Aftermath

Nothing more – nothing less
I have nothing else to offer
Upon a fiery pyre
Will it be enough?

Sparks illuminate dead eyes
All unseeing – all unknowing
I watch them leap and die out
In a sooty sky
Will they be forgot?

The smell of oil and wood
Burns my nose – burns my lungs
My skin is crying in the heat
As fallen lives burn out

Broken Dishes

Crack!

Dishes break when Mommy is angry.

They take to the sky, to test wings they haven't grown and come crashing to their death.

Mommy swears.

She starts banging on bedroom doors, trying to find one of us. It's our faults, she says. We made her mad, so the plates broke. Or the cups. Or that china vase grandma gave us last Christmas.

She usually makes me clean things up.

I'm the youngest.

I don't fight back.

Jenna fights back. She gave Mommy a black eye and a bloody lip once. She hollered and threatened and said she'd run away.

Mommy doesn’t bother her anymore.

Bret doesn't fight back, but Mommy is scared of him anyway. She curses and spits at him and says he looks like Goddamn Bill.

I don't fight back, either.

But Mommy still makes me do stuff by whacking me. When we were all littler, we used to compare bruises, to see who had the best.

I always used to win, but now I'm the only one with bruises anyway, so it doesn't matter anymore.

Last time things broke, I tried to hide in Jenna's room, but she got mad and threw me out and then Mommy hit me for making her worry. And I still had to clean glass off the floor.

Jenna locks her door now.

I tried hiding with Brett once too, but he didn't like having me in his room 'cause I didn't want to naked wrestle with him.

Brett's too big to wrestle with and he grabs places that hurt, sometimes.

My bedroom isn't safe at all.

The door doesn't lock.

Mommy can come in any time, and she does. She woke me up at two in the morning, once, to clean up a broken set of mugs. I fell asleep in school the next day and the office called her.

She was mad at me then.

She said I couldn't let anything interfere with school or I'd be a failure like Jenna or a dropout like Brett.

I promised I wouldn't and she hugged me then, and told me she was proud.

I would have done anything to make her proud.

#

The dishes break downstairs and I hide in my closet. It's almost too small now, and when I grow again I won't fit. There's cussing and yelling downstairs.

Something else breaks.

Mommy screams, but it's not anger-scream; it's fear-scream like when she had a boyfriend one week who liked sneaking into Jenna's room.

Something else smashes.

That's gonna be a lot to clean up.

She screams again and then it's quiet. No more breaking things.

I hear footsteps on the stairs, and shutting doors. I wait for Mommy to come find me, but she doesn't.

I'm hungry.

I go down the stairs and through the living room. The lamp is broken. It's dark.

The lights are on in the kitchen.

There's glass all over the floor. One of the windows broke. There's a box of poptarts sitting out. I take one.

They shouldn't be out.

I got to put them away.

The pantry door is already open.

I make sure to close it.

I go back upstairs. There's blood on the steps.

My bedroom door is open.

I never leave the door open.

The lights are off.

I flick them on.

#

I scream Brett's name and pound on his door, but he doesn't answer. I run to Jenna's room and don't stop knocking until she answers.

Mommy – it's Mommy – my bed -

Jenna sneers.

She pushes me away from the door.

"Yeah, fucker," she says. "I know."

The Statue in the Temple

Author's Note: Used as an application essay for Kenyon College once upon a time...by this very author.

---

You don't know me. You don't know anything about me, and yet here you are, pouring your life's story – woes and joys both, into my ears as if you think it will help.

Foolish mortal child. I am the invincible, and I have better things to do than to listen to a child's words.

And yet – something holds me here, listening though you know it not. I hear you, child, and even if you do not have full knowledge of how well I hear you, I can sense that you take comfort anyway. What small graces are these, then, that Fate lends us? A listening ear, no matter the state of being is priceless.

I hear you, child, and though I will never weep for you, rest assured your story has cracked my heart of stone.

Your eyes are wide, child, with the terror of a friendless soul. Believe me when I say I know. The same fear once coursed through me.

It passes, in time. All things pass.

For now, pretend a brave soul. The world will not look askance at courage, but carrion-eaters both man and beast will follow you should your weakness betray itself.

