5 Words I Like and One I Hate… Faggot

Vicarious, kaleidoscope, duality, but, and nihilism. Well, that was easy and now for the one, I don’t.

No one can remember the very first time they hear a word. I thought I did and I was wrong. This was intended to be a one part story, but it quickly turned into a two-part story. One I will have to tell in reverse.  As I was saying no one knows the first time they hear a word, but they can remember when the first time a word impacted them. Faggot is one of those words. The first time I heard it. The first time I felt its impact. I was walking home from school.

I was in the 6th grade so maybe all of twelve or possibly going on thirteen. There I was minding my own business walking home on the side of the road. At the time I lived in this tiny town in Illinois. A farming town not far from St Louis. This has nothing to do with anything. I’m just setting the location of the incident. Don’t be fooled ignorance can be found anywhere on this planet. Walking through the grass on the side of the road when a car of teenagers drove by. One of the assholes screams faggot at the top of their lungs.

The sound of his voice was enough to lock this memory in my brain for a lifetime. At the time I didn’t even know what the word meant. What he meant by it. But I didn’t need to. The word itself was enough for me to know it meant something awful. So vulgar in its delivery. Slammed into my face as though it had anything to do with who I was or what I was doing. I didn’t need to know that it had anything to do with being gay. I didn’t need to know that word’s meaning to know that I never wanted to use it.

Being young, being scared, being confused by this strange and awful word I began to cry. I ran the rest of the way home with tears down my face. My mom recognized something was wrong as soon as I entered the house. She went into to full-on mother mode. “What happened? Are you okay? Who do I need to kill?” It took a moment for me to get it out.  I didn’t want to say it let alone hear it again.

“Some kids in a car called me faggot.”
“Well, are you?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t matter. Words don’t have meaning unless you give them one. So some assholes called you a faggot. They are assholes. You gave them the power to let them hurt you. All they were trying to do was hurt you and you let them. People are going to say horrible things. They might even say them about me. Doesn’t matter unless you let it matter.”
I stopped crying.

That’s the thing about words. They don’t really mean anything. Placeholders for a feeling, a thought to cut like a knife. But no one said you had to let them cut you. I carry that message with me every time someone tries to stab me with their vulgar, easy exit words. I hear their bullshit attempts to piss me off and I laugh. I’m the biggest faggot on planet earth. What else you got?

Part 2

Words have a way of haunting you even when you think that they don’t. I said and I thought the first time I heard the word faggot was when those kids drove by. Maybe that was the first time I thought it impacted me as a person, but during the writing, I realized it wasn’t. I thought about just forgetting the whole thing. Thought about pushing it back down like I had for most of my life, but why should I?

Digging deep into the back of my mind. The first time that the word took something away from me was when I was a child. No idea what age I was. I could ask my mom, but we don’t talk about that time of our lives. It was during the reign of my mom’s second husband. The dark times of my life. The times I try to forget, but the memories always come back up. Stories for another time possibly.

As a child, I was really into gymnastics. No idea why, but I was. Maybe I saw it on the Olympics or something. My mom signed me up for classes and away I went. Every Thursday I got to learn something new for my new passion in life. Until one Thursday my mom couldn’t drop me off for my class. So my stepfather had to. Had to take some precious time out of his busy schedule of being an asshole to drop me off. Looking back after all the shit he put us through it doesn’t surprise me what he said when he picked me up and an hour later. “Did the little faggot enjoy his gymnastic class?”

I cried. He hit me like he always did. “Toughen up.” I don’t remember much after that. I know that I didn’t go to any more classes. I know that my mom always wondered why I lost interest in it and I’m sure I wondered, just like I do today, why I didn’t say anything.

