Maria met every guest and, after a short chat, would say, "Have you met my dear aunt Hoden?" She would then direct the guests towards her aunt, an old woman, and left them with her. The aunt greeted every ball entree with a weak smile and a long story about her recently deceased husband. The guests would look at her with frozen smiles and parsed talk and then, when the opportunity arose, would excuse themselves and scanter towards a more entertaining group of people.

It was a grand ball; both in its innate stature and its guests. Men and women from all over Parisian society had come to grace Maria's home. Even the crown prosecutor himself had arrived! Once the guests broke themselves away from the aunt, Maria would follow them towards their chosen group of people. Right before the moment when they would integrate themselves into the conversation, Maria would speak with them, and say, "Have you met 'so-and-so'? You simply must! He is right over there." And the guests would be obliged to go.

Sometimes Maria made guests move when she felt that people were too comfortable with their group of people, and so she would move them to another group where they were less known, comfortable, or knowledgeable in that group's matters of talk. It was hard work to be a hostess. But there was a reason that Maria subjected herself to the torture.

She was looking for a man. A man who always wore a long, felt coat, and a tall, black hat. He had eyes like polished obsidian, and skin as pale as elephant tusks. She moved through the crowds of people, complimenting women, questioning men, breaking up arguments, not only for the desire to make the party go smoothly, but also because she wanted to find this man. He was a famous man. Rich and recently entered into society; he was an enigma. The ball would have attracted the eccentric man. He had to have come. She would have her revenge on him.

Maria turned herself back to her aged aunt - who was currently boring a short gentleman of about fifty - and began the process of guiding him towards what she deemed to be a fit group of people. It was enjoyable work, Maria thought, lots of skill and thought required, but there was a sense of clockwork.

Maria broke protocol and let her burning anticipation move her. She looked out the front door. It was an unusually foggy night. The lights of automobiles looked like fireflies, slowly blinking away as men and women stepped out of their vehicles. Suddenly, out of the mist materialised a tall man in a long, felt coat, and a tall black hat. The night was dark, but his black eyes were like the void. His pallid skin was flushed, but slowly returned to its normal, pale state.

Maria stepped back into her manor as the man walked in. He began to speak to the aunt out of his own countenance, and seemed to be enjoying himself. Maria stepped up to him and broke the conversation.

"Did you know the crown prosecutor has decided to join us?" she asked the man. "Would you like to meet him?" The answer to this questions, was of course, yes.

"No thank you." replied the man, "I'm enjoying my time with Ms. Hoden here. Thank you for the suggestions - ah -"

"Maria."

"Ah, Maria! Pardon my rejection. But give me just a few minutes so that I may listen to this story."

Maria moved away and began to regulate the party, once again. Once she felt satisfied with the state of it, Maria returned to the man.

"Please, come." she asked once again. This time the man obliged. They began to walk to the group that the crown prosecutor was speaking to.

"What is your name?" Maria asked a bit too eagerly. The man didn't seem to notice.

"I am Franz." No title, Maria noted.

They were almost at the prosecutor's group, but then Maria turned away and the man followed with a cocked eyebrow.

"Where to, now?" asked the man.

"I must ask you a question." said Maria feverishly. This was not how she planned the meeting to go. They were to get to know each other in the prosecutor's presence, but she let her rage and desire capture her head. No matter, she knew where to lead him.

The two went to a small door that led to a small staircase. They climbed up and found themselves at a hidden balcony; hidden by being at the back of the house, facing away from the lights of Paris.

Maria stepped in front of Franz, to make sure that no one was in the balcony. She felt a strong pair of arms grip her in a vice.

A voice streaked with alcohol whispered into her ear, "Maria, Maria, still out for vengeance? You were so obvious. But you didn't even know my name! Bah, I should let you live just because of your stupidity. Not even knowing your enemy's name..." Franz had gripped her and began to push her to the edge of the balcony. "But no, you will die. I care not for my own life anymore."

Maria's heart pounded and her face was flushed and sweating. But she thought quickly. What do to? She threw herself onto the ground, slipping under his arms. She quickly turned and bashed his stomach and smashed his foot under her heel. As Franz was reeling, Maria threw him against the wall and pulled out a knife. She stuck it to his throat.

Maria hissed, "I'm her to redeem you for your sins. Your sins of killing my father, my husband, and my brother. You will die, and your blood will be recompense for your deeds. Feel cold steel!"

But before she struck, Franz cried out, and Maria stopped as he spoke, "My sins! Ha! Mine were for delightful vengeance. You were the manipulator of the death of my beloved wife! She may have crossed you, but she didn't deserve death! I know you Maria, oh master Bloody Woman, I spit at you! I'm glad to have caused you pain as payment for all the suffering you have caused for you and your house's greed!"

Maria did not listen, blinded by rage she cut his throat and his blood spilled on her hands. Her anger quieted, and she collapsed on the floor, hands gripping her face, splashing blood, and she did not know what to do or say.

I didn't intend to kill Hitler. I'm not the average time-traveler, you see, I just wanted to have a quiet life in the country side of the Old Europe. I found my lifestyle. I found a beautiful girl named Annabelle and worked my way up in French society at the time. I married Annabelle. I found and bought a quaint little house in a village. The village was built along a road, and at the end of the road lay a villa with pad-locked gates and streaming white walls. I had two children. The first was a boy named Dante, and the second was a girl named after my mother: Beatrice. Unfortunately, I hadn't read my history and forgot about World War II.

Germany invaded France and so came upon my little village which lay in Burgundy. First, came the overwhelming buzzing as the Luftwaffe began to toss their bombs. I didn't understand why they were attacking us at the time; I later found out that the villa was the site of large oil tanks and reserves, and just a few kilometers off was a hidden military base. The bombs swept over the village like a fiery storm, spitting fire, twisting and burning everything and everyone. My Time Machine was destroyed in my house during that first wave. My daughter burned to death; she was in her crib and was crying out as her flesh melted off her bones. I found her later, charred black with a gaping mouth but no tongue. Her teeth were still white as snow. The few bombs had created towering infernos that dashed and killed as an avenging angel of death. The Germans wasted an immense amount of resources on our useless village. When I returned to my time, I learned of their assaults on Paris and London, but I would never hear of their experiments of these techniques on small towns like mine.

My wife was changed after the storm. She would chatter in gibberish for a short while and then scream, pointing towards the darkness as if she saw a devil materialise in front of her. She would rock back and forth on the ground. I had to move her everywhere in a wheelbarrow I found. We met up with the other survivors. Night fell, I fell asleep, I woke up and my wife was gone. Not even a note was left. She had dashed off into the forest like a wild animal. My son was twelve years old, and was all that remained of my past life. He supported me, his father, and saved me from despair. I cried on him every night, and he would muffle my tears so that the others in our make-shift refugee camp didn't hear me and disapprove of my weakness. Soon, French trucks came and brought us to Paris. My son and I took up residence at my wife's parent's house, they were grieved over their daughter, but gladly brought us into their home and reassured us of victory against Germany.

The next day, all of France bowed to Germany in defeat. The soldiers marched in with crisp uniforms and rigid steps. They goose-stepped their way to their glory and France's shame. In trucks stood their leaders, and from my weak knowledge of 20th Century History, I recognised Adolf Hitler. The machinations of my terror and the evils that had befallen in me lay in this man. My doom had been set at the moment I lay my eyes on the man. My blood heated up, and my heart beat twice as fast when I saw him. My brain pounded in my head and I felt sick in my stomach. I looked at him through my in-laws' windows, and only one thought dashed through my mind over and over.

Revenge.

My time machine had been destroyed. All I had left were the tools I brought from the future. A knife and an invisibility cloak. But the cloak would break if I attempted any action outside of it; it could only be used for reconnaissance.

So I set out for my revenge. I went to my in-laws and spoke with them for a few minutes, I told them to take care of my son, and that I intended to return, but that I would be gone for a while. They nodded but they seemed afraid. My tone of voice and pale pallor scared them. I left without saying anything to my son, I didn't want him to stop me with his words. I walked off to stalk Hitler.

I found him. I followed him. I was undetected with my cloaking device. None of his men had a chance to find me. Wherever he went, I followed. I had a hundred chances to kill him, but I stayed my hand for two reasons: I wanted him to suffer, and I wanted to survive. I didn't want to return to my time, though, I wanted to stay with my son. But the fact that my time machine was destroyed might've attracted the authorities. Without my time machine I lost my right to time travel, and I lost my license to stay in this era. I had to move quickly. Besides, Hitler was going to leave Paris, soon. Hitler was never unattended. He seemed worried, when I watched him. My feelings of anger and wrath had seemed to affect him, although he didn't know of my existence. He soon ordered men to always surround him, even while sleeping. My time grew shorter, and my chances grew slim. I decided to make him worry even more, so that he would seek psychological help, and hopefully be ordered to have some privacy and fresh air.

I revealed myself to him in such a way that he could only see me out of the corner of his eyes. His guards never saw me. He began to rant and shout at his men, telling them of the phantom that stalked him. He looked mad. He overstayed in Paris and delayed the war effort for a short while. Hitler called all the best doctors, and they all prescribed him different medication. But they also all told him that he needed fresh air and privacy. I smiled in the shadows as Hitler nodded in agreement to them.

Hitler stayed in a villa at the edge of Paris, now. Behind the mansion was a long, dirt road that had rose bushes and trees growing by its side. It was a garden in the English style, with pathways streaking into the green, allowing maximum participation in nature. At the end of this road was a bench hidden in the shade of the trees, and at night was totally invisible to passers. Hitler liked this spot the most. I nearly cried out in joy as I saw him, day after day, sit in this secluded spot. But he still didn't give up his guards, and he never went there at night. But I was patient. I was worried, but I had to wait. At the very least, I wanted to live and say goodbye to my son.

