Inescapable

I want to live alone
Because the greatest love
Is always ruined by the bickering
The argument of living...

The noises of the city drown out the cries of the helpless and the hopeless. The lights that illuminate the streets blind you from the grime that hides in plain sight. Touch, taste, and smell; a life downtown is an assault on all of the senses. Yet in spite of the madness there she was, calling my name from across the crowd. We hadn't seen each other in nearly twenty years, so obviously my first instinct was to dive into a nearby dumpster. Surely she would be unable to sniff me out amidst the odor of discarded dinners and other forsaken filth. Perhaps if I were to disappear into a nearby sex club... Either way, I would end up sticky and covered in someone else's mess. My only hope was for her to get hit by a car as she crossed the street to greet me. Even better, she could suddenly be abducted by a gang of thugs in ski masks, swept into an unmarked van, and sold into pretty white girl slavery. Ah yes, if only.

“Ashe? Asher Hayes? Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!”

I literally wanted to stab myself in the eye.

We exchanged pleasantries while I searched for an acceptable escape route. She was in town to see her family's lawyer. I was fine. She was divorcing another husband. I was fine. She talked incessantly, finding opportunities to touch my arm or any other body part she deemed appropriate while laughing to reinforce how happy she was these days. I chuckled uncomfortably while pondering to myself which one of us was more dead inside. If it wasn't me, it would be soon enough. I nodded along, a clear sign of a man on conversational autopilot, while the chatter winded it's way along a stream of generalities. My line of sight began to drift toward a homeless man sharing a meal with a flock of pigeons. At least they seemed to be enjoying each other's company, but then again the disingenuous smile painted on my face might have made it seem as if I were enjoying myself as well. Enjoying myself about as much as a man on a date with a bird.

In all fairness, she had aged well. Skin pulled back just enough to erase any sign of wrinkling, but not enough to use her face as a bongo drum. Her hair a perfect golden blonde, hiding the grey that had began to grow when she was a freshman in college. Manicure on display at all times, a perfect match for her perfect ensemble. Smile, complexion, composure - all overwrought, meticulously maintained, and very, very white. She had curated a look, and it had only become more refined and more expensive over the years. Long gone was the girl who wore sweatshirts with boxer shorts, who giggled when she made embarrassing noises on our quiet nights spent alone at home. This woman was someone else completely. I wasn't the only one she had left behind all those years ago.

“So Mickey's, right? Tomorrow night. Seven?”

Wait. What? What had we been talking about this whole time? What had I agreed to? Maybe I should have paid more attention. “The bar? Yeah. I'll be there.” Yeah. This was no big deal. Mickey's was only my favorite bar. My sanctuary in this rat-hole of a city. I'll just never go back there, ever again. No big deal.

...Fuck.

The New Arrival

“What’s that?”

She hadn’t heard a word I said, but if I was going to be honest with myself, I knew it was bound to happen. Everything had changed. I could’ve been setting off fireworks in her ear and she wouldn'tve heard a thing.

“Isn’t she just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

We had prepared last minute and all I could think about was how the apartment was a disaster. We weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready. Looking at this little bundle though, I couldn’t help but smile. She really was the cutest. There was no denying that.

“So have we settled on a name yet? What do you think?”

I took her into my arms and looked deep into her tiny little eyes. “What do you think about Sally?”



“…for a cat?”

Explorers of the Heart

I gave myself the challenge to write something based on or inspired by music. The following piece is a short story inspired by this song:

(Click Here if you can't see the embedded video)

"There. Right there." It was dark, but she did her best to point him in the right direction. He had never done anything like this before, as evidenced by his fumbling hands, and it was expected that she might have to show him the ropes.

"It's so small!"

"No, no, you're looking in the wrong spot. A little further." She guided his hand, which trembled with excitement. He gulped, swallowing down the anticipation that had been building up in his gut throughout the evening. "There, that's the sweet spot," she said with a grin.

"Ohhh..." His jaw dropped slightly and eyes widened to take everything in.

"Yeah, that's it."



Lucy didn't normally take her dates to the observatory. They knew she worked there, but the boys never seemed to care. No man that she had ever been out with was interested in looking at the stars. They were more interested in going back her place and getting into her pants. Ryan was different though. He wanted to know all about her job. After their first date, he surprised Lucy by showing up for one of the observatory’s daily tours, distracting her with his mischievous smile. Before he left, she pulled Ryan aside and told him to come back later for an after-hours tour. "We'll have the place all to ourselves. We can even use the big telescope!" she said excitedly before scurrying off, embarrassed that she had geeked-out in front him. She usually only lost herself in the stars, they had been her passion ever since she was a young girl, but Ryan was exciting and Lucy could easily imagine losing herself in his arms.