 

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If you see something… say something… If something is happening… say something… I know the hardest thing we can do in this world is ask for help… I’ve lived through it myself… My mom got it the worst… I don’t blame her for what happened during that period.. but I do wish she had asked sooner… No one deserves to be abused verbally or physically… it is not normal and it is not okay…

Get Help 

Anymore

The nights grow darker and the years get longer. The longer my nightmare stretches the more I know that I am not alive. Everything is the start of something else. I can’t think of a worse place to live. Yet I have to stay. The heat it lingers throughout the night. The nights have become my life in more ways than one. The isolating darkness takes a hold of my soul, of my life. My will is dictated by a sunless sky. The stars they shine bright but I don’t care for the moon or the stars. A backdrop to my existence.

I don’t miss the sun. The more I think about it. I don’t know what I miss about my life before. I don’t know anything anymore. A vampire in a vampireless world. The impending joy of anyone who talks to me annoys me more than I care to explain. I wish things were different, but if they were I would miss how they were. My I don’t care attitude is all I have become. It has consumed me beyond anything I recognize anymore.  Consumed me body and soul. I no longer care as I embrace what I am becoming. The blood flows and the heart pumps, and that is all anyone cares about.

Feelings only make this harder than it needs to be. I do this to myself. I do this by choice. Things could always be worse. Things could always be better. I could live a normal life even at night. Laziness is all this is. Self-loathing is all I have left. Some part of me still exists in here. In my head. I try to strangle it. Put it down, but it only comes back once again. My life is my will and my choice. Do I really believe this or am I just trying to justify the circumstances? I’m not sure what I believe in anymore. Is there a God?

I am no longer sure of that either. I’m not sure if I ever believed in such things. I guess by now you could say I am an atheist, but what do titles every really mean? We give titles and labels to things that don’t matter or need them. Above all things I am human. What that means anymore is lost on me. The days are nights and the nights are days, and I am more backward than when I began this path. Anymore everything is not what it means. Happiness is nothing more than an idea, a trick of the brain, and I can’t fathom happiness on the happiest day. I can barely hang on to an idea for longer than I need it. I use each thought to get to the next one and before I know it I have forgotten what it was all about.

The idea is to be myself but I have forgotten who I am. A name, a person, alive in less ways than one. How much longer until none of this matters? How much longer until I become an idea long forgotten? I once cared but I don’t care anymore.

 

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Update on last month… So I never got around to my proposed piece of 5 Words I like and One I Hate… Well, I started it and then I realized something about the word I chose… So that opened more wounds than intended… I will be writing more about that, but needless to say, it changed the whole piece I was working on in my head… Hopefully, I can get to it this month… 

I’ve entered some stories and poems to a few literary magazines and publications… Inspired by my friend Eric… Couldn’t let him hog all the rejections… so hopefully, that pans out… Probably won’t know for another six months, but I will keep you posted if it actually happens… More so if it doesn’t… haha… Which means that there will be some Friday story reposts… Deal with it Fox…  : )

Still peddling my wares over at Amazon and Threadless… click the links for more info…

