Ok here's the deal. I was browsing 99chan when I come across this post.

The World has ended. But that was a long time ago. And there was a lot that happened before that . A lot you missed. You entered the cold cryosleep of your fathers 15,000 years ago and the machines kept watch. And now you awaken and walk out into a world beyond your understanding.

And as you walk, neath a sky clogged with low orbit debris, between the black computer towers five miles tall, out toward the sprawling pseudo-jungles, you listen. You listen to a song.

What is that song? And what lies beyond that pseudo-forest?

I've never written anything before, not even for a school project. But this idea sparked something in my mind that I've never felt before. I just started pouring it out.

So here's my story, playing off of the original post in the thread.

I awake from the cryosleep to find a dead world. I feel cold. I feel frightened. But most of all I feel the urge to explore.

Stepping out of the cryosleep chamber, I hear a familiar sound. Almost too faint to hear, almost unrecognizable through the 60-cycle hum of electricity and other mechanical devices.

The forest. A forest rests in the inky black of the horizon. This is where the sound is coming from. I walk forward, into the unknown.

I must have walked for miles. The song keeps intensifying. I swear I've heard this somewhere before. I have to find it.

As I keep walking, I move away from the electric city bathed in the glow of a thousand computer monitors and LEDs. Further into the void of the forest, overgrown and living, in stark contrast to the cold sleep chambers from which I arose.

Satellites, long since forgotten, are visible against the pre-dusk sky. Once a high altitude outpost of technology and a symbol of proud defiance in the face of God, the sky now falls, bringing our harvested earth back home. Every few seconds a streak shines across the sky, reaffirming the notion that time is not an ally of the hand of man.

The song intensifies.

As I trudge through the dark and forbidding forest, I come across a clearing. A large metal structure is seen in the middle, overgrown and covered in vegetation. That sound! That's where it's coming from.

I step inside.

The air is stale, heavy, old. The faint scent of decay clings to the walls. Four bare metal walls, a desk and a chair. Wait a second, there's someone in here! "Hello?" I cry out, yet the figure sits motionless. I step closer, my mind split between the sound and the person in the chair. I now figure out what song it is! It's Rush! Side A of 2112. I see it spinning on a record player on the desk. The arm, rusted and worn, slowly lifts from the center of the record and elegantly, yet laboriously, pulls itself to the edge of the record and drops with an audible thud.

"I had no idea Rush records survived this far into the future!" I exclaimed, putting my hand on the man's shoulder. I figured a fellow Rush fan would have no problem with a good pat on the back.

My enthusiasm was not returned.

The figure sat, cold, stiff and motionless. I move to face him and find a horrible sight. The first person I see since emerging from that icy hell is a corpse.

He seems to have been old when he went, judging by the gray hair. It also seems that the way he died was not left to God to decide. His right arm dangled freely at his side, a rusted pistol lie on the floor under his hand. As the record began its ancient song again, I began to piece a few things together.

He did not want to live here. He did not want to live in a world run by machines. He found a secluded spot in the woods and waited for the return of the "elder race", as it were. Unfortunately there was no return. Cold and alone, with only the music as his friend, he took his own life.

I began to cry.

I don't think I've ever cried that hard. The cold harsh reality of his death began to sink into my mind. I picked up his sidearm and pushed his body aside. A living man, alive again for only a few hours, contemplating the world in which he now resides.

They lied to us.

They told us the sleep would be beautiful. They told us that the world would be beautiful when we awoke. They told us that all of our worldly desires would be met the instant we got out. And all it cost was our worldly possessions. All of our money. Everything we owned went into this cryosleep venture.

When I lost my family to the raging environment, I had lost everything. The raging tornado outbreak of 2108 had destroyed entire countries. I was not a unique case. Like the many others beside me, I thought a better life awaited me in the future.

Well here I am.

The future.

I hold this rusty sidearm and listen to the music. This well-played record, playing for countless millenia, has acquired quite a bit of distortion. The grooves well worn, the needle almost broken off, yet the music still comes through.

"ATTENTION ALL PLANETS OF THE SOLAR FEDERATION. WE HAVE ASSUMED CONTROL."

I always loved that line.

As the arm makes its journey, the same one as it has for countless years, a fiery blast shakes the night sky. Another one of the satellites God has seen fit to return to earth. It appears that this satellite's victim was whatever was supplying power to this building, as the arm on the record player stopped moving outward. At least the satellite had the common decency to wait until the end of the song.

I bring the sidearm closer as to study it. A little bit of rust, still functions, and it's got five bullets left.

Well, I've made the decision. I'm not going to live in this world. My new friend here understood. So I've made the decision to join him.

Slowly pull the hammer back.

"Attention all planets of the solar federation."

"We have assumed control."

Tell me what you think.

Don't be afraid to be brutally honest. I understand that, as someone who doesn't write regularly, things might get a bit weird, phrases misused or repeated in the same sentence, but I don't exactly know how to reword those things, so really dig into it.

Thanks in advance.

I'm a web developer and want to make a website dedicated to writing communities. While working on the project I realized that I'm making a lot of assumptions about what are cool or useful features to have in this website and I'd like to know more about what motivates you when participating here. I have a ten question anonymous multiple choice survey and your responses are greatly appreciated! https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/X3TP8WD

The man sat in silence, looking down towards his feet. The hot, humid air of a long August day jumped at his pale skin, the heat hardly bearable. Sweat dripped from his forehead, rolled down his head, and off of his chin, creating a small puddle on the ground between his feet before it evaporated away.

He was ready to run. His headphones, plugged into his ears played the same song on repeat. He was in his own world while he sat, thoughts racing through his head, as he built up the necessary intensity for what he was about to do. The song ended. It started again. He was ready to run.

He opened the door, and hit the wall of humidity. Thirty-nine degrees, and it was only 11 in the morning. He looked around and the streets were empty, save for some children playing the sprinkler.

He stared for a second; nostalgia washed over him.

“She looks a lot like--” he whispered, not daring to finish his thought. He didn’t have time for this. His routine had been interrupted. He restarted the song, and made his way down the pavement to the sidewalk.

He recalled the route in his head. Three blocks, then left - two more; take a right; left; left - 2 blocks, right, two left, and four left to get back home. A 2 mile run. Not bad for a Saturday. He checked his laces, and he was off.

He tried focusing on the music. It played a heavy beat, which he could feel every time he took another step forward. His heart was beating fast. Sweat continued to pour. He continued to run. And he ran, until he needed to stop for breath.

He stood at the corner of George Street and Fourth Avenue, and took a moment to look around him. No one around -- not even a car on the road, until just when he was about to continue on his run, he saw someone. He saw her.

She was looking right at him, and running the way he had just come. It took a second for his mind to register who he was looking at, and for him to collect his thoughts. “It. Can’t. Be.” He thought out loud.

He gathered himself and started sprinting away. Past the parked cars. Past the turn he was supposed to make. Past the houses and past the point of exhaustion. He looked behind him, and she was still there, following him, matching him step for step.

He took the next left, then a right, then a left. She was still there. He continued to run, but his pace slowed. His sprint dissolved to a jog; his jog to a stumbling walk. He collapsed on the ground and vomited on the grass.

“Shit,” he tried to yell, but it came out in a whisper. “Why are you here?” He asked, directing attention to his stalker.

“You looked lonely,” she replied. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

“And why would you think that?” He shot back, in an angry murmur. “Why would I want you here?” He looked for a place to sit, so he could gather himself. He regained enough breath to ask, “How did you even-”

“I have my ways,” she interrupted. “Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time thinking about me”

The wall was broken. The houses in front of him faded into trees. He was no longer sitting on the sidewalk, but instead a log. In front of his eyes, he saw her become younger. Her hair grew longer, time worked in reverse to leave him staring at a twelve year old in track clothes.

“Elizabeth...” he whispered, despite having recovered from his sprint. Elizabeth looked back at him with a smile.

“Yes,” She talked slowly, innocently. Like a child. “Why do you look surprised?”

He looked down at himself, and jumped up from the log, shocked. He was his prepubescent self again. He looked around him, and saw the Glen around him.

“Are you there?” Elizabeth asked, as she walked up and waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello?”

Bewildered, he responded. “What am I doing here?”

“Do you need water? You don’t seem all right”

“No, I’m fine.” He sat down, and looked at the girl in front of him.

Beautiful blonde hair, striking green in her eyes. He thought to himself. Just like I remember. He spoke again. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

She looked at him with a young smile. “Of course you are. Why else would I be here?”

