Welcome.

So what lays beneath this post, are twenty four, one thousand word short stories. That I wrote in twenty four hours. They are unedited, so forgive the typo's and occasional grammatical errors. It was a long day. I made it though, with four minutes left to spare. Please enjoy these stories, that's really all I can ask. Take a look, read them, enjoy them. Comment if you like, tell your friends about it. If you can, hire me to write something.

There was no reason for this project other than one thing.

Writers write.

And I'm a writer.

Much love,

S.R. Conley

Balsam and Broadway Crow

The crows were being petty towards each other, which was especially hurtful, since this was the time of year that they were at war with the seagulls and on the defensive from the eagles.

It mostly bothered him, because every time he flew over to his two neighbours, who were never not seen together, they would fly away from him. And once when he tried to share the piece of bread that he had found, they took it from him completely and flew away.

What were they? Geese? It was outrageous. And he was going to finally squawk up the courage to mention something at the next city council meeting. There had to be a certain amount of solidarity. Wasn't it a rush when all three of them, just last year, attacked that large scary human on a bicycle? And now, he wanted to move. But he needed permission if he was going to have crow protection. Which he needed because he was truly hoping on starting his own nest this year.

Even on the way to the meeting, they completely ignored him whilst in flight. In fact, they all did. What the hell was going on here? I'm not some stupid Jonathan Livingston here. I'm a good crow. I do good crow work.

At the council meeting, before he could hope to raise his complaints he was called by name. “Balsam and Broadway” The mayor called out. “please glide forward.”

He was so nervous his feathers looked as if he had just been in a fight.

“Balsam and Broadway, your neighbours have been issuing reports of you, and your behaviour to the council. And we are afraid that we have some news for you.”

Oh God! He thought, they're going to make me into a Johnathan Livingston Crow! Why?

“You have been a good crow to your area, cawing bright and early near the windows the humans who inhabit your area, strutting around as if this great city were made solely for you. Yet, never carrying this behaviour forward to your fellow Crow.”

“Yes?” Was all he could muster.

“You have been kind and forgiving, and without complaint, despite the council sending you two horrendous birds to live next to you. In order for them to report back your reaction. It says here” the mayor rolled out one of the McDonald's napkins that crows are always writing on. “That you were going to complain about them in private with me, after the council.”

Where did he get that information? How could anyone have known that?

“Well, yes. Yes I was.”

“Good Crow! Good Crow!”

Now all of the crows were yelling this out together.

“You have been elected as my replacement as Mayor of Vancouver for next season, until such time that you choose to quit, or you die.”

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Mayor of Vancouver! Except, the spies that were sent from the council had lied.

So after the celebration, the next morning he approached his neighbours and asked them why they lied, that he was clearly going to shame them publicly and would not have been elected Mayor, had he done so.

They responded by saying one word at a time, forming a sentence ultimately together

“Because!”

“Now!”

“We!”

“Own!”

“You!”

It was clear to him that he was in trouble, that these crows were evil, these were not Vancouver crows, oh no, they must have originally hatched in Toronto, or Winnipeg, and found their way here because of lucky winds.

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The following season, when Balsam and Broadway became Mayor of Vancouver. He found out about a deal that the two neighbour birds that were making with the seagulls. They were negotiating egg swaps, that they would make look like Eagle attacks.

Balsam couldn't stand the thought of such deception, and he knew that they would expect him to go along with it, much like the last Mayor must have gone along with it, and the one before that.

Oh! To find out that this whole time the war between Seagulls and Crows had been a sham! Why, anything would be better than giving up crow eggs to seagulls! Anything!

Which is exactly what he chose. He found out when the meet for the exchange was supposed to happen. Right on Kits beach, right there in the open, for any and all to see! It was fine, it didn't effect his plan, he just couldn't imagine the gall that these two crows had.

His plan involved and awkward conversation, and approval from the council, even the Mayor can't make decisions like this without approval.

He was to approach the Eagles, and provide them the offer that was being given the Seagulls. For good Crows can fight Seagulls, but Eagles? Impossible. Eagles were huge, fast and noble. And clean. Never see the white on a Bald Eagle anything other than white. Never saw a Seagull like that. Not ever!

The conversation that he had with the Eagles went well, they were talonted speakers. And treated him with more respect than he thought they would.

“We agree to your terms Mayor. And we will act accordingly.”

The day of the meeting between the schemers and the seagulls, the Mayor of Vancouver watched from a distance and an Eagle swept in and took the eggs from both the Seagulls and the Crows, and then watched as another Eagle came down and ripped up the two crows with his massive talons.

The deaths were barely thought of, the missing eggs were accounted for. And all was well. Balsam and Broadway got himself two good new neighbours, the squawk as loudly as they can together near any open window they can find in the morning. They attack anyone who lingers too long or too close to their nests.

And they always walk around, as if they own the place.

Because they do. And always will.

Tennis.

On a bright sunny day, with an average temperature of close to thirty five degrees Celsius. The waves of heat could be seen from any angle, pouring down on the pavement of the street. The grass in the parks. And on the asphalt on the Tennis court. Where a father and son, were playing the hardest game of tennis they had ever had against each other.

The game was tight and nearing its end, or at least, it should have. They had been playing tennis for a solid four hours, which was a lot for them. The hot sun was beading down, and they each had their own advantages and disadvantages. The young ones advantage was that he was fourteen years old. So he had lots of energy, and great stamina. The older ones disadvantage was that he was fifty years old. He had bad knees and, although good stamina, not a teenagers. Something his son pointed out to him, repeatedly.

The fourteen year old disadvantage was that he was fourteen years old. And every time, anything that remotely resembled a woman, he would tense up and screw up his serve, or his back hand. And then the old man would tease him

The old man's advantage was that he was fifty years old and had been married for twenty five years, and could give two shits about the young girls that were walking past the tennis court.

However, the old man had also taught his son everything that he knew about tennis, so there skill level was equal. And it had become pretty vicious.

They were in the final set, and they were in the final tie breaker. And they kept on bouncing back and forth between deuce and advantage. Over and over.

The other people on the court had stopped to watch. It was in itself, too amazing to see these rallies. The ball moving faster than they had ever hit before, each desperate to win. Each for their own reasons, or maybe the same one. Sometimes, you just have to win.

The will power that they were displaying now against each other had begun to more like a chess game than a game of tennis. As neither of them were above taunting.