Dictated but not read…
Ambrose 4/4/18

From the Journal of the Devil

Aug. 13th, 2009
I just witnessed yet another one of those late night infomercials. I must get it. The item in question is a pizza cutter that makes the perfect slices every time. This beauty goes by the name the Perfect Slice. So simplistic I love it. For the low, low price of $9.99 plus shipping and handling, I could be cutting my way to pizza heaven. How could I go wrong? Worst case scenario it becomes another prop I can use to frighten my victims will. I could raise the scissor-like device and threaten to cut little triangles out of their ball sack. The applications would be limited when it comes to actual torture. I’m sure that it can’t cut too deeply through the skin and there is no way it is getting through bone. Though if I modify it with a better hinge it could have the potential to do more damage, but then I’m into it for way more than the asking prices. There is also its basic function of cutting pizza and that could be helpful at a dinner party. I’m excited at the possibilities, but I don’t think it can live up to my last late night purchases. The Tri-Saw which has to be the most amazing device I have ever purchased. I really couldn’t ask for a better product. Three counter spinning blades rotating at 5500 mps gets my dick hard just thinking about it. This amazing saw can cut through most metals with ease once you purchase the Cut Anything replacement blades. Which of course I purchased because when you need to cut through a bone you want a perfect cut every time. Also, the stability of the Tri-Saw is second to none. There’s no jerking or pulling like there is with most saws. Plus it is handheld and portable. The miter saw I was using before was just too bulky and awkward. Not to mention loud and there are only so many new house projects I can lie about before the neighbors realize I haven’t fixed a thing. But with the Tri-Saw there is barely any noise. It does, however, lack a proper guard which can make quite the mess out of dismembering a body. But with this hobby, it seems to be unavoidable anyways and nothing a well-manufactured tarp can’t handle. There is nothing like it in on the market today. The Tri-Saw gets my seal of approval like my other great purchases such as the All in One Super Blending Unit, Soil Extraordinaire, Fantastic Flavor Inserter, and the Dangler Tomato Planter. While other products can be utilized beyond their intended purpose. The Soil Extraordinaire is for pure entertainment. Soil Extraordinaire was designed to feed water into plants as they need it. A reserve reservoir for those long business trips or the lazy ass who couldn’t be bothered to water their plants. It has the quite opposite effect if the product is stabbed into the whore’s neck. Granted some of the blood does make its way into the small hand-blown globe that acts as the reservoir, but this is mostly due to the pure force of the blood coming from their neck. The best technique is to enter at an angle so that the blood has a better chance of actually doing this. Then in order to save the blood from spilling all over the place, I have to gently remove the Soil Extraordinaire from the victim’s neck, and flip it so that the sharp end is pointing up. There is a real art to it all. Though if I am feeling lazy it is much easier to fill the product the old fashion way with a knife and a small incision. Either way works, but then I can take and put the blood filled globes in any potted plant that I have around the house. The blood doesn’t help them in any way. In fact, it mostly destroys them over time. Too much iron in the blood maybe? Really their only purpose is for me to have a discrete way of showing off my blood collection. Waste not want not. Plus there is something about having incriminating evidence stashed around the house that really gets me going. A major drawback to the Soil Extraordinaire is that the cheap shitty glass breaks way too easily. I have to make sure I stab the stem of the Soil Extraordinaire perfectly into the bitch’s neck or it snaps off into a million tiny little pieces on her collarbone. All of this creates an insidious mess that I have to clean up later. It took a reasonable amount of practice and quite a few Soil Extraordinaire to perfect the whole technique. The first girl I must have stabbed her at least six times before I got it to work. That’s about thirty-five dollars in globes alone. This is where the added value comes kicking in. At five dollars a globe it is much cheaper to replace the Soil Extraordinaire than it is to use quality materials. But even if the stem breaks or the globe itself, not all is lost because I can still use the leftover pieces to stab randomly all over their body. Another fun trick that I like to do whenever I’m not in a poetic blood and flowers kind of mood is to take the blood filled globes and smash it over their head. If their mouth isn’t gagged, neighbors on vacation, I like to watch as the blood slowly makes its way into their mouths. They pit and choke as they try to find a way to get it out, but more and more as the little shards stick out of their foreheads. The scene turns quite hilarious if left alive for a long enough time as they begin to vomit up their own blood all over themselves. The All in One Super Blending Unit on the other hand is a wonderful device from top to bottom. The name could have used some work, but it does do everything it promises and more. It really isn’t something I like to use during playtime but afterwards is a whole other thing. To quote the online website, “The units unique shape design circulates food with so much force and speed that it can do any job in 5 seconds or less.” So impressive. In the case of cooked human flesh this amazing little device can chop, dice, or mince me into flavor heaven in not one, not two, not even four seconds, but just three seconds. For the perfect human topping on nachos, in omelets, or to just sprinkle in my mouth. This little fucking machine even comes with a cookbook for other great recipe ideas. Of course I have to just replace parts of the recipe with cooked human pieces. Marinating chunks of human used to be a real bitch before one extraordinary night I came across the Fantastic Flavor Inserter while using the All in One Super Blending Unit to prepare my favorite midnight snack, human quesadillas or hum dillas as I like to call them. I had the Fantastic Flavor Inserter operator in stitches with a story about one of my many horrible attempts at making the perfect garlic “chicken.” Luckily for me the operator was laughing so hard she couldn’t hear the moans of some stupid bitch I brought home that night. Let’s just say she never got to enjoy the Fantastic Flavor Inserter like I have or the sunrise on that particular morning. I however did get to enjoy that amazing sunrise and I must say there is nothing more enjoyable than a brain shake at dawn. I haven’t been able to find a useful purpose for the Dangling Tomato planter, but it does grow very tasty tomatoes in just a few short weeks.