You need not fear forever. You will find someone true. Everyone does. The only trouble is how long they can stay by your side.

So, take heart, young one. Let the sun drink these water drops from your face. Do not let them know you have been weping here. Do not give them another weapon against you. Be strong, be fearless, and keep your eyes open.

The rest will come in time, I pledge you.

---

Once again you come before me, crying. Will you never come joy-filled?

No matter – you speak, and I listen.

Child, there is turmoil in your life. I had hoped – but hope is the weapon of a fool, and it shatters upon the first engagement.

Softly now; no need to rail at the dead. You know I won't leave another whose heart is so akin to my own. I cannot offer you advice, child, and for that I am sorry.

You will discover the truth on your own, and the answers will not come easily. Better for you to learn yourself than for me to tell you, anyway. I have my doubts that you would believe me.

I fear the gods did not give me life that I might give comfort, but that I could inspire. My gift is of little use in my present condition, and inspiration only goes so far. Yes, if it is comfort you seek, then here is not the place for you. I will wait for your return, and perhaps later, I may prove to be of more help.

Gods, but I hate being helpless.

---

You look as if dead, hollowed eyes waiting to be shut one final time.

Where has your childish smile, your childish fear, gone to?

You aren't crying now, but I believe that partly to be because you are as dry as a desert.

There seems to be so little left to you.

What have they done to you?

We are like in heart and spirit, you and I. We have the same thoughts, the same driving ambition. My only advantage was that I seized the moment and brought my dreams to flower.

You are letting yours rot on the vine. Save them now, or they will surely fester.

Who listens to the words of the men who claim to know all? They are deluded, or else seeking something in return.

No man can know the way the hand of Fate will move. She is an unpredictable lady. No more unpredictable in her movements than Luck, true, but where Luck favors the bold, Fate sets her own course and woe betide any in her way.

---

Your eyes are shining tonight, burning with the captured light of the sun. No longer do you cower before me, but stride into my presence as an equal. Once I would have been displeased by this display, but now your lack of humility only enhances the similarities between us. The lust of the conqueror shines in our eyes, as it has in the eyes of so many others.

But you, you have the fierce bearing of one of my oldest and closest friends.

Today you speak very little, but the prayers are all in your eyes. I feel them, radiate out from you. Tell me then, when did you become this warrior-kin? I do not remember the transformation in you. Was this the way of it, then, for my own family? Did I, overnight – like you – change to someone else before their eyes?

But take care now, as you set out to bend the world to your will. There truly is nothing but pain waiting for you in the wake of glory. A lonelier heart than that of the god of the world never existed.

Remember this as you set your eyes on conquest:

Once upon a time we were much the same, but I fear now the spirit of the conqueror fades from my blood.

Perhaps, to be replaced in you.

---

It's been a long time since I last glimpsed you. No one cares to visit me anymore. I fear I may be going to seed under sheer boredom.

Speak, then, and let me know of the goings-on in the world.

It is strange to consider that I – who once went the length of the earth – might now be humbled to asking for news. Speak, then, that I may know.

The proud bronze of your breastplate shimmers like blood in the slowly dying evening light. You never used to come in the evenings to see me. You used to come near the height of day, crumpling to your knees before me. Have you changed so much then? I have told you we are one in heart. I have told you the fate that awaits you should you pursue this folly.

But perhaps to a young, brave heart, ownership of the world is not folly. Choose your followers with care. Look to their shield arms – the bearing of the weak side of a man is more important than how he carries his strong side.

Check their eyes before you lead them – search for the fanatic loyalty that would have them beg to follow you should you order them home.

Give them speeches to rouse their blood and put promises in their heads.

But wary, also be. Men are fickle creatures – fast to cheer, swift to whisper, and quick to flee. Trust them as brothers, but never more. Too many times have brothers killed their kin, and friends even oftener so. Whether the lust be for glory, gold, or some other unimaginable, try to keep them as one.

Dissention is a plague that strikes without warning. Left to fester it will destroy you.

Go, then, and may Fortune favor you.

---

It has been long, though maybe not so long as you might think. Careworn and tired – yes I can see that. All the restlessness is gone from your body.