“Hey! Boy! Which one of those girls is your girlfriend?” The father threw at him

“What's that? I couldn't hear you, I think my serve broke the sound barrier, you sounded really whiny and like you were about ready to give up. Was that it?” A solit parry from the boy

“You little shit.” Clearly a hit for the boy.

“I love you too Dad, try not to break any bones while you swing and miss on this one, okay?” In for a kill shot.

“I'm trying to be nice to you because I know you're young, and you still cry so easily, and I didn't want to mention that in front of any of these girls.” A cheap, but effective blow.

“Hurmph” The boy had nothing.

And then back into play. The boy advantage, deuce, the boy advantage, deuce, water break. The old man advantage, deuce.

“At some point we have to go home and have dinner, you know.” The old man, aware of the time.

“Oh yeah, well if you want to quit.” Smirked the boy.

“Your serve.”

In a tennis tie breaker, you have to win by at least two points. Or it can go on forever, tie breaker or not.

It went on forever. All the people had left, not because they wanted to, but because they had to for whatever reason.

Finally, the old man won the game.

The boy lost his cool, his rage unleashed on the court. It was a sight to see. The threw his racket and it shattered into pieces.

A few girls that had been watching him because he looked so cute while playing his dad, quickly left. And that made the rage worse.

The father came up to his son and tried to be stern, but he had no idea what was going on.

“Stop it son, it's just a game.” Confused at the behaviour, unaware what could have caused this.

“Oh yeah, sure. Just a GAME!” he screamed at him.

Then the father tried to hug his boy. And his boy thrashed and yelled. And eventually collapsed into his fathers arms.

And he cried. They both did. And then softly, to his son:

“Good game though, real close”

“Chhhuk.. huh. Yeah. I would have won a while ago if your eyes could actually see when the ball hit the line instead of just yelling out because you're blind.”

“At least it's just my eyes, you just cheat!” He exaggerates this exclamation, as if he's flabbergasted.

“Do not!”

“Do so! I had at least, five balls that were on the line.” Another gross exaggeration.

“You're blind. What the hell do you know?” Good point.

“You're a child, what the hell do you know?”Better point.

“Yeah.”

And then they packed up the equipment, and the boy had to carry the rackets. They were both exhausted. Usually after they played tennis, they would race each other home. Through the park, mostly to get through the mosquitoes as quickly as possible.

“No race today son, okay?”

“Okay. Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you have no hope of beating me!” and he broke off into a dead sprint laughing maniacally.

“Good luck old man!” And he bolted after his dad. And they raced home, yelling out and arguing over what the finish line was.

“First to hit the garage door!”

“Noo, first one inside the house.”

“Okay, you have to hit the garage door first and then get inside to win.”

“Stop. Making. Me. Talk.”

“Wuss.”

And then the boy won the race home. Because his father let him.

Because that's what fathers do sometimes.

Alfredo The Magic Blue Cat

In a dark alley, just off of Broadway, there was a man who could make cats disappear. The logistics of this magic ability were very limited. It had to be at three thirty three in the morning. There had to be more than five cats. And less than thirteen. And he could only make one disappear.

Anyone who has seen anywhere between five and thirteen cats mulling around a back alley, would say it be hard to notice if one just disappeared. It also could have just run off. Not the point though.

The point was that a lot of fortunes were won and lost over this strange little man's magic powers. Betting on which cat would disappear, as he claimed that he also had no control over which cat would disappear.

There was also great speculation and side betting as to where the cats went. No one wanted to find out the answer that badly though.

There was one time that Mickey, who was known as sort of the village idiot, brought in his own cat. And bet on him to disappear. After that day, since they all knew the cat and Mickey so well, no one even thought to ask the man where the cats went.

Which was a good thing. Because the cats were not going to a nice place.

They were going to hell, and demons were eating them. Except for Mickey's cat. This is his story: The story of Mickey's cat. Alfredo.

Alfredo was a blue cat. A very rare thing for a cat to be blue, not light blue, not grey in some light. Alfredo looked as blue as cobalt blue. Not as shiny, but similar shade. That's how everyone knew Mickey's cat. Because of the blue fur that he had.

As it happens, blue cats are also magic. So when the man made Alfredo disappear. He only disappeared because he wanted to disappear. Alfredo had never been to hell and wanted to see what it was all about.

As soon as Alfredo entered hell, he turned himself into a huge, unsightly blue Manticore. And started using his stinger to sting and the demons until they backed off enough that he could run around through hell, and be generally left alone.

He also learned how to do the trick that the man Off-Broadway had done, that Alfredo could do it again, but better, because he could do it at will, and to whatever he wanted.

Alfredo was a magical cat. Alfredo had been worshipped for thousands of years. The only reason Alfredo stopped being worshipped was because it got boring. Otherwise we would be worshipping Alfredo to this day.

There isn't much to see in Hell, and after about six months Alfredo got bored with it. And dissapeared back into the world. Where he found out that he made a huge mistake.

Because Alfredo was a magic cat. When he went through to hell, he accidentally created a portal between the earth and hell. And the real reason that he was left alone for all those months while hanging out in Hell, was because demons were using to the portal to hop, skip, jump there way onto Earth. To kill and eat not just cats. But everything that on the planet that had a soul.

All cats have souls. Only blue ones are magic.

Blue cats are magic because they are blue, and they are blue because they are magic.

Alfredo felt horrible about all of this soul eating business that had been going on for the past six months and so he promised himself that he would round up all of the demons that escaped from hell, and send them back.

So Alfredo made a special demon cage. And he made a special demon locator, his demon locate hit on his neck like a collar. It was gold and had diamond studs. It was also where he would trap the demons. He also closed the portal. So that no more demons could get onto Earth.

Demons are very fast, and most of them can fly and are completely invisible to most humans. So he had his work cut out for him. But after an exhaustive twenty five years. Alfredo had rounded up all of the demons, except for one.

The man that made cats disappear? Demon. Had to go. Alfredo felt bad about this, as he knew how much the guys liked to bet on the cats disappearing. Had to be stopped though. Since cats have souls.

So do Demons, by the way. Just broken ones. A soul can be evil. In fact, there is nothing more evil than an evil soul. This writer digresses.

When Alfredo came into the alley, the man that made cats disappear, screamed at him.

“But I made you disappear! I made you!” He knew right then that Alfredo was a magic cat.

To which, Alfredo promptly responded.

“Meow.” Which was not just any meow. Oh no! It was a special meow. It was the meow that trapped all of the demons in his collar. Except, he made it one too small. So when he made the man who made cats disappear warp into his collar prison. It exploded letting all of the demons out.

