his fat, stubby fingers. Her eyes were bulging and her tongue was starting to stick out uncontrollably. Her hands are around his forearms, trying to stop him from stealing the breath from her lungs. She burned the meatloaf slightly, and Mark was on his third beer when it happened. His PTSD had been acting up for the last few days, and his paranoid delusions had started to take over his life. His wife is the young woman he had to kill in Syria. The sound that set him off was the fire alarm. It sounded just like the alarm klaxon from his time overseas.

As the life is draining from her, Amy remembers her husband from before he went to Syria. He would gently hold her, and make sweet love to her whenever he felt like it. He wouldn't zone out of reality and try to kill her.

Amy takes her thumbs and jams them into Mark's eyes. She's crying the tears he will never be able to cry again. She pushes. Hard. He lets go of her neck and screams like an unworldly demon. He holds his eyes as he keeps screaming. He falls down and rolls around like a dog that got into poison ivy.

Amy picks up the phone to call the police, but can't do it. She doesn't want anyone to know what's going on. She grabs a scarf out of her nightstand and tries to comfort Mark the best she can. She corrals him to their 1986 Volkswagen golf and heads off to the nearest hospital.

On the way to the hospital, an 18-wheeler is getting onto an off-ramp and signals too late. There is an accident that kills Amy and Mark.
They are portrayed as a happy couple on Facebook and in the papers.

Quality Time

I opened the door to my mother's house, and walked in. The trash was overflowing. The TV was blaring commercials, and my step-dad was hastily trying to show me something on his computer that was supremely boring.

It's Thanksgiving. My mother is in the kitchen, making stuffing to go with the turkey, cranberry sauce, fruit salad(which is really just a sugary syrup of concentrated peaches and pears), and hot buttered rolls.

There's no table to eat off of. We're all going to be eating in front of the television, watching HGTV, or the Cooking Channel, or some other extraordinarily boring program. I don't want to be here, but she invited me and I couldn't say no.

There's nothing for me to do, but sit and watch these TV shows about situations that will never apply to me, or watch my mother cook, because she needs no help, or listen to an asshole drone on and on about what he does that makes him no money, and only serves to take up his free time between sleeps.

This is my family, and I hate spending time with them. I am literally only here for the free food.

The food takes much longer to cook than I was hoping it would. My existential boredom is growing stronger every second I spend here. I should have brought some sort of video game to play. Maybe I could have spent some quality time with the boring man droning on and on. Video games tend to get people to shut up and play. Oh, well. I am just waiting here, in what normal people would feel extremely happy for, but I can't.

The food is ready. It is sub-par. It is dry. The stuffing is bland. The cranberry sauce is runny. The turkey is overcooked. Nothing is good. The company is bad, the food is bad, and it is boring.

They wonder why I never call.

Something Wicked, or Something like that

The year is 2077. The history robots are making their daily rounds inspecting the minds of the children, making sure the nightly uploads are working properly. One child seems upset.

A robot glides towards him and checks what time period he's immersed in. It's the early noughts and teens of the millennium. He's immersed himself in a black woman's memories as part of cultural sensitivity learning. He has gotten to 2015 and sees the political shift to charismatic leader types

His future as a black woman seems bleak. The robot stops the program to wake him up.

"Child 877, you are upset. I am obligated to remind you what you have just witnessed was just a simulation."
The child is still shaken.
"But, teacher-tron, I remember my grandfather telling me about the wars fought on American soil after President Trump sold America to the Chinese. I remember him telling me about the global food crisis. Are you sure it's just a simulation?"
The robot stutters in its tracks. Its programming won't allow it to tell the truth in this instance.
"Yes, child. It was just a simulation."
The child is soothed and falls back asleep.
"Emperor Clinton," the robot calls out, "we have a misaligned mind in the making. What are your orders."
A deep voice booms into the robot
"Delete it."