 

Stuck In Time, A Distant Past

“You said you’d love me forever.”
“No, what I said was I once gave a damn.”
“You lie as though you believe it to be true.”
“Truth has a funny way of appearing to be a lie.”
“Then we shall see in the end who is telling the truth or telling a lie.”
Blood spurts from her neck, a fountain of life erupting for the first and only time. “In the end, we shall see,” she says with a grin.

“Blood in, blood out we are nothing more than the thoughts and ideas we choose to believe. Some days I think yeah I am more than this. I am more than a few ideas I stole from those around me, but I would be wrong. Human nature is nothing more than a copy. A copy of the animals, the nature around us evolved to their current point. We all evolve our traits, our ideas, and our very existence. A thousand years ago we were different, but yet we can look into the eyes of our past selves and see the similarities.” She stands there staring at me from the other side of the hot shelve. A metal slab bathed in red light and her face staring back at me from the other side.

“What the hell are you going on about now?” She asks her blonde hair perfectly held in place. “Is this another one of your epic speeches you build up in your head?” Her head is replaced with her pushed up breasts. Already large enough pushed up to look even larger. A secondary benefit to this job. “You know what it doesn’t matter its dinner rush and my table needs those fries.” I stare at the exposed flesh of her chest, “No one ever wants to hear what I say,” I say into her chest. Her face returns, “What?” I turn to the timer behind me. I glimpse the chaos that surrounds me on all sides. Transcending, drenched in thought I watch the timer count down one second at a time, “At least another minute.” The timer slowly ticks away as each thought crosses my mind. The world is full of useless people like us with useless jobs and careers. Most of us could easily be replaced by machines, but then what would we all do? Sit around and think about nothing? If we are to believe we are all the same. Then we have to realize that each of us is always thinking about something. Something so profound it could change the world as we know it. Tech so powerful that. “The fries man, the fucking fries,” another cook shouts. The timer beeps flashing zero over and over in a distinct annoying pattern. “Today asshole,” her voice cuts through all the noise.

My hand pulls the fries from the oil and I turn the timer off. Reaching for the bowl all of this becomes apparent. All of this becomes useless not only in my mind as I pour the fries into the bowl, but in my heart. What am I doing here? I shake the sea salt over the bowl tossing the fries as I do. Why is it that I do these things? I grab the small square plate and place a handful of fires onto it. Am I destined for something more? I pass off the fires to her, “About fucking time. Get your head in the game asshole.” She disappears as I place the rest of the fries under the red glow. Like vultures to a carcass more breast appear into view and hands pick at the bowl until there is nothing left.

There was once a girl that stood on the other side of that counter. Another face in the crowd of many. I remember her shape, but not her face. She asked me for ketchup. Over and over. Too busy I shouted without looking into her eyes. A mouse of a person. She wasn’t meant to work in a place full of predators. A place built on selfish, demanding assholes. She was too sweet to understand she didn’t belong. These thoughts fired off in my brain. My actions replaying, my words floating in the air. All she wanted was ketchup. Nothing more. It wasn’t for her. It wasn’t a large request and yet I couldn’t possibly stop for a second. The world is on fire in my mind. She’s nothing more than another flame. The thought haunts me at times. My actions as I see her shape walk away. I knew I was wrong. I knew better and yet I did nothing until it was over. I placed the tiny cup of ketchup in the window. Waiting for her return. Three days later she was dead. Three days later she wasn’t there anymore. Three days later everyone got ketchup as I tried to hold back the pain, the tears, and the regret of something so small.