“Well, I thought that, maybe, you had, never mind.”

“You thought that I was going to be looking for you? Why would I care about you”

“It’s a dream. I can think whatever I want”

“You think that I’m just going to appear out of thin air? You think that we have any sort of connection? We saw each other for one week every year. That’s hardly enough time to build a friendship, let alone a bond.”

“Fuck you, then. Let me hold on to this hope.”

“Hold onto it? You’ve held into it. The point of having a dream is to chase it, not sit on a hope that one day everything will magically be better. You want to talk to me? Why don’t you take initiative, or just fucking forget it?”

The words coming out of Elizabeth’s mouth were now his. He was sitting on the sidewalk yelling into the street. He collapsed, partially out of embarrassment, but mostly because he was angry. How dare she. She was his -- his mind’s interpretation of a girl he hadn’t seen in years. How could his mind even suggest forgetting about her?

He collected his emotions, and was running again, but he wasn’t running back along his route; he wasn’t even running home. He was running away. Away from the emotion, away from the sadness and the anger and the pain of not having the closure he needed to move on. As he ran, his demons continued to chase him, biting at his heels. Never popular. Too anxious about trying anything new. All he knew was running, because he had done it his whole life.

The thought hit him like a brick wall, and he tumbled head over heels. Then came the train of emotions, as it caught up and ran him over. He sat and cried. He cried for his lost chance at love. He cried for his introversion and unease. He cried because he was sitting crying in the middle of a neighbourhood that he had never been in before, feeling the stares of people who weren’t there glaring at him.

Conversations jumped back and forth in his head. “Why do I fail?” “Because I don’t try” “Why don’t I try?” “Because fuck you that’s why!” “That’s not an answer.” “Because I’m anxious, and shy, and unpopular and I don’t fit in and I am in love with the idea that a person I knew when I was fucking 12 is out there thinking about me now”

At that, he sat up. The tears stopped coming as the realization started. He was in control. He stood up and started walking back in the direction of his house, with a new found determination. An hour later, he walked up his driveway and sat down in his living room, a phonebook sitting on his lap. He turned each page carefully, determined to find the answers he needed, but also scared of what he was going to discover.

He ripped through the pages. A. B. Bi. There! There it was, sitting right in front of him. The number he had dreamt of having for so long. Her identity, sitting there in the yellow pages. He pressed each number carefully, taking his time. His heart was beating at a hundred miles a minute. Each second felt like an eternity, and each button pressed only made him more nervous.

His finger reached for the call button, and he pressed it quickly, his hand trembling. One ring. 

Another. 

A third.

Finally, someone picked up at the other end.

“Hello, who is this?” The voice was distinctly not the one he wanted to hear.

“I’m sorry, is Elizabeth there?”

“Of course. Let me get her,” The voice said calmly. Quieter he heard the yell he was waiting patiently for. “Liz, phone!”

Time stood still. His heart stopped. The cliché’s didn’t end until he heard someone else’s voice on the other end.

“Hi? Who is this? Why are you calling?” The voice was polite; sweet, even.

“Hey, Elizabeth.” He whispered into the microphone. “Hey.”

“What do you want?” She spoke calmly, professionally. Every word seemed like it was its own thought. “Who is this?”

“Um...” He stutters, trying to think of what to say despite how anxious he feels. “This is an old friend...”

I don't think there could be anything worse than being buried alive. You wake up. It's completely dark. You're tightly squeezed into a rough, wooden box. You start feeling around you, but you can barely move. You realize you're going to die. You want so badly to just be free. You start breathing heavily, freaking out. You start screaming and screaming and screaming. You start hitting the coffin's ceiling, but it's so tight, you can't get any momentum. You scream and start to cry. You realize that you're going to die slowly, in the dark, in the quiet. Nothing's happening, except waiting to die. It's so boring. You relive your whole life. You have so many regrets. You realize how much you love some people, and how poorly you treated them sometimes. You cry and cry. Eventually, you fall asleep. You then wake up, just as utterly helpless as you were before you drifted off. Now what? You just wait and wait and wait. There's nothing to do. Every few hours, you just start screaming out of frustration. This isn't fair! Help me! You have to shit and piss, and when you do, you do it in your pants. It's wet and warm, and it stinks. You start to cry again. Mom! Dad! Just wait and wait, in the dark, in the quiet. Crying. You fall asleep. You wake up. What will you finally die from? Suffocation? Dehydration hastened by the number of tears that have fallen? It's so quiet and dark. It stinks, too.

Introduction

I, with everyone else, live in an enchanted world. But this enchanted world is not linked to the magic world, or a world full of unresolved mysteries. No, with enchantment I mean that the world has become a place where everyone is an expert in their cause, just like the wizard with his tricks. And, like when the magician conjures up, we are delighted with how brilliant he is in his cause, while aware that he is deceiving us with a lie, an illusion. But we prefer the illusion, it becomes our reality, it becomes our matrix. The year is two thousand twenty, and it is more than two thousand now than ever. The great K: governs our world, and we bow to it. Some bow because they want to do it, and some bow before the world regime because they have no choice. In this time Donald Trump is the US president, Greta Thunberg is hated and loved all over the world for her commitment to the climate threat, young people and young adults feel worse now than ever, notre dame stands in flames, people are exploring themselves as everyday products over social media and never ever have we been so arrogant. For those who know me well, it is no novelty that I dismiss the enlightenment and then capitalism. I intend with this book to touch the enlightenment in the sense I think it deprives us of what is fundamentally important for humans and instead transforms the rational reason that Hegel advocated that we have, to what Adorno refers to as a material reason. I will write the pop culture and its mass-produced effect that reduces all genuineness to slentrians - which deprives us of mystery. In this book, with the best effort, I will refer to Mark Fisher's book "Capitalist Realism" and touch on the term he calls "reflexive incompetence", also referred to younger people. During the development of the book, more books will be added, from more people I will be inspired to touch and try to interpret and possibly develop in the greatest desire.

During the book's process in creative, I will try to provide analyzes to the extent that I have the ability to, reflections on postmodernism and its effects - this when identity policy, gender, feminism, neoliberalism, neoliberalism etc. The book is written during my time at the University of Skövde, the social psychological program. I see this book as a personal chance to develop, and to give myself an opportunity in the texts to conduct a debate with myself about the early mentioned topics and concepts.

Chapter 1

In this chapter, the enlightenment is intended, with a touch of Erik Eriksson's Hamburg theories about man's years of life, based on a capitalist viewpoint, made by me - this is done to clarify understanding as a contrast, Erikson's theories in this chapter state. It is also intended to criticize it, what I believe, the presumptuous attitude to human life derived from the enlightenment and its effect.
The criticism that follows is intended to be directed at the enlightenment and further more intended to touch the foundation of the positivist enlightenment as a concept which in it solves it from its attachment to a blind exercise of power, which, in my opinion, it tends to have - the enlightenment. Criticism that follows is intended for Erik Erikson's theory, which I believe, has a foundation in support of the capitalism. Enlightenment and its meaning; Enlightenment at first offered man a progressive thinking, the meaning of which was to liberate people from fear, and instead admit them to their own masters with knowledge and independence. The greatest task of the enlightenment was to demystify the world, dissolve myths and hearsay and instead offer a conception of knowledge. Admittedly, it is a free society that an enlightenment thinking intends, in which Erikson's theory is excellent. And while it is true that man's superiority lies in our knowledge, there can be no doubt about this - further the free society is a product that man himself produced.

What the enlightenment does is to demystify the world and further eradicate all animism.
People and things are deprived of their meaning, their essence. The world is no longer allowed chaos, but the rationality of the enlightenment, the synthesis, becomes our rescue.Enlightenment is a totalitarian tool. With the enlightenment as an ideology, matter must be mastered without delusions of inherent forces and properties. Suspicion becomes the things that do not adhere to this tool's calculability.

But how calculating the enlightenment may be, its own ideas about man's right and value in a process goes the same fate to meet as the actual former general concepts. For all the resistance the enlightenment encounters, only its strength increases. The myths remain the shadow of enlightenment - but every time that shadow grows, the enlightenment will respond to this as a confrontation that will continue to act without its equality with a principle of rationality, for it remains totalitarian.