Oneiornautical Journey

My name is Henry, and I'm a dream explorer. I've been one for as long as I can remember, and I don't know anyone else who does anything like this. I have complete control over my dreams, and in them I go on amazing adventures. To be completely honest, when I first found out I could do this, I was doing nothing but flying for months on end. It was amazing. I felt like a pilot.

That was when I was 10 years old. I told my dad about it right away, and he just shrugged off my dreams as dreams. He didn't see anything special about it. My mom felt the same way. Then it hit me. Watching them go about their daily routines day after day. They were just like zombies. I felt like the only sane person for at least 6 years after that. I couldn't make friends, and I could barely keep up in school work. I graduated high school and went on to work at a fast food restaurant, just making enough to afford the basic amenities of reality; a place to live, food to eat, and electricity.

My dreams kept me more than entertained, and were better than any drug I could have ever tried. I hadn't been able to share my talents with the world, but that changed when I heard about the invention.

A wealthy Japanese inventor who goes by the pseudonym "Haruko" invented a machine that lets people record their dreams in video form. I've started making YouTube videos about how I explore my dreams, and how other people can do it too. I get comments all day long about how nothing I'm doing is real, and that I'm a paid government employee who's seeking to brainwash the populace into submission, and everything else you could think of, and then a whole lot more. When you start trying to literally wake people up, their inner defenses really spring to life.

My income from making these videos is steadily increasing. It's gotten enough to cover the cost of electricity. My job at the restaurant provides me a place to live, and with food, but I know I should be doing more. I've started moving my money around. The portion of my restaurant money that used to cover electricity is now going into a fund to eventually move to Nepal. I know the people there would be more than willing to listen to how to explore their dreams, and my hopes are that my video income will eventually make me location independent.

This is my current life. It has been like this since I was 18. I am currently 23. I'm 80% of the way towards my goal of moving to Nepal, and my life seems dull from the outside, but I am content.

I am now 26. I have been in Nepal for 6 months. It is so much better than I had dreamed, haha, haha. Every day is a good day. The people here are nowhere near as rushed as they were back in Australia. People are even less hateful on my videos these days. I've gotten quite popular on the internet. Nearly 7 million people watch every one of my videos, and I'm not doing anything I haven't been doing all along.

This is truly the best world out of all possible worlds.

The Ambling Lady

John was standing alone, waiting for the bus to come by. He had just gotten off his shift at the local Waffle House and was beyond ready to get home. His boss was even more of a dick than usual today, and the customers were more demanding than usual also.

The bus was late. It was always on time. It should have arrived 15 minutes ago. John pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time again. Shit, a missed call from his boss, and a voicemail. He didn't wanna hear his shit anymore today, so he dismisses the notification and browses Instagram for a few minutes. The bus is now 20 minutes late.

A lady is walking towards John. She seems to have a limp. John texts one of his fuck buddies asking what she's doing tonight. He's not expecting her to reply, but hoping she does. The lady is getting closer, and something seems a bit off about her. The bus is now 30 minutes late.

John is fed up with this shit. He's lamenting his fate and starts walking home. Ten minutes of walking bring John to his home street. He feels like he's being watched, and turns around. The lady is ambling towards him. Her face looks like it's dripping off her bones. Her clothes are torn, and her left arm is hanging limply by her side, nearly severed from the rest of her body. Her skin is gray and pebbly. A low, pitiful moan escapes from her lips as she continues ambling towards him.

John is freaking out now. Adrenaline pumps through his body and fight takes more prodding than usual to turn to flight. John runs for his house. He gets out his key and unlocks the door. He slams it behind him and quickly re-locks it. He looks out the window and can see the lady ambling towards his door.

There is a knock on the door.

"Open up. It's me," a familiar voice rings out.

Shit, it's his landlord. His rent is several days overdue and he's got no money to pay her. John opens the door.

The ambling lady reaches out her right hand and grabs John by the collar. She lifts him up off the floor like a doll and growls into his face. John has pissed himself. The warm fluid flows down his leg and into his sock. A yellow pool forms below him. Flight tries to win, but John is paralyzed from the fear.