My actions didn’t condemn her. A moment in our short time together. I never even learned her name. I’m sure she knew mine. Prince of the demanding assholes. Loudest of them all. I know she knew me, but I didn’t bother to know her. They say there is a God, but every turn I take I have yet to see such evidence. Searching for a reason that justifies taking the life of a twenty-year-old girl I’ve stopped searching. She didn’t do anything. She wasn’t part of any mysterious way. A victim of the uninsured. Too quiet to demand I give her the ketchup and too polite to seek treatment she couldn’t afford. Had she spoken up, had she said something, had she known, had so many things had happened I wonder what she would be doing today.

Postscript of the Unimaginative

“The world shatters around me. Falling shards of a broken mirror reflecting all the past actions of my life. Regret is something that can only happen after everything is said and done. How I wish I could take them all back, but I can’t. Each broken shard plunges into me and through all the pain. Through all the despair all I have left is tears and regrets. Open wounds that will never heal and maybe that is for the best. I’ve wasted too much time already on what if. Maybe now is the time to move on from all the pain and anguish. I’m not trying to justify my sins or the things I have done. I am only trying to move on, take credit for the things that I have done. In the past where they should stay. Stealing, robbing, threating, and who knows what else can’t be undone. Maybe it is time I told my tale. Confessed my part in everything that has unfolded in all these years. Maybe it is time.” The cold barrel presses against the back of his head.

Laying in a pool of his own blood the words fade away into nothing. No one leaves this world the way they envision. You either leave willingly shitting yourself until it is your time or you get put down like a dog. Rabid useless monster you never knew you’d become. Turn states evidence. Turn up dead. You signed the contract before it was written. One in the same. Only one of us was stupid enough to try and live. The other as stupid as the day we met. The point is to keep your mouth shut.

“Your debt is paid. You have proved your loyalty,” his voice as grime as the day we were introduced. “What does that mean?” I ask him. “You are free,” he smiles. I stare into his eyes. The gun still heavy in my hands. A weight that I can’t understand. “Like I asked. What does that mean?” He never blinks only stares back at me with those cold dead eyes, “It means that you and I never need to see each other again. Your husband’s debt is paid. We will take care of the rest.” I refuse to look away. Gripping the pistol tighter. My husband’s blood still splattered against my face. “Unless you would care to join him?” He asks me as though the question is really an option. I know as soon as I turn my back he will kill me. My husband told me everything about this man, this monster. Never trust a monster. “You going to stand there all night?” he asks me. Slowly I back away from him. Making my way towards the door. I want to speak, but it is only a waste of words. I back into something heavy. It doesn’t move as I step away from it. “You know I could use someone like you. A cold-hearted woman such as yourself,” he states. The heavy figure grabs me from behind “I know I could find a good use for her,” the heavy figure says into my ear. I know better than to struggle. The gun still in my hand, “I want no part of what you are selling.” He finally looks away waving his hand as he does. The figure lets me go. “I think you do,” he states. “I think you are at least curious to what I have to offer you,” he pulls a contract from his jacket pocket.

“You think of me as a monster and you are right. But it goes much deeper than that. I don’t care that your husband went to the authorities. Doesn’t even matter. None of this even matters. You taking my offer or not doesn’t even matter,” he picks up the pen from my husband’s desk. “We both know that it is too late for you to take another path. You’ve already chosen in fact. So this can end in only one way. Work for me. Replace your weak husband as one of my own,” his eyes light up and smoke pours out of his mouth. “What about my children?” I ask the monster. “They are already gone. As I stated before you are free. One last parting gift from your dearly departed husband,” he laughs in a cold methodical tone. I raise the weapon at the desk. He stops his laughing and stares me down once again. I fire two bullets into the back of my husband. The anger of all that I lost shaking me to the core. He doesn’t even blink, doesn’t move at the sound of the gun discharging. “Where do you want me to sign,” I sigh.