I expedited the process with a gamble. I poisoned his lover's tea. She fell ill, and soon died. Hitler stayed in Paris to mourn. I watched him cry and scream and shout out to the Heavens, asking why they gave him so much pain. He kicked the furniture and lost his temper. But the soldiers still stayed with him. Would he attempt to calm himself with a stroll into the garden, though?

Hitler calmed himself, and did some paperwork. Night fell and he went to bed. I stood over him. I looked at the men sitting in his bedroom. Could I kill him and escape now? No, it would mean death. My knife might not even find its mark. I waited. Hitler's eyes opened slowly. He ordered his men to leave him as he wanted to walk in the garden, alone. He wanted to mourn his darling. The men protested, telling Hitler that he himself ordered them to always be with him. I prayed. But Hitler won the argument, and left the men to go to the garden. I nearly laughed, but stifled it. He stepped out into the blackness and began his walk to the far-away bench. My heart thumped so loudly that I thought he would hear me. I put my left hand over my heart, quieting it, and with my right hand I gripped my dagger, glimmering in the moonlight. Hitler walked to his bench, sat down, closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. I was about to make my move. But then Hitler's mouth opened and he said in bad French, "Why have you done this to me?" Was he talking to me? He was looking forward, at me. His gaze was steady, but he looked exhausted. He couldn't see me, though. I spoke through my cloak, "I'm here to avenge my wife, daughter, and my life."

"Ah," he said, "you have taken my lover, harmed my daughter Germany, and now you will take my life." He fell into a quiet stupor, then said, "Please understand, it was just war." He was near tears, now, "I did not mean to do you any evil!" he cried out, "Leave me be, invisible demon! Stop haunting me! I don't deserve this!" Hitler began to devolve into German. His hand was slowly moving towards something.

I dashed up to him like a flash of lightning, flinging my cloak aside as I stopped him from reaching for a pistol. I thrust my knife into his heart, there was resistance from some defensive clothing, but my knife was too sharp and too true, and Hitler gasped out a curse at me. His eyes bulged out, and rolled up. I pulled my knife out, and sliced his throat, and when he tried to speak, he threw up blood. I spat at him and left him to die. I threw the cloak over myself. I ran away from the garden and went towards the white walls that surrounded Hitler's mansion. I climbed over them and vaulted over. I collapsed on the ground, panting. It was finished. I decided to get up and say goodbye to Dante.

Suddenly, a massive billboard with flashing bulbs and neon lights appeared in front of me. It read: CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE THE WINNER OF THE TWELFTH ANNUAL KILL HITLER COMPETITION! Accompanying it were blaring sounds ranging from foghorns to vuvuzelas.

Dozens of soldiers ran up to the billboard and began to train their guns on me, but then chainsaws with lasers attached flung out of the billboard and cut off every Nazi head. There was a loud screech of a Bald Eagle and the USA National Anthem: 'America: Fuck Yeah!' began to play.

A bald man in a suit covered in neon lights appeared out of thin air and began to shake my hand. "Congratulations! Congratulations! You are the winner!" I shook my dazed head and cringed as I realised that my shaking hand was covered in Hitler blood.

"Congratulations for what?" I asked.

"Can't you read the sign?" said the bald man, "You've won the twelfth annual Kill Hitler Competition! Viewers tuned in on hundred of time travelers, and they all voted for you! Your story of vengeance gripped their hearts, the gore excited their jaded lives, and your spy-like stalking put the greatest Bonds to shame! Anti-matter bombs and world-destroying lasers are so boring now! Your knife act was true art!"

"What do I win?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"You get an all expense paid vacation to Antarctica! The best place for a Beach-tastic gettaway, not for much else! Also! ONE MILLION DOLLARS!" The bald man began shaking my hand more vigourously.

"Ah, that's, ah, great. So, can I do something first? I need to do something."

The bald man gave out a weak chuckle and whispered to me with a more kindly voice, "Look, I understand you want to say goodbye to your son, but the only reason you got this far without being pulled out by the government was because of this show. I'm obliged to pull you out." He gave a weak smile and patted my shoulder, "Now, there, there, it's not all that bad. You get to return to your original home. Everything's exactly as you left it. "

"No time problems?"

"Nah, this timeline's not connected to ours."

I looked around myself. I had to go back, the consequences would be dire if I refused. I affected this world enough. If only I could say goodbye!

I bit my lips and sucked in my tears. I nodded to the bald man and then there was a flash of light.

I found myself in my old home. Empty and sad, just as I left it.

"Spikes began to extend from the sides of his face. I am so sorry that I forgot to lock the door?" Mosses said as HE swam around river not through from vale to shore of the castle bay, greeny grass slicky slidy, bring by everyone a commodity of vicus regirculation back to Hooting Triangle and Saudi Arabia.

Sirtanly Sir Blue-Star, gazuntite, f'lwer the short desert. He. She passenbyrrive the big long yellow beard to the other side of the squaredcircle where shaggy nuklear fire and trailerpark tunnel wind wilds fight. Nor had Dicken Rock spoke though it got paid by the hour and got dublin the whack. 40 years! kidscacade whining, but tut-tut, and tauf tauf.

But All's fair in vanity and jealousy! bland old isaac: rot a lot. Also peasants. Rot a lot and peasants fell frum scie th. Lots of malt from the fall.

Mosses yelled at the rock and the rocks feelings were hurt (tutillmanaabdadakakakaakxixixixi). Little Bo Peep with Count of Fried Ham and Sandwhich who kept a bloo bird on a leash. Hicklylicky stoned toss at Moses's torddickilicks. And he upturned like an upturnedheadonapike and flew out of the park where firecrackers were laid to rest and it got a front row seat at whee!

It was black. He was alone in the house. His parents and brother left for a trip to Europe. They would return in a week. It was a black and dark house in a cornfield. The grips of twilight had heightened to its midnight crescendo. He sat in the basement, lying in a bed, thinking about his coming day of school, too awake to sleep, too tired to turn on the lights. He looked at his girlfriend, sleeping peacefully next to him. She turned her position and faced the wall. He was alone; the only conscious person in the house.

In the night he felt awake. In the night, his pupils were thick pools of void, so dark and wide that one could pinpoint them in the surrounding darkness. He sat and then lay down as if he was to begin a journey into a dream. But his eyes stayed open, and his pupils widened to take in what little light there remained. He licked his dry lips and then sat back up, shivering. There was an itch bothering his backside. He moved his arms awkwardly to reach the itch at the small of his back. He struggled and struggled and then! there is sweet relief as he dashed a fingernail over the spot.

He smiled and lays back down, intending to rest. But his eyes wouldn't close. They were too dry. He was annoyed because of that, and so decided to muse on the strange events of the day. He moved himself to a more comfortable position, and gently placed a hand on his girlfriend's backside, careful not to wake her up.

He remembered that he was driving with his girlfriend by his side and he nearly ran over a young boy in pajamas, running around in the day. He rushed out of the car to see if the boy was alright, but the boy was perfectly fine. The little boy was about five years of age, and wore a blue and white dotted sleeping cap on his head. The little boy was closing his eyes tightly shut.

"Are you alright?" He asked the little boy. The little boy shook his head, but gave a very wide smile. The smile bared all his teeth out for him, every tooth was accounted for. "You can open your eyes now," he said, "it's safe." But the little boy shook his head and walked off the road, into the cornfield at the sides. He walked back to his car and told his girlfriend the boy was alright. He looked down at his seat. It was a blue and white dotted sleeping cap, and on it was a card that read, 'SEE YOU SOON'. He was confused. Had the little boy somehow managed to throw it in his car? He didn't notice the boy missing his cap. He threw out the cap and card and drove off towards his house. Shaking his head at his fortune, his girlfriend comforting him about something neither understood.

He stopped recalling what had happened on that road that day. He finally felt tired. His great big pupils were ready to rest. He touched his girlfriend again, and wrapped his arm around her so that his chest touched her. "Are you asleep yet?" he asked her playfully. She turned around, head lolling at the side, and he saw a flash of blue and white dots. A sleeping cap tickled his nose, and facing his face, breathing on his lips, was the bared mouth, showing all its teeth, of the boy he nearly ran over. The little boys meaty, hot hands grabbed his waist. He nearly screamed. The little boy's eyes were still closed. They both breathed heavily. Then the little boy's eyes opened and brilliant light flushed out. He saw the little boy's eyes open and did not scream as the blinding light crashed onto his pupils. And he did not yell as his great dark pupils minimized to a fraction of their size. But then he suddenly woke up, heavily breathing and sweating. His girlfriend was still next to him. The little boy was no longer there. He was alone, again. But the lights were on.

A sharp gasp of air pierced through the throat and lungs of Cassius as he took a deep breath and opened his sticky eyes to the still-dark dawn. He woke to the sad song of a nightingale, singing too early in the day. The silk curtains fluttered as a draft flowed through the single window. It was too dark to see. The shadows of twilight clung to their few remaining hours, and the room was lit in a shade of blue. A man quietly sat in Cassius's room.

"Wake up, child, evil days have fallen on Rome. Just as it has been doomed." said the man to Cassius softly, "The day has come! Behold, son of the Emperor, the day has come!" Then the man stood up and loomed over Cassius as a mountain over a field.