"Wow, you gotta see this!" Ryan grabbed Lucy by the hand and pulled her in close. He held her waist as she peered through the eyepiece. Lucy was well aware there would be a meteor shower that night, she had been waiting for it for weeks, but she didn't want to spoil his enthusiasm. Instead it would special, a moment in time meant just for the two of them. Besides, the only thing she noticed now was the warmth of his body pressed against her back. "It's amazing! Does that happen a lot?" No, she thought to herself. She hadn't let a man get this close in quite a long time, but she knew that was not what Ryan meant. Lucy turned to reply, but before the words left her lips he pulled her in close. "You know what I think?"

Ryan was a breath of fresh air, so it was a surprise for Lucy find herself utterly breathless. Looking deep into his eyes, she could only imagine eating him alive, devouring him inch by inch. She swallowed down her nerves, shook her head, and eventually muttered a quiet no. It wasn't cute or clever, it wasn't sexy or seductive either. It was the truth. She had no idea what Ryan thinking.

Smiling, he lifted Lucy off the ground and twirled her around. "I think... you've seen enough. it's my turn again!"

Reach Out

I gave myself the challenge to write something based on or inspired by music. The following piece is a short story inspired by this song:

(Click Here if you can't see the embedded video)

The Afterlife, where souls are free from their earthbound bodies and prepare for the next stage of existence. A dimension that reaches to infinity, welcoming all through it's doors. A stepping stone into the next life, most will spend only a few centuries before moving on. Only those truly wicked and wretched will remain, stuck forever in the in-between to do the Devil's bidding. That is, unless you've made the unfortunate mistake of selling your soul like I did. Then, no matter how much of saintly life you’ve led, you will be forced to to spend eternity under his command… at least during business hours.

Those of us who aren't murderers or war criminals are treated with at least a semblance of civility. Breaks, lunches, off-time and vacation days, it's not quite the vision of hell that I had imagined. The few of us who attempted to lead good lives are given desk jobs, but most are sent out into the field to haunt, terrify, and generally pester the living. Most will go unnoticed, but the truly evil are always able to make their mark. They terrorize with glee, taking pleasure in haunting the living, but it's the troubled souls that are truly disturbing. The oohs and ahhs you would associate with ghosts are merely echoes from the demented souls struggling beneath the Devil's thumb. They cry out, wailing from the pain of being pushed out of the driver’s seat. Unfortunately, I was given the position of Job Placement Specialist for these disturbed souls.



"Next!"

Morton Melino's desk was covered with stacks of files. Keeping track of the dead certainly took up it’s share of paper, and it was no surprise that the Devil never bothered to upgrade to a more efficient electronic filing system. "It could be worse," he thought to himself, "I could be on the other side of this desk." He looked at the nameplate on the door: M. MELINO - JOB PLACEMENT SPECIALIST. Morton sighed. "At least I have an office, it's a step up from my old job...back when I was alive." Pressing the intercom button, he repeated himself once again, "Next!" Morton's department specialized in dealing with troubled souls, where things move at a much slower pace. When souls refuse to accept their fate, they tend to drag their feet. Plus, it's hard to hear the loudspeaker over all the wailing.

"Oh goddamnit, it's a miracle anything gets done arou..." "Mort! How wonderful to see you again." A man in a crisp, tailored suit stepped through the door. It was Peter. Peter wasn't like the others. He was lumped in with the disturbed souls because he was too much for the Overseers to handle. A special case. It wasn't that he was a troubled soul, it's more like he was just trouble. "Good to see you again Peter. You always keep things interesting." Flattery was always best in these sorts of situations. Be friendly. That way, they're less likely to flip out or cause a scene. Getting security to report to the lower floors was a nightmare. "So what happened this time? Assault a fellow ghoul? Were you stealing again?"

"Maybe I just missed you. Maybe I came to pay my best pal Mort a visit. Is that out of the realm of possibilities?” A salesman back when he was living, Peter was somehow able to carry his silver tongue over with him to the other side. “I’m not here to bring you any sort of trouble today, I swear to…” His eyes looked upwards, then he threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Anywho... No, I’m not here for another job, if that’s what you were asking. I’ve been minding my manners like a good boy. Cross my heart and hope to… Oh, look, I’ve done it again!” Peter laughed even harder this time, slapping his knee to make sure his enjoyment came across.

“So what are you here for? It’s not that I’m not pleased to see you, it’s just,” Morton motioned toward the large stacks of files that took up most of his desk, “as you can see, I’m really very busy.”

“You need to relax! It’s not like any of us are going anywhere. What’s your rush? You’re no different from anyone else. We’re all stuck here. Only difference is, you sit behind that desk and send the rest of us out there to do the big guy’s bidding. Seems to me like you’re the one who’s worse off. At least when I’m out on the job, I get to travel.” That hit a nerve with Morton. He had been increasingly restless after spending day in and day out working with crazies and filing paperwork. He even found himself reminiscing about the days he spent flipping burgers at the local fast food joint back when he was alive. A salesman until the end, and even after that, Peter could see that he had gotten under Morton’s skin. “You know what Mort? Here, take my card. Call me when you feel like having some fun outside this little office of yours.” He slid a business card across the desk, stood up and headed for the door. Before he left, Peter stopped and looked around the room. “You might want to open a window or something. It’s really very hot down here!” He grabbed his sides with laughter as he walked out the door.