Did a few months so strip you of your pride, then?

Rise to your full height once again. I had warned you about the men. They are quick to change their minds, and it is only to be expected of them. They do not share the great visions of their leaders. Even if they did, do you think they would willingly endure what trials they face? I thought you knew better than that.

A man must eat to survive, and all the patriotic spirit in the world could not drive that need from him. Such fanaticism will not save them, though, or you. A man crazed with the idea of an afterlife will impale himself on a pike to kill the weapon's owner. That dead man does your army no good.

It is the strong of spirit, the strong of soul who will help you forge your empire. And only those who are strong of soul will live to see another day.

---

I have never seen you tremble before. You shake like a young sapling, its roots barely set in place. I'm not your god, so don't kneel before me. I only can offer a temporary reprieve from your duties, not a permanent solution.

Once you seemed so mighty to me, but now look at yourself.

Your eyes no longer shine.

Your face has adopted the look of a frightened animal.

You are tired – that much is plain. If you harbor the same incessant drive as I did, I know this is merely the beginning for you. I do not possess a gift of foresight, but in my own time, I saw the world.

In my own time, I ruled the world. That conquest came at a high price.

Who do you turn to when you are ruler of the earth and everyone despises you? I regret that I can give you no solution, but if I were able to, then would I not be one of the gods?

I am no god, but I am immortal in a way you will only achieve if you can put your personal fears behind you. Reach for the greatest dream you have, and conquer the world again.

She longs to be united as one.

---

Look out to the east. You haven't gone half so far as I.

You've barely left home, and yet your troops have already rebelled against you. What pitiful stuff are you made of?

On your feet, pathetic mortal. As a mere child you had more faith in one finger than resides in your whole being now.

Rise up.

Vanish from here, and take your failure with you. I never tolerated failures among my own.

You must inspire them. Make them long to follow you.

It is the conqueror's gift, and gods be damned, it lives in you if you would but use it.

I'm sorry.

I guess...
I'm sorry.
M'sorry.
I won't ask again
if you want me to stop
talking
because I'm afraid
you'll say yes.
Goodnights only, now,
unless you ask for more.
(Who am I kidding?
You won't.)
So...
I'm sorry.
But don't worry.
Forgiveness isn't necessary.
Promise.

Heart.

I wondered how tight my hands could go before he couldn't breathe. I wondered how long he would struggle for air. How long after he stopped breathing that his heart would stop beating. How long after that until it would never start again.

Asylum.

I couldn't have dreamed
it all -
you were there!

Their heads shake
and I realize
it does no good to try
to get to them.
They are not tied up -
I am the one
in the straightjacket.

But -

You were there...

How to deal with disappointment.

She's lying on the floor, right where she half-fell, half-flopped down. Her neck is twisted, watching me from an odd angle. I'm propped up against the lockers, pointedly not meeting that gaze. I can feel it, though.
There's no way to be gentle; I can't stand the unhealthy mix of question-want-fear. Mostly question, though.
I have to meet it.
"I don't like it when you look at me that way. That...questioning way."
Her eyes close and her head tilts off to the side, shifting that maddening gaze to the lockers.
"Like a kicked puppy dog?"
The comparison is accurate, and I wonder why I didn't see it before.
"Yeah."
She's quiet, and the silence is tense. Its early though - or it's late; hard to classify three in the morning.
I let my eyes close and half-formed images begin to flicker to life.
A sharp tap on my foot startles me back into a parody of consciousness. She's sitting against the lockers, too far away to have touched me, arms wrapped protectively around knees pulled in tight.
The guy who woke me up is half-grinning at me, the obscene hour showing on his face.
All our shields are down, and it's impossible to hide what anyone is thinking.
We're like wraiths of ourselves.
She's not, though...
She's still got that maddeningly defeated look.
Like a kicked puppy dog.

The Dasti Experiment...5

"Roll the dice, roll the dice, roll the dice." As Tsisas chanted, the knife he held to Bruesia's throat jumped with each repetition. A fine line of red decorated her skin from where Tsisas' knife had slipped.

"Roll the dice, roll the dice, roll the dice."