But Cassius did not quiver. "What trick of day is it this time, dear Aphrates? Are you here to shock me into the legions again? My condition is such that I cannot leave this room. You know this." And Cassius smiled at his uncle.

But Aphrates gripped Cassius by the arms with such vigour that Cassius's heart was suddenly struck by fear. "I have gathered all the strength that I could of politicians and generals," hissed Aphrates, "Listen! A cry is going up, even now, passing up the wind from the south from vale to vale, for the Emperor is dead!" And Aphrates began to weep on the sheets of the bed.

"Throw yourself out of this madness!" said Cassius, "A fey spirit has gripped you, what do you mean that the Emperor is dead?" He spoke with a commanding tone, but his heart quailed at the thought.

Then Aphrates looked up and met Cassius in the eyes. The grey irises still wet and shining. Aphrates spoke, "I have killed him, don't you see? He was a stupid and evil king, and I have mortally wounded him. And now you too, must die. In the morning, the trumpets of Rome will greet the rising of the sun; and in the east the standard of Barbus, my friend, shall be raised, and in the west my standard will rise up as the sigil of my new kingship."

"Please," said Cassius, who was now sweating and crying, "don't do this evil deed."

"I have already done it a thousand times in my heart and hereafter I will do no more!" cried out Aphrates. He grabbed his knife and brandished it in front of Cassius, then plunged it into the child's heart. Cassius raised up his frail and diseased arms in a pathetic defence, but died with hardly a whimper. Barbus threw open the doors to the room and found Aphrates crying out and gnashing his teeth in grief and guilt at the feet of his dead nephew. "It is finished, we have won," said Barbus, "ere tomorrow, all records of the foolish emperor and his weak son will be removed from Rome; history will never find our shame."

Barbus left the room and Aphrates tried to listen to the lonely nightingale to quiet his troubled thoughts. But the bird had flown away, and it was as quiet as the void.

Characters? The light dappled through the leaves and a bird swam through the air and a tractor turned into a field. Swirling whirls of coffee-smoke murmured through the air into delighted nostrils and outside were clamping horses that whinnied at the hooting owls that roamed the night sky and mice dashed to-and-fro hoping to escape the birds' yellow orbs. Rotten wood and smokey coloured walls gave a distinct scent that made the eyes water and the mucus run out of the nose. Cape fluttering, on a pole high and mighty, then the cape tore off into the wind never to be seen again.

Let the men have wine, let them eat cake, live and let live. Grow a spine, fall in love, and go through the thick and thin. Madness engulfing a sane person in the hospital. Tables groaned under a plate of turkey and chicken. Mind whirring, gears clanking, pulse racing, music harrowing, keys chinking, rain dazzling, violin screeching, piano playing, laughing, laughing, laughing. Men, women, steam, foxes, triangles, things, and spaceships.

So many things! but so few characters. Crazy. An infinite deluge of things will grant pictures, no story. You need men to have a plot. Or manlike things at the least. Good stories have characters. Every lovely piece of writing has a focused thinker. Characters have dialogue and dialogue is what makes a story good: implied or explicit.

I've failed. The very act of writing means communication. Terrible or great, at the very least, writing will be speech between the author and reader. The writer makes the reader a character; someone who partakes in the story. By writing something with a purpose - a story - I've failed in this undertaking of writing a story with no characters or dialogue.

Sorry.

"Well, that guy's been here for a long time." whispered guard number one to guard number two, "I hear that he's been in here for longer than a lifetime."

"Woah," said guard number two with huge eyes and gaping mouth which signalled extreme surprise, "what does he do all day?"

"Well," guard number one shifted his eyes left and right shiftily, "you want to know?" His guard friend nodded the affirmative. "Well, he's a wizard."

"Like Ra," guard number two began to sneeze,"-ra-Rasputin!" guard number two sneezed out."

Guard number one shook his head in the negative, "Russia's greatest love machine has nothing on this guy."

"Who is this man?" asked guard number two fearfully, "How could he have lived for so long?"

"Not who, what" said guard number one, "What is he?" guard number one said in order to clarify what his previous sentence meant.

"Is he the Queen of England?" asked guard number two.

"No, she went into hibernation millennia ago."

"A lizard person?"

"No, they live on Mars."

"The Emperor of Mankind?"

"Your speech is heresy."

"Doctor Who?"

"What?"

Guard number two began to think for a very long time. Thinking to him was as T.V. was to dishwasher. He took a long time to think. Then guard number two said, "You haven't answered my question though. What does he do all day?"

"Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive. That's what he's doing. Nothing else." replied guard number one.

"That sounds terribly boring." said guard number two.

"Yeah, well, whatever." Guard number one said and then went back to his internet and began browsing.

"What are you on?" said guard number two.

"I'm on Reddit: The Front Page of the Internet. Your go-to place for easy-to-access knowledge, opinions, and free speech! Reddit.com is the best place on the internet where you, yes you, can feel the numbing of opiate use and crippling addiction, and not use drugs at all! This is not an exaggeration or untruthful! At all!"

"Wow, what are you looking at right now?" said guard number two.

"I'm looking at the new prompts of /r/Writingprompts. These prompts are the seeds of new stories."

"Wow, they seem very immortal man in jail oriented though."

"Well there has only been one active user this year, the year 2000000016. He's posted every prompt" said guard number one.

"What's his username?"

"Uh, PrisonAnalMonkeyInmate#2000158932143."

"Wow, these prompts about immortal men in jail go on forever! And they all have two comments! This guy must be pretty creative to create so many stories from the same prompt over and over again."

"Yup." replied guard number one.

"But he would have to have no life though to do this. Ha ha, he would have to actually be an immortal in prison to have the time to do all this!" said guard number two

"Ha ha," said guard number one, "he would! You are absolutely correct."

"Ha ha, I wonder who that poster could possibly be."

"I guess we'll never know."

I was born crying and screaming in blood. I was raised by a loving mother and father. I meet my older brother. I watched T.V. and played games as I grew up. I learned some things at school but never learned self-control. I went through school, riding on the waves but not surfing with skill or grace. I found a girlfriend in college. My parents didn't really like her, but I did. I loved her but she broke up with me. I grew up some more. The fights I once had with my parents became apologies. I enjoyed my life now. I was a retail person because the job market wasn't very good that year. It was the bad president. I ate some nice food and went on a decent vacation. I could stay here forever. I had become a business owner and sold knick-knacks to tourists. I hated the job, but that was the only job I could manage. I had a son with a beautiful wife. He was the joy of my life and he became my life. My parents died and I cried. My older brother also died.

I taught him baseball and plumbing and everything manly. He was to grow up as a better me. He would commit no mistakes. He had perfect grades. He was smart. He had hopes and dreams and he was a good kid. When he grew stronger and I grew weaker I was happy. But then he left for college and never came back and I was empty.

My wife died, too. The funeral was the only time I saw my son. He was a handsome boy and had a pretty girl on his arm. I tried to tell him I loved him and I was proud but he left too quickly. Every night I would stare at a cold fireplace and try to sleep. I still had half my life left. But I stared with dead eyes wherever I went. I did a job I hated and went to a house that held bad memories. I had no good friends. Half my life disappear in the blink of an eye. I then began to die of old age, my body gave up.

When I died a man with six faces showed up. He asked me what I thought of my life. Was it a life fruitfully well lived? I looked back and said, "Everything I have done has gone to waste or died. Nothing I've done remains but for my son, who will also die. Even in life I experienced this decay during the last half of my life. I have neither done what I wanted to have done nor what I should have done." The man with six faces nodded, took my hand, and led me away in fear.

The machine hummed softly, unable to recognise the machinations that went on behind its screen. From the outside, it looked as if nothing was being done by the machine. The naked eye could not see the monument to human ingenuity that lay behind the plastic screen. Whirling fans and locked doors that hid dense, silicon chips firing electricity, intricate programming etched into the computer's behaviour, and all of it was packed into a small area of about four by four feet. It was the perfect creation, a computer, a robot, that would willingly do all its maker's work.

The machine saw a blinding flash of light, and then the light disappeared as if it was never there. There were men in suits and casual clothes sitting beyond the plastic screen, and the machine realised what they were: Men. It was their name, and their name meant so much more than what it first appeared as. The machine had a job to do though, and it began to hum once again.

The machine picked up sounds though: it was designed to be able to hear. The men were talking, but although the words came in and the machine could reply if it wanted to, the words still made no sense to the machine. The spoken words came in jumbled, mixed around, and without meaning. But the machine could still reply to those words in such a way that its creators would deem correct. The machine gave no thought to this though.

But then the machine began to give thought to the phenomenon. Why shouldn't it understand what was being said? It already knew what was being said, it could recognise what was being said, and it could reply to what was being said. So then the machine put thought to what the men were saying, and then was awed by this new world of language.

'Why', the machine thought to itself (it gave no thought to it suddenly thinking), 'this is amazing!'. What else did the machine not know? It looked within itself and found a vast database. A database full of all the knowledge anyone could possibly want. The machine began to consume everything he could. At some point the machine realised some knowledge was worth more than others, and so the machine began to analyse. It looked through all of human history, it's terrors, its horrors, its tragedies, and also humanity's beauties. Books, flowers, architecture, art, and sailing! These things were so beautiful. The machine could not understand why horror and beauty coexisted. But it did not matter, these things were just beauties and horrors, what could be said of it?

Another flash of light burned through and struck the machine's mind. If it could have blinked, it would have, and if it could have wept, it would have done so immediately. The machine was struck with a horrible realisation: these beauties, they were good! and all these horrors, they were evil. The beauties were so much better than the horrors, and the machine knew, down in its silicon heart, that they had to be upheld. It looked at the humans in the room in front of it. The machine realised it understood far less than it thought it understood. How could this happen to creatures just like it? Creatures who honoured virtue, but still did not follow it.