Picking up the card, Morton tossed it into one of his desk drawers. Before slamming it shut, he noticed that Peter had written something on the backside. Picking it back up, Morton’s eyes widened as he read: I figured a way out. A way to cross over.

Light of Love

I gave myself the challenge to write something based on or inspired by music. The following piece is a short story inspired by this song:

(Click Here if you can't see the embedded video)

The house lights dropped as James, Hannah, Gregg and Ginny stepped on to the stage. The club was small, intimate, but filled to capacity. The crowd exploded into a roar, releasing an enthusiasm that had built up after an endless amount of anticipation. Standing center stage, just behind her keyboard, Hannah took a deep breath and kicked off the show. After ten years of playing together as The Mourning Glories, every concert seemed like their first, and it showed. They played with the hunger of a band that had something to prove. The group was a force. A whirlwind. When they were on, the energy that flowed through these four musicians fed the crowd. In turn, the enthusiasm of the fans fed the foursome, raising their performance to unimaginable heights. Off-stage, things couldn't be more different.

"Oh, James, I love you so muuuch!" Ginny had mocked him before, but this time James shot her a look that shut her up immediately. With a frown, she grabbed Gregg’s hand and pulled him out the door. The fangirls had moved beyond being a sore subject and become more of an open wound after he and Hannah had broken up. There had been tension between them all before, but these days things were different. Hannah didn't linger backstage after their shows any longer, choosing to meet and greet the lingering fans. Gregg and Ginny often left together, riding their performance-high to the nearest afterparty. Left alone, James often decided to ignore the groupies that waited patiently, wanting to spend time with their favorite rock star. Instead he nursed a bottle of whiskey and fiddled with his beaten up acoustic guitar, making noise that no one would ever mistake for music. This was the real life of the Morning Glories.

Remembering she had left her phone backstage, Hannah pressed her hand against the door reading "TALENT" and quietly peered inside. She had hopes of finding James passed out cold clutching his guitar, like he had been so many times before, but tonight was different. What she saw was something she hadn’t seen in quite a long time. James sat with his notebook, humming a melody with his eyes closed and notes scrawled across the open pages. He was writing again, something he hadn't done in ages. Casually, Hannah stepped into the room but James paid no mind. He was lost in a melody, his hand waving through the air to picture the notes that flowed through his mind. Passing by her phone, she went behind the keyboard and started to play along with James’ tune. Startled, James stopped humming and looked to Hannah with confusion. What was she doing? “Go on,” she urged, “keep going…” She repeated the music he had been humming, pressing the keys slowly to draw James out of his shell. He grabbed his guitar and joined in.

Slowly the two fell into a rhythm, the same one that had taken their lives across the world and back. It was familiar, and not tarnished with the stains of jealousy, anger and regret. The pair had lost so much during this tour. Their relationship was over and trust was lost long ago, but that night backstage they discovered that the music they made together was an unbreakable bond. Taking their moment of inspiration back to the hotel, James and Hannah spent the night together writing songs. It was a reunion of sorts. "Yeah, the music saved our lives that night..." Hannah told a reporter during a press junket six months later. "...and without the music, we wouldn't be here anymore. But now we have this new record, it's amazing, and our fans won't have to mourn the Mourning Glories any time soon."

1000 Crazy Nights

I gave myself the challenge to write something based on or inspired by music. The following piece is a short story inspired by this song:

(Click Here if you can't see the embedded video)

Jack hadn't seen Clara for about five years and hadn't thought of her in three. Theirs was a relationship of words, of what ifs and eventuallys. A chance meeting while visiting family out-of-state, the two became quick friends. She had a boyfriend and he had a history of bad decisions. They both considered their blossoming closeness a harmless pastime and nothing more. Over time the relationship between the two grew more complex, their flirtations becoming more overt and less innocent. When Clara broke off the engagement to her long-time suitor, the two friends finally felt free to express the feelings they had for one another. The next month, Jack bought a plane ticket.

What happened after that, Jack was never really sure. His busy schedule only gave the pair enough time to spend one day together. Clara was shy and sweet, and Jack was a perfect gentleman. After the flight home he called Clara to let her know what a lovely time he had with her, and possibly make plans for a longer trip so that the two could spend more time together. The only problem? She didn't answer the phone. She never answered the phone after that day. Clara disappeared, never to be heard from again and leaving Jack to pick up the pieces of his broken heart. Time would eventually heal his wounds, the scar tissue hardening his once soft heart.