They all flew away almost immediately and Alfredo couldn't catch them, because Alfredo couldn't fly.

At that point, Alfredo gave up, he wasn't about to spend another twenty five years chasing after demons. Once, sure. But twice? Nope, no way.

So, twenty five years and six months after he disappeared. Alfredo returned to Mickey. It was the happiest day of Mickey's life, since he had spent every single day, for the past twenty five years and six months, looking for Alfredo. Which was why Alfredo went back to him. Worshipping is one thing, loyalty is another. And they lived happily ever after.

Until one night, Mickey went out to place bets on which cat was going to disappear, and a demon ate his soul.

Alfredo didn't mind. He's a cat.

God, Satan, Luck and Butterflies.

Ah, it's a boy and a girl, and they're going somewhere, and something is going to happen. Because this is a story, and those types of things are required.

They were driving in the car and they were fighting, and that's why they crashed the car. It flipped and rolled and crashed into a cow. The cow felt no pain. They died a bit more slowly. The sky was pretty that night though. The Northern Lights made a special appearance, looked like a phoenix in the sky. Burning bright. As if it were waiting for them to be reborn, if they survived.

Them surviving depended on a lot of things. God was already unwilling to help them, since he had plans for the cow, that cow was going to become a happy meal, that would be given to the kid that was going to cure cancer and make him a little bit happier that day. The kid was still going to get a happy meal, and he was still going to cure cancer. But the burger won't taste as good. Because this cow was supposed to get accidentally transferred into the factory farm used the McDonald's.

It was a whole elaborate plan. And it was just ruined by a couple of eighteen year old kids fighting over what they were going to name their kids, if they ever had them. Well God knew the answer to that. They weren't going to have kids. And now maybe they weren't going to even live through this. He washed his hands of their fate. Because he's allowed to do that.

So here was a young couple in love, who were going to probably die, because the car was leaking gas, and the engine was still running. Satan was still in play here, so it came down to this; was Satan aware how much it would piss God off if the couple lived? Or would he just let them die because a young couple dying is always so much fun for Satan to see?

In truth, Satan wasn't paying attention, he hadn't been since the atomic bomb was invented. He figured he couldn't top that, and spends most of his time now asking God for forgiveness and being somewhat upset that the human race is still his favourite. Although on this day of days, it seemed that God favoured Cow's more. Which was a rare day for Cows, that's for sure.

So no God, no Satan. Just a couple of kids were stuck in a car that was about to explode, and they were both unconscious. Holding each others hands.

Did they have luck on their side? Well, so far no. But maybe the farmer, the guy who owned the cow, had heard the crash? Or would he come to check on his cow?

Nope, as luck would have it, the farmer was off on a mini Vacation that he had won in a sweepstake of some sort. So he was off with his wife enjoying Atlantic City, all expenses paid.

No God. No Satan. No Luck.

Chaos wasn't overly working in their favour either, but there was always a chance that butterfly could flap it's wings.

It came down to whether or not one of them would be woken up by the smell of gasoline, with enough time left after that point before the car exploded.

Flap, Flap, Flap.

Drip, drip, drip.

Sniff? Sniff? Cough! Cough!

Hey! The girl is waking up. She's coughing, and the gas is leaking faster now. Butterfly flapped the wrong way because the flow is moving faster and not slower.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Ah, she's stuck in her seat belt, he's not. But she's awake...and time is running out.

It felt as if there situation was entirely dependent on the whim of a overtired author. Who had to pee.

Never make a decision when you have to pee. Leonard Cohen said that.

Ah. Better.

The boy woke up. Coughing and scrambling. At this point the girl was screaming, the reality of the situation was dawning on her. If the boy had been in her situation, he would have been screaming too. But he had just woken up.

“Calm down! Calm down! I'll get you.”

He unbuckled himself and tried to unfasten her best. He couldn't though.

It would be important to ask God, if the reason that they didn't have kids, was because one of them was supposed to die in a car accident.

She was panicking. Because, it was time to panic. But the boy wasn't about to leave her behind. He loved her. Sometimes you don't have to love someone enough to be with them forever, in order to love them enough to be willing to die for them.

Butterfly flaps its wings again! Flap, Flap, Flap.

He remembered that he had a pocket knife (convenient?) and went to his back pack. He started to saw through the seat belt. But before he did that he did something even more important.

He turned the car off. Then he continued to cut the seat belt. They finally got out of the car. When they made it about twenty feet away, it exploded anyway. No one knows why. Butterflies just go flap, flap, flap sometimes.

They had to walk twenty miles before they got into cell phone range to call and ambulance. And then they were fine. At the hospital, they were already arguing again.

Which was fine by all involved. God barely noticed, he'd moved on to caring about the Pope again. It's actually getting hard to figure out who's worshipping whom on some days.

Satan didn't find out about the whole thing until way after it happened. He still doesn't know what he would have done.

Luck wasn't too pleased about the whole thing.

Chaos continues to make butterflies play larger parts in the day to day function of the known world than they have any right to.

And years later the couple had a baby, and named her Briony.

Wisps

“Give me a toothpick and I'll knock that rock back!” A ambiguously gendered person was yelling as we stood outside smoking.

“Yeah! You guys know, you smoke what you want.” We quickly finished and went back inside.

It was that kind of night. It was that part of town. But this is the kind of thing that my friend was into. He was the hacker, or whatever they like to call themselves now. Computer expert. Computer terrorist. Whatever. I don't know. I'm the kind of guy that get's malware from trying to download Microsoft Office.

I'm muscle, and he's brains. In a world where muscle ain't what it used to be. He takes most of the take. I take what I can get. But he takes care of me. I keep him away from the crazies. And I keep him grounded when he goes off into the new world.

I remember when we thought that the new worlds were going to be actual worlds. Now they're all per-created. You can't imagine your own worlds now, they all belong to someone else pretty much.

Money to be made though, and that's the point.

We were meeting a guy that needed into something, for whatever reason. And my pal, was the guy to do the thing, that would make it better. I just wait beside him, protecting his body, unless something goes bad, then I plug myself in and pull him out. In there he's the muscles though, I've never been in. Don't want to.

No avatars, or projections, it's all just mind energy or some shit now. Too much energy wasted and making yourself look special. Now, you might as well be an astral projection in cyberspace. It makes it more dangerous though. Get the wrong clouds mixing together and you have psychotic break downs. I've met to many of his friends, not to be a little worried about every time he does a job.