Suffering Through This

“I feel like things are getting increasingly worse. I am no longer myself or not as much or I don’t know. I don’t believe in angels or demons, but the nightmares, the dreams, the visions. The visions have been so surreal as of late. The absent, the loss of time has become confusing. I no longer understand what is happening to me. I fear for the worst inside of me and for my family. I see them burning. Each and every one of them. Burning layer by layer until there is nothing left but their skulls and their laughter. It sounds like my voice, it sounds like something ungodly. The laughter rages with the fire as if it saying something or maybe it is just their screams. Please help me. Help me before it is too late. Help before they are no longer dreams.”

Sincerely,

Steven Kleine

“Three days after this letter was sent Mr. Kleine and his family burned to death in their family home. The investigators say their deaths were similar by all accounts to his dreams or visions as he calls them. Each one was written in vivid description found in what was labeled confession letters. The house as a whole still stands today. The fire contained to one room and one room only. No reason for this has ever been turned up. Fire doesn’t care about anything, but it appears on this night it did. Mr. Kleine has been blamed for this atrocity, but should he be? Is the question I present to you today. Yes, young lady in the cardigan,” the professor calls out.

“You want to know if he is at fault for his actions?” She asks. “Yes, Did Mr, Kleine  commit murder willingly or was it something else?” The professor asks once again. “We have to go with the facts, sir. The fact that he killed his family by not saving them is true. Premeditated murder wouldn’t be that far from the truth as well judging by the letter you have presented. Willingly, however, is a much harder question to determine. I would say no he didn’t, but he still did. He murdered his family whether he wanted to or not,” she answers. He waits for anyone else to raise their hand. No one is willing to challenge her statement. “You are right it doesn’t matter in the sense of the law. Ethically though does it matter that the person to receive this last latter was the local police station? Does it matter that they did nothing other than file it way as a joke? How much blame can be put on them? How seriously should we take cries for help when it comes to mental illness?” He points at a young man in the third row, “We should take it very seriously, but when does a story become fact? After it already happens. The police had no reason to believe that any of this would happen.” The professor  nods his head, “Then let’s talk about facts.”

“In his dreams, Mr. Kleine only saw the room burning, his family burning, and he himself burning. He doesn’t go into detail about which room these visions take place. Given he only saw fire around him it would be hard to determine this information. Yet throughout the detailed accounts he never experienced or wrote about his death. He only wrote about the death of his family and the burning of the room. To this day no one knows why only the room burned. There was no reason, there was no incendiary device or substance used, and there was no faulty wiring. The Kleine family simply caught on fire and as his family burned he tried to put them out while they laughed hysterically. In fact, the only reason investigators decided that Mr. Kleine caught on fire is because he was trying to help them. Isn’t that right Mr. Kleine ?” A man or what is left of a man walks in from the back of the lecture hall, “Yes sir that is correct.”

He slowly makes his way up to the front of the class. His skin rigid and pressed tightly against his bones, “I tried everything I could to save my family. Though none of it worked. I was found guilty by reason of insanity of course. No one could explain what had happened. Deemed insane I spent quite a few years in an asylum. Until my visions became more about something other than myself.” The professor helps him onto the stage, “Well, then I wasn’t so crazy. Then I became known as someone who was gifted. I became someone special. My family’s death haunts me every day. I see their faces and I hear their screams, but something converged on that night. Something lives inside me. Something that no one understands not even myself. But that is not why I am here is it Miss Greenwood?” The girl in the cardigan drops her pen onto her notebook. Flustered she tries to respond, “I don’t know what you mean sir.” More people enter the hall dressed in tactical gear as a silence takes over the room. “I believe that you don’t, but I know that you will,” Mr. Kleine lays out cryptically. The tactical team surrounds her. “Please come with us Miss Greenwood,” the lead asks. She sits there silently making her decision. She tries to reach for her bag but she is ordered to stop. Knowing she has no other options but to comply she rises from her chair like a burning phoenix.  Flames spitting all around her, “You had to come and get me, Steven. You had to be the hero.”