Walking into a club one evening, Jack saw a face that he hadn't seen for a quite long time. Across a sea of bodies, pulsating and beating to the rhythms of the night, hers was the one that he noticed. The one that he had wanted for so long. Jack hadn't seen Clara in ages and any feelings that remained had been pushed deep into the darkest corners of his mind. Seeing her again, a hunger emerged. Romance had long passed, it was too late for something like that. Instead, it had been replaced with lust. An eagerness to taste the flesh he had spent so many nights coveting. Except this time, things would be different. This time, he would no longer be repressed by time, distance or circumstance. With his lips curled into a half-smile, Jack stepped into the crowd. This was going to be a night to remember. This was a night of bad intentions.

Warm In The Shadows

I gave myself the challenge to write something based on or inspired by music. The following piece is a short story inspired by this song:

(Click Here if you can't see the embedded video)

"The first time I went back, I felt this twinge..." Michael stopped, pressed his hand to his chest, and took a deep breath. His lungs filled with the warm, familiar air of home. "Of course, I thought it was excitement. I'd done the impossible. We had done the impossible!" His eyes widened. They were the eyes of a madman, filled with joy, fear, and terror. "But that chill I felt run down my spine, it happened each time I left, and every time I went back it got worse."

Michael looked at himself. He was worn and tired. Gaunt. Looking into his own eyes was like looking at an old photograph, the person looks familiar but at the same time seems like a complete stranger. The man he saw before him looked old, weak, and ravaged by time. Michael turned away, looking down at the floor rather than face the truth. "You shouldn't be here. We both know I shouldn't be talking to you. This breaks every rule in the book."

"There is no book!" He stepped forward, his anger and frustration driving him closer. Michael wanted to grab him by the shoulders and force him to understand, but once again he felt the cold run down his spine. Returning to the shadows, Michael took another deep breath. The warmth he felt in his chest eased the sudden stinging pain. "You don't understand. We created something very dangerous. Using the machine has changed me. Physiologically."

The damage was obvious, there was no denying that. Not only did he seem scrawny and emaciated, he also seemed to glow. Even in the darkness his skin reflected light, and the moment he stepped out of the shadows the temperature of the room dropped significantly. Could the machine have done this much harm? "Why come back then? Why keep using the time machine if it does this to you? Judging by how you look, I look, we had plenty of time to stop before getting this sick."

Michael looked down at his hands, wrinkled and blue, and then back up to himself. He sighed and a tear ran down his cheek. Resigning to another failure, he repeated a speech he had said countless times before. "I'm here to try and stop you. I've tried to stop you before, and each time I fail. I warn you, but eventually you use the machine anyway. Time... it's not what you think. I'm not what you think. I can't be sure, but I think I'm only a year older."

I Walk Alone

I gave myself the challenge to write something based on or inspired by music. The following piece is a portion of a letter that was inspired by this song:

(Click Here if you can't see the embedded video)

...moments of clarity are becoming longer with the days I spend in this place. I thank you for that. It has been two months since we parted, sixty days and nights since we were last together. I know you had my best interests at heart when you brought me here, I can see that now. I am very sorry for all the terrible things I have said, and for all that I have done to hurt you. When I get better, everything will go back to the way it was before. We can be together again. We can have that family you always wanted.

The doctors say I am healing quickly and the diary I was given to write in has helped channel the delusions. It helps me recognize reality from fantasy. I no longer see the monsters that haunt the dark corners of my mind. They were merely a dream. I understand my illness now and I have not tried to harm myself for almost a whole month. I am hoping to make a full recovery and go home very soon. There are women here who have lived at the institution for years. They wander the halls like ghosts and their cries make it hard for me to sleep, but they give me the motivation to get better and find my way back to you.

I will do my best to be well again, my love.

Yours eternally,

Meredith

Falling

All it took was one wrong step. Pods had fallen from the trees and covered the park's pathways. He had managed to avoid all of them except, of course, for this one. A trip, a stumble, and a fall. He hit the pavement before having a chance to react and scuffed up his left forearm in the process. Dazed, he turned over and stared up into the heavens. His whole perspective had changed from vertical to horizontal and the only thing up ahead now was the sky, bright and blue.

Turning his head to the left and to the right, he scanned the park to see if anyone had noticed. He imagined people pointing and laughing after seeing him take a nose dive into the sidewalk. With the coast clear, he wiped the tears of pain and embarrassment from his eyes. Pulling his hands away, he was surprised to find a face hovering over his own. "Hey," she said, "can I join you?" Before he could respond, she laid down next to him, resting her head on his right arm. "It's beautiful out here. A real nice day, don't you think? My name's Nicole, by the way. What's yours?"

"Um, Damon?" He didn't mean it to sound like a question. He definitely knew his own name, but between the fall and the lovely girl now laying beside him, Damon was at a loss for words. Looking at Nicole as she stared up at the sky, she was absolutely adorable as she pointed high into the blue and marveled at the shapes in the clouds. Just like that, all of the hurt and shame he felt about his fall dissolved into the air and blew away with the breeze.