The guy was late. Most of the guys usually were. When you get lost in the cloud, time doesn't seem to matter so much is what they say. I've never been in the cloud. I'm a body guy. I like my body. I know what I can do with it. Never been too much of a mind. Never had too much use for it.

I'm a big guy, a real big guy. Always have been, maybe after years of being the big guy, I've been afraid to use my mind. That's not true though, I just don't use it the way that people use there minds these days. I like learning about the world around me. The ones that we didn't make. The ones that we can't make.

Big Sugar was playing in the pub we were in, I hadn't heard Haven in Alberta in maybe over twenty five years? I must have been a kid.

I liked the place.

Until the guy showed up. With six of his own guys. I figured I could take all of em. But it wouldn't be pretty.

I stepped in right away, because you have to assert control right off the bat in these situations.

“Hey, what the fuck do you think that you're doing, bringing six guys to a simple fucking deal?”

And that's when I got hit in the back of the head. By my partner.

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I woke up, and couldn't see my hands. My feet. Nothing. There was grey around me. Like a haze. And when I tried walking forward, I couldn't. It was crazy though, it was as if I could see a perfect three hundred and sixty degrees around me. And that's when I knew what I was looking at. I was looking at the new world. I was looking at the cloud. A tactile, non tactile world was how it was best described to me now. Things were passing through me like kinetic electricity, but it was other peoples thoughts, telling me to get out of the way and to fuck off.

There was one thing I knew how to do in this hell hole. And that was check my messages.

“Hey budday! Sorry. Had to take your body for a spin, don't want you in mine, so I double crossed you. If your body lives through this...I'll give you a higher cut. No hard feeling. PEACE!”

I already knew what I was going to do to him if I got my body back. Wait, if they had taken my body, that meant that I was fully in the cloud. Not a visit, or temp download. I was going to become part of the cloud.

I'd heard stories of when the new world, the cloud was being made. And the guys that went fully in. They say they're the ghosts of the new world. The wisps of the cloud. Driven insane because they could only feel each others thoughts. Tactile but not tactile. Not only did they go crazy. But after they did, whenever anybody went fully in. They would hunt that brain down. And they would feel the thoughts of that mind until he was a wisp like them.

I never believed it. Because I had never really been in before. And now I was fully in, and the people telling me to fuck off was like a truck hitting me in my forehead. But I didn't have a forehead anymore.

Then I heard the first one. It was a haunting, It was a scream, and I couldn't tell if it was coming from me or it. I needed to learn how to move, how to get out of the way, but I didn't know! Or I was disabled for that part of the ability. By the time I even thought of that there was another scream. And another. And another.

The wisps formed around me, and slowly squeezed in around me, making me feel everything that I ever felt, every idea that I ever thought. Until I stopped screaming, or never stopped screaming.

And then there were only wisps in the cloud.

Brothers and Sisters...

There was nothing of value to look at when you looked at her. Yet people seemed to adore her. There was nothing to adore. She was a lunatic. A legitimate, down to the very core of her being psychopath. She liked to hurt people, she had probably killed people. If eyes are the gateway to the soul. These wouldn’t just swallow you up. These would turn you into something just like her if you stared for long enough. And there was no one to stop her.

She was my big sister.

It's not funny, this is what she was, and we had to live with her. I couldn't have any pets because they went missing or seemed to commit suicide at about the same rate that her boyfriends and husbands would later on in life.

No one ever believes me.

She's good at crying. Which is something that you learn to do, in order to get what you want from others as far as I'm concerned. Because no matter how hard I tried. I could never cry like her. Her cry was too perfect. Too much of what people want from a girl crying, no character to it. Always freaked me out. Plus she always managed to be able to convey that she knew that I knew. And there was nothing I could do about. Or she would kill me.

It's hard to love a psychopath. But I swear to God that I tried. I tried to accept her for who she was, but they are robots, and I grew up with a robot. A killer robot. Like the terminator.

And then as it happens we glorify these people! Apparently they're fascinating! That's why you keep on reading this isn't it? It's not because of me? Who am I? I'm a victim? I don't think so. I'll show you how much of a victim I am.

Well, I was a victim. For a time, it's impossible not to be when you have an older sister that has no soul. Not a trace of humanity other than a shell exterior, that and no one believes you for the first thirty years of your life.

Christmas with psychopath. Easter? Hilarious. She always gave the most perfect gifts for everyone at Christmas too, except when, well, when it came to me. They were always a little off, a little disturbing. Too dark. Too creepy. Like she was trying to pass me off like I liked all that dark stuff. It was really her. But I let my family accept her image of me.

It was when she killed her first husband that I had to plan it. I had to kill her. You know that I had to. Fire with fire.

The problem with killing her, was that I'm sure she was prepared for me to come after her one day. She knew that I was the only one that knew, and she knew that I had tried to convince others to no avail.

That didn't stop what had to happen though. So I set in motion a plan to kill my own sister. Which sounds much worse unless I remind you consistently that she's a psychopath.

She was getting married again, and that's when I knew she would be most vulnerable. She knew that too, but she had too many faces to show to people. Too much energy and control needed to be put into simply looking human.

She still had it covered pretty nicely, she made it so that under no circumstances would she be alone in a room with me. Always surrounded by people. But there had to be a way to get the job done.

I pretended to get drunk. Very drunk. I wasn't aloud to give a speech, because everyone knew I openly hated my sister. So I pretended to get drunk and while they were about to cut the cake. I grabbed the mike and made a speech, and scene.

“Sister! Sister! I loooove you! You. Hurp. Make me happy, when I know you are happy. You're happy right sis? This guy is a good guy? Looks like he loves you. I've bet you've told stories about me.”

I was hoping that she would do the cry thing. But she felt like on her special day, that it would be okay to treat me the way that she always wanted to.

“I'm going to KILL YOU!” and she came at me. Not with a knife or anything, it was just dramatic, probably going to use me as an excuse not to have sex with her new husband.

It was all I needed, I slipped the knife out of my pocket and she fell right on it.

Have you ever seen the life go out of a monster before? You can't see the change.

They pulled me off of her. And I got away with it. Six months later I was acquitted, drunken self-defence is still self-defence.

It's a good thing that none of the cops that night did a breathalyser test on me. I didn't have drop. To tell you the full truth. My plan was to just walk up to her and try to hug while while she did her great cry game. And stab her until she died.

The one time that she let go. I won.