The room begins to panic as she rises higher into the air. “You know that this is what I do. You knew that I was coming for you and yet you made sure things would be difficult,” Kleine says. The tactical team has their guns trained on her. Even though all the flames surrounding her the laser sites of their weapons can be seen resting on her head and throughout her body. They wait for a signal, for a sign. “You pretend to understand the vastness of the world you stumbled into. I was born with these flames. A gift upon which I was destined to attain. I will not have it taken away from me,” she screams with fiery breath.  “No one said anything about taking your gifts away,” he says to a nearly empty room. “In fact, I think your gifts could be quite useful if you would like to join us.” The flames flicker around her, “Enslavement is more like it. I’ve heard what you are doing. You thought you were being coy. I knew right away there was more to all of this than a simple lesson,” she lets out. “Would have been disappointed if you didn’t know. Wouldn’t have even let you live for a second longer, but I also know how this ends. Not all gifts are created equal or fair,” he stares into her eyes. Her anger causes her to discharge a wave of flames as she burns hotter the team begins to feel the full force of her powers.

“We can help you control those powers,” He begins to say. “I don’t need your help,” she conveys her clothes telling a different story as they begin to singe. “Unless it is your intent to ruin that cardigan then I think we could be some use to you. Come down from there peacefully and we can discuss what I am offering,” he reasons. She places her head within her hands as she descends back to the floor the lasers following her as she goes. “So my options are death or join you? You leave a woman with little choice, but to go with you,” she says as her feet touch the ground and her flames slowly dissipate. “It would appear that way, but not all intentions are good. Not everything I have to do is for the benefit of myself. Something you will have to learn in time,” Mr. Kleine states. She screams and as she does a burst of flames engulf her once again. The tactical team around her is surrounded by flames. They pull their triggers, each bullet ripping through their predestined entry point. Tearing through her flesh, desecrating her skull, and what is left of her body falls to the floor. “The fucking visions are never wrong,” Mr. Kleine says as he limps out of the auditorium past her lifeless corpse. The team follows him out one by one without a word.

 

Will this be a series?… hard to tell… has the makings of one though… so that is something… Hope you enjoyed this weird tale of murder or a negotiation gone wrong… flames.. burning.. fire… seemed to be the theme of this one… Join us next week as we discuss the importance of water… 

Important information on fire… PamphletsProtective GearVideos… 

Postscript of the Unimaginative

Pointlessness…. 01/16/13

My life up to this point has been filled with nothing. It is an everyday journey of watching shit go downhill at a steady rate of speed. Might as well have never been born at this point. I haven’t contributed anything to society. Unless you count work, obviously I don’t but you might. At work, they act as if I am irreplaceable though I know that I am. The duality of this statement makes my life even shittier. I work hour after hour at the fifth go nowhere job of my life trying to make something out of nothing. I don’t really know what I would rather be doing but I’m ninety-five percent sure this is not it. Currently, I am sitting at a Dog Park with my dog who knows not what to do here but sniff every inch of this picnic table I am sitting at.

Luckily no other dogs are here because God only knows my dog has no social skills what so ever. Must be a trait she gets from me. It’s cold for the third time in nine months here in Texas. Not so much of a complaint as an observation. I miss the cold. The bitter harshness of it all. The need to survive outweighing the need to exist. The cold brings a point to a life that stabs every exposed inch. The daily sunshine here depresses me more than the daily rain in Washington. Everyone is so cheerful and fake here as if they have nothing to be sad about.

So optimistic it seems like everyone has either a server case of heat stroke or the state is tainting the water supply with antidepressants. I refuse to drink from the tap. Because of an irrational fear put into to me by my mother at a young age. I refuse to do a lot of things now that I think about it out of fear. Fear Is a constant that we control I just choose not to. The point of all of this is lost on me by now. I started because I was bored at a dog park and I still am.