Without warning, Nicole stood up and tugged at Damon's hand. "C'mon, let's go home." With a sigh, he stood up and dusted himself off. Grabbing her hand, Damon looked at her and smiled. "You're the best, you know that? Seriously, I'm so glad you're here." "Always!" she said with a smile. She kissed his cheek, something they'd got in the habit of doing years ago, and pulled him by the hand. "Now let's go get you cleaned up."

The Morning After

This story continues the story started in Night Out...

Sunlight flooded the room, bathing everything with the warmth of dawn. The early morning glow shook Tom awake, forcing his eyes to open and face the realities of a new day. His head, throbbing from one too many drinks, slowly peeled off of the leather couch that he spent the night on. Leather, he discovered, was an unfortunate fabric for sleeping in such a state of undress. His body was stuck to this unfamiliar furniture like the foul taste that lingered on his tongue, a remnant of what little he could remember from the night before. "Never again," he groaned, stretching his muscles and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Never again."

Once everything came into focus, Tom realized he had no idea where he was. The only familiar sight was the pile of clothes across the room. "Those are definitely mine...probably," he thought to himself. Suddenly he was startled by a cheerful, "Bonjour, Monsieur Entreprise!" Tom scrambled to cover himself, pulling a magazine from the coffee table nearby. In front of him was the beautiful young singer from the bar. The same singer who shone on stage in beads and sequins, attracting the eye of every man in sight. Here she was, wearing nothing but a smile. Tom couldn't help but stare as her hips swayed and breasts bounced with every step. Setting a plate of fruit on the coffee table, she looked down at Tom, perplexed. "You Americans, so afraid of nudity!" She giggled, noticing a slight rise from the issue of Girl Illustrated that he used to cover his manhood. "Interesting articles, yes? Seems to me you can't, ahem, put it down." 

Night Out

The corridor was dark and dimly lit, but not enough to mask the paint that chipped off the grimy, stained walls. The air was thick with smoke and the idle chitchat of raucous youth, which grew with every step he took. Gripping the banister to help guide him through the shadows, each stair delivered Tom deeper into the unknown. Pulling back the curtain, music and chatter crashed against one other like waves against the shore. Once he stepped into the nightclub, he was swallowed whole, disappearing into the crowd.

Unable to score himself a table near the stage, Tom wandered over to the bar. "I work for Parlophone!" he shouted at the bartender, hoping it carried enough cachet to earn him a free drink. No one needed to know he was merely an accountant and that today was his first day. A new country, a new home, a new life. The bartender stared for a moment before setting down the glass he was drying, placing it in front Tom. "Come to see the show, eh? The record men, they'll never catch Sophie!" He laughed heartily and poured whiskey into the glass. "Here, you'll need this."

It was then that the house lights dimmed and a hush fell over the crowd. From the darkness a voice broke the silence, a voice heavy with melancholy and misery. "I've never been so happy. Baby, with you I'm happy..." Piano and drums kicked in and a spotlight illuminated the stage. Sophie was unlike any of the sweet, innocent Yé-Yé Girls that flooded the live music scene. Her singing was more like the song of a caged bird. Tom watched in a trance, only woken by the burn of his whiskey. The bartender refilled his glass. "See, I told you."

Silence

They called it evolution.

The first virtual reality helmet, once mass produced and widely used, unlocked an unknown section of our brains. A once dormant cluster of matter was awakened, and we as a people were never the same. They called it neo-intuitive thinking, which was the scientific term for being able to read another person's mind. NT was a side-effect that they sold as a blessing, but what had started as an abnormality eventually became the norm. Wars were waged, countless crimes committed, but over time humanity adapted. Generations later, after years of research and the development and widespread use of neural-invasion blockers, unwanted mind-reading had become a thing of the past. Neo-intuitive thinking had changed, and replaced what people used to call "talking".

No one could have predicted the ramifications of technology on our ever-changing species. Man was evolving at a rapid pace and the scientific community could not keep up. With the eyes of science focused on the brain and the development of telepathic speech, changes that occurred elsewhere went unnoticed. The audible voice had become useless and nature reacted. An increasing number of mute-born children led to studies revealing paralysis in the vocal folds and a deformation of the glottic opening in all subjects examined. Three generations after the discovery, the majority of the world's population was mute-born. Once a minority, those labeled the Silent Ones ascended the evolutionary ladder and those with a voice died out. The power to speak became a thing of the past and the world was silent.

It had been raining all month, but that day the clouds parted, and yet the skies seemed darker than before. In Room 163 of the Stillemorte Medical Center, Daniel Hulot stood bedside, clutching his wife's hand. The pain she felt filled the room, but the feeling of fear was his alone. Never comfortable outside of his home, Daniel seemed awkward in most situations and was encouraged from a young age to keep to himself. Maggie understood this, understood Daniel, but his attitude had changed once she became pregnant. He did everything he could to make sure his wife was taken care of during the months leading up to the birth, but that day in the hospital he could barely stand on his own. Had it not been for the breathing exercises they had practiced for weeks, Daniel certainly would have passed out and missed the biggest event in all of their lives.