The ambling lady's face comes sharply into focus. Her eyes are red thin vertical shafts that shine. Her nose is flattened into slits. Her mouth is sunken into her face, with sharp teeth protruding slightly. Her ears are cat-like and always moving.

She reattaches her left arm with frightening speed, and shoves her hand into his chest. She smiles, and her sharp teeth are glistening. John looks down and sees there is no hand in his chest. He is mightily confused. He looks back to her face and it's his landlord's. His landlord is waving her hands trying to get his attention and she's looking at him like he's losing his mind.

"Did you hear what I just said?" She frowns.

"Uh, no. What?" He bleats.

She pinches the bridge of her nose while slightly shaking her head.

"Your rent is 5 days late. You have until Friday to pay up or I'm starting the eviction process."

John can't help staring at her.

"Ok" is all he can manage to say before closing the door.

He is alone in his house, but he doesn't feel alone anymore. His phone vibrates. It's his fuck buddy saying she's not doing anything and asking if she should stop by. John agrees, mostly because he is afraid to be alone right then. He wants her there as soon as possible, but knows if he starts getting desperate, she'll go to somebody else. He strips off his work clothes. There is no urine on his clothes. It was a grease stain on his leg. He throws his clothes into the hamper and hops in the shower. He cleanses his body as he tries to cleanse his mind from the horrible shit he just saw.

It's not doing him much good. The image of the ambling lady is filling his mind until it seems like it will burst. He hears a knock on his door. He quickly gets out of the shower and wraps a towel around himself. He heads to the door and opens it. His fuck buddy has arrived. She is wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

"Hey you." He says, smiling.

"Hey" She says, smiling back.

A passionate kiss ensues, with his hands going all over her body, and her hands going directly to his penis.

"Passionate dirty talk" She says, like a program executing a function.

His penis perks up at hearing this, and then the boning commences. He sticks his guy-boner into her lady-boner and then they moan and bone and groan for a long time, it seems to them. In reality, it was about 20 minutes.

"Well, that was satisfying," he says to her as she is putting her clothes back on.

"Yes, I agree with that and would like to continue doing this whenever either one of us feels like it," she retorts.

"We are wonderfully enlightened." John says to her, although she seems not to hear him as she is pulling her shirt over her head.

"Hey," John grabs her by the arm and looks into her eyes,  "I had a really weird day and was wondering if you'd stay and listen to me."

"Oh, I would, but I've got an early start tomorrow and I need to get home and get some rest." She leaves after saying this.

John is now alone again. The ambling lady creeps back into John's thoughts, and he feels scared. There seems to be no explanation for what happened. He goes to get his phone and checks his Facebook and sees he's got a new friend request.

It's the Ambling Lady.

Gamifying Post-Pubescence

Inside of the jeweled crown, was a tearful little girl. Her skin was alabaster, with eyes the color of a fading sunset. Her hair climbed down to her neck, and perched. It was dyed a vibrant green.

There was a young boy clinging to a jungle gym outside of her home. He was a lanky boy, with arms longer than his legs, even though he was quite tall, with short, brown hair, and mysteriously silver eyes, that feasted on the world.

A small dog yipped at the boy, seeking to alert everyone to his presence. The boy shot the dog a single glance, and the dog's eyes rolled back into its head. The dog died instantly.

The boy started peeling off his skin, inch by inch, starting with his feet, revealing tendrils of light where muscle and bone were supposed to be. The little girl's eyes drifted out of their sockets, dancing in the air above the boy, streaming his stripping to her usual audience.

The grandmother, who used to be bound to a wheelchair, stood up and clapped sarcastically at the little girl.

"Nice eyes." She sneered at the young girl.
"In my day, we didn't have all this fucking biotech. World was better back then."

The boy reintegrated into his primary body at his house. It would do him no good to be caught by this technologically challenged non-empath who seemed intent on misunderstanding reality.

His lover would have to wait.