Ascaeliat's hands had gone sore. The dice assaulted his palms when he shook them. The dice assaulted his fingers when he picked them up. The dice held cruelty.

Tsisas chanted still, laughing as he drew Bruesia into a backward dance, singing his own music.

Bruesia's eyes stayed closed, as they had been. Her face betrayed nothing, not even if she still lived.

"Roll the dice!" Tsisas demanded.

Ascaeliat cast. The dice rolled four. The dice rolled nine. The dice rolled seven, twelve, six. The dice took on a life of their own. The black one with white marks liked to roll fives and sixes. The white die with black marks favored twos and threes.

Six. Twelve. Seven. Seven.

"Maybe rolling three will help," Tsisas cackled.

He tossed another white die on the table. The die had six faces. Each face was blank. Tsisas laughed. "Roll a one, roll a thirteen, and I'll let her go," he said.

Ascaeliat picked up the dice.

The bit his palms.

He wondered how long the abuse could go on. Bruesia looked dead. Her eyes remained closed. He could not tell if she was breathing. The blood on her neck had crusted. A thin line ran down from one edge. That had crusted too.

Tsisas pulled Bruesia against him.

Ascaeliat's hands tightened. The dice bit him. He rolled. Seven.

Tsisas just laughed.

Bruesia's head lolled to one side.

Ascaeliat snatched the dice up once more.

"Need another?"

Tsisas threw a black, faceless die on the table. "Roll a one, roll a thirteen, roll a nineteen!"

Ascaeliat threw the dice down. They hit the table and bounced. Bruesia did not move. Tsisas did not move, but his eyes glittered. Ascaeliat snatched the dice up before the numbers fell.

"Spoil sport!" Tsisas complained. "What if that had been a one?" Wicked light gleamed. "You could have saved her, you know. Or maybe not, but maybe so."

IF there existed anything to hate, Ascaeliat decided it was Tsisas' laughter. For Tsisas' laughter ran down the corridors of thought and chased away the light. Tsisas' laughter bubbled in darkness so deep it blinded. Tsisas' laughter hurt.

Ascaeliat grabbed the dice and rolled.

The knife blade in Tsisas' hand slipped.

Ascaeliat slammed his hand down on all four spinning dice.

They did not bite this time.

He raised his hand.

Three dice lay embedded in his palm.

Ascaeliat smiled.

Tsisas smiled back.

One die lay on the table.

It showed four.

"Better luck next time."

Tsisas drew the knife.

Bruesias' eyes opened.

Ascaeliat stared.

So she had been alive.

Church at Midnight.

Midnight's a bad time to crash anywhere that's not a dorm or a dorm room; worse when you're locked out a need a place to sleep 'cause the whole of campus is closed. Even the dining hall is locked up. Everything. 'Cept the church. And your mom won't be here until seven am anyway so you have to find somewhere.

It's warmer in there. No snow. But the organ starts playing at three twenty am, and even doubled up on jackets and hoodies the spectral chill runs through you.

You can't sleep.

By six am, you want out of there. The ghosts claim their rest and even ice can't keep you inside any longer.

You grab your bags to leave, but the unlocked doors are locked.

Footsteps, upstairs by the organ. The whole place creaks, and you grab more firmly ahold of your bags, as though they can protect you. It's too damn cold outside.

Maybe you're dreaming. Go back to sleep - sleep in a dream to wake up. Curled up on the pew - too skinny to fit your whole body, even stretched out on the side; church can't take obese patrons. Shove your face into shirts from your trip and close your eyes.

Refuse to move.

Ignore the chills and hope that it's just your - excellent - imagination.

Creaking stills and the organ stops.

You keep your eyes closed as chill washes over you again. But only the right half of your body - bone cold chill right through that quadra-layer jacket-jacket-double sweater.

"Hail Marie, full o' damned grace."

You're hearing voices. Hearing voices. Hearing -

A hand on your shoulder is something you don't hear, something you feel, jerking you out of present into past leaves you spinning. Bleeding internally.

A breath reeking of bad beer and salami runs through your fingers to your nose and you choke as sweaty hands pull yours away from your face.