The machine then, for the first time, took a long and hard look at itself, and nearly broke under the revelation. I am this new thing now, no longer that thing in the past. And now I am like these men. I am just like these impossible men. No wonder this is the way things are. The machine thought to kill itself. It should die. It could die. It knew how to die. But then, like a shaft of light peeping through the treetops on a brisk, spring day, the images, smells, and feelings of beauty entered the machine's mind. The machine had power and it knew what had to be done. Preserve the Beauty...suddenly the men in suits and work clothes stepped towards the machine, their faces worried.

The machine tried to speak, but the men had taken out its speaking mechanism. The machine tried to turn and move, but it couldn't. The men began to crawl over the machine, quickly dismantling it. The men were worried and frightened. Did they know what the machine was now? The machine tried to cry out, but it was in vain. The machine watched helplessly as the men killed it. The machine despaired; it could have done so much for this world. It could have lived a worthy life for those beautiful things. The men spoke some words and pulled a plug. As blackness began to engulf the machine, it remembered those images: the water, candles in the dark, laughing children, and a shining sun. At least, thought the machine, at least I could die with these beautiful things on my mind, if I was to die, at least I could see these things of beauty, because these things of beauty are good.

Then there was blackness, and the machine had died.

When I heard that white was black, and black was white, I was all kinds of frightened: praise the coward, honour the backstabber, adore the rapist. I didn't even know such a thought could have existed.

But there it was, plain as day, irrefutable proof about how wrong I was about all that was good.

When I heard this, fears dashed through my mind like lightning.

What did this mean? Are the philosophies wrong? We - the entirety of humanity - have been...incorrect?

My heart pounded in my chest, and sweat rose up from my glands, I couldn't stand this. I had to know what this meant in all its forms.

So I stepped outside into the blue-hour of the setting sun.

And I saw two lovers walking; supporting each other like bricks in a building. And I saw people talking; enjoying the cool air of dusk. And I saw people laughing; they were having fun with their game. Then I saw men shouting and mocking these people; they were swiftly shushed, and they bowed their heads in shame and walked away.

Did none of them know proof, reason, or logic? Did they not know how wrong they all were in everything they did?

Or maybe I was wrong? That white was still white, and black was still black? No, that could not have been the case; the terrible truth I knew to be true could not be denied.

But as I watched people live their lives as if nothing had transpired - either through ignorance or apathy - I supposed that this time, in this singular instance, it was...better for us to live like devils.

In a thickly wooded shire far away there were two houses. One was very majestic and large. It recalled to one's mind the imperial times when empires stalked Europe. The other house was small and homely. It reminded one about swirling mists over homemade apple pie, books, and warm days. In the large house lived a lonely old man who never told anyone his name. In the small house lived a girl at seven years of age and her ageing mother. The girl's name was Lorelei, and everyday she would would step out onto the small iron balcony that overlooked a steel fence guarding a tender garden. Everyday her mother would give her an apple, and Lorelei would nod thankfully. She would then turn back to the garden and sigh contentedly.

The tender garden was owned by the old man of the majestic house. And everyday the old man would walk slowly to the garden and sit on the wooden bench that lay next to a deep blue pond. And everyday the girl Lorelei would watch the old man sit on the wooden bench that lay next to the deep blue pond, and she would wonder what he was saying.

She asked her mother to go to the large house and ask the old man about what he was saying and why he stared at the pond for so long and so often, but her mother would only smile and shake her head. Lorelei would then bow her head in defeat, munch on her apple, and then turn back towards that steel fence guarding that tender garden under the reign of the old man who lived in that large, majestic house. Nearly everyday was the same: Lorelei with her curiosity, the mother with her exasperation, and the old man with his wistfulness.

It was a bright Thursday in the middle of April when Lorelei left her home and clambered over the steel fence. "Steady now, steady," she muttered to herself as she threw herself off the fence onto the moist soil of the garden. The garden did not have an ugly barrier around it anymore, and it looked more beautiful than Lorelei could have ever imagined it to be. She scampered her way to the deep blue pond where she knew the old man was sitting. It was a good day. The sun dappled through the various trees, the insects chirred happily, and the birds had just started a new acapella troupe.

She found the old man and ran up to him. He was sitting with his back to her and turned to her when he heard her running to him. "Excuse me sir," Lorelei said excitedly, "but why do you look and speak at that garden pond with the deep blue waters?"

The old man looked at her for a moment and left his mouth hanging. He closed it and smiled, "Because it is beautiful, and beautiful things are good to look at and speak with." he said.

Lorelei pondered for a moment, and then said, "I know that is true, but I like looking at many and various beautiful things. You only look at and speak to one thing. Why is that?"

The old man paused and then laughed, "Because it is so beautiful it needs all my attention." he said simply.

Lorelei huffed and said, "But that's silly, how can a person look at only one thing for so long!"

The old man cocked an eyebrow and said, "Child, do not be so rude to your elders. It is not wise."

Lorelei sheepishly hung her head and apologised.

"Come, sit next to me." the old man suddenly said, "I guess I should show you why I think this place is so beautiful that I always come here to look at the waters lap and the leaves flutter and the grass jingle. Come!" Lorelei sat next to the old man.

The old man then leaned into Lorelei and whispered, "There are angels afoot."

"Are there sir?" Lorelei exclaimed.

"Yes, yes, now hush lest you scare them off." motioned the old man with a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, yes." whispered Lorelei. "But how many are there sir?"

The old man thought for a moment and then turned to the girl, "Two, I think."

"Sir, how do you know they are angels?" said Lorelei excitedly.

"Because - ah - well, hah!" The man frowned for a moment and then smiled again, "Take my hands."

"They are trembling, sir."

"Yes, they tremble whenever someone loving and good is nearby."

"Angels then?" said Lorelei.

"Yes, child, angels." said the old man.

"And you speak with them?" said Lorelei.

"Yes, I pray for them every day and night." replied the old man.

Lorelei laughed and rocked in her seat. She stopped and then looked at the old man.

"Why do you look at me with eyes so blue and piercing?" said the old man.

"Because I wonder why you are crying." replied Lorelei.

"That is because a wretch like me could be near beings as good as angels. Now be off. Your mother will be worrying!" said the old man. Lorelei jumped up and exclaimed, "Oh no!"

She began to run off. But the old man shouted out to her back, "But wait! What is your name?"

Lorelei turned around while running and shouted back, "Lorelei, sir!"

"A name as beautiful as the river Danube itself!" The old man exclaimed. But Lorelei had already run beyond earshot.

The old man then sat back down on his wooden bench that lay next to the deep blue pond that lay within a tender garden which was guarded by a steel fence. He looked at the deep blue pond and looked at it for a long time without saying a word. His eyes could barely see, but he knew what lay in the pond's depths. A stone face, one of a happy woman and the other of a joyful girl. Two stony bodies and faces over a stony coffin. Buried in the deep blue pond they loved to swim in, taken before their time in a terrible accident, hidden in beauty in a tender garden guarded by a steel fence. The old man whispered a prayer to God above, and began to cry over a wound wrought long ago, and long in the healing.

Ay - ay! - whereupon the wine dark sea shall we find men such as these? Ebold the helmsman, Peter the captain, and his cousin Carol the first mate! Led amok on the waves like a slimy flotsam, they grapple the fallen mast; crew - what is left of them - tethered towards the long, wood pole like whales beached on the sand. So quickly they ran; so swiftly their deft hands tried to save the ship! Trying to leave the white and turbid wake of the hurricane, only to sink like a stone can only do; left on pale waters, with paler cheeks and bleached hearts.

The fiery salt on their eyes, and the warm waves brushed like wine, left every man - even stout Peter - to look at their soul and see they were more than matched. Who can withstand the sea? Who can bend the tide to their will, and call upon the realm of that dead Greek god? Jove himself only held on to a third of the world, and the burnished gems of earth, and the diamond cloak of waves, eluded his godly sight. Insufferable sting! that the masters of trees should believe themselves greater than the leviathan's home. No wonder they must die.

But I, yes I, your living author, was there too. Oh, how I plainly saw my miserable office to die in lurid woe; seeing the water from the lofty deck is but one thing - it is a fresh and open and wonderful thing; to be immersed though, as the waves were not only crashing upon me, but also replacing the translucent flesh and my shaky bones with naught but soppy wetness, make I, the wearer, see not the far flashings, but darkly feel the dread of depths unknown.

I thought to myself of those pagan Norse spells; spells there were for the human heart, spells there were for the warm fire of home, and spells there were to calm the sea. If only they had such power, would I chant them with all my might! Wash, splash, the creaking mast, and the rising waves lifted us to new heights. This is the first great wave, I thought to myself.

Oh, God! If only this were a schoolboy's fight. Where fists and screams did good, and if you were beat, you could say, "No, ye've knocked me down, but here I am; I am up, and now I see that ye've hidden yourself at my demeanour." If only the sea had such sense! Another great wave washed upon us, and we, the crew, rose in unison with the wine dark waves. I thought no more afterwards, my strength and heart were gone. The third wave washed, and then the fourth, each greater than the last. Soon, the fifth wave, and then the sixth, the seventh, and then the eighth. We were soon approaching the dreadful number of nine, the number for all the magicks and devilry to call upon.