Two months of energy dancing for the girl ensue, each dance more frenetic than the last. The girl orgasms deeply every night, just as the boy said she would. She tells him it's time to switch rolls. He calculates the dice chance, and agrees, then reintegrates home.

She spins a thread of concordant fabrications, and urges him to tug. He tugs and she is satisfied.

Many times they switch rolls, on some turns they are 20s, and on some they are 1s. Every new adventure is grand and fulfilling, and happinesses plagues then incessantly.

A new game master emerges from the psyche and declares sexual organ manipulation to only be allowed on rolls of 20. Nobody sees the disaster until the rule has been formatted to be unremovable.

The psyche is damaged, and the game master cannot be swapped.

The board remains the same, but the dice increase the numbers. It's not luck anymore. It's a process. The process picks apart the dice and reassembles them without rolling. Every dice is now a 20.

The game shifts focus and becomes exploration, without genital manipulation.

A new player emerges, who is neither male nor female, who does not roll on any turn. They neither toil nor spin.

A planet emerges from the wreckage of the past, and seeks counsel. It is said that once the thwarting begins, it must continue until the third player rolls.

The game master rolls for the third player.

It's not a 20.

Incongruous Autodidact

There was a hard, gray crack on the wall. There were spiders coming out of the crack and there was food on the kitchen table that my stepmother had made. It was alright food, but neither she, nor my father were decent people. He had a wretched life doing menial labor for the government, and she was a boring person who did nothing but watch TV all day, and had no interest in me or my sister. We were nothing to her, and as such we were treated as nothing. We were fed on a regular basis, but were not treated as her children. That was fine. We did not treat her as a stepmother. We treated her as though she was nothing.

I remember one very specific time. I was about 13, a boy, with the thoughts a boy has, mostly of sex, but also of video games, as they come. It was one night, before the rise of the internet, when there was a sexy TV show playing. There were two TVs in the house. One in the “master” bedroom, and one in the living room. She would not go to her husband in their bedroom, with their own TV, to leave me to my devices in the living room. I became angry, as boys are wont to do, and yelled at her. I yelled because I wanted my privacy, and they would not allow me to have a TV in my own room. It seems such a petty thing now, with WiFi all around, and individual smartphones ubiquitous, but as things were, I was attempting to assert my sexual independence and was continually being rebuffed for these attempts. This is how it was.

I was in an English class during middle school. I remember never doing any of the homework assignments. Homework was an irreducible bore. I never got into it, and don't think it did me any sort of harm. The lady who taught the class, she spoke fluent Spanish, and we had to read a story about a young girl who crosses the border into America to find a better life for her and her sister. It was a good book, as they go. It was during this time that I started keeping a binder of completely meaningless words. I think this was a response to once having seen my father destroy every single school paper I had ever written during elementary school.

I was in his bedroom, doing something that I can't recall. He had a box in his closet that contained all of my papers from school. He might have been proud of me. There was no way to tell as he never told me if he was or not. He took the box out, and started throwing away all the papers. This might have been just before we moved from one house to another, because of one of his wives wanting to move. It was a terrible experience, watching your whole life being thrown away like that. I never did any homework after that, and attempted to do as little paperwork as possible after that. If my father had no respect for my work, why would I have any respect for it?

When my grandmother lived with us, I was made to sleep on the couch. This lasted until I was in the 6^th grade. I had to sleep on a couch, without a room of my own, almost as if the needs of my grandmother and father were more important than my own. That is why they don't receive any phone calls from me, and never will.

My father was a terrible man, exploding in anger over absolutely nothing, with no way to tell if he was going to be in a good mood or a bad mood, and he drank frequently.

He is no longer a part of my life, as it should be.

Choices

You hear a phone ringing. It's yours. You look over and see your son's face. He hasn't called you in such a long time. It'll be nice to hear from him.

It's not him. It's the police. They ask you to come down to the station.

Your heart is racing. What did he do?

You arrive at the station. A nice gentleman leads you to a quiet room.