For the myths - just like the enlightenment, want to account for, state an origin, name and further explain, depict and fix a doctrine. What the myths on the other hand does, unlike the enlightenment, is that it grasps what remains. What remains untouched, not touched. The man in the West has the idea that she comes to this world when she comes out of it instead. One question parents often get from children in western cultures is "how did I get here?" Whereupon children in collectivist cultures instead ask their parents "where do I come from?". Children in the West know about the enormous creation, the enlightenment, even as little ones are we saved by the creation of form of enlightenment, and not as the beautiful pure idea of creation as natural law offers man, but instead as a pointless object created.
Just like Alan Watts say; “Man comes out of this world” meaning, she is a creation not different from water and wind. It is the mathematical that remains the guideline of enlightenment. Everything that cannot be resolved in speech becomes enlightenment and villas; instead, modern positivism banishes such fiction.

Man, however, Erikson with his theory, pays his increasing power with a growing alienation before what they exercise their power.

The enlightenment relates to the thing as the dictator to the people, he knows them so well that he is able to manipulate them.
The scientist knows the thing as far as he is able to make them.
With silly-minded people, you celebrate the joyless life you have accepted.

Erikson maps his theory with the human being during his years of life. It is this mapping, this rationality as a tool that makes Erikson remove himself from man himself. Erikson, as well as the enlightenment, offers for man tools, solutions and alternative answers about what is required to "get to the finish goal" during all her years. Man is thus (according to Erikson) predestined in my opinion. I think, unlike Eriksons, that pleasure is found in mysticism, when resigned. In summary, I mean that it is not a problem to be alone for man for shorter years during his life, (if she is not taught to believe it). Individualist societies are societies where people age longer, but does it mean that they feel better? Is the time for us a concept that guarantees well-being? In contrast to collectivist countries whose social policy is more encapsulated around the collective, family, etc. And in individualistic countries, social policy is adapted for the individual, you must manage on your own - and if you fail it is ok. Social policy is tailor-made for you. But what does it matter before, if I still wanna to live immensely?

http://0malikaz.wordpress.com/2014/01/03/mission-statement/

Looking for feedback to help him out.

A phrase metastasizes in my brain, an alphabetic cancer devouring any other possible thought, a testament to my obsession with the emptiness I perceive, clearly contradicted by this thought developing into something complex. 'The silence is deafening.'

I am expecting a miracle when all I need is a carefully applied ointment and a bandage to stop it all from falling out. The mosquitoes here would certainly lift it if they had the strength and bathe in my loss. But they won't need to when I peel it slowly off; in part out of selflessness to appease their hunger, but also this urge to masochism.

Self-harm is not the same as loathing, or at least not necessarily. The pain is an excellent distraction from the hate I feel for the lack I perceive in myself.

I say, "I want to love you" "But you have become so god damned ugly."

So I push you away and to the back of my mind where your corpse rots and festers fostering the growth of so much strange new life that I have no names for. They become gargantuan before showing even a glimpse of their size and explode suddenly into th realm of salience that now rules my days lashing rabidly for my based desires restrained only by the familial chain, those of my blood arms linked like barbs whose only chance for disconnection is to push further and further in until breaking through the other side leaving a puddle of frothy flesh vibrating to the rhythm of my heart attack.

I feel sick. I can't tell if it's the humidity, the soulless food preparation, or the question wrapping its coarse endless rope around my gut; "are you fucking him?" I always say that a little mystery keeps the interest alive but this is too much. Its a fucking boulder careening down a hill and I don't know if or when its going to crush me flat to leave me dry and broken like an old straw hat.

She used to wear me proudly atop her head but then she took me to a drunk drugged up party and left me on a couch to be fucked on top of just snuffed underneath a sweat soaked blanket too complacent to say a word. I missed her so much as my flimsy wicker construction was being pressed apart under the weight of some shapeless lustful exchange.

Now, I am just a miss. Writing to bide the rise and fall of my self imposed insanity, like the tides; high and pristine, low and revealing the mud and trash. Human waste left by a thousand aimless lonely nights.

How is it possible to be deserted on an island when the shore is littered with writhing bodies. The question is too much mystery for me to bear so I escape to a more familiar place, my shrine to the constant, the fact that I can always be alone if I choose to be.

Family and friends like satellites orbit around me. Or is it me that is spinning, hurdling through space?

Probably neither.

Our movements make spirals that sometimes meet to form single points. Not a location in some n-dimensional space, but a single point that becomes absolutely everything, soon to be dissolved and dispersed into yet another new universe of unlimited complexity and combination.

Create, Destroy, Repeat. We are replete with opportunities to renew the process and are simply doomed to its mercy unless we become it. My solemn goal. To grasp the rule and bend it to my liking that we may inhabit a world in the image of my maker.