I am in a hospital now though. Turns out I'm a bit of a sociopath. In fact, I might have been completely wrong about my sister this entire time, and I am simply severely disturbed. I might not have been honest before, when I said I saw nothing in my sister. I'm here to tell you right now. I see nothing in anyone.

I mean a psychopath and sociopath? What are our parents like? Oh right, my sister wasn't a psycho. Turns out.

I should have known. I should have known.

Turns out that when you look into somebodies eyes, and you see nothing there, and feel nothing but hate for them. Well, that's more your problem.

I should have known though.

All those years I looked at myself in the mirror.

I saw my sister.

TV Boys.

It was raining outside and it was cold. Two friends sat at a bar together. Like they always did, whenever it was night time.

“Do you ever get a feeling like maybe sometimes, your whole life is exactly like The Truman Show?”

“And you're living your life with millions of people watching?”

“And all of your friends are fake and are a part of it?”

“Yeah”

“Yeah”

“That's what you would say. If you were trying to fake me out though.”

“How do I know you're not trying to fake me out.”

“Haha! Yeah, because with everything that you get up to in life, there would be sooo many people watching.”

“Aha! Another fake out, I'm very entertaining, especially if they have a direct hook up to my inner monologue. I'm fucking amazing.”

“You just think about sex all the time. And masturbate”

“Yeah, but my audience loves that about me.”

They were best friends. And they were morons.

“So, are your parents really your parents then?”

“Yeah? Hey! I don't know.”

“Probably not right, someone would have to pay them to put up with you, makes way more sense.”

“Yeah, that explains a lot.”

“So, am I supposed to be getting money for being your friend then? Since it's like, my full time job?”

“Fuck you! Yeah, you should get paid more than anyone else my show, you don't even get a vacation, like ever.”

“Where do you think I really go for eight hours a day when you're at work.”

“Ahhh,”

“Yeah man, I got like, a real family and a great wife and kids and stuff, You're paying for it all. Because the world loves how much you love to watch CSI”

“But what if they do? What if that's like...part of the show, they watch it with me and it's like an experience, they're all like, awe, did you see David's reaction to what Lawrence Fishburne did to that bad guy?”

“Ah, yeah actually, when I go home to my real life, I love to watch re-runs of you watching re-runs.”

It's not hard to guess that they were drunk. They were sitting at a bar, waiting for maybe a group of girls to come in, so that they could talk to them, and maybe have sex.

So far, no girls had come in, but the beers had not stopped.

They knew that they were living at a great time in thier lives where they could hold off on real life ambition without any consequence other than boredom. So they were free to be lazy and drunk about as much as they wanted. They were in their early twenties. And they could get away with anything, and all would be forgiven.

They also knew it had to end, because you can only do that life for so long before it becomes sad, and the conversation runs dry. Like it was tonight.

“So, so, what's your life like?”

“What?”

“Ah, never mind man, How come there aren't any girls coming in tonight?”

“It's a Tuesday.”

“I've gotten laid on Tuesdays before.”

“Not more often than not.”

“Yeah,”

“One more pitcher than we can go?”

“Yeah okay.”

They finished up thier pitchers and knew that the end of this was coming soon, they had no way of knowing that that would actually be one of the last times they went out together. But they felt it. They had to.

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Ten years later, they miss each other, and randomly the life. Mostly because, in times like that a friendship seems so strong that there's nothing to break it apart. Except for time. Time breaks it apart. It doesn't take away the sentiment. But it can take away the contact, or the general every day concern. And then you're left with a good friendship, that you would wish could come up more often in life. It had been four years since they had actually seen each other in person. They smiled and hugged.

“Aha! You're making a guest appearance in my show are you.”

“Yeah, well, I became so popular I got my own spin off series, now people love to watch me watching Doctor Who”

“Doctor What now?”

“Don't start.”

“What?”

“Ugh”

“So the spin off is going well?”

“Yeah, ratings are high, we have are ups and downs but it's pretty solid.”

“Yeah, sometimes I feel like I need to mix things up to keep em watching.”

“Like CSI Miami?”

“Do they still make that?”

“I hope not.”

Laughter.

“Bar?”

“Bar.”

“Beer?”

“Nah, I quit beer, I'm a wine guy now.”

“Really?”

“Haha, no. I'm just messing with you. Ha!”

And they went and they got drunk and they talked about their wives, their successes and failures, and they remembered the good times, and laughed at the bad times. Although they had changed, the bar hadn't. There were still no women in it, because it was another rainy Tuesday, but this time they weren't looking. They were too busy being their old selves, loud and obnoxious in public. Maybe even a little exaggerated to make up for all of the lost time between them.

“Years later, I've never had friends like the ones I had when I was twenty two. Christ on a stick looking for his mom. Does anyone?”

“Stand by Me, right?”

“Yeah but with my touch.”

“Well, don't write it down, they could sue you.”

“Let them try.”

“So whose the camera following now?”

“Both of us.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah man, we're together.”

“I'm not going to fuck you.”

“I came all this way though.”

“Hey, not another four years before we do this again okay?”

“Okay.”

And they wouldn't. They couldn't. They had to.

Alex

The scars were never going to go away. And no matter how many songs he wrote, he knew that they would never accept his music because of his face.

So that's why after fifteen years, Alex was headed back to the small town where he grew up to kill himself.

Fifteen years ago, his house caught fire, and it was all his fault. There was no doubt, he had left the stove on to make pop corn. His older brother was babysitting him, but he was babysitting him with his girlfriend over, so it meant that he was babysitting himself. And he left the stove on. And the house caught fire. His brother and his girlfriend were upstairs when it started, and they didn't make it out.

And Alex suffered burns all across the side of his body. He was in the hospital for six months, and was lucky to have lived.

He remembered trying to run upstairs to try to save them. He remembered seeing his brother's face melting off. He would never forget, it's what half of his face looked like.

As soon as he finished high-school, he took his guitar and he ran away. No one from the town ever heard from him again. No one really wanted to.

He was an amazing guitar player, the songs that he could write with a guitar in his hand defied all logic to the human ear. It was as if there was some type of force that forced the ear to give it all one hundred percent attention. Until people saw his face. Then they had to look away, but by then it was too late. It was impossible to forget his face once you saw it. It was horrendous.

Alex knew this, as he was trying to hitch his way back to where he came from. It was just as difficult as when he had hitched out.