Your son is dead.

Wave upon wave of sadness hits you.

Tears leak out of your face.

There is a hole in your heart.

Your world is no longer in color, but a monochrome gray.

All of the happiness you experienced is gone.

Your child is dead.

Words are coming at you from all sides.

Who are these people?

You demand to see him.

They tell you that wouldn't be a good idea.

You DEMAND to see him.

They begrudgingly accept.

There is a corpse where your child should be.

There is a CORPSE where your CHILD should be.

THERE IS A CORPSE WHERE YOUR CHILD SHOULD BE.

You collapse. Hot tears are peppering your face. Someone is helping you up and into a chair.

Your wife is on her way to pick you up. Everything is blurring.

You're home. Sharp edges are appearing in your vision.

You want to punish the person responsible for what happened to your child.

A wave of sadness hits you again. Your child killed himself. He is responsible for his own death.

You momentarily wanted to punish him, for killing himself.

You cry again until your body is dehydrated.

Your work suffers.

Your family suffers.

You are suffering.

Someone goes on a long tirade about the second amendment. You wish you had a gun so you could shoot them in the face.

You start drinking.

Your wife is talking to you. She's asking you about the funeral.

Her words are a hot poker poking you in your tear ducts.

You can't hold on to this feeling. It's burning your eyes, and destroying your life.

You put your child in the ground. You place a flower where his body is.

Your child will never wake up again.

Years go by.

Your wife leaves. She can't stand the drinking.



More years go by.

It's his birthday.

Your coworkers are throwing you a party. It's your retirement day.

You're so happy.

Then you remember.

You say nothing.

Your party goes well.

You go home.

You drink until you can't remember anything.

Your retirement starts.

You drink all day.

You cry when you drink.

You stop going out.

You wake up one day, and it's the day after your son's birthday.

Nobody called you.

You waste away, alone.

You fall down. Nobody is there to help you get up.

They find your body a few days later.

The Magic Beggar, Part 1

"Your total comes to $13.24" he said.
I unfolded a small piece of paper, and showed it to him.

"Here is an appropriate amount of currency. Please keep the remainder for yourself and do not distribute it to your masters."

He looked at me like I was crazy.

"Have a nice day to you too." I responded to his staring. After the transaction, I gathered my supplies and headed for the door. As soon as I stepped outside, I removed one sandal and began to recite the incantation.
 

"From Dust you were created and to dust you shall return, follow in my footsteps or the world will surely burn."

The second level transaction complete, I resumed my walk. That cashier had been a mindless zombie in a system that devalues human thought and emotion, but at least he had been capable of providing me with goods. I could have simply taken them and hurt his masters directly, but I wanted to give him an opportunity. He didn't take it, but at least I tried.

A bird whistled at me from a bush. I could hear its song plain as if it was speaking English. "My baby, my baby" it was crying. I couldn't do anything for it, I knew, but I sent out a tendril of good vibrations to it, just in case.

How many days would I spend on this street before a single human lent me their space? So far, it has been 25 years. I can't tell anyone that I'm testing their species. That's one of the conditions. I have to remain in character for the whole test. We had to put that condition in. There had been a lot of murder before we did that. Now we have ignorance instead. It seems better on the surface level, but dig one layer down and it's pretty obvious it's worse. With murder, the answer was clear. With ignorance, we can't tell if it's malice or lack of vision.

Oh, well.

"Excuse me, ma'am, I'm very hungry and haven't had anything to eat for several days, could you spare a coin for a lowly beggar?"

She looked at me like I was a pile of shit she didn't want to step in. She walked more briskly, hoping I would fade away. I lowered my voice to almost a whisper and directed it directly into her mind,
 

"Help me, I am starving. My stomach growls with pangs of hunger. I will die without you."

She stops for a moment and scratches her ear, thinking a bug had gotten on her. She continues ignoring me, and turns the corner. It went on like this for five hours. Everyone who was asked, ignored the pleas for help. Then, a young man happened by. He was wearing a new suit. You could tell because it didn't fit him quite right and he was pulling at the places it didn't fit.