Towns do not smell like this. Where I come from, the air is dry and close. It catches the smell of the cars’ gas and holds it in a rag over your mouth. It claws at your face, drying out your eyes, when you open the car window and it suffocates you when you don’t. Outside, the dust it carries gathers on your tongue while, inside, it settles on your bed. This place, however, is different. Granted, it is a town but the smell of petrol is gone, and there is no dust in the wind. Everything is completely and utterly still. It would be peaceful, if only the sirens would stop blaring. *** “-this comes as good news following the defeat of the Allied forces in the South of France last Sunday. As of today, the final death toll is still pending but the tide of this war seems to now be strongly in favour of our young-“ An eruption of coughing temporarily drowned out the tinny radio as Buck took one hand off the wheel to reach into his chest pocket for a handkerchief. The dust storm from the previous night had kept him up all night as it tore sections of the roof of his house and threatened to fell the trees in his front garden. Moreover, it had caused his chest infection to come back with a vengeance. “- Hitler’s retreat through France. President Truman gave these encouraging words to the crowds gathered outside the Whitehouse: ‘My fellow Americans, it is my pleasure to announce to you today that American marines, with the aid of a British military battalion, secured a vital military outpost that will be crucial in the coming-‘” More coughing. Taking the fabric away from his mouth, Buck glanced down at the strings of dull yellow mucus before nonchalantly stuffing it back into his breast pocket. The same dull yellow stretched out for miles ahead of him with just a solitary black strip of tarmac guiding him onwards. In places even the road was lost as the dying winds swept piles of dust across it, temporarily blocking his view of his route. Buck barely noticed, however, as the metallic chime from his radio signalled the end of the news broadcast. “And now we shall resume our usual programming… He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way, he had a boogie style that no one else could play-” “Now that’s more like it!” Buck yelled, the words interspersed with coughs, slapping his hands against the wheel. Reaching down, he turned the knob until it could go no further and triumphantly pressed his foot down further into the gas pedal. *** “Through here Amby. Follow the sound of my voice. There. Now my hand is right- there we go. Now just duck your head. Careful. And… step forward. Right foot first. Now left. There we go! See? It wasn’t so bad.” “Really? ‘See?’” I retort, a smile dancing on my lips. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to… It’s just that… you know… sometimes I forget…” I squeeze Jess’s hand that is still clasped in mine as I straighten up, the wire fence catching slightly at my dress. Realising that I was joking her grip relaxes and she lets out a small laugh before tugging me onwards. Feeling the ground starting to slope down and away from me step forward hesitantly as the voices of the others echo up from below me. My feet catch slightly on mounds of earth as she guides me down the incline. “Are you sure we should be doing this?” I ask her, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. “I mean we barely know them.” “Sometimes, Ambs, you just need to relax, alright? They’ve been here half a dozen times and nothing has gone wrong!” Her honeyed drawl soothes me a bit. Below us, the voices grow louder as we approach. I can hear them talking in hushed tones, a blend of seriousness and giddiness in their words. Jess’s hands are sweaty, either from the heat or nerves or both. Behind us the chain link fence rattles slightly as the breeze passes through it blowing a small mound of dust down the slope and into my shoes. As we get closer, I can start to discern what they are talking about. “All I am saying is, it doesn’t seem like the best idea to be bringing a blind girl down here.” “And I agree but we promised Jess if she stole the liquor then we would let her come along.” “Yeah, we promised to let Jess come. No one mentioned that blind chick. You do realise her dad is one of them, right?” “She has a name, you know?” calls out Jess, making me jump a little. We reach the bottom of the slope to be greeted by a terse silence as the group realised that they have been caught. “Amber. Her name is Amber. And don’t say ‘one of them’ like you actually know who they are or what they are doing.” “We do know what they are doing!” spits back one of the boys defensively. I can make out some uncertainty in his voice. The truth is that none of us know what they are doing. Dad refuses to tell me, he just says that it is important work that will, one day, save the world. “They’ve all been going to that same diner every day for the last eighteen months. We just can’t tell you because it under an NDA.” “What’s an NDA?” I whisper to Jess still clinging tightly to her like a toddler against her leg. “Non-Disclosure Agreement, idiot.” she bites back. I feel her turn back to the rest of the group. “Now, if we’re done with all this talking can we get moving? I want to see this town you guys keep talking about.” *** Pinup Paradise Diner. Silver metal panels, red plastic strips, and a flickering neon sign. Half of the bulbs around the arrow pointing down the turnoff went out years ago leaving the name and slogan in half-darkness after nightfall. Under the brilliant southern sun, however, Buck could read the sign clear as anything as he pulled up to it. The Oasis of the South. Turn in here for fun, food and fu-. The last five letters of the slogan had been painted over when he started working here. Letting out a brief chuckle Buck clasped the top of the wheel and dragged it round, turning into the crowded parking lot. His front left wheel bumped a familiar pothole, lurching him into another coughing fit. Once the last convulsions had subsided he reached across and snatched up his aviators from the passenger side, putting them on with one hand, as he deftly swung the Cadillac into his usual parking spot. According to the clock on the dashboard he was ten minutes early; Buck was never early. A wall of hot air rushed into the car as he went to step out. Now unimpeded by the cloth roof, the sun beat down on him with full force and sizzled the sweat gluing the shirt to his back. Straightening up and taking a brief moment to look out over the barren landscape, Buck let out a heavy sigh. Today was the big day, where he would find out whether all of the effort he had put in over the last eighteen months would be worth it. With one last cough to clear the remaining mucus in his throat, Buck lifted his leg to kick the door closed so as not to burn his hand on the hot metal. The dull thud was the only sound for miles. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the same handkerchief he used earlier Buck made his way into the relatively cool diner, making a beeline for the stairs. Authorised Personnel Only. *** “Listen, Jess and Anna.” “Amber.” “Whatever. We’re going to head over to some of the big houses. We hid the drinks in one of the cabinets in a yellow house by the fountain. You want to come?” There is an air of reluctance in the female voice as it forms the question. “Of course!” Jess exclaims, excitedly. I feel her tense up. “I think that sounds fun,” she says slowly, realising she must be coming across as too keen. Her voice is an octave lower than usual; it always is when she is with this group. As her hand pulls at mine, I feel my tongue catch in my throat. I want to say yes, to lie and say “That’s a great idea. I haven’t had a drink all week” but I can’t get the words out. Instead I stand there, stock still, as Jess tugs at my arm. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me but I just cannot bring myself to go. I’ve never had a drink my life. I can feel my mouth hanging open slightly. “I… um…” my breath catches on my tongue. “I… think… I’ll give that a miss… I think… you guys go on without me.” There is a pause. No one says anything for what feels like an eternity. I stand there awkwardly, Jess’s hand still clasped in my own, outstretched. I trace a circle in the dust with my foot. Hopefully, the others will mistake my blushing as the heat bringing out the colour in my cheeks. Eventually one of the guys plucks up the courage to break the silence. “But you’re blind…” “Hey!” Jess snaps. “You shouldn’t-“ “I’m just saying we can’t leave her.” “It’s fine” I cut across before Jess can work up any steam. “Honestly, you guys go. I’ll be okay on my own. I can have a little wonder around here.” Another long silence. Jess is taking short sporadic breaths; she’s probably mouthing something to them. All I can do is wait for the group to come to some sort of consensus while pretending to be totally oblivious. I do admittedly have a lot of practice at that. It is quite simple actually, you just have to remember to keep your mouth open just enough to show the tips of your teeth and keep your head still. “We’ll be back in about an hour.” Jess breaks the silence. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” I just smile and nod and let her arm slide out of mine. *** “Everyone ready for today?” asked Buck after having taken his usual seat. There was an air of nervous excitement in the air as his colleagues echoed back their hesitant replies. The labyrinth of corridors under the diner which lead to the control room had sufficiently cooled the layer of sweat on Buck’s forehead to the point of making him feel clammy. He’d had to change his shirt quickly before convening with everyone else. With all of the important clientele and the military attaché that would be in the base that day he knew that presentation would be of utmost importance. “Just to check,” piped up a tentative Chad Rogers from across the room, “We will be observing the expl- the detonation. Won’t we?” “How long have you been working on this project, Chad?” shot back Buck after a sip of his coffee. “Um… about eighteen months, sir.” “Eighteen months, thirteen days. And tell me, Chad, how long does it take for a baby to be born?” He could sense smiles on his colleagues’ mouths as they caught on. “Sir?” “Well?” “Nine months, sir.” “Nine months, indeed, Chad. Now, would you go to the birth of your own child?” “Yes, sir, of course.” “Then you can bet your ass we’re going to watch this thing go off.” Whoops resounded around the control room at these words. *** Plastic. That is what the smell is. Plastic houses with plastic mailboxes and plastic mannequins in their yards. Everything here smells brand new, clinical even, except for the cars. I have to be careful not to burn my hand running it along the burning metal as the echoes of teenage voice recede into the distance. As I do I feel the familiar bumps and scratches of the kinds of cars that are usually parked near my house except that these feel years older. *** “Initial testing complete. Do we have the all clear to commence arming the bomb?” After a pause to let the gravity of those words sink in, Buck took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. Total silence enveloped the control room. No one dared to move. All eyes were fixed on Buck as he rubbed his brow, the sweat returning. Calculatedly, he reached into his chest pocket and removed the handkerchief. Raising it to his brow Buck dapped at the beads of sweat. Still no one said a word. Everyone in the room could hear the soft sound of the handkerchief being placed on the table and the creaking of his chair as Buck leaned forward to carefully fold it. Placing it back into his pocket Buck sat back, a smile darting at the corners of his mouth. “All clear. Let’s arm this thing and get up top to watch the fireworks.” *** This car is familiar, more so than the others. I know the shape of it. The long flat hood with sharp edges. The heavily slanted windshield followed by the cloth roof. It is once I get to the hood ornament that it makes sense. It is a Cadillac, just like my dad’s, except older with rust that gently scratches at my fingertips. *** “Bomb armed. Commencing detonation sequence.” An uneasy ripple spread through the room at these words. All of the work that had gone into this test over the last year and a half was about to reach its climax. Looking around, Buck saw furtive glances, bouncing knees, and the occasional nervous grin. With one hand on the desk and the other on the arm of the chair he stood, taking care to steady himself so as not to let his own nerves show to his colleagues. “Well, let’s get moving, guys. With any luck we may even be able to hear the sound of the alarm from the test site.” As everyone filed out of the room and back up the stairs Buck paused. Turning back to his desk he looked down at the framed photograph. It was black and white and quite blurred but it always held a soft spot in his heart. Picking it up and kissing the glass, Buck heard the last footsteps leaving the room behind him. After carefully placing the photo back down on the desk, Buck turned to follow them leaving the laughing little blind girl alone on his desk. *** This grass is all wrong as well; sitting on it feels different to sitting on my back lawn. There, the grass is soft, it curls around me and strokes my skin. It tickles my face when I lie down, the blades intertwining with my hair as the small round daisies coat by outstretched fingers with pollen. I would lie out there in the drowsy evening summers, my face pressed against the dirt, back before the sand storms came back in earnest. These days I am trapped in the kitchen with my fingers pressed against the windows with nothing but the sounds of the winds buffeting the roof and my father’s coughing for me to listen to. Suddenly the sky splits open. A harsh grinding screech fills the air, it fills my ears and cracks my skull. I can barely stand, the ground is sloping, uneven. I step back to regain my balance but my foot catches the edge of the sidewalk. The ground rushes up to meet me. *** Two waves of heat and coughing hit Buck hard as he emerged from the diner. Running up all of those flights of stairs had near bent him double in a fit of coughing. The glass rattled loudly in its frame as the door bounced against the wall of the diner. Stumbling out into the hot sun, still bent over, handkerchief to his mouth, Buck loped out past the back of the parking lot and after the shrinking silhouettes of his friends as they neared the viewing platform. *** I taste copper in my mouth. The hard asphalt is pressed against my face. The sound of the alarm is tinny and distant as it swells and shrinks. I have to get up, I have to run. As the taste in my mouth grows stronger and the ground on my cheek grows harder, the alarm in my ears grows louder. Filling my mind, echoing in my head. A cacophony of harsh metallic roars filling my brain. I am screaming. I am running. *** From where he stood, the bomb was just a speck hidden amongst the canyon walls. Buck had to lift his glasses slightly to see it sitting there suspended by scaffolding. From the plastic town in the valley, he could hear the faint shrill of the alarm reverberating off the rocky walls. Sprawling across the valley stood the plastic town, with its perfect plastic houses, mannequins and scrap cars. With a swell of pride in his heart, Buck gazed at his creation as he coughed once again into his handkerchief.