He made a decent enough of a living as a guitar player, for a while he wore a mask, it would always be something funny or interesting, Spider-Man or Batman masks were popular. Somehow though, when he wore them, the music stopped being as good. It became obvious to him that his music was no good unless his burns were exposed to the world. And that no matter what, he would be unable to really make a great living with his music.

It never quite sounded right when it was recorded either, unless there was a video, and the video showed his face. He had no fans. He became a memory to people as soon as they heard him the once, they would never forget the beauty of his music. And his scarred, disfigured face.

It was when she listened though, and it was when she pretended not to care about his face, that he fell into trouble. She was an amazing woman, shockingly intelligent, getting her MD at university, when she heard his music, she fell in love with him. And when she saw his face she was repulsed, but felt guilty. So she lied and said that she didn't care. Even though she did. And he knew, he knew the whole time that she had lied.

It was always worse when he was laughing or happy. This skin stretched in a way that made it look like it was melting off again in some strange happy way. It was truly disturbing. It was when they were laughing while making love that she screamed in fear, that's when he couldn't take it anymore. It was too much for him. He had to be reminded every day, every where he went, that he killed his brother and that he was disgusting excuse for a man. The only thing that gave him solace was performing music. And he could only play so much for people before they all left the room, to try to listen without seeing him. Then they would leave, when the effect was no longer there. People would try to wash out the face. They couldn't.

His girlfriend tried to apologize. She begged for forgiveness, and called him beautiful, unique and special, but he couldn't stand the lies, because more than anything he needed them to be true. And there was only one way for that to happen.

So he went back to the house, well, not the house, but the one that was built in its place. He had popcorn, he had a gun, he had his guitar.

Alex burst into the house with the gun, yelling at the family to get down on the floor, which, they all did. He knew from the picture on the wall that the whole family was home. He duct taped them to chairs and duct taped their mouths shut.

“Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to play you a set” and he did. He made them look the whole time. And from the reports of each family member after the incident all claimed that when he was given the appreciation for a full set, while starting at him, his burns went away. And he looked like an angel.

He played his set. And became an angel, for a moment. During his final song though, the youngest daughter of the family averted her gaze from him, and he went back to being disfigured.

He left the stove on and the popcorn on it. Once the kitchen was on fire, he let the family go. They all ran out of the house.

Alone in the house, he could hear his brother screaming for help and in pain upstairs, where the house had already caught fire. He saw his brother up the stairs, his face melting. Only this time, instead of turning away from the pain, Alex kept climbing the stairs, each one more and more of him burned. More of him melted.

Nothing stopped him, this time, Alex would climb the stairs, this time. Alex would save his brother.

What Martians think happens when you die.

Take heed oh weary travelers through this journey that you call life! I know what awaits you on the other side and it isn't pretty. Need I remind you of how much your life is based in a corporeal form? When you die, you leave your body behind. Your body, you nit wits, is the only reason that there is language, as language requires the physical world. Do you enjoy smells? You leave your nose behind when you are finished with this world. Sight? Ha! You have no eyes.

You don't even get to take your name with you. We keep that for your grave.

So what awaits you? Do you expect me to say nothing? No! Not nothing! Do you expect me to say astral projection of some sort? No! Not that, anything but that!

Will you be judged when you die? By whom? God? He exists outside space and time! What makes you think when you die you should be so lucky? You think that's heaven, he's trapped on the outside looking in! Wasting your time with trivial ideologies that any idiot could have come up with! Don't kill people? Love is good, not love is bad? Please, we had those before God started messing around with us, we will have them long after he get's bored and fucks around with the Martians.

Not that there are Martians, nor am I a Martian...don't be alarmed.

Okay. I'm a Martian. Still, don't you want to know what is left for you on the other side? What do you do with all of that left over energy?

Let me tell you right now. Just give me five dollars and I will tell you.

Okay, I'll tell you anyways, but travelling on a spaceship all the way here to tell you the secrets of what happens after you die is well worth five dollars. After, after, always after. Humans.

I said that you can't leave space and time with your energy, but what makes you think that your universe is the only want that you are living in? Did you not know the power of your choices, quantum physics states that every time you make a decision you create a new universe, not just for yourself, but for every human being on the planet.

Now! What if I were to tell you that you're excess energy that is your life forces, is connected to each and every parallel universe, and while this physical conscious state remains to your perception continuous, your subconscious is constantly connect to all of the other parallel worlds.

Yes! Now your dreams make sense, this is the part of the universe that we already knew of, Jungian archetypes and what not!

So. When you die, you simply go return to your subconscious where you are experiencing absolutely every single possible life that you could have. And more! Think about it. Think about how many people have been alive while you've been alive. We're talking over an average life span of over a hundred billion people!

A hundred billion people, and each and every choice leads to a different universe! And when you die you get to experience each one of them!

You don't believe me? Well that's fine. Kill yourself and find out! It doesn't matter, there's a you that lives on and chose not to? Don't kill yourself? That's fine! There's a you out there that did. Each time you choose something, there is a universe where you did the opposite, and one where you did it in between. You live them all, you never die! You live on in parallel states! And when it's over.

Well, bad news kids. It's over. I'm sure you'll be glad of it though! After going through every life. That's beyond sanity! That's overwhelming, but I promise you that it is, in fact, one hundred percent true!

You're welcome! Five dollars! Come on! I just gave you salvation that doesn't sound entirely like bullshit! Would you rather it be nothing? Or that you have to hang out with angels and serve some all knowing prick you sees his own role as that to judge you. Do you really want to spend a free life, only to be reborn into bondage. Even a happy slave is still a slave!

My truth offers no bowing down to any man, woman, or child! Or God, gods and...gods. Sorry, I was on a roll there and I got a little tongue tied.

So please, give me five dollars, this idea is remarkably hard to sell, even though you people will normally swallow anything. I spit at thee humans! I want to buy a beer and none of you will even bother giving me five dollars for a beer. I could invade you all right now with my spaceship and make you all slaves now!

In fact, that means that in a parallel universe, I DID! Ha! Enjoy reliving that one you smug bastards.

Who threw that? Why? Why would you throw a banana at me? Is a banana worth five dollars you sack of shit! Is it? In a parallel universe it is! Well, probably not many, At least one though! Not this one though is it. You ungrateful lot. You sorry excuses for sentient beings!

Don't go! Please, I have more! Think of how now you know every time that you are lazy in this life, you weren't in another? Think of it, each day that you mindlessly watched Doctor Who or Game of Thrones for a full forty eight hours, you forced a parallel you to get off your ass and make something of yourself! In a parallel universe you're all giving me money and making me a millionaire! I hope you know that!