The moment the baby arrived into the world, it's cry was heard as far as the edge of town. The scream shocked the doctor and nurses, who were unsure of how to respond to the anomaly. The baby was placed in a small cradle next to Maggie, and the staff rushed to find help. The newborn's arrival was startling enough to give Daniel the opportunity to take the child and run before the police arrived. There was only so much time before the staff would return with security. If that happened, it would be the last they would ever see of their baby. Turning back, Daniel locked eyes with his wife. Knowing he may never see her again, Daniel let himself speak in public for the first time in his life. Overwhelmed with feelings of panic, joy, fear, love and regret, the words caught in his throat. "I'm so sorry," he cried. With tears streaming down her face, Maggie responded with a single thought - "Run."

Home

Peter and Adam hadn't been home in ages. Both were now living in separate corners of the country, their lives far removed from where they now stood. Almost nothing had changed, only the colors dimmed by a thick layer of dust and negligence. They each wandered throughout the house, marveling at it's state of disrepair, when their paths crossed at the den. Both men peered around the worn edges of the doorframe, still marked with the faded names and dates of a childhood long passed. Just as it was when they were young, the two could not bring themselves to enter their father's sanctuary. It was sacred ground, off-limits to all but the man who was king of their castle. Adam raised his eyebrows, pointing them through the doorway and over to the chair that faced the window. "Go on!" they seemed to say. Peter was quick to shake his head. There was no way he was going inside and to make sure Adam understood, he silently mouthed the words. NO. WAY.

"Get in there you idiots." Jeannie came up from behind, grabbing each brother's arm, and pulled them into the den. Even though she was the youngest and the smallest of the three siblings, she had long ago earned the title of "big little sister". If a decision had to be made, if there was advice to be given, she was the one they looked to. "I can't believe you two. You're acting like children." Jeannie had been back for weeks, leaving her family behind to do what had to be done. Years ago when their mother passed, Jeannie became head of the family. She kept her eye on everyone, whether they liked it or not, and when Dad had come back from the hospital she moved in to make sure that he was comfortable and taken care of. She was the one who called both brothers, booked their flights, and gave them no other choice but to put their lives on hold and return home. No one said no to Jeannie.

"Jeez. Shouldn't you be a little more quiet? You're gonna wake up Dad." Peter looked at his father with concern. Always more of an imposing figure, he had never seen the man look so small and frail. It was unsettling and contradictory to everything he knew the man to be. Their father had made it through a war, a marriage, three children, and countless other life battles. He survived them all, but this was different. This was cancer, and cancer was going to win.

"I gave him his medication an hour ago. He'll be asleep for at least another two." Deciding to become her father's nurse, Jeannie quickly learned the ins and outs of his day to day. Much of it was spent sleeping and any moments of lucidity were filled with anger and regret. Her brothers, who were browsing through the books on the shelves, had no clue what is was like. They couldn't bring themselves to look at their father for very long, much less feed him or clean up after him. Jennie was used to it. "Nothing'll wake him. Watch." She moved in close to her father, bending down to his ear for effect. "Dad. Dad! Dad, wake up! Dad, I lost my virginity when I was fourteen. Daaaaad." Her brothers stared at her in horror. "See," she said with a smile. "Told ya so."

One Big Problem

The giant was as tall as a mountain. Taller, considering he was found with his back resting against one of the village's more impressive hills. How or when he had arrived, no one was exactly sure. Giants hadn't been seen in their part of the world for nearly a century, and yet here he was casting his shadow over half the homes in the town. Trying to shoo his herd of goats away as they chewed the giants ragged clothes, Thorley Berkshire was only successful in stirring the stranger from his slumber.

The startled giant snorted, rubbed his sleepy eyes, and rose to his feet with the steadiness of a drunk bear. "Whaa? What's... What's going on? It's not time yet, is it?" The giant mumbled and grumbled as he scratched his head and other places unfit to mention. "I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to wake you, but you were sitting where my goats normally find their breakfast. They started to chew on your pants. I didn't mean to disturb you." The giant frowned at Thorley and then looked down at his clothes, ragged and torn. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a goat, placing it back into it's herd. Looking back up, he smiled. "No harm, my friend. Clothes are not my problem."

Thorley was caught off-guard. Believing the legends he heard as a child, what he expected was a cruel creature. Foul, blood-thirsty, and quite dangerous. Looking up at the behemoth, Thorley's eyes were met only with kindness and a gentle smile that radiated warmth. "M-My name is Thorley Berkshire. Pleased to meet you." "Name's Cecil," he grunted. The giant may have been great in stature, but he was short on details about himself or why he was there. Intrigued, Thorley let curiosity get the best of him. "What is your problem, if I may ask? What is it that are you expecting"

Cecil's eyes widened and stuffed one of his meaty hands into another pocket. Instead of a goat, this time the giant revealed a box. He carefully placed it in front of Thorley, taking care not to harm the mysterious crate. The goat-herder lifted the top of the container, only to steal a quick glance inside. "An egg? Your problem is an egg?" "Not just any egg," Cecil replied in a whisper, "a dragon's egg!"