Dan wearily rode over the crest of the hill and started, in horror, at what he saw. Smoke and dust blew lazily in the dawn light. The blackened frame of a house could barely be seen among blackened rows of fruit trees and billowy white smoke. He kicked his horse to a canter and rode down into the valley, down to the house.

He dismounted in front of the remnants of the front porch and entered through the charred door frame. burned and broken bottles lay on the floor and singed clothes sat in little heaps where they had fallen when their line broke. Dan continued into the bedroom and let a tear run down his cheek washing away the ash and dirt. In the center of the room sat an old iron bed frame, which looked almost unaffected by the fire. At the foot the bed a small body sat, burnt beyond recognition and covered in thick ash, its arms tied to the bed rails. Dan felt himself go cold, then grow weak. He reached for a door frame to steady himself, but it gave way beneath his weight and they both fell to the ground.

Dan buried her later that morning in the burnt orchard. He cut a limb from one tree that seemed to escape the worst of the fire. He carved her name into it with his bayonet knife and filled the marks with charcoal. Cutting another branch he made a cross and planted it firmly in the earth by her head. Dan hummed a short verse from a funeral hymn and wiping the tears from his face, mounted his horse and rode out of the valley, back the way he came.

We Teach "Illegally" For You, China

Genre: "Expat Rights"

Word Count: 4 Paragraphs..

Long time expat in China here expressing my frustration with the system that encourages us to work illegally while punishing only expats.

critiques welcome, this is from the heart

teaser:

We’ve all heard stories about Chinese crackdowns on “illegal” foreign teachers. Every-time some foreign teacher screws up or an officials mistress smiles at a black guy there’s a new wave of heavily publicized raids, arrests, deportations, and new regulations. It’s just not right....

critiques welcome, this is from the heart

“The Weight”

“You would be so pretty if you just lost some weight…”

My aunt means well, I understand that much. However, when she says this it boils my blood. She is assuming that I don’t get obtuse advice like that from every angle. For a second I hope that she chokes on her stupid words but to my dismay she continues rambling about how my boyfriend will leave me because of my weight, and how no one really likes “fat girls.” I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from telling her to follow her own fucking advice. It’s not my fault I gained weight, my grandma passed away. I would take care of her day in and day out. It was a tedious habit that I hated, but now I regret my hate. I didn’t know her, and to be honest when she was alive I didn’t want to know her. She was not a bad person, just not very loving. My routine for the last two years of her life was school and work, after which I would go to her house and take care of her for several hours. We had nothing to talk about so we ate. We ate to fill the void that stood between us and kept us apart. We were one generation apart and our age gap became a precipice in character and ideology. I had nothing, I had no one; I was alone. Our loneliness was the only thing we had in common, and yet even together we were alone.

My boyfriend had transferred to a University in another state, and our long distance relationship had left me a mess, I became paranoid and clingy. He lived the life that I wanted to live; he was maturing and living on his own. My parents provided everything, and even though I love them to death, I feel myself wanting independence and freedom. Achieving this would be another matter; several years ago I had a serious bout of depression that culminated in a pathetic suicide attempt. Had I known that you were suppose to cut your wrists in a parallel fashion to your veins I would not be sitting in my grandma’s funeral today. I kept the dulling razor in my bathroom as a reminder of that occasion. I’m stronger now, and I feel that I am a better person because of that experience. My escape from my aunt’s diatribe leads me to the restroom. However I find no haven inside as the full view mirrors scream out the ugly truth in my aunt’s acrid advice. My shirt is too tight; I can see bulges sticking on the sides, my bra digs into my torso. I need to lose weight. My compulsion to eat has depressed me, and this leads me to eat. Understanding the cycle of food and loneliness does nothing to help me bring it to a stop. I know I eat to fill the void of my love, to pass the tedious time with my grandmother, and to mask my guilt at her death. Thinness was something elusive to me; I surrounded myself with beautiful girls in high school that almost literally beat boys off with sticks. Not once did any of them find it necessary to approach me, and I was just thought of as a friend. I hope all of those assholes die of gonorrhea, but I’m not bitter about it or anything. The accusatory face of my reflection in the mirror is enough to make my skin crawl. I sit on the toilet and cry. My grandmother died shortly after having six heart attacks in a row. She was obese and disabled as diabetes had destroyed her body. The look of horror on her face as she died was burned into my memory. I had killed her through our incessant eating. Her lifestyle had brought her to the edge of the precipice, but it was our mutual love of hamburgers and tortillas that pushed her over. One thing I gained from this experience was that I would not follow in her footsteps. The horror of her suffering would feed my conviction that I would lose the weight that held me back. Happiness could be found after losing just a few pounds.

With eyes closed I slowly step on the scale, “180 pounds! My god…” I resist the urge to eat a tub of ice cream and reluctantly put on pants and a heavy sweater. I walk a few blocks to my old high school. I have bittersweet memories in those halls, but I push those thoughts out of my head as I walk to the track and beginning running laps. It doesn’t take long for my muscles to burn. Each step hinders my ability to draw breath. I try not to think of the burning in my chest, I focus on being skinny…being sexy. The running gives way to gentle trotting which in turn de-evolves into annoyed walking. I feel my heart pounding in my ears, “After this one lap I can rest,” I tell myself. My mind races, “you didn’t say after this taco I’ll rest, or after this hamburger I’ll rest, did you! You fat bitch!” My anger gives me a second wind and I take of running as fast as I can. I begin to think about my grandmother. I would steal her anti-anxiety pills and her water pills and her pain medication. Maybe she needed them, but at this point I find that it is too late to change what I had done. Exhaustion takes the better of me, and I only run four laps. My legs burn as I walk home, I feel tired, sweaty but somewhat optimistic after my run. Walking inside my restroom I feel the urge to break the giant mirror that lines the wall. My clothing is moist with sweat and I peel it off reluctantly as I analyze my body in front of the mirror. Pink skin flushed with blood from my run, I don’t like what I see at all. I remember watching a TV show in which a beautiful woman asks her plastic surgeon boyfriend what he would fix about her believing he would compliment her. The plastic surgeon proceeds to line mark her entire body with a pen. I think he would run out of ink with me. My Grandmother worked as a nurse for a large portion of her life. One would not guess this fact considering that she died morbidly obese, but she was well aware of the problems she would face by not taking care of herself. It was her anger and her hatred that lead her down that path. She was angry because she was alone, yet she was alone because she was angry. Her failure as a nurse and as a woman helped me to reconcile my own failure. Why is it so hard to be normal? My need for solace led me to call him; we talk so seldom now that he thinks he’s big shit in a university. He answers:

“Hello?”

“Hey baby, what are you doing?”

“Oh nothing much love, I just came back from blowing my love confetti all over a willing coed’s hood ornaments.”

My intuition tells me that there is a lot of truth to that stupid statement. I grip my towel so hard I feel I might

burst a vein. No one can piss me off like he can. I can tell he catches my distaste with his attempt at humor because of his sudden change in cadence in response to my silence.

“What’s wrong, Ana?” He asks in a soothing tone.

“Well for one, my grandma just died Ely; you’re off in another fucking state doing god knows what, and I’m stuck here alone and empty.”

“I know, love, I’m here studying, and that’s all I am doing. I’m sorry your grandmother died, but it is not my fault I’m away, I wish I could be there with you now, but I working for something that will benefit both of us in the future.”

“I just really need you with me right now.”

“I know my love, but everything will be fine, I swear. I have to go love; I have class in the morning.”

“I love you.”

He doesn’t hear those last words as he hangs up the phone hurriedly. I get somewhat annoyed at that, but I have to admit, the sound of his voice is soothing. I lie down to try and get some sleep, I just know that if lose a few pounds everything will be ok, just a few pounds. I look at the mirror and I’m thin. Not just thin, skinny. I turn to look at my profile and it is everything I ever wanted and more.

The dull buzzing of my alarm wakes me. Although my dream had not been lucid, I am cynical enough to be aware I will only be that thin in my dreams. I refuse to eat anything with sugar or carbs. I must lose weight at any cost. Happiness could be found after losing just a few pounds. I call Ely again and get his voicemail, he’s probably in class. After a few weeks I timidly step on the scale, 174… I want to cry tears of rage. So much sacrifice for only six pounds? I sit on the toilet dejected. I have dreams in which I’m eating giant burritos stuffed with beans and rice and meat. They are so vivid I wake up salivating.