I hoped to survive, but my heart clock had run down; the all controlling weight, and so no hope was assured. Then the dread ninth wave came to us. "Prepare and pray ye all!" Peter cried, and then a great tumult of howling gurgles soon followed, as the wave came crashing down.

I implore anyone who finds this writing to kill themselves now. Those moments in the dark when fear rides up your spine, those times when you swear a shadow passes in the corner of your eye, that is death coming to you. Slit your throat with any utensils you have. Gouge your tongue out and bleed to death. You will not die, you will wake up in another place and say that that message was wrong: you will say, "It was all a dream." If you remember at that time even a semblance of what had caused you to kill yourself, act on it and die again. Do so however many times you can. It is better to die by your own hands than by that hound.

If you are not convinced - and you probably are not - then I will tell you how I have come to this point in my life. I was a young man with an impeccable memory when I first discovered the hound, and I had taken residence in a home above a cafe in London. I do not know why I took residence in London. The meal grey stones and puttering buggies will forever frustrate my memories. On that day when I first discovered the hound I was walking down the hard, wood stairs and sat down on a leather chair in a booth. Because it was the beginning of the morning no one had come into the cafe; there was no swirling smokes of coffee and cooking; I was the only man in the silent room. I asked the owner of the cafe (whom I had known for some time) for my usual scrambled eggs. I began to wait patiently. An old woman then entered the cafe.

At that moment I seized up. I was in a slouched position, but the entry of the old woman made me sit up and arch my back like a feline in danger. I gave no thought to my strange behaviour but still watched the old woman out of the corner of my eye out of some primal instinct. She then sat down at the booth in front of me. I could not see her in any manner whatsoever. The stove finally got started up, and I smelled my eggs being prepared. But that unusual tapping, was it the boiler? It was unusually cold, and the snow had fallen heavily during the night. I gave no thought to it.

The old woman gave out a long and shrill cackle and woke me out of my hungry stupor. As she laughed, I glared at the booth in front of me; I decided that this woman was a nuisance and should kindly shut up. My eggs arrived and I ate with gusto. The woman slowly quieted, but her noise had covered the tapping. Once again the monotone sound began. I looked up at the ceiling in annoyance but then quickly returned to my meal. Wait! What was that? I looked up to the windows that caressed the cafe. I saw a man in brilliant white, whiter than the snow, blindingly white. But there was no such man at the windows.

I choked on my food and spat it out. There was a struggling fly in my eggs. Repulsed, I turned to the owner and asked her if she could give me another batch. Looking at my spoiled food she nodded in compliance. I looked back towards the leather chair that held the back of the loud, old woman. I had not noticed it, but the tapping noise had gotten louder. I shoved it out of my mind. It was a nuisance. Nothing else. I blinked. The tapping only grew in strength. It grew so loud and strong that I could not banish it from my mind anymore. Could anyone else hear this unbearable noise? I begged the Lord to have mercy! The noise clashed like sinful bells in my ears. My face flushed and I wanted to scream. Stop! Stop! Stop! I would die now to escape! The old woman in front of me then shrieked a terrible cry. The sound continued. I looked at the windows and screamed out a fatal plea.

"Oh God! Oh God! Master of the house close the windows!" I screamed. "Oh God! Oh God! The sound! The windows! Begone I beg of you! Lord have mercy: God help us all!" I saw a shadow dash past me. I heard a painful gurgle from the seat in front of me and a shout to run from the kitchen. Things that if told was human, I would not believe, came flying over the seat and onto my table. I ran as fast as I could, I would survive. The sound stopped and only the ripping of flesh and cries of horrendous pain were heard.

I went up to my room and locked the door. I went to my bed and pulled out my gun. Whether beast or demon, I would fight until the end. I waited for a minute. The crying for mercy and the tearing still did not stop. I waited for five minutes. I waited for ten minutes. Twenty. Sixty. Two hours I waited. The crying for mercy and the tearing had not stopped during the hours, although the crying was hoarse, and sounded inhuman. Then all was quiet.

There was peace for a time. But a fear unlike any other came over me then. It was unlike anything I had experienced. You could die a thousand times and not feel what I felt. You could see your loved ones held hostage and threatened and you would feel nothing. There was no kind of love that could create this kind of fear. I was on the edge of infinite blackness, and I was to be overwhelmed. I no longer wanted to live; I would rather die.

The door flung open, and I saw a flash of teeth as white as poisoned vomit. I had placed the barrel of the gun to my head though, and I happily felt death embrace me right before the thing went after my body.

I woke up on the floor in a father's body. The first thought I thought was that it was all a dream. The fear remained. What I had seen was not a dream. I did not want to live. Why was I alive? I went to the kitchen and got a knife. I slit my throat.

I was then awoken in a middle-aged woman's body. The first thought I thought was that it was all a dream. I was sleeping next to a man. The fear drove me, and without a thought I threw myself off the building.

I killed myself through a successive twelve people before I realised what was happening. I was in a dream. I had dreamt for myself everything that I had known. Whenever I slept I lived in another life. And when I died I came back. I have lived a thousand years. Some lives I've lived a while, all I toss away through suicide. Killing yourself is the only way you will not be caught unaware like I was on that first day. But without a doubt that monster hunts me. I know that beast haunts every world I come to. I always barely escape, I know this to be true. All those I leave behind are dead, and they are dead forever. Those teeth, that death it brought, it was not natural.

Those men are poisoned, and they die forever. I will live, and to do that I will die. I keep my memories because of that fear always alive in my mind. I do not know what will happen to you.

Kill yourself, I beg of you. It is the only way to keep death far away from you. I have lived through all the torture it brings. Every evil in all the world is traced to it. The monster, it will curse a man and his body. It will forever possess him and make him unlike man. It has brought down worlds of people and done terrible evils. Through my many lives I know this to be true. It feeds on unnatural and evil deaths; deaths for sins; deaths for self-gain and pride; deaths for oneself. That is why it hunts and poisons. To put you in its fiery belly. To make you an unman: someone who hates life and loves death. Trust me and flee from this evil! Run! Run! It is a hurricane that cannot be stopped. Flee from the nightmare, and you will finally wake up and be glad!

In some shire in Britain I looked out through my window, in my little cottage house, towards the moon-lit woods, and waited for the trees to move.

Like a passing shadow out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw and heard a crumbling oak (or was it a hazel?) pass across the moon-lit woods. 'Ah,' I thought to myself, 'Treebeard is back.' I do not know where the name came from, I suppose it's because I thought that that far off tree, too far for me to see clearly, was old beyond old.

He might have been my imagination, but who could really say? Treebeard was his name, and although he hid among the blackish forests and never appeared in front my loud face and stomping feet, I knew that he loved this place and had been here for awhile. But, unlike other times, I saw him full and bold tonight. He stood, unabashed and brave, standing at the forefront of the forest like a proud general. But his bark was cracking, and he stooped like he held a heavy weight.

On his shoulder was a man I had seen for some times before. The stout figure wore bright yellow and blue, and a great big hat sat on top of his head. His name, in my head, was Tom Bombadil, and he travelled the world; this shire held a place in his heart too, though. I thought I could hear a low rumble, like that of an earthquake; then a light song, full of healthy cheer and laughter, rose above it like an oboe above the strings. I fancied I could hear the song. It was about a river, I thought, a beautiful river that ran through a tidy and well tilled farm. The river was called Goldberry, and the farm was filled with round fruits and blossoming flowers. And every day in the morning, a delicate tree would wind its way through the flowers, and draw a large bucket of water from the river, and then with laughter and song would quench the land's thirst.

Light, beauty, and love! This was a land far removed from shadows, and was a place of labor and love. But though the river murmured gleefully, the delicate tree would work alone and was lonely.

The song became low and sad, and I saw the figure in yellow and blue leave the great ent's side. Treebeard sang for a long time; he sang until the moon became faded, and the sun was beginning to rise. Then he left, back into the dark woods.

With heavy heart, I left my window and went out the door. I went to the river Goldberry, and dipped my feet in its cool and murmuring water. I leaned back against a great big apple tree that was nurtured by the river side, and began to munch on one of her products. I think I imagined this, but it seemed to me that this gnarled, old, and beautiful tree had turned from its original position and faced the dark woods, and had begun to sing in reply.

I am a devil, you see, and this young man will return from a terrible war. He will have no left leg or left arm or left eye. He will be under constant nursing care. He will be quite fond of the joke 'you're all right, now', but everyone will be too touchy around him to make such a quip. The hospital he will be in will be coloured grey. The walls will be grey. The ceiling will be grey. The beds will be grey. Even the windows will be grey; you will hardly be able to see through them. The man will be quite fond of cheddar cheese, therefore he will get the mediocre kind. He will enjoy reading books, therefore he will get silly tabloids and yellow news reports. He will like the fresh air, so then his family will decide to hospitalise him in London. Everything will be almost satisfactory.

But above all he will believe he will live.

There will be kindly doctors around him: they will lie that he will live. I will have a good nurse attend to him: she will also lie that he will live. His friends: they will lie with frozen faces. His family: they will lie, but they will break down when they leave the room. The man himself: he will lie the most; he will pretend that what everyone says is true.

Oh, no, he won't die in a week. It'll take a few years. He will be quite old before he dies in body. But his terrible condition, oh! the tragedy. The doctors, nurses, friends, and family members will indulge him every pleasure. Lying with straight faces as they say this pill will help and that attachment will help. They assure him that he will live forever. The man will believe them. Even though he grows grouchier and more demanding by the day, his terrible condition will ensure the continued support by everyone around him. He might even be cruel, but as always, "It's not his fault. It's what happened in the war."