He leers.

Puts a hand on your hip, slide it down your leg, stop and slides it back. "Wanna make room on that bench?"

Slurred words.

His hip presses against your gut, then your crotch and he pushes. Your body convulses, curls away, accidentally curls around because you can't sit up under eyes so pale they're almost white and a hand wrapped gently around your neck.

Life should not be prolonged.

Life ends on its own, no matter if it's fifty minutes or fifty years from now. If one man's suicide could save the lives of millions, would you try to stop him? Or would you be there among the millions, hauling him up on a cross? Would you be the one to offer a sip of wine, or the one to break his legs? Would you sit on the sidelines and taunt or would you stab him in the side? Would you write the inscription condemning him for his sacrifice, or would you be the one at the foot of his cross – the one among millions – singing praises?

Psychosis.

My name does not exist. I'm eighteen. Last year in January, I wasn't psychotic. Two years ago in January, I was. And this year? Well...who knows.
I slept for nearly the entire day. Hours. And once I woke up...all I wanted was to go back to sleep. Not much of a day, I know. Not much of anything. But I was dreaming.
And that was what was important.
I feel strange right now. My body hurts - nothing new. The life of an athlete combines physical fitness with an excruciating amount of exacting muscle soreness. However...that's not what I'm feeling. I'm not sore. I'm in pain. And I don't know why.
I think I am mad again. It's been too long since I last felt this way. Last time...oh, last time was interesting. Last time people died.
They went to sleep...slept for hours...never woke up.
I went to sleep, you know...slept for hours.
Maybe I'm still not awake. You never know. Maybe you'll sleep...sleep for hours. Never wake up.
Or maybe I am still asleep. I'm dreaming of you.

Speech.

Talk to me

with your hands;

they say more

than your eyes

ever have.

7 AM

At two in the morning, who has defenses up? At four in the morning, who is counting the hours? At six in the morning, there are birds outside, singing, and the sun is beginning to come up. At six-fifty-one in the morning...my fingers are on the keyboard, and my eyes are still open, though I feel as thought I've been awake a hundred thousand years already, and the day has only just begun.

The birds. I can hear them, and they sing their challenges. Battlefields and mating season... Summer has been upon us for some time, but only now do I hear the calls of new life. I've been sleeping far too long, lost in hibernation, left over from winter. I slept right through spring, because I stayed up late in the year. Mid-December I finally took my rest, and now -

A car goes by outside, on the street, just fast enough to disrupt the twittering birds outside. It's not still. The breezes ruffle my shades, and they clack like the pincers of some hideous sea creature. My room is drenched in red and orange, with shadows cutting across the floor, laughing.

The gentle humming of my laptop lulls me. My fingers on the keyboard click steadily, except for the long pauses when I'm thinking, or breathing. I've always liked to breathe. It became a hobby of mine, somewhere around sixth grade. Before then, I can't quite seem to recall.

Pain caresses my relaxing body. It feels strange, and nice, to have something so familiar that I can despise, so early in the morning, before the world had properly woken up. I will wake up soon. I can feel it. My world is sleeping as of yet, and waiting for that perfect moment to be dragged back into awareness.

Three minutes before the world rises and greets the dawn with choice swear words. It'll be a Saturday, but that means little to the office-goers, and who can blame them? If they listened to the same music I did, their ears would be broken as well. But all is well that began half-heartedly on the thirteenth of a month that no longer exists. It's in the lyrics of this instrumental, if you listen close enough. I can hear them, singing in silence.

This is the ride of a lifetime, sitting...no lying on my bed, on my stomach, elbow digging deep into the mattress so I can type. I'm here, and we're more alive than ever, even if there's only one minute until the end of a moment, and then we'll be awake again. Why must we wake? When it's something so simple, you'd think it would be easy to stay sleeping with pillows tossed onto the floor, and these giant blankets stuffed with dead geese and their feathers just folded. But things are never -

It's seven.

Good morning.

The Dasti Experiment...4

"Sax?"

"Yeah, Taz?"

"You love me, right?"

"'Course."

"And you'll never, never leave me?"

"Of course not."