His phone rings three times before he picks up, “Love, I’m kind of busy. Let me call you later,” and just as quickly hangs up. He has responsibilities, I’m aware, but it seems that he has less time for me than before. All I wanted was to tell him about my dumb burrito eating dream, I’m sure he would have found that funny. It is his absence that compounds my misery. He had become my best friend, my only true friend. The situation I found myself in was entirely my fault, but I loved him so much I couldn’t help making him my everything. Eating becomes a chore. When your diet is so limited, everything tastes bland; the joy of eating is sucked right out. When I see people drink soda, I quiver, I miss it so much. For all of their platitudes of support, my family continues with their dietary habits. They sit around the television stuffing their faces with pizza and cookies and Gatorade, and anything else they can get their grubby little hands on. It’s enough to make a girl want to puke. I would have gone that road too, but I like my trachea and teeth too much. It’s been two months; I should have lost at least 25 pounds. I peel of my sweaty clothing in front of the mirror and stare at my pudgy reflection. Building my courage, I step on the scale, “168 pounds.” This is not going nearly as fast as I would have hoped. Patience is not really a quality I have, so my inability to succeed quickly undermines my conviction. I knew it was my fault though; I had cheated on my diet. I never really understood addiction until I tried to quit sugar cold shoulder. My mind would rationalize, “It’s just one cup of soda, and it’s just one small slice of cheesecake.” In search of some solace I call Ely again.

“Hello?” Thankfully he answers, and his voice soothes me.

“Hi baby, are you busy?”

“Uh… kinda, I’m drinking with the guys, babe”

“Oh…. Do you think we can talk a little?”

“Can I call you back later?”

“You say that a lot Ely, but you never call me back.”

“Babe why are you giving me shit? I’m under a lot of pressure here.”

“It’s just that I’m lonely Ely, can’t you see that? Do I need to draw you a picture? That I need you right now?”

“I know baby, I just can’t really empathize, let me call you in a little while you know that I love you.”

“Whatever.”

I hang up the phone even more annoyed and dejected than before. The anger from that one conversation causes me to stop eating almost entirely for a few weeks. I drink water and some salad on occasion but other than that my caloric intake is next to nothing. I get faint spells and my head seems like it is filled with dirty water but my conviction to be thin is stronger than my need to eat. I can’t take this any longer, I need to be loved, I need to hold him, and I need food! I pick up my phone. “Ely, what the hell is wrong with you! It’s been days since we have talked. Don’t you love me anymore?” “Ok? What is your problem? You don’t have to call me and give me this shit. I’m tired of your stupid insecurities.” “You’re tired? I’m tired of being alone! Of being ignored! I love you so much and you don’t seem to give a fuck!” “There’s someone else…”

I don’t even bother to listen anymore. I knew it all along. I knew it in the core of my bones as we leaned on his car that night I last kissed him goodbye, that it would be the last time I would hold him. I want to scream, I want to cry, yet I can’t bring myself to do anything. I grab a marker and walk to the restroom. My reflection in the mirror looks back at me accusingly. My clothes fall to the floor and I reach for the marker. I use the marker to draw lines on my body, my hands steady with a precision I was not aware I owned. Smooth black lines circle the offending areas of my torso and my legs, my neck and my arms. I knew what had to be done. I grab the dull razor and without hesitation press it hard against the skin under my bellybutton and glide it through my flesh. The synapses in my brain fire and I grunt in pain. I stop for a second but before thinking twice I regain my conviction and press the razor onwards. Blood begins to squirt from the gash. It is not the blood I am looking for though. More blood gushes forward, this must mean I am not cutting deep enough. My knees hit the cold tile of the bathroom; I gather my strength and slash the razor across my stomach. Crying in sheer terror and agony I dare not stop the work I have begun. I can’t see through the tears, I can’t breathe through the mucous. I stumble to the shower and turn it on. Cold water falls on my naked body and I see my blood and the water mix as they circle the drain. I make sloppy slashes down each of my thighs. Just a little water, the fat will come out soon. Just a little more water, and it will come out soon, and everything will be better. I lay in the shower trembling in shock. The water keeps falling on my bloody body. The fat will come out soon I can feel it, I already feel lighter. I just need to let out a few pounds. Ely will want me back once I’m skinny. We can be together and happy again, it is just going to take a few pounds. Happiness could be found after losing just a few pounds.

He noticed a staircase beside the bar, leading up to a mezzanine seating area, obscured by white washed walls, beyond which he could only see specs of dim lighting. He took up his new belongings and began his ascent. His foot placed firmly on the first step, he wondered what marvels awaited him beyond the dim lights, presumably people of culture, high and low, would be seated up there. He’d noticed men and women in suits flow in and out before, all had a similar look of purpose draped across their face, transforming, as the aura of one environment cleansed the wearer of another.

He’d also noticed other folks dressed in what appeared to him to be homeless attire, that is to say they dressed as homeless people do. But these were no ordinary hobos in his mind, no; they had the most intelligible things to say. For every time two or more had rocked past him while he waited for his coffee in the doorway of that cafe, he had overheard at least one novel or inspiring kernel of truth. Everything about them appeared ordinary, yet like a mist of glowing cinder, whosoever drifted too close would emerge with specs of knowledge/truth seared onto their psyche. Stimulating, scholarly, swarve; these were people he could relate to, or so he thought he ought to.

He was now on his way to join the upper echelons of society and had re-envisioned his journey through his ego and ambition into the present scene. He was literally, he thought to himself, on his way up. He proceeded with resolve, determined that by the time he had trodden the last step, and stoop on the ground of the second floor, he would have found himself, or at least the version of himself that he would present to his long-lost kinship.

Justin had always fancied himself unique among his family, friends, and those in his community. He felt regal and that others around him were somehow basic and unrefined; the currents of class and education had attrited his human nature, leaving a socially apt and pleasing disposition. He often wondered whether he’d been a king in a past life, or perhaps some very important member of nobility. But then he’d remind himself that he did not believe in reincarnation, the very notion that a worm could rise up, even in spirit, and walk amongst high-society, as a strong man, discombobulated all reason. If that were possible, what order exists in the world, he would ponder.

But now he was ready. Approaching the landing, everyone in his wake seemed that little bit smaller, this made a marked impact on his self-esteem every step he took. His virility grew and he felt himself swelling all over, his biceps flexed, his stomach tensed, and his cock prominently semi. Strangely aware of everything, he proceeded into the darkness.

The room was dimly lit and the lights appeared to float before him. Soft halos punctuated the boundaries of the room and hinted at the decadence with which the walls were adorned. Through squinted eyes, muted though it was, gold lace shimmered in a suggestive beckoning rhythm. Lines of muted light appeared and faded as people fell in and out of the shadows, gesturing to one another, toasting their neighbors. Wave after wave of whispers broke into a burst of laughter, resonant glass sounded like church bells in the distance.

As he appeared at the top of the stairs, a dozen half-crescents appeared and faced him; he had disturbed their goings on.

[Google Docs link :3] (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1SPc9xSAjmIgwnbDnU_L_n-nLs7z-Hb2H0nVuk3uiMME/edit?usp=sharing)

Cheers!

Hi everyone, I finally finished rewriting the part A of the first chapter for the "neo-noir" crime story that I conceived for a while. Not necessarily convinced it's good or publishing material, but would like to hear what everyone thinks of it.

Not a big fan of Reddit's markup/formatting system so I have it uploaded to DropBox (I guarantee you that this is not clickbait or some malicious link): https://www.dropbox.com/s/1ids9eefsw79plh/sl_ch1_part_a.docx?dl=0

Any constructive criticism or critique is greatly appreciated. Thank you.

Used

Chapter one

I ran. Shots were fired at me from above.  "Someone up there is crazy about us." I told Bill Verano.  We where both stationed in Japan. We had become very fond of each other. More shots came. A cliff was up ahead. The I knew exactly what their plan was. Get us to the end of the land,forcing us to jump. Thousands of possibilities ran through my mind. I was almost positive there was water below. "Uh. Dude..."Bill noticed  "Yeah. Noticed." I replied.  It seemed the shots had started to decrease.  "Were dead." Bill noted.  "Thanks for that Captain Positive" "Hey! You didn't need to go there!"  "You started it!" "How?" "Fine. Whatever." We had hit the cliff. "Holy cow."Bill said "Heck ya" The helicopter had landed. Men were leaping out running.  "Go!" I screamed. And with that we leaped.