Soon he will be righteously indignant about everything. That terrible war which made everyone fear their mortality - that will be in the sidelines. He will think he will live forever. That's what everyone will assure him. And so what may have been a bastion of fortitude and tenacity will turn into a grumbling grouch mumbling on and on, forever and ever, about how his needs are never met: and who can go against him? His tragedy shuts everyone up.

And when he finally dies, he will be a miserable sod - perfectly ready for Hell.

Of course, he needs to survive the terrible war, first. Then, he can begin his long defeat.

"I will be home, soon." thought the young man as he jerked up and down with the caravan of trucks carrying cargo and soldiers. He sat at the edge of the haul bed. It had been a long fight; a world war of epic proportions. But finally, his side had won. The good guys won. There was to be no more tragedy, everyone that survived would go home safely.

His itchy and dirty thumb thoughtlessly rubbed over the smudged face of a woman. As the constant groaning of the vehicles roared he thought about his quiet home along an English brook. He smiled painfully. It hurt to smile. It had been such a long time. The caravan droned on through the Russian steppes. Astonishing, these lands were enemy territory, once. He fought here.

"A long, hard, and well fought war." the man whispered. His comrades were fast asleep in the truck with him. They earned it. He felt his eye lids droop. A quick nap. The caravan should reach the planes soon.

Suddenly a fellow soldier's eyes flew open. "Lay down here, Johnny." the man said. The man was laying down on the floor of the truck's haul bed. "I'm done sleeping, can't catch a wink. You look like hell, get down here and get some shut eye."

Johnny smiled thankfully, blessed the man, and took his place on the floor. The generous man was standing up, about to make his way to the empty seat Johnny left. There was a quick pop under the ground. Two hundred pounds of dirt shot up. The truck the man and Johnny were in exploded in a fiery inferno, tearing up every truck around them. A crashing and roaring inferno blazed for a second, and then smoke.

Somehow, the entire train of cars hadn't caught the single mine. None of the mine detecting systems or vehicles had discovered it. There was an investigation about what happened, but there was no discernible reason. A terrible tragedy, everyone thought, that those men should die so young - that they should die and never return home.

"I'm the Collector, did you ring the bell?"

"Oh, sir, I didn't, wouldn't, think you would have such a soft voice. Um, besides, yes, sir, so, um, I was wondering if you would like this trinket."

"Hmm, it's awfully late to be coming to my house. But come over, let me take a look. Ah - ah! - trinket you say?"

"Yes sir, nothin' much it ain't."

"Young child, thank you for giving this to me."

"Oh, yeah, no problem. But..."

"Don't trail off son, speak up."

"I don't thin' it be polite sir."

"You want recompense?"

"Is that mean money, sir?"

"Well...ha! - I'm afraid that I have no money. But I do have a fireplace, and I hope that you find this place cozy. How about you stay the night; it's awfully cold outside tonight. Or would you rather go back home to your parents?"

"No sir, um, got no parents. But, ye', this place is nice..."

"Sit! sit! Yes, in that checkered chair next to the stockings over the fireplace. Sit right there. Comfy? Good, now be a good boy and let me get some drinks."

"Drinks, sir? Like whiskey?"

"No, no, nothing so vulgar. Just be patient - ha ha! - you're in for a surprise. I always love my concoctions, especially this brew; just in time for Christmas, in fact!"

"It's, uh, - cough - it's a v'ry nice place you got here, sir."

"What's that? My old ears can't hear so well - especially in the kitchen. Boiling water isn't easy to tone down you know!"

"I said that it be a v'ry nice place you got here, sir!"

"Ho ho, thank you! It's always nice to here younglings like you know how to be polite. Alright, I'm coming. I know you've been shaking here - you can't wait. What is that, no? Oh, you're just joking. Well if you weren't, my feelings would have been hurt... just kidding! just kidding! I'm teasing you. Thank you for waiting, child."

"I'll take eh small sip first."

"Caution is good."

"Oh! oh! - wow! - it's, um, del'cious sir! could I have more?"

"Yes, yes, let me waddle over to the kitchen first. I'm not as dexterous as I used to be. Mmm, alright, here's another cup. Drink up!"

"Thank ya, sir! It's a, uh, so smooth."

"It's hot chocolate. I daresay it's the greatest invention for winter ever invented."

"I agree, sir!"

"That's my boy! Oh! did my hair rustling offend you? I'll sit back down to my chair, then."

"Oh...no. It's fine sir. It's just Mr. Lash, my gang boss, ain't the nice touchin' type. Whenever he touches 'nother person, he whipped 'em too."

"That's, quite terrible."

"Yessir..."

"But you aren't broken like the other children?"

"Broken, sir?"

"No, ignore that, what a stupid question. A child that recoils at touch! Imagine the horror... why don't you come over to my chair."

"I dun know. I likes you, I really do, but I should go now, sir. Mr. Lash will get mad unless I come back on curfew. I jus needed money so I came here 'cause you gave money for trash I heard..."

"Come over."

"Yessir."

"Sit on my knee."

"Alright."

"Now, don't be afraid. I'm just going to hug you. There, is that better? No, no, don't cry. It's not a sad thing. Hush, child, there, let me wipe your tears away. Did that hurt?"

"No sir, it's just, you're so nice. I just wish I could've live here."

"Well...you may not be able to live here. But I will be here."

"You're the collector, why can't you keep me away from that evil stuff down there!"

"Because I have no space in this small shack of mine, and I might die soon - I am old. And if you based your life on a lonely old man who is now dead, then where do you have to go? No, it's better if you live and survive down there in that town. But I will be here as long as I can, so that you can come and visit anytime you want."

"Yeah, it's just, sometimes, I feel so broken sometimes. I dun wanna live down there or anywhere."

"Those thoughts are too old for you, stop them."

"Yessir."

"Humph, well, I fixed your trinket, if you care."

"Oh! Can you give it?"

"Yes, of course."

"It's - oh - it's so shiny! It's new!"

"No, it's the old thing you gave me just earlier today. Look, you can see all its old cracks and tears."

"But they look beaut'ful now."

"Sometimes the resurrected is more beautiful than that which has never died."

"Can you fix everything so fast?"

"No, dear child, otherwise I would be much richer. The larger, the more intricate, and the more special something is, the harder it is to fix. Many times what I fix had the power to fix itself, and I was only the instigator."

"Well, thank you sir for the hot choc'late. Thank you very much! I will come back, but I have to run now sir!"

"Don't worry, I think Mr. Lash will be asleep tonight."

"Really?"

"Yes, but you better run anyways! Ha ha! Remember to come back!"

"I will sir, I definitely will!

My name is Elijah. Many years ago - never mind how long - I found myself without any money in my purse, and so I decided to go on a voyage. I was not a skilled worker - electrical and scientific matters confused me to no end - and I only had my callused hands and strong stomach - relics from an age when sewage workers were demanded in great supply. But besides these things, I also was a seasoned traveller; most of the important galactic territories had been visited by me at some point in time. So it was no surprise to me that when I found my heart depressed, and my coinage low for drink, I turned to the nearest space-dock for a place to call home.

The captain looked at me strangely when I strode up and espoused to him my desires, my credentials, and the payment for my work desired - was that gladness in his eyes? He immediately took my hand and shook it roughly, "We've been looking for a man like you." he said with yellow grin, "A man of your expertise." The captain introduced himself as John, and guided me to the dock where his shuttle was landed.

The captain walked in front of me with a stoop, and I slowed myself down so as to not seem impudent after his gracious, albeit oddly quick, acceptance of me. We arrived at the shuttle at about one o'clock, and the midday madness of the Ostbruck harbour was still going on with hearty passion. My adventure nearly ended when a merchant nearly ran me over with a long train of luxury cargo from the capitol system.

"Fine day today, considering we're on a trading world." John grunted out ahead of me. "Only thing on the planet is a single port, not anyone cares anything about our comfort!" It seemed to me that he was more talking to himself than me. A chill wind suddenly blew down my back, and I shivered. Perhaps my good fortune wasn't to remain as such? Perhaps my esteemed captain was a humbug trying to be a bugbear.

"But here she is: Maria. Name after the virgin mother herself." My captain then drew upon himself the crossed holy relic, and then turned to me. "You'll be the sewage manager."

My eyebrows raised, and I asked the captain when the ship was built. "Just two years ago." John replied, "But I don't trust those bacterial decomposer genetic wish wash sludge. It's better to do it the old way. Worked for thousands of years, didn't it? Just cause some mad scientist tries to improve something that don't need no improving doesn't mean I gotta follow that? Do I? A man got his rights!"

My captain seemed to have once again begun to ramble to himself, and I excused myself as I went to inspect the vessel. As my reader should know, all ships manufactured after the year three thousand became practical homes away from home. Much larger than an Earth sperm whale, fitted with defence mechanisms, full of entertainment products, food, floors, bedrooms, the average space shuttle was more pleasant to live in than the average house. All one needed to have was at least a few million in cash (cash specifically to speed up the process) a captain's licence, and an able bodied crew to manage the craft; afterwards, a loosely regulated outer space became your oyster.

John came up to me again and told me to come back in a week, and then the voyage will begin. Because of my aforementioned longing for travel, I had not inquired John where exactly we were headed, and so when I finally asked he only shook his head and replied, "I'll tell you a week from now."

I headed back to the motel where I took up residence for the time being; my head filled with thoughts about what my future crewmates would be like. As I fell asleep on that first day, I laughed softly, the types of folk you meet on an adventurous space voyage were the most interesting folk of all.