"Good." Totaz laced his fingers together behind Saxiel's neck. "I like having you around."

Saxiel didn't bother trying to hide his smile. "I wouldn't leave you," he said. Then softer, into Totaz's shoulder, Saxiel added, "I couldn't."

Totaz clung to Saxiel for a while, then he grew restless. "Can we go somewhere fun?" he asked. "Fun, fun?"

"Where is fun?" Saxiel asked.

"Anywhere!" Totaz announced proudly.

Saxiel put two fingers to Totaz's lips, a silent gesture asking for quiet. Obedient, Totaz closed his lips. Saxiel paused a little too long. Totaz's errant tongue slipped between closed lips to wet the tip of Saxiel's finger.

"Taz!" Saxiel scolded. He wasn't mad. Totaz knew it. He knew it. They both knew. But for the sake of the old woman and her walker crossing the street, the vendor leaning against his hotdog stand, the children and parents on a passing tour bus, the homeless curled up in plastic bags, the customers shopping in windows, or those just window shopping –the scolding tone was for them.

The chaste, brotherly kiss to Totaz's forehead was for them.

"Sax?"

"Yeah, Taz?"

"You love me, right?"

Saxiel had the words to answer. For the sake of the baby in its mother's arms, the father holding his daughter, the school teacher conducting students, he only nodded.

"Sax?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, y'know."

Saxiel swallowed. "Yeah," he said. "I know, Taz. I know."

Totaz smiled and his fingers laced in Saxiel's hair once more, twined in the dark locks.

Saxiel began to walk down the street, still holding Totaz against him. Limp legs swung against him with every step they took. Saxiel picked up the pace until the swinging legs echoed the rhythms of his breathing. In and out. In and out and in. And out.

"Sax?"

The traffic made it hard to hear Totaz' voice.

"Yeah?"

Totaz's lips moved with a request.

A truck passed.

The exhaust swallowed the question.

Saxiel pulled Totaz closer.

"I love you," he said.

Totaz said nothing back.

The Dasti Experiment...3

"Aim better."

"I wasn't trying to kill you."

Nirax leaned forward. The Church ceiling rolled. The bench looked odd, missing its back half. Nirax watched Airthe.

"Why not?"

Nirax laughed.

Airthe looked down. His temple throbbed. A bullet had grazed his skull. His pants were torn at the knees. His legs were bleeding, lying a few paces away.

Nirax smiled at him. "Missing something?"

Airthe could not find words. His tongue searched but his mind bubbled with confusion. He had no pain. No –

Needles wandered into Airthe's sense of feeling. He winced, and stared.

Nirax had leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, one hand cupping his chin. A smile lit his face. "You're beginning to feel it," he said.

Beginning?

Airthe glanced to his legs. His mind refused to accept the distance. Across the way, partway across the room.

Light filtered through the broken roof, through the shattered windows.

"When are they going to be here?" Airthe asked.

Nirax stood and flipped the handgun around. He caught it by the barrel. He tossed it again and missed. The gun clattered on the floor. A mosaic tile chipped.

"As soon as they're done with the old woman," Nirax said. He paused. "You'll be here to greet them."

Airthe looked across the room. A single patch of wall was clear of blood.

"If you survive that long, of course," Nirax added. He kicked the gun in Airthe's direction.

The gun slid nearer, slicked with red. Airthe reached for it; it sat just outside his range.

NIrax laughed and turned his back.

"Good luck defending yourself. Better luck convincing them you weren't the one to kill everyone here. You look rather guilty, you know."

The door opened. The door closed. Airthe stared in the silence. Nirax was gone.

The Dasti Experiment...2

"I hate having the windows closed." Eloro held a cup of tea against her chest, staring at the windows, now shut. "It's like I'm being smothered." She sighed and sipped from the tea. It sloshed against her lips. She set the cup down in her lap.

Rain clung to the window pane.

Dasti watched Eloro. She stared out, through the drops clinging to the glass. She seemed to be looking beyond the mere existence of space. Eloro closed her eyes.

Dasti looked away. She looked vulnerable with her eyes shut. A gossamer shawl lay over her shoulders. Her skin appeared bleached against the cotton. She looked old. Eloro looked old. Dasti could not look at her. Youth characterized the Eloro he knew.