"Excuse me, young man, could you spare a coin for a lowly beggar, I'm quite hungry and haven't eaten for several days."

His face lit up and he reached for his purse, but before he could pull a coin out, his eyes lit up again, but with a darker light inhabiting them, like a demon's.

"If you are hungry, I will gladly feed you. Come with me and we shall dine at my house."

I agree.

Upon arriving at his home, he bids me enter first, and I understood the signal.

"Brother," I said, "we seek not to be first, but to be great."

He looks at me with borderline contempt.

"Leave. Now." He hisses directly into the foam.

I hold my hands together and gather the good vibrations around me as a shield. His words echoing around me seem to warp the very air. My shield stops the negativity from hitting me, but it drains my soul.

"You are a disgrace among our people" I tell him in the common vernacular. I leave him and return to the shop for a small pittance of food.

"Hello, again, dear shopkeep. Have you been keeping well since last we met?"

He looks at me much like everyone has been, but something in his eyes is a bit different today.

"Hey, I shouldn't ask this, but I know you sleep on the streets. Do you want a real roof to sleep under for a few days?"

His eyes betray his inner turmoil.

"Yes, dear shopkeep, that would be lovely, but first let me procure this spiced meat from you."

He charges me less than the value of the meat, but I refuse to sell him short, and perform what to him could be nothing other than magic.

"My name is Matthew. What's yours?" The shopkeep, whose known as Matthew, asks me.

"I don't have a name. Call me whatever you want."

He gets a suspicious look on his face and ponders this a bit.

"Well, you've pretty much singlehandedly been keeping this shop alive, so I'll call you Profit."

"Profit I am, then. Shall we go to your home?"

We journey to his home. It's a quaint cottage on the outskirts of town. Small, wooden, lived in. There is a picture of his wife and two small children hanging on the wall, but the house is too small for four people, and no trace of them are to be found.

"Quite a lovely home you have here."

"Thanks, built it myself for my late wife. She died of consumption and took the kids with her to heaven."

His eyes carry no hint of sadness, only longing.

Innocence

Cold day, shadows grow long early, crop harvest soon:

The lady with the water hasn't come by yet. She usually comes by this time of year. If she doesn't come soon, we're all going to die from lack of water.

My name is Santerik, and my village is small. There's my family, and two other families. We live on the remains of an "overpass" as my mother's mother called it. I don't see it passing over anything, but many words are like this. I don't accept this. Words can't just change like that. My father's brother told me I shouldn't think like this, but that doesn't make any sense. Should, shouldn't. Those words are devoid of meaning. If something is, it is. If something isn't, it isn't. How things should or shouldn't be are meaningless.

There is water all around us, but it is glowing poison. I drank from the lake once when I was small, and the vomiting didn't stop until my father gave me the old medicine. I don't understand how it could do that. I don't understand how the water could make me vomit, and I don't understand how the medicine could fix me. My father's mother told me 'some things are best left unknown'. I think she is wrong.

Warm day, shadows grow long early, crop harvest today:

The lady came by a few days ago. She didn't have as much water as she did last year. She said the source was growing drier. I hope we don't all die. We can use the poison water on the crops and they turn out fine, but we can't drink it day to day. There aren't as many crops this year as there were last year. I hope we can all stay fed.

Freezing day, shadows stay long, games being played:

Today was great. My brother won the winter festival games! He let me have some of the candy. He's a great older brother. Two more people died today, though. Lazarus and Marcurio. They were good friends, but, like dad said, "we gotta eat, honey." I don't know what he meant by that. Mom won't let me help with the cooking yet. I have to stay inside while the adult women cook. They look like they wanna cry every time they see me eat. I'm not fat. Why do they look at me like that?