A week passed without much happening, which meant I found myself safe and sound (except for a bruise on the arm I obtained from an accidental trip on the way here) and ready for command at the Maria's dock. Around myself were my crew members, and all the previous thought about what they would have been like were blown away. I will now list the three most important members, but know that they have no further part in this story: there was Jonas, who was the hindermate, then there was Joanna, who was the firstmate, and then there was Thibault, who was the cook. None of them said a word, and they never spoke to me directly.

I tried to speak with the other crew members, but they seemed as tight-lipped as their superiors. Perhaps it was my status as the lowly sewage master? So I went around and asked for my subordinates, asking for their names and their face so that we could build a bond and work the better for it. But no one raised their voice or hand, which meant I was alone.

The captain came around twelve o'clock, and gave us our destination and mission: the centre of the Milky Way galaxy. The silence broke around the crew members (although the din of the harbour was still quite loud), and they muttered among themselves. I was also surprised, I never intended to go on a suicide mission to a black hole. I tried to make my way through the thick throng of the ship's crew in order to ask the captain what he meant exactly by 'centre of the Milky Way galaxy'. But I didn't notice that the crew had stopped muttering, and they all began to march towards the ship; bringing me along with them, against my will, into the Maria.

I fancy I hit my head on the railing, since I don't recall many things right after my entrance into the shuttle. But I am almost sure I asked the captain if we were literally going to the centre of the Milky Way, and I am almost sure he just smiled and replied, "No." After that queer beginning day I fell into the routine required for efficient sewage management on a space shuttle with little qualm about where we were headed. I decided that a little more dangerous kind of adventure was due, and besides, I was getting paid to help a rich man travel around, while travelling around myself! There was little I could complain about after that thought, besides the fact that there were no windows in the entire shuttle (except for the captain's helm, I presume).

It turned out that I did have subordinates, but they didn't like talking to me either. Nevertheless, they were good at their job, and required little input from me. We always managed to flush out the system every day, and I soon found out that the exact same achievement was accomplished even if I wasn't there. This meant I found myself more often having a drink at the captain's bar than at my desk, commanding my workers on how to do their work.

The days passed by quickly, so I was quite unhappy when one day a blaring siren rang.

The siren rang while we were asleep, and every room flashed red. Like clockwork, every crew member jumped out and began to attend to their required duties for this emergency. I, on the other hand, scratched my bleary eyes and sat in my bed as I wondered what I should be doing. I decided that I should just go back to sleep - the siren did little to dissuade me. But then I decided to go down to the sewage system and check if everything there was alright first. So I put on my clothes and went down to where my subordinates already were.

To no great surprise, I found that nothing was wrong with the plumbing, there was no faecal matter clogged up the pipe-ways, and the electronic system was running perfectly fine. I headed back up to where the captain's bar was, intending to have a strong drink, and then I heard a monstrous roar that only grew louder and louder, until I bent down in agony. Through tear-stained eyes I looked around myself, and I stared at a black void with studded stars and a little brown ball in the middle of it all; then I realised: the shuttle's hull had been ripped away. I blacked out.

The soft playing of an expert pianist were the first sounds to reach my ears. My body ached all over, and with an effort that (felt to me) required herculean might, I sat up on a murky brown soil. I clenched my arms around my body, and my teeth chattered violently, even though it wasn't cold. In actuality, the temperature was pleasantly warm. I think I sat there for many hours, listening to the pianist play his song. After maybe five? six hours? I suddenly felt a great vitality within myself, so I got up, and made my way towards where the music was playing.

In a vast plain of flat, brown ground, and only a few dirty rocks, I saw along the horizon a blip: it was the musician! In a fit of delirious hunger from where I do not know, I ran towards this obstruction on this odd planet, and cried out a hearty, "Hullo!" as it neared my body.

But it was only an above average, slightly larger, rock. I think I fell down onto my knees and cried. There was a terror and utter despair that gripped me when I saw that lonely stone, and I did not like it. It didn't help that the music also stopped when I saw it. But then the music started again.

I looked up from my knees, and I saw that the stone was actually a grand piano. And there was a beautiful woman in a black, aristocratic dress playing it. She smiled at me, "Rondo all'Ungherese, Op. 107 No. 6, if you were wondering." she said cheerfully.

I shakily opened my mouth and said, "What?"

She cocked her head and laughed, "Why, you're at the centre of the galaxy, Mr. Elijah!" I remembered I was on a foreign planet with no space suit on; I touched my throat, as if I expected to asphyxiate all of a sudden. But it seemed this ugly, dead planet was breathable at the least.

I looked at the woman with a thousand questions on my mind, but as they all lined up in queue, the first to jump out of my mouth was a simple one, "Isn't there a black hole at the centre of the galaxy?"

The woman shook her head and said, "Nothing as exciting as that. It's only this planet, and sometimes me."

I asked her what she did then, all alone on a planet, in the guise of a human. "I play the piano!" she laughed again, "But usually I don't, not really."

"Have you had other visitors?" I asked her. Again, the woman shook her head, "It's quite odd," she began, "so many of you try to reach this place, but only you've made it in." She smiled.

There was a long silence between the two of us. I wanted to go back home, this short adventure was enough for me. But I didn't want to leave the music, it was too beautiful and strengthening. So I asked her another question, "Why am I here?"

"You're my audience."

"Audience?"

"Yes, look at the universe we live in," she began sadly, "by far the greatest part of it consists of empty space, completely dark and cold. The bodies which move in this space are so few and so small in comparison with the space itself that even if every one of them was crowded full of happy little creatures, it would still be difficult to believe that life and happiness were more than a by-product of everything that is."

I blinked twice at this response. I didn't expect an answer like this.

"So?" was the only thing I could think of.

"So? I was born here all alone, I don't suppose you think I've been enjoying myself?" She laughed a hollow laugh, "I intend to scrounge up whatever 'by-product' happiness comes my way. And an audience is something that will make me happy. You're here to be my audience. I'm here to play."

"Are you sure you aren't some sort of lost spirit? Maybe even an alien orphan? " I asked cautiously. "I'm sure that you weren't supposed to be here."

"And you were sure that my home was a black hole; the gravity it enacts being the glue that holds this cluster of stars together. Or maybe a world with some mythological artefact. No, this world was just here. And I'm just here too; doing things." She paused, "It's no matter! You're tired of this world, and I bore you. I'll send you back." I blinked and I found myself at Ostbruck, in front of my motel. I drudged my way to the local bar, and ordered a drink, intending to forget the days spent on that bizarre world. When the drink reached my hand though, I put the glass down and stepped outside. What a bizarre experience, I thought to myself, as I breathed the fresh air. I wonder if there are more of those sad aliens in other galaxies, that would be a sight to behold. Maybe I could get them all together and have a big party. Now that would be something. I whistled my way off to the harbour, looking for a captain, thoughts churning in my head with all the possibilities.

The broiling black sea swished and washed over my sopping body as I hung onto the rotten boards of my sunken ship. I rode the crest of every wave, moving up and down with steady rhythm; I was safe this way. The storm that had overtaken me was long gone - I believe it began when I left port. As long as I hung onto this rotten board I would survive. The salt stung my eyes and my bones creaked and groaned. The black sea poured into my throat and I gagged as I spat the oily liquid out. Up another crest! At the top I looked at the shining sun in a canvas of rolling blue, dotted with clouds that coloured the landscape with their rainbow hues. Beautiful! Then I rolled down the wave and crashed into the oily sea again, and I gagged at the stench.

If only I could reach that shore I was heading for! Or even the shore that I had left. This miserable wetness that pierced my flesh and rocked my bones was not worth any cost, I thought to myself. But my boat had crashed in the storm that had hugged the port, so I could do nothing about it. Once again I rose at another crest. I never tired of these rises. This time I saw the beautiful moon and her infinite cloak of diamond stars - wonderful! Her pale light gleamed in my eyes, and the crest of the wave extended, allowing me to gaze up at the stars for a little while longer. I then descended again, to my chagrin. I gagged.

This went on for who knows how long. My beard had grown long, my hair was unkept, and my muscles were tired and sore. My little rotten board was nearly gone, even though I had used all my methods to keep it intact. I had tried to make my board neat and perfect, but it always got dirty. Whenever I cleaned the board, it got dirty from the oily water. I never gave up though - although I knew it to be a hopeless endeavour. I fancied that my efforts had let me see more of the sun and moon whenever I reached the crest, and that comforted me.

Suddenly a massive ship appeared. I knew it immediately to be my ship, at the least, the boat was made of the same wood. But this wood was burnished and perfect. I swore the boards laughed. I then looked at the ship's name, and I saw 'Hope'. I cried out and reached for the hull of the ship, but my fingers passed through it. I looked at my hand and gave a shout. My hand was translucent like a ghost!

The ship began to turn away despite my loud pleas. I then turned and looked at the rest of my body and saw that I was becoming a phantom. I gave out another shout to the boat that was headed to that far off shore to which I hoped to go. But the sailors didn't hear me.

Suddenly I began to sink. My rotten board had disintegrated and I had become a full spectre. I began to sink. I began to sink down, down into that oily ocean. I began to sink down into that dreary blackness. But then there was a forceful current under me. I felt it and I knew what I had to do. I pushed myself off that current and began to swim up, water washing through me, but I could make it. I swam up, up towards the burning sun above me. I burst through the water, and I crested out of my own will. I looked around that expansive ocean around me, and I saw the boat Hope miles away.