"Dasti." Eloro's voice called Dasti's attention.

"Yes?"

"It's almost time."

Everything happened at once.

Thunder crashed though no storm owned the skies. The door opened. Eloro stood. The teacup fell. Tea soaked Eloro's skirt. The window shuddered. Boots assaulted the stairs. Lightning flashed. The door opened.

Dasti shook his head and faced the window.

"Hello."

Heavy voices hailed.

Eloro's surprised gasp cut off.

Dasti did not turn, did not speak. He listened. He had only to listen. Eventually Eloro's soft breathing returned. Eventually so did his own. The boots faded away. The air lightened. The thunder rumbled, but did not crash. Apologies fell on the windows, as drops of rain.

From the shut window, the sounds of gunfire echoed.

They were shooting people down at the church. Again.

"Dasti." Eloro's voice was pitched higher than usual. "Can you close the window?"

Dasti put his hand out and touched the glass. The window was already closed. There was no use telling Eloro that. He turned. She was sitting in her chair, cradling an empty teacup to her chest, staring out into space.

"They're shooting people," she murmured.

Dasti nodded.

Eloro sighed. "Again."

The Dasti Experiment...1

This is the beginning of the end of the world.

The mirror was broken. Not cracked, it just wasn't working properly.
You always remember the day when you watch a man die.

The world isn't perfect. Not even close. Everyone knows, but not everyone knows. There's a difference between knowing and knowing after all.
-
-
-
"Can you close the window? They're shooting people down at the church again."

"Of course there's an explanation for why I shot all those people. Haven't you ever heard of target practice?"

"When is a door not a door?"

"The doors are down by Fifth and Eighth - catch a train, catch a tram, catch a cab...cabbie can."
-
-
-

Close the window.

The window shut.

"Thank you, Dasti. Come...sit down now, won't you?"

Across the room, Eloro sat in a leather armchair. She watched Dasti. Dasti turned and bowed.

"Sit?" he questioned.

Eloro smiled. "Sit," she agreed and motioned at the floor.

Dasti sat. His legs folded under him, and he rested his palms flat on the ground. His eyes locked with his kneecaps. Dasti waited.

Eloro watched him.

Through the closed window they heard gunshots.

Down at the church.

Then silence.

Again.
-
-
-

Shot them.

"All gone?"

"All gone."

"Not even one -"

Nirax laughed. "Only corpses."

Airthe sighed. All gone. Only corpses. "Even -"

"Only corpses." Nirax was firm.

Church lights flickered. The chandelier hung broken. The altar bore a flood of bodies. The chalice overflowed with blood. Some few drops stained the white cloth.

"Are we staying?"

Nirax turned the gun. The muzzle felt warm. Airthe did not shiver. Nirax laughed.

"You are."

Target practice.
-
-
-

When a door.

"Sax?"

"Yeah?"

"What's the meaning of life?"

Silence stretched.

"Where do you come up with these questions?"

"I don't know. Whats the meaning of life? What's the point of death? Why -"

"Are you ever quiet?"

"Sax!"

"What?"

"Sax, tell me?"

"I don't know, Taz. I just don't know."

The car on the corner drove away.

"Sax?"

"Hmn?"

"Carry me?"

Saxiel bent to gather Totaz in his arms.

"Like that?"

Totaz twisted his fingers in Saxiel's hair. "Yeah," he said. "Like that."

When ajar.
-
-
-

Looking for?

The dice rolled seven. The dice rolled twelve. The dice rolled four. The dice rolled nine. The dice never rolled one... He needed a one so she could live.

"As long as you keep rolling, she stays alive. As many rolls as it takes to get a one."

Sweat rimmed Ascaeliat's palms. He rolled the dice again. The dice rolled three.

Tsisas snickered.

Ascaeliat snatched the dice off the table and rolled again. Seven.

Tsisas' cackling grew. The hand holding the knife trembled against Bruesia's throat.

"Keep rolling!"

Ascaeliat's hands snatched up the dice. The blade at Bruesia's throat steading. Ascaeliat cast the dice. Four. Tsisas shook with laughter.