Cool day, shadows growing shorter, crops being planted:

My family is the only family left. The winter seemed longer than usual this year. My mom and dad, and my mom's brother, and my dad's sister, are the only adults left. As for the kids, there's me, my brother, my dad's sister's son, and my mom's brother's daughter. My dad said everyone else ran away, but I can't help but wonder how come everyone but my family ran away. Did we eat them? I asked mom that and she told me to shut up and not to ask questions like that. I think that means we did eat them.

Hot day, no shadows, village being attacked:

There is a stranger in our village today. He says he knows what we all did, and that he's come to put a stop to us. My dad shot him.

I was shocked, but I knew it was the right thing to do. My dad is always right. Then, my mom told me it was time for me to learn the family recipe.

Survivor

You wake up, your dream still clinging to you like water to fur. You turn off your alarm, wishing you had another four hours to get more sleep. Last night is a blur. Memories of drinking come to mind, but you can't remember how much, or with who. This troubles you.

You are normally very careful not to drink with strangers. You've heard the stories. You've read the news. You feel a sharp pain shoot through your body. What is this?

You feel yourself. There's blood. You call 9-1-1.

Your mind is racing. Who could have done this? Why would they do this to you?

You arrive at the hospital. Everything smells like rubbing alcohol and shame.

You strip naked, exposing yourself, feeling even more violated. Strange people in white coats put objects into you. "Taking samples" they call it.

You wish it was all over.

Police come and talk to you. You tell them you can't remember anything. They seem supremely uninterested in what happened, as if they're only there because it's their job.

Everything is a blur. Everything was a blur last night too. Are you being raped all over again, or is justice happening to you?

Your fate seems out of your control.

Tears have been streaming down your face for the last few hours. When did that start?

You can't remember who you were before this happened. It's a new level of existence, but it's a hell.

The judge is looking at you, asking you if you need a minute. The tears are streaming down your face again. The jury is looking at you. They look uncomfortable. It's hard to watch a grown man cry.

The woman is leaving. There is no jail time for her.

You're holding the gun in your hands. Tears are streaming down your face again. When did these start again?

The therapist said this feeling would be normal, but the therapist doesn't feel it. You feel it.

Click.

The Experiment

There was a knock on the door, strange for this time of day. Two men were standing outside, staring at the door in anticipation, waiting for me to open it.

I stare at them, unbelieving. Their skin is gray and shifting like sand dunes in a dust storm. They look like normal people, with suits and ties and skin, but if the sun hits them just right, it transforms into a strange gray tone.

I hesitate for just a moment too long.

"Ma'am, open up, we're with the FBI."

I have to open the door now. They're feds.

"Hold your badges up to the look-through window."

Their faces shift gray for a second, as if they hadn't prepared for this turn of events, but they do hold up their badges. Everything looks completely normal and legitimate, with the one massive exception of their shifting gray skin.

I open the door.

"What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?"

The gentleman on the right pulls a syringe from behind his back and wordlessly approaches me as his partner walks behind me and restrains me.

The last thing I remember is the syringe plunging into my stomach.

I don't know how long I'm out before I re-awaken. My hands and feet are bound with leather and the two gentlemen are standing over me, without their human disguises on.

"Ma'am, we're not here to hurt you. You've been selected for a special treatment. We didn't want to alarm you, but we have to elevate you to the next level before everyone on Earth is dead. We have a short window, and you are a likely candidate in your current society. We aren't here to give you a mission. We're here to help you succeed."

The gray aliens start pulsating over every color I've ever seen, turning white and black intermittently, radiating heat at some points, and becoming extremely cold also. It's unlike anything I've ever seen, and it's extremely scary. I try not to be alarmed, like they asked me to, but their appearance is so alien.

I seem to pass out after they're done, but, I look down and see the whole earth, with humans crawling all over her, sucking the blood from her very bones, cutting her open over and over, littering her body with their shit, pissing into her bloodstream.

The humans are to the earth, what the mosquitoes are to the humans.

It's a strange thought, as though it didn't come from my mind, but to my mind. But, to my mind is wrong, because it's as though my mind is the world, and everything she is experiencing is happening to me. It's an unbelievable way of viewing, and it's...
like a switch has been switched.