Oh please, just five dollars for a beer? I'm not really a Martian, and it's a good idea.

Isn't it? Don't you think it is? Wait! I have an idea. Choose whether or not it is. For yourself.

Choose.

Mathew versus The Monster.

It was when the arrows were flying, and his sword was cutting through good, and honourable men. That he felt most alive. It didn't matter that he would cheat in battle at any cost in order to win. He loved to take life. He loved to see all hope leave a man's expression. He was filled with glory beyond expression.

This battle was especially full of glory, because these men had been a thorn in his side for a long time. Complaining about taxes, complaining about not having food, not having bread. For men who had nothing, they fought better than any other men he had ever seen. And he had seen quite a few. Perhaps they were lying about their food supplies.

The terrain was fantastically stimulating as well, soft moss on the ground, trees everywhere, so easy to slip on a root and get gutted by a sword or dagger. It was raining as well, and his blade was a shimmering crimson.

Oh! The takings would be good from this battle, they didn't have great armour, but they had amazing swords. He immediately replaced his own with a solid well balanced iron of the first man that he killed.

He hoped he didn't have to kill the blacksmith who had created these amazing swords. All of England should have swords like these. He still kept his dagger, his dagger he would never replace because he would never find one of better quality. A dagger that he one from his first kill, his father had given it to him as a prize. A family heir loom, said to have been forged by witches, it's handle glowed red when someone was behind him. And it never failed him.

A young man with a stout heart approached him, and could have stabbed him in the back, if not for a seconds hesitation. And he quickly turned on his heel and sliced him across the belly with his dagger. When he looked down at his blade, he swore. The blood and rain covered the handle. He would not be able to use his witchblade again for the battle. No matter. God was also on his side.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Monster was slaughtering them. He was cruel beyond measure, and impossible to sneak up on. He just finished slaughtering the blacksmiths son. Cut him across the belly with that witchblade of his. They knew he would be a force, but he unto himself was like a one man army.

Mathew was in trouble. He had led his people to this, he had been their champion, and although he was carrying his own as any man could in a battle. He was avoiding the Monster, and letting his comrades die in his place, time and and time again.

And ho! They were fighting for him, they were fighting with a spirit in them that no song or story could do justice. They were fighting like the wolves they were. They were the werewolves of the forest tonight. Not some band of misfits who steal from carriages. They were animals out there. And the battle, and as a result the freedom, would be theirs. Save for the Monster.

And Mathew knew that if he died, the battle wasn't between these great men and other great men. This was a battle that was between Mathew and the Monster.

Mathew commanded the volley. He shouted and swore.

“Concentrate your fire at the Monster, keep him off balance, and keep him slow. You can't pierce that armour, but you can try! And you can stop him and the rest of our foes from advancing!”

And then Mathew threw his own bow and arrow, around his torso, picked up his sword and shield. And went to what he knew to be his doom. The men who saw him walk, would say that they never saw a braver man. He walked with his hood up, head held high in the rain, unflinching. Towards the Monster.

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They stood facing each other, in the rain. The Monster looked up and down at Mathew and spoke first.

“Well, boy, shall we do this now, or do you simply just want to offer your Mother up to me now.”

“You speak cowards words Monster. I thought you of no honour, but now that I see you, I see that you have no true courage either, hiding behind your plates of steel.”

“I will fight you with honour, Mathew, and I will see you cut down before one of your owns blade. I will even dispose of my witchblade in this tree. So as to deal with you justly and fairly.”

“Keep your blade Monster. You will need it. Tonight we fight like the wolves I know you and myself to be.”

With that Mathew disappeared behind a tree, just as the Monster started to rush at him. He climbed the tree and the volley of arrows slammed against the Monster. Forcing him off balance, not so much so that he was unable to parry Mathew's sword as it flung towards his exposed neck. With Mathews one and only trick over with, the Monster was back in control of the fight. As he was with every fight. He slammed Mathew in the chest, making him fly into a tree, and dropped his shield and scurried up another tree. Not without getting grazed across the back by the Monster's witchblade.

“Gah” Mathew cried.

“Let it go now boy. There is a reason that I only have the one name.”

“No doubt the only thing your father could to think to call you.”

From atop a branch. Above the Monster, Mathew, with sword in one hand and an arrow in the other, jumped down upon the Monster.

The Monster quickly parried way the sword, but was defenceless against the arrow that was now protruding from his eye. It had been driven down to his brain.

The Monster collapsed in the rain. Mathew the Hood, had won on the day.

The Shits.

I woke up with the shits. And I gotta tell yah, it wasn't pretty. Probably had to do with the stake out that I was on all day and night the previous day. Probably, who the hell am I kidding. I've been doing this for twelve years. It was because of the stake out.

Turns out the guy isn't cheating on his wife. Or he knew I was following. Turns out he's just dealing drugs on the side in order to pay for their eldest son's college. She was so relieved. I guess, to each his own.

Didn't make my morning start any better, and it didn't change the fact that that was my last client. I didn't have any new business. Other than with a bottle.

“Don't be a quitter” I said to myself as I downed half a mickey of fireball whiskey. Breakfast fit for a king.

Except most kings that I know about lived in a time without fireball whiskey, so when you get right down to it. My life ain't that bad. Better than most kings, shits or not. Didn't most of them have AIDS or something? I don't know...

I bet my phone was ringing, wherever the hell it was. I bet that there was my secretary wondering where his paycheck was. I bet he knew it was in my fridge, with the beer and the bugs. I bet he was leaving a message saying he quit. What's the point in having a secretary when he's the only son of a bitch that calls you anyways?

Jesus, I wish I could tell you that this is the part where the long legged blond comes walking in, and is full of sex and danger. But wherever he is, he ain't walking through my door. Yeah, he. Got a problem? So do I.

Fuck I needed a cigarette. I couldn't find them, they were somewhere. I needed to retrace myself, what kind of god damned private investigator can't find their cigarettes? Pathetic? Yeah, but it's hard to get lower than half a mickey of fireball and the shits.

They were in the bathroom. Which was great because I got to look at my face.

Apparently, I'm a hundred years old. I look like David Byrne if his face melted. So I walk back to the bedroom, living room(starting tomorrow; office). And threw on some Talking Heads.

Same as it ever was, ugh.

My phone had two missed calls, from two different numbers. One was my guy quitting on me, too bad, he was fine. A real piece of meat I woulda loved to chew on.

The second one was the lady who hired me last night. Her boy is missing.