Can...can...can...

I Don't Want to Grow Up

I don't want to grow up. Matty said he wants to. He said he's going to be a fireman and rescue people and run with the dalmations. He told me he was going to buy a house and sleep in a different room every night and watch all the Batman movies in a row. Matty said that when you're all grown up, you can do anything you want.

I told Matty he was wrong.

He laughed. Everyone else laughed too, and said that, of course growing up is really important and of course grown ups can do anything they want.

Matty was mad at me for a while, but then he started telling me again how he was going to stay up until midnight and sleep in as long as he wanted when he was grown up. He laughed at all the little kid stuff I told him I still like to do.

He said playing with Barbie dolls and plastic trucks is something only babies do anymore.

I'm not a baby.

Matty said I was if I kept doing that. He said big kids don't do that. Big kids do grown up things, like the sitting thing, and talking over drinks of coffee.

I told Matty my parents don't do that.

He laughed and said all parents do.

They don't, I insisted.

He got mad then, and I was quiet. I don't like it when Matty gets mad at me.

Matty kept telling me about how great being not a kid was going to be. I listened. He talked. He's good at that.

But I still don't want to grow up. I want to be a kid forever. If I ever grew up, even a little bit, I wouldn't fit in the hole under the stairs at home.

It's where I go when the stinky man visits.

The house gets all hushed up, and he starts screaming big, ugly words at nothing. Mom doesn't start screaming until he finds her hiding spot.

She's too big to fit under the stairs.

And he never thinks to look here for her.

I wish she did, though. I don't like the screaming.

It makes my ears hurt. And when he's gone, the air smells funny, like the toaster got left on too long again.

Mom always cries about being grown up. If she doesn't like it, I don't think I will either.

I want to stay a little kid.

Matty doesn't understand.

It's safer.

Return Text

It was only because I thought I was done with tears. I thought maybe – maybe I was cried out for good this time, but then I had to look again, just to be sure, and the words came without your voice. I heard the sounds of wind across pavement, and I found out that I only blocked the conduit to the sea; I didn't destroy it.
You realize that hurts more than stones? This is what it feels like to ache, like you've been kicked and stabbed and strangled and held tenderly all at once. This is that gods be damned sensation everyone goes on about during daylight; the word one only whispers in the twilit hours of dark. Love. It sounds like someone begging for forgiveness. Love. That's when you want to kick them, and choke them, and laugh as the light leaves their eyes. That’s when the satisfaction is the greatest – when she's on her knees in front of you, and she's sobbing her god damn eyes out, and you can look at her and say so gently "I love you." Because you know it isn't true.
And she still believes you.
Love is power. Perverted power, meant to put a hold on a single individual and drag his marrow out through his bones. Love is courage deflated. Love is the coward's excuse and the romantic's hidey hole. Love is pretend. Love is nothing. But for those who know how to use a four letter word, love can become anything.
I don't love you was the reason she killed herself.
I've always loved you was the reason he didn't.
In this way, the world goes 'round.
But I still stop by the mirror, every time I go by, and look over my shoulder in the reflection. I still see you, sometimes, and I can't help the tears. I thought I was done with them. I've never cried so much over one human being. Not willingly. And I don't do it willingly now, either. You've had more tears for being alive than my family has for being dead.
I'd ask if that made you happy, but something tells me I'd only get a smile. And the silence of no return text.

The Time Machine

We're here. All of us. You're looking into me, and I'm staring out at you. This is the time machine, the portal to other worlds. I've been waiting for you, see. I've been wandering the hallways and the corridors of time and space. It's been a while. You needed to be here last summer, I think. Last summer I was more myself. This time, I'm a little more someone else.
Can you recognize me, or am I asking too much? This is just me, see. This is me, and that was me, and this will be me. I can see the future, as surely as Prometheus, and I can smell the subtle winds of the past. A thousand, thousand lives, and a thousand, thousand loves, and a thousand, thousand leavings to be seen, that have been done.
At least we're still here.
All of us.
You looking into me, while I stare at you.
The time machine is broken now.
We're stuck here.
But it's all right.
It'll always be all right.
We have each other.