Chapter two

We where falling at a very fast speed, I could see a few of soldiers at the bottom of the cliff. I prayed they weren't Japanese soldiers" Did I mention it felt like instead of falling faster,I was getting slower.. that makes me fell like I got a totally new view of the world. Then we hit the three feet deep of the river. I was later told the speed we where falling at was called Terminal Velocity, the speed that instead of you body going faster, you slow down. So that felling that the world was in slow motion I got, was a little bit real. Bill said "Well that was fun, I guess"  Our own soldiers ran to our aid. Three main guards, two medics, and a squad leader all surrounded us. After it was known Japan had Nuclear Weapons, the United States, Germany, and England  sent squads of soldiers ranging from eighteen to twenty-four come in to guard and make sure Japan didn't use them. It had turned to world war three.  "Hello, Mark and Bill" Jim, our squad leader said. "How are ya doing. We have been looking for you for an hour. Where the heck have you been?"  "Japanese helicopter team." I replied "In that case let's get out of here." Our squad now had everyone there. Me, Bill, Jim, the two medics, Den, and Maggie, the three main guards, Kurt, Jason, and Ali. "Helicopter!" Ali noticed. Ali and Kurt both shot at it. The medics ran back. They kept pistols. But they weren't very good.  Me and Bill shot like crazy. I noticed something fall. Immediately I knew what it was. "Guys! Bomb! Run!" We all took off running along the cliff walls. And a bang, a scream and fire all stormed behind us.

Chapter three

Kurt laid motionless next to us. Den and Maggie were performing CPR on him. He shook up. "Bomb, fire, boom." Kurt mumbled. He passed out after that, it took what seemed like endless hours to get him back up. "What happened?" Kurt asked a few minutes after we woke him I could tell he had Amnesia. He had asked so many questions in the few minutes he was up. He had just relearned his name and some basics like where he was and what he was doing. He was staring at his gun funny, I ended up taking it away from him before he accidentally shot at us. From the blast he had bad burn marks and our only radio was busted. That meant we had to get help without a radio. Usually we all would carry radios, but Japan could track us with them we only carried one for safety purposes. We had been ready for the helicopter to come to finish us off, but they never came,and with the smoke from the bomb, we couldn't tell where they went. So they could have possibly been in the area, and we just didn't know.

Chapter four

By the time we got Kurt up and moving it was night. Den had pulled out one f his emergency kits. And we pulled out the supplies from in it. We all had two and where to use them in a emergency and if the wasn't one who knew what was. It had food, a decent sized tent, a pistol, lots of ammunition, a few matches,some wood,and four gallons of water. We pitched the tent (Jim pitched it in 38 seconds. It was amazing.) Then we set up the tent and a fire and cooked the chicken that was in the kit. That was when things got bad. Bill yelled "Run!"  He picked up his gun and shot at a cliff wall, causing the rest of us to go into havoc not knowing what was there and Bill still yelling run. We all ended up firing at least thirty shots off at this wall. Then two men peeked out from the cliff wall and threw a small round grenade. And they ran. All of this happened in around three seconds. We all ran away from the grenade.  Den threw his helmet on top of the grenade and ran. After about six seconds it exploding. It was unusual for that because it usually took 10-12 seconds for these grenades to function.

Chapter 5 

After that no one slept. One by one we all got up. Me first then Bill and so on. So Maggie, who was on guard duty, had some company. I brung the grenade thing. How it exploded in half the time. Jason had said he thought he had seen on of the men shoot the grenade. Kurt was lieing down on the ground still trying to find out what he was doing here. Then I remembered his backpack. He had a journal! I ran and grabbed it and gave it to him. At first he was a little confused. So I sat by him and showed him all the pictures he had drawn in the journal and the pictures of his girlfriend and all his other friends and mom and dad. I watched him look at all the things. The poor guy was only 18 and had been through so much. He was 5 years younger than me as I was 23. I had just realized just then that he had been well, used. I made it my mission from then on to help the guy get out of here alive. 

Chapter 6

I told Kurt "I am helping you get outta here and back to them." I pointed to his mom and dad and girlfriend on his 17th birthday.  He replied "What?"  "I'm getting you outta here. Back to the US" "Ok." I could tell he was a little confused. I sat down on a large rock by him and told him to come here.  He got up and walked up and sat down. I pulled out a map of Japan and the US. "Ok Kurt, this is where we are ok."I said. Kurt replied "Ok, right here." he pointed to where I had pointed. "Yes.  We want to get you to you house here on this map." I pointed to around where his house was. For the next few days while the others where deciding what we where going to do, I sat down with him and we talked sometimes only for a few minutes, some for two or three hours. He would ask questions about anything he was curious about. After that was done I went to the team with Kurt to find out what they had talked about. They had told us they finally had a plan it was to go and scout out the bottom of the cliff we had landed on the bottom of we would walk close to the walls and find a place to place some rope to pull us up to the top.

“Are you happy?” The tall one freed her fingertips from her coat to adjust her hair and smooth her skirt and brush the short one’s sleeve.
“With?”
“This,” she said, but meant it with her eyes and her chin and neck.
“Oh,” the short one said. “I guess. I haven’t really thought about it much.”
“I know you haven’t. No one thinks about where they’re going these days.” 
“We’re still in high school. We don’t have to be happy with our lives.”
They sat. 
“Tony Miller asked me out yesterday.” The short one smiled shyly. 
“Oh.” The tall one caged her fingertips again. “That’s cool, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
“Are you thinking about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Prom’s coming up,” the tall one said. She let her fingertips dance inside the pocket of her coat and brushed her hair away from her face again.
“Yeah.”
The tall one forced a nervous laugh. “Hey, remember what we said freshman year?”
“No, what?”
“How since we’re best friends, we should totally go to prom together?” She continued. “Or, whatever. It was dumb freshman stuff.”
The short one grinned. “Yeah, what were we thinking?”
They sat.
“So… you’re going to prom with Tony Miller, then.”
“What? No– well, I don’t know.”
“Did someone else ask you?”
“No, but–”
“You’re totally going with him.”
“I told you,” the short one said, “I don’t know yet. What’s the big deal?”
They sat.
“I just think he’s kind of a sleaze is all.”
“Beatrice, you’re more of a sleaze than Tony is, and you’re a girl.”
The tall one tried not to stare at her shoes. “What, is it not normal for girls to be, like, into romance or whatever?” 
“I have no idea. I guess it’s weird for girls to want guys.”
“Want people.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Her fingertips had danced themselves to death.
“Plenty of girls ask people out on dates.”
They sat.
“Or to prom, I guess, too.” The tall one said. “I mean, I’ve heard about it happening.”
The bell rang.
They separated.


So you died. That was the easy part.

Don't worry, it didn't hurt. Or maybe it did. Hell, I don't know. Does it really matter now?

Anyway, you've died. You'll notice that you aren't that worried. Something to do with glands and the non-physical nature of the soul. Not really my department. In any case, you'll find yourself in a surprisingly mundane looking room. White walls, a smooth floor. The only feature will be a door. 'Door' doesn't really describe it properly: makes you think of some little wooden thing in calm, pastel colours with windows and maybe a little novelty bell. This is more of a moving stone panel set into a wall. It's more or less the only thing here, so you'll head for it.

About now, you'll realise that, although from here it looks to some kind of human scale, it's really a rather clever trick with forced perspective. The door must be several miles high. You've got quite a trek ahead of you.

Depending on the circumstances of your passing, you may not be entirely alone. Some kind of natural disaster may see other souls dotted around the landscape. You might try to talk with them. I wouldn't bother. They've rarely got anything much to say.

One thing you'll certainly encounter will be souls just stood, staring into space. Maybe sitting. Maybe prostrate. These souls won't even acknowledge your existence, so don’t waste your time finding out what they're doing.

You've been walking for hours. Maybe. No frame of reference here. You're not tired, despite that. Glands, again. If anything, you may be getting impatient. Occasionally, you might see the mighty door slide open and slam shut again. At this distance, you can still hear the bang, feel the faint sucking sensation as it opens.

Keep walking.

You've been walking for years now. At least. Finally, the huge door is getting closer. You're within about a mile of it now. At this distance, you can just about make out a tiny speck on the front. You head for it.