“Frank? You're secretary gave me this number and said 'good luck'. My boy is missing. He's gone, and there's a note demanding twenty five thousand dollars. Please help, they said no police, but you're not police. Right?”

I like it when people finish a message with a question I can't answer, luckily, the answer was simple. I wasn't a cop. Not ever. They can afford scotch, can't they?

I already knew what it was. Drug deals go bad sometimes, sometimes they kidnap a kid, cut a finger off. Easy paycheck for everyone involved. Except for, well, you know. The kid.

I called her back and asked if she had gotten the finger yet? She said no. I told her I would shower and be right over, and to put the thing on ice when it arrived.

I knew the way, I was here for most of the day yesterday, Dad the former stock broker, turned drug dealer because of too many episodes of Breaking Bad. He spent a lot of time at home. Drugs in this town are still a night business. We ain't Baltimore. Not that I would know, just too many episodes of The Wire.

When I got there she had the finger on ice.

And a foot.

This wasn't just a drug deal gone wrong.

“Call the cops.”

“Why?”

“Your husband is dead. Your son is next.”

“How did you know?”

“That's not a twenty year old finger, or foot.”

“How do you know?”

“Don't ask.”

The phone rang. They asked for the lady when I picked up. I told them to deal with me.

“Get us the money by 3pm or the kid gets it.”

“Listen you fucking nit wit. How are we going to get the money when you killed the guy that had the money?”

As I asked the question, I figured it out, I was little slow. Maybe I should quit drinking. They couldn't. Unless, the sweet innocent lady wasn't so sweet and innocent.

“Yeah, you'll get your money. Actually wait. Never mind. Kill the kid.”

I hung up.

I walked back to the lady. She had a gun pointed at me.

“You didn't think he was cheating on you, you knew about the drugs. You just needed to know where he was so you could get your boys to kill him. Now you're trying to make a show of how you aren't involved.”

“Yes. But now I have to kill you and put it on you. I can't believe you showed up with my husbands body parts, threatening my son's life for more money.”

“Good luck with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know how you called? That means a paying client.”

“So?”

“So, that means I still have a secretary for the next couple days.”

And that's when he hit over the back of the head. Figured we weren't going to get paid for this one. Told me to fuck off and deal with the cops. And he walked out of my life, like the stag that got away.

After the cops left, I sat in the house alone next to the bag with the severed foot in it. It reminded that I need to take life one step at a time.

Orange Fear

He was good man, he could be kind, he could be elegant. He had a warm soul, and sunny smile. When people looked at him they wanted to be his friend. Despite his faults, and despite mistakes that he had made in life. For a time.

The only person that couldn't forgive him for all his vice, his errors, and his disappointment of what he had allowed himself to become, was he. Because, he knew deep down that he could have been so much more. And only because of fear, did he never allow himself to become anything he wanted to be.

It's not something to be easily shrugged off, nor should one assume that they have an understanding of this fear, this is a fear that coils deep, and can choke out the spirit of dreams, without ever knowing that it was there.

In this he took a small amount of pride, he had discovered his fear, and he had, for a time, tried to over come it. He had simply failed, because he never countered his fear with the only thing that can truly overcome it. Which is love.

He had had love in his life, but that was before he had identified his fear, that orange, dark fear, that pushed all those that could have truly loved him, away. So, in the middle of his life, he embraced the fear, assuming that it was too little, and too late, to ever hope for becoming something that he would be proud to be.

And when the fear completely over too him, that's when he allowed for the debauchery to reach extremes that he had never thought possible, when he was still fighting the good fight. Now, instead of wit, he had verbal abuse. Instead of a smile, he had a sneer. He didn't even notice the difference, and when the last of anyone who had been in his life left him. He felt glad, for he knew he was righteous in his failure.

A person can feel as if they are spending their life on a scale, between accomplishment and failure, a good and a bad. And a person can think that their life is about the tip in their own personal scale. And once the tip happens, it is impossible to turn the other way. So they are vindicated in the actions of negativity.

The scale is always weighted in this mentality, towards failure. Towards despair.

When all the people in his life that were good, left him, he had to destroy more of himself. He needed to completely eliminate any and all sparks of hope that still plagued him when he was least expecting it. In the shower it would happen. His mind would wander, towards a happy hope, where he had a love, where he enjoyed his day. Where he could feel the sun on his face and be happy. Where he could be whole.

That's when the drugs became excessive. That's when the diseases would be contracted, and never repaired.

In his minds eye, he saw himself as a battered hero, misunderstood and unloved. The latter two were correct, the former was delusional. He was no hero, he wasn't even a anti-hero. He was a shell of a man, a self proclaimed hopeless case, that deserved no pity, and received none, unless he begged to strangers.

On his fiftieth birthday, he was told that if he didn't change his behaviour, he would die a slow painful death. He tried to convince the doctor that he had been doing that since he was born. There was no pity there.

Sometimes, in a person, no matter how dark they get, no matter how great their fear. A spark can become a fire. It can be called Divine Intervention by the religious. Somehow, though, when he reached what he would normally think of his glass being half empty. On his fifty first birthday, he became aware, that he still had maybe twenty five good years left. In which he could do anything he wanted.

His smile was the first thing to return. Brighter than it ever had before. Day to day choices are what tip the scale, day to day choices are what can allow a person to realize that there is no scale. There is no balance, there is no measurement, other than what effort is made.

For the first time in his life, he knew how to overcome his fear. All by himself. Like he always wanted to. Completely alone, after wreaking havoc for all of his adult life, he became a good man. Instead of begging for pity, he begged for forgiveness.

Everyone forgave him, but to his great dismay, no one accepted him back into their lives. It's easy to forgive, it's hard to trust. A lesson that he learned too late, but he accepted it, and moved on.

He never found love, but he did give what he could for the rest of his life towards helping others overcome their fears.

He only lived for another ten years, and died of heart failure in a restaurant, giving advice to a young man, who didn't hear a word that was ever spoken to him.

He grew irate with the boy, he had never met anyone so much like him before, in all his years of helping people. The more he tried to help the boy, the more the boy pushed him away.

It was more than his heart could take. He died trying to save the boy, he died trying to save himself.

The boy was a good boy, he would become a decent man, an elegant man. Whose smile would always light up a room. Except for a fear in him. A constant, dark orange fear, that would coil around his spirit and force him to stop before he started anything. He thought that his life was a balancing act, between accomplishment and failure. And that it would always be weighted against him.