Attached

*Click!*

The mechanism whirred, and a small light beneath the skin of his inner right palm began to glow. The flash of green indicated a full charge. This pair hadn't been used in weeks, so they would more than likely get him through the day. Feeling the warmth return to his body, the man exhaled a sigh of relief. He flexed both arms, opened and closed his palms, and rotated the joints to ensure the calibration was set properly. Satisfied, he moved on to the pair of muscular legs that sat beside him, waiting to be connected. Most days, the man would prefer to wear a sleeker, more fashionable set of extremities but today wasn't most days. He'd need power if he was going to pull this off.

Designer prosthetics were no longer just for the disabled. In the beginning, it was a messy business. With enough money and the worst kind of doctor, anyone could get their limbs removed and have a port installed. But times had changed. Anyone could get beautiful arms and legs with the right insurance plan. There were few drawbacks to getting the body you'd always wanted, at least aesthetically. No matter how long though, the brain never truly adjusts to the artificial appendages. Most say "it fits like a glove" because the sensation is slightly dulled, but after years most people forgot what true touch actually felt like. Tactile sensations were valued less than outward appearances, and prosthetics were all the rage.

On this day, the parts the man chose were for a particular purpose. This wasn't about style. This was about something much more serious. Something needing a lot more strength, stamina, and agility than the man usually had. "The right tools for the right job," his father had always said, and this was no ordinary job. He was going to need all the advantages available if he had any chance of getting his original limbs back.

Prologue

Charlie's parents met in Paris. His father was attending an international convention to discuss advances in artificial limb development, and gave an impressive lecture on prosthetic joints. His mother was a prostitute. The two married a week later and six months after that, Charlie was born. When he learned of the timing of his birth, Charlie spent an entire year rejecting his father and would not acknowledge him in any way, shape or form. It never occurred to Charlie that he was born premature.

For her entire residence in America, Charlie's mother refused to learn English. His father, consumed with his work, never learned a word of French. Any communication between the two was through their son. After she killed herself, Charlie's father never bothered to ask his son what the suicide note she left had said. The note read - "He never makes any sense..."

Here's a picture I took of the first draft of "Prologue". It was written 10 years ago and I only recently found it in a notebook stuffed in a junk drawer. I didn't change it too much, just a few words here and there.

Good Luck

"Aren't you going to wish me good luck?"

I looked into her eyes. They were filled with worry and fear, but also a little disappointment. The nerves were eating her up inside and she was looking for relief. I hadn't wished her good luck, and even though she had been given great encouragement by countless others, my wish was the only one that mattered.

"Darlin', look at me," I said grabbing her hands. "You don't need my luck or anyone else's for that matter. You're amazing. There's no one else out there who is better for this than you are. You'll be great." A deep sigh signaled her ability to finally breathe again. Looking deep into my eyes, a tear ran down her cheek. Wiping it away, I smiled and gave her a kiss. 

"Besides," I told her, "I don't have much luck left to give. I used it all finding you."

Destiny

It was his birthright as far as he was concerned. He couldn't let common sense keep him from becoming what he was meant to be. "There's no backing out. I have to do it, and I have to do it now."

---

The young man was great-great grandson of aviation pioneer Orville Wright. Like generations before him, the boy was given no middle name. Instead, he was given a first name of distinction and character - Falcon. As soon as he was able to read, Falcon Wright studied his namesake and was given a Peregrine Falcon of his own which he named Peter. After long days of training, the two would relax by the ocean cliffs just beyond the forest. Falcon would stare out across the waters and wonder what it would be like to fly far beyond the deep blue that bordered his simple side of the world.

One evening, Falcon returned home to find a book he had never seen before. Fragile and wrapped in cloth,  the book was waiting for him at the foot of his bed. It was a gift from his mother to celebrate his upcoming birthday. The book belonged to his late father Icarus and was now being passed down to him. Pulling back the cloth and wiping away the dust, in very faint lettering WRIGHT was written across the cover. Carefully turning the delicate pages, he soon came to the realization that his family wasn't who he thought they were.

---

Standing on a cliff, with his back to the ocean, Falcon stood with Donald on his forearm. "Buddy, I've got to do this." He removed the bird's hood and Donald flew past the trees and into the forest. "Goodbye," he said with a quiver in his voice. Falcon turned to face the water. Pulling a piece of paper from his pocket, he unfolded it and began to read it aloud. "The Art of Flight." For generations his family's legacy had been synonymous with air travel, but according to this book the Wright family had the power to fly. No airplane, no artificial wings, the Wrights had the unique ability of human flight. "I'm gonna die. Oh god, I'm going to die."