Finally, you reach the door. This is where I come in. I'm a guide. All I can do is let you know what's about to happen, and answer some of your questions. I don't know how you died, I don't know what's happening back with the living, I don't know what you did to deserve this, etc. However, I can tell you what's about to happen.

That speck was a panel. It's about 30 inches across, and set into the front of the door. You will approach. The panel will either turn red or green, and the door will open. If the panel turns green, you will be going to, for want of a better word (in your tongue, anyway), Heaven. If it turns red... Well, you can guess.

'What happens there?' you will ask. Everyone always does. Well, I can answer that. In Heaven, you will come to understand yourself. You will strip away all pretense, and encounter (and come to terms with) the person that you are. It's easy to dismiss this when you'd always pictured fluffy clouds and rainbow waterfalls, but it is a transcendental experience of a level that you could never begin to comprehend on Earth.

In Hell, on the other hand, you will encounter exactly who you could've been. You'll see the person you could've been if you'd got along with people better, if you'd stuck at your aspirations, if you'd truly sought to understand the world around you. Encountering and comprehending the near-limitless potential that you wasted is horrific in its intensity. No matter how big a fish you were on Earth, there was always the scope to go bigger. Always.

Alternatively, you can leave the panel and the door and stay here. Nobody is stopping you. You can wander back into the white vastness and remain there for eternity. Your choice.

Those stationary souls you encountered? They all made this choice. And there are billions of them. It takes a strong person to confront their destiny on such a fundamental level. So the weak, scared, and insecure will continue to lie dotted across the never ending plain of lost souls.

So read what I have so far and tell me how terrible I am. Be gentle.

College in America is not an experience to be missed. I began my college life knowing that I wanted 1 thing. THE college experience. The parties. The girls. The being away from home. I wanted it all. I got all of that and more. Far more than I had bargained for, and then some again. I had always heard that these (those) are the best years of your life. I would venture to say that those people telling you those types of things are right. Dead on even. 4 (usually) years of doing all sorts of god knows what so long as you perform academically. It’s like a vacation, but far better than any one person could imagine. My college story begins simply. I enrolled in a big state school, not my first choice because I figured my academics fared far better than my results showed me, but, I enrolled nonetheless. This was a decision that of course impacted my life, but, more importantly, showed me an eternity of things I had never imagined. College is fucking spectacular. I am by no means saying that you, as the reader, should do what I did. In fact, I would recommend doing things very differently. I am simply here to impart upon you what I did and to graphically depict to you all of the things that I saw/did/smoked/drank. I consider myself one of the lucky ones who got out alive (any by that I mean graduated). In fact, I graduated early somehow. Hah. What a joke. Just know that THE college experience that most teens desire might just have been exactly what I did. Let’s go.

I enrolled in my school without ever visiting. Money was an issue in my family. My parents divorced about 2 years before I started secondary education and I knew somewhere deep inside that there was no money to send me to college. My deepest fears were exactly that. My supposed first choice, best school, etc, etc, were no longer options and meant nothing. Nothing. Why did I try in high school then? It is a question that still frazzles me today. I did, however, find some light in that empty, sad tunnel. I had the opportunity to go to college, the school I wanted or not, and I, for one, was not about to pass that shit up. I had my doubts about a big, state school. Where I went to high school, greatness was demanded. I took AP tests like they were vitamins. Being in the top 10% of my high school was like being a disciple of jesus Christ, minus all of the betrayal and crucifixion garbage. I am fairly certain I took right around 17 AP exams in high school. Go ahead, ask me what they got me. Cmon. Ask…….>Fucking nothing. Of course, GPA, intellectual challenge blah blah blah, but from a future perspective? Nope. I want to be honest in this diary of sorts, so I’ll tell you my stats. I had a 3.86 GPA (weighted), a 1280 SAT and a 29 on the ACT. None of these were particularly exciting to me, I knew that I was no Harvard kid. (and if you are a Harvard kid, you probably should stop reading right about now). I had very agreeable scores and I got into schools I wanted to go to. Then money dollars slap me with reality. Looking back I realize that personally, I would not have it any other way, but, there always exists creeping doubt of the what if. What if? What if I wasn’t such a retard? What if I didn’t party so hard? All of these questions are moot. I just want to tell you about my experiences as an average, American college guy. My first day at school was memorable in a way you would never forget. Imagine, dropped off, new state, new place, new people, terrified. My roommate, Met, was a guy I became very good friends with and still am friends with to this day. I would venture to say that the day I was dropped off was one of the more interesting days of my life. Top 40? At least? That might be a little much, but I will progress even so. Arriving happens in 2 parts. The first part was me meeting a dude I went to high school with. I was more than eager to find someone I knew, only made sweeter that he lived very close to me. I arrived in the particular area early. I was ready for the day and for “real life” by 11 am at the very least. I helped my friend “T-Pain” move in. His family was so very nice when you, as the reader, hear the end, you’ll understand why T-pain and I don’t speak anymore. Back to moving in. I, and my friend Met, helped TP move himself in. To thank us, TP’s parentals took us to lunch. Quite nice, but boy, disaster abound. TP’s little brother came along, of course, because he had to. I get the feeling that he was vying for attention here, but again, disaster strikes. Fast forward to me, my friend tp, my new roommate met, and I sitting at lunch at a restaurant with TP’s family. Tp’s little kid brother was acting weird. Way weird. Lil’ TP hops up and runs to bathroom to “make sick”. Lil TP comes back somehow, outs his hands out like he doesn’t know what they are for, then proceeds to vomit violently all over the restaurant floor. That moment will be forever frozen in time for me.

No longer a human.

I fall asleep in my bed to the speech as a human only to wake up like something else, something less.

It is the sun that catches me every morning when it shines over what is me, and collect my spirit as man and provide me with a mask similar to a creature- and what, once was I, wakes up. I not never fail to escape from it, I not never fail it to outwit. The sun gives hope and life every day to everything that does not speak, while also offering shackles - which are not allowed to be denied for those who own the speech. Every day I have to be more than I really am, and different from what I actually was. As soon as the sun has taken me there is no turning back, no shortcut, nor any backwards. The sun's rays baptize me like man to Sisyphus, and like him we shall all be punished for our hybris. It is only against the evening that this creature is killed with the darkness as a force and blinds it and first gives me insight as a human being. A human who looks over his day, his actions and his words. Who have I met? Who has been the other different? Who is Who? Who am I? I do not remember the last time or day I met man, thus I only see creatures. But how would it be to change, since I am also a creature during the day? I am no more or less than them nor the faith that we so slavishly hunger for like creatures and despise as man. everyone looks the same. Same hairstyle, same makeup, same clothing, same perfume even. And same empty shared thoughts about the good justice principle. All creatures must be equally valuable. Human did not reason so, she had conflicts with herself and others and sighed for a truth or more. But the creature does not devote a thought, or effort to reach the closest feeling that gives rise to a meaning, no, this being is instead seeking conflict without end. If human stood united then the creature is divided. All creatures either take on the justice assignment on their own for the “united group”, because it believes that it is formed, educated via images presented by the media, or it does not take on anything at all. Possibly it takes on the task of looking like "her sister" right next to everything that this sisterhood should represent. Or is it really just about that it should be presented? It is important for the creature that everyone should be allowed to be heard and have room for speech, but above all it should be visible. As long as it appears, it does the right thing. Morality depends for the creature to be seen, nothing more and nothing less. For this creature, opinions are the same as facts. For this creature, love is a label for whose price tag is intended to determine how great this love is and is to remain. For this creature, love is merely an illusion from its former owner, man. But then again, owning, no, it spells the wrong word. Owning is the thing of creature. Human only felt love, as a relationship founded on a constant giving and taking. The beauty and uniqness within humans, is that they are capable to love again when love was once lost. She is able to forgive without again hating as a basis for this forgiveness. Human was so much more than just a creature.

My fiancee and I are working on a story, and we are working on what we call page five, and we've only had our family and friends read it so far, and haven't received any real critiques. I would love it if someone took a look, and provided us with some feedback. I've never done a collaboration before, and I'm curious in part if people can tell (tone changes?) and also if the story idea seems engaging thus far.

Please check out page 1 here: http://ananee.wordpress.com/2013/06/10/second-class-supers-page-1/

• Title: Screens

• Genre: Sci-fi

• Word count: 452

• Link!

"The first few paragraphs of a new dystopia - I'm not entirely sure yet what storyline this will take, but let me know what you think of the style anyway."

Any and all feedback would be great, preferably on the site I've linked to.