I am gone, but I am everywhere.

The Dog is a Metaphor

There were a hundred dogs surrounding me.

It was a warm November morning, but the forecast had called for snow. It seemed like that kind of day, where the weatherman told you your day would go one way, but it turned out completely different.

The dog I was looking for wasn't here. I had been told that he would be, but he wasn't. If only he had been here, then I could have just got him and left. Now all these dogs seemed to be crying out to me "Take me home. Take me home." I couldn't look any of them in the eye, knowing that they would all still be here when I left.

"Hey, young lady," I called out to the receptionist.

"What can I help you with?" She responded cheerily.

"I was told you had my dog here. He ran away yesterday and I've been really worried about him."

"What does he look like?" She seemed to be distracted by a million different things while she said that.

"He's a small, white Maltese with a little scar above his right eye."

She looks at me like I had just told her there was a ghost behind her.

"I remember that dog. You said he just ran away yesterday? That can't be right. He's been here for the last three months. He just got adopted yesterday, by a young lady."

I saw the sincerity in her eyes. She was completely wrong. My dog had just ran away yesterday. He hadn't been at this place for three months. There was no way. She didn't look crazy, but she had to be.

"Ok, thank you. I must have been told the wrong place. Thanks for your help."

I left without another word.

The whole world seemed skewed.

How could this have happened?

I woke up in the right world yesterday, but today it's this world. It was a strange dream I had had.

A snowflake floated down from the sky, and a bitter wind blew past me. Where did I put my jacket? I didn't bring it with me, because it had been so warm when I left the house this morning.

A young lady walked past me, with a horrible look in her eye, and a beautiful dog on her leash.

She looked directly into my eyes, with seemingly a sense of great personal triumph as she said;

"Look at my dog. Do you like him? Do you wanna pet him?"

It was my dog. The dog that had run away from me last night, but that had been at the pound for the last three months. This world was crushing me with its non-continuity.

"No, thank you. I have to get home."

The streets flew under me and sped me home at a break-neck speed, as if they understood my need to escape from this crazy dream that wasn't a dream anymore.

When I opened my door, there were strangers in white lab-coats in my house.

"Who are you people? I exclaimed, exasperated.

"We've been here the last three months, helping you get adjusted to your new medication levels. Everything has been going fine, with one small exception. That dog you loved so much has been determined to no longer be an asset to your recovery, and as such, we've had to find it a new home."

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The cult had taken over my life, and were gas-lighting my every attempt to escape from their nightmare.

I walked calmly to the man who had just told me about my dog.

"Thank you," I whispered into his ear, as I gently planted a kiss on his arm.

He didn't seem to think anything about this so I walked off to the bathroom.

"Hey, I'm gonna take a long bath." I told nobody in particular, not expecting an answer.

Nobody seemed to think twice about it.

I went into the bathroom, and noticed my razors had been replaced with safety razors. They were onto me, before I was onto myself. How did they get here so fast? Or was my dog really at the pound for the last three months.

I strip and get into the warm water.

It's not as soothing as it was yesterday. Memories of my dog race through my mind, from the last week of my life, not more than three months ago. Why were they doing this to me? What are they gaining from this?!

I soak for almost an hour.

As I dry myself off and place new clothes on myself, I see a small picture on the vanity. It's me and my dog. They even put a date on it. It was dated three days ago.

They left me the evidence that they were lying, and didn't hesitate to lie to my face. They knew I was trapped, that there was nothing I could do about it.

Every day goes by like this for a year. Every day I go to the pound and ask about my dog. At first they look at me with pity, then it slowly turns to anger, and then the anger fades to indifference.

They see me as a crazy woman who can't hold on to her own dog.

Twenty years go by, and the cult takes over my life. They make me star in successful movies, and rip all the joy out of my life.

The money is completely unimportant.

My freedom died the day my dog was taken from me.