Falcon stuffed the paper deep into his pocket, wiping the sweat from his palms in the process. He stepped to the edge of the cliff, the jagged rocks below warning all who dare approach that the ocean was dangerous and unforgiving. Swallowing his fear, so much terror remained that the boy screamed until he could no longer breathe. He then collapsed to the ground and wept.

Pulling himself together, Falcon again approached the cliff's edge. It was now or never, and he had dreamt of flying his entire life. It was his birthright as far as the boy was concerned. Falcon struggled to not let common sense keep him from becoming what he was meant to be. "There's no backing out. I have to do it, and I have to do it now."  Taking one last breath, Falcon backed away from the edge. He took a look at the forest behind him, and with a running start Falcon leapt off the cliff.

"This was the worst decision ever," he thought to himself, hurtling towards the waters that crashed against the sharp cracked earth below.

The Fall

The dirt crumbled and rocks tumbled from under foot. Grasping at the limbs of passing trees was next to impossible. A cloud formed from the avalanche, and it grew bigger by the second. He didn't dare open his eyes. The possibility of permanent blindness was almost guaranteed. The best he could do was brace himself for what might possibly be the last few moments of his short life. Tasting the blood that ran down his face, he used all the energy he had to do the one thing worth doing. "Help!" he screamed, the dirt filling his lungs.

"I heard him scream, I still hear it when I close my eyes. It was terrifying. I didn't even give myself a chance to think, or breathe even. Seeing him there, it was just... I mean... Look, you never think when you go out to ride the trail that you'll turn into some hiker's last chance. I was it. No one else was around that early. It was just me or... I was just me."

Tumbling, his body took hit after hit. Small scratches and deep cuts alike, the dirt and fresh blood mixed to form a thick hot paste. Seconds, minutes, hours. Time didn't exist, and neither did pain, but then it all stopped. In an instant, everything changed. The world stopped spinning and so did he. Feeling his heart beat, he wondered if it would burst out of his chest. At the same time, he wasn't sure if he could actually feel anything.

"Coming down that hill, taking that turn, I could have died. I have a husband, I have kids. I'm always really safe taking my bike down these hills, but when you're in that mode... You know? And there he was, just down there. These hills are real steep. Just a few more feet down and then it's a straight drop. It's a miracle. I looked down and there he was. A tree broke his fall. Probably his back too, right?"

"Yes, ma'am, but you did the right thing. He's alive because of you." The doctor could see the pain in her eyes. She wished that she could have done more. The man was alive and breathing, but if she had only been faster. "Ma'am, you did all that you could have and more. He was lucky to have someone so heroic nearby. Not many people would have risked their own lives to get a helpless man to safety. You're a hero."

Looking past the doctor and seeing the stranger bandaged and unconscious, the woman could only think one thought. "I don't feel like a hero."

Unconventional Romance

I picked my wife out of a book. The woman I was going to marry, she came right out of a book. A folder actually. Three rings, plastic covering each page. It was funny because her picture had been stapled onto the profile and a thin piece of metal ran along the length of her right eyebrow. "She doesn't have that in real life I hope," I said with a nervous laugh. Thankfully the woman in the red jacket sitting behind the desk didn't hear I word I said.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, I just..." My answer trailed off while my hands tightly gripped the brochure I had taken earlier. It was becoming even more mangled and twisted than it had been while I was waiting in the lobby. None of that registered with the woman behind the desk though. Business as usual, her focus was on the monitor and keyboard as she input all of my credit information into the system.

"Now sir, you are aware that there are no refunds or guarantees. Is that correct?"

"Oh yes. I read it right here in your brochure." I held up the pamphlet but at that point it more resembled a used tissue or something pulled from the bottom of a wastebasket. Smiling awkwardly, I tucked it away inside my jacket. With nothing to fiddle with I realized just how damp with sweat my palms had become and attempted to dry them on the insides of my pants pockets. Keys and almost a dollar in lose change jingled, drawing unwanted attention from the people in the cubical on the left.

"Sir? Sir, I said would you follow me please?" I hadn't noticed the woman in the red jacket had come around her desk and was motioning for me to follow her. We went through the double doors labeled SECURE AREA at the far end of the room, and into a large warehouse filled with rows upon rows of large boxes. "Larry here will take care of you." She handed a pink slip of paper over to the man with a beard who sat in a cage he probably called his office.

"Model number 2755B. Good choice. Me 'n' the wife, we've got one at home. Call her Cynthia. Nothin' dirty, she's the housekeeper. But man oh man..." The man with the beard sighed, drifting off into his own thoughts while picking up the phone and punching a few numbers with his thick greasy fingers. "Hey Buck, bring 'round a fifty-five B wouldja?" His voice rang over the intercom, echoing throughout warehouse. "Shouldn't take long. We'll unpack 'er, get 'er all set up, and I'll go over the the controls wit'cha. So, what she for anyhow?"

I picked my wife out of a book.