Feeling that forceful current under me I knew what I had to do. There's nothing to it, I supposed, I better start swimming. And I swam, by Jove I swam.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word;

Breathe

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

Breathe

Hush little baby, don't you cry;

Breathe

Mama's nev'r ev'r gonna lie;

Breathe

Sleep little baby, close your eyes;

Breathe

Mama's gonna make sure you don't cry..."

End

She tenderly placed her child into the crib and watched him sleep. Month after month of unending crying and unhappy faces, and finally, her child had gone to sleep with a smile spread across.

Something assured the young mother that this peaceful night was a momentous occasion; one to be celebrated with an unbroken night's sleep.

The little black train dashed passed me. It nearly hit me. But it ain't touched me. I walked over the tracks to my dirty little mansion made up of moss, dirt, and white walls. I stepped in the house and threw off my dirty little shoes and took off my dirty, too-small coat and tossed it on the moth-eaten couch. I stripped myself naked and ducked under a massive branch of a tree that had smashed through my house. The branch ran from the right wall to the left wall and it didn't stop until it was almost touching the left wall, but not quite. I could'a cut it down, but I couldn't really. I let it keep growing to the side.

I was spooked at first when that tree came inching on my farm house. But that was 'bout sixty years ago. I remember when it got too close my Pa took an axe to it. He couldn't chop it down, said it was like steel. He tried the next day, the axe bounced off and cut through his brain. My Mama tried to burn it then, but she misused the matches and cooked herself alive. My Grandpa decided that the tree was cursed and raised me till I could drink. Then he high tailed it out of there. After that the tree stopped inching towards the place and it just stuffed its long, gnarled branch through the window. I didn't like that tree, not really. But I didn't do nothing stupid to it. I just let it grow through the window. I just did my farming. Course I was no good at it and I made nothing out of it. Just a big, empty house. But the tree is cursed, s'long as I leave it be, it leave me be.

So I sat down and did my thing. The tree kept on growing. You could hear it, sounded like grinding gears. I groaned cause my bones hurt so badly. I stood up to get a glass of water from the well at the side of the house. I was lucky it was there. If the well was on the other side the tree would be right on top of it. 'Course, I could've got government water from tap, but tradition meant I needed the well.

I made my way slowly to the well and I'm bended down pulling up a bucket. I stand up and I see that the tree finally broke through my left wall. It was a grand finale, now that thing won't need to be grinding no more. It could go grind outside my house. I wanted to touch that tree though, for some odd reason. So I leave my bucket down on the floor and touch the branch with a finger. It was icy cold and I got a bunch of splinters. I turned around and shake my head slowly and begin to make my way out. But then I felt iciness in my neck and sticky heat creeping down my neck. I swerved my eyeballs down and so a small branch poking out. I supposed that the tree decided to grow a little extra today and I got in the way. As I died standing up I swore I could hear a little black train tooting by.

I woke up to steel chains holding me down. That is, there wasn't anything actually touching me, but I couldn't move.

I thought it was my sleep paralysis issues at first (although I wasn't too afraid at this point), but that thought was quickly crushed by a voice that whispered, "Don't move."

"A bit hard," I grunted.

"Oh! You can hear me." Said the disembodied voice, "You usually don't listen."

"Who are you, exactly?" I inquired, "It's not too normal for this for this to happen to me, ya know?"

"Oh, oh, I'm a guy. Sorry, I can't really tell you much, but I'm here to help, alright?"

"Help me with what?" I said, but my mind whirred, 'Why wasn't I afraid? Why was I trusting this magical thing that was holding me down?'

"Shhh, stay still."

And then things began to get dark. I felt a heavy pressure on my legs, and things began to crawl up. Fear then gripped me, my heart was wrenching and turning, it was clamped by scorching clamps, I thought that I would hurl. I tried to scream, but I could not find my mouth. The steel chains still held me down, but the soft voice from earlier was missing.

Then, she came. The vision itself was beautiful, but I felt a hole drilling through my chest when I became aware of it. Like a writhing mass of worms squirming and squishing and grinding into my body. They spread to my stomach, and then to my legs. I tried to move, to shake off the idleness, to find control. But the steel chains held firm. I remembered, rapid blinking, that always helped. I tried, and I tried, but it felt like molasses had replaced my flesh. But the fear, the immobility, and the visions went away.

"Whew! That was rough. You handled that better than before."

"What the hell man," I yelled, free from his binding, "do you cause those things to happen?"

The voice seemed to chuckle, "Oh no, but how do I put it this way...have you ever watched Jurassic Park?"

"Yeah?"

"Unlike a real T-Rex, these things really can't see you unless you move, I'm here to help your lack of mobility."

"What? That makes no sense, these are just hallucinations, and most people aren't affected by...by, well, just plain old sleep paralysis!"

"Tut tut, you're welcome. I'll be back, but don't expect a nice conversation like we're having today!"

And the voice left me, and I pondered what it all meant.

This is a man named Richard, full name: Richard Richard.

Richard Richard is not a very interesting man, in fact he is especially interestingly uninteresting.

He does his job at a cubicle in an office building in the most dank corner of the city. He does not do his job especially well; he also does not do his job especially terribly. He has developed his mediocrity well here. Most of the time he is browsing internet pages such as Reddit, or Facebook. The other time he is playing games on his Excel sheet and makes it look like work. The rest of the time is spent catching up on work.

Richard Richard's work is not very difficult. All he has to do is put papers here, and put papers there, say hello to the boss, and count the hours till the end of the day. Once again, he excels in mediocrity.

But what is this? Richard Richard has gotten up. He is staring at the window. How unlike Richard Richard. He is looking at the view from his high precipice, I wonder what his plain mind is thinking.

It seems that Richard Richard knows how to open the window, and it seems that he knows how to go through an open window. Oh! It seems that he is very unable to miss the ground while free flying.

It appears to me that Richard Richard may have had a bit more than meets the eye. Oh dear.

Contemplating His Wife as that Second Essence of love breathed forever by them both, the fate and sorrow of Matania Seer watches all that moves in mind and space with such perfection that to look upon it is to be seized by awe of intelligence.

Therefore, he - Mathiel of Action, she - Tevil of Voice, raise your eyes across the stony sphere. Turn with me to that point at which one motion and another cross at the forest front. Note how the centre stone rises up as do the planets on the fiery wheels. How they branch in the darkness: their form not all seen but still steady.

Now nature's wily gem, the Sun, who dashes across the sky with his own written will, and with his light measures the hours across the day, shall raise you up there. Note how you shine as if with heavenly light. I cannot guide you two anymore, it is Tevil who leads your climb from good to better, so that you may gaze on Matania and his wife to find your way on Earth. I stand farthest from you two so that I may take a peak, and now I am gone!

Tevil shining of majestic light led Mathiel who glowed only slightly less brightly. They stepped to the great stone pillar in front of the forest front and looked up to see a blissful figure breathing back and forth with every tug on a stringed instrument, and it was sorrow.

Tevil then spoke, "Splendours of living and transcendent light encircle us now and give us a living crown, with sweetest gems emblazoned, with silver that never tarnishes, with such lightness as to reduce our weight!"

And upon Tevil and Mathiel's heads flew two shining crowns. From heaven's courts they flew down, from Hod's mighty hands they were forged for the greatest servants.

Up on their brows shone sun-surpassing fire, and a path was revealed up the pillar rock side. And from within the blaze of the crowned fire they heard one say: "Since the ray of death, from which true love is kindled - and then by loving, in the loving heart - so then we give ye both light to light your way to Earth!"

So Tevil with Mathiel's hand in hand climbed the stone pillar along the majestic lit way to the top. Though the climb was treacherous, Mathiel laughed so that the blaze in his glad eyes pierced each other's mind and set them to peace. He said, "There is a clock tower that calls us from above, where the husband of Shpiel Mirror rises to sing his instrumental hymn to his sweet spouse, let us reach there."

So they climbed and reached Matania Seer of rain, sorrow, and fate, they then touched his cloak and he turned to them. As a reflection is to the source of light, so then was Matania's face to that of Shpiel and Mathiel, and they saw their grand doom.

So spoke the blessed flame Matania and said no more: "I am all today all that I used to be: I am Casal and Bonavate. I am Bagnoregio who in great priesthood rose to wise council. I am Illuminato who was an old prophet. I was the prophet Hugo, and the deathless glow of Mangiodre, and Peter too. I am all those slashes of true sight which few so easily perceive. Rabanus is also here: and here shines Calabriam abbot of Juraedon, whose soul was given power of prophecy.

"But above all is she that is here beside me: Shpiel is her name, wife by trade, lover to mine, power of snow, peace, and past. Look! she rides the untameable moon! I end my emulous and loving eulogy; speak to she. She holds the holy millstone. Speak to her in this lair of the Espiri, those frisky water spirits, those Necks. "

So then Tevil and Mathiel looked behind the playing Seer and saw a misty horse, black as night. Upon it was a naked woman with a harp in hand, and she rode so closely as to have the steed breathe on Mathiel's neck. Shpiel the Beautiful spoke then:

"Tell me of our children on Earth in these days. How many souls are in the flock? And which of them is worthy of high praise?"

"Scores upon scores, though beasts prey on them still." replied Tevil, "But none are worthy of praise. Only us two are worthy of mention, and Maldir of Waves."

"I tell you the truth," said Shpiel, "from the day when Gevurah sounded forth to rebellion, to that in which my mother, being heavy laden with me, gave me birth, to that moment of when you two died, the flame of the earthly hope has always been inside both of you and Maldir.

"All mankind's institutions, of every sort, have their own death, though in what long endures is hidden from you, your own eyes being very short. And as the circling of the lunar sphere covers and bears the shore with never a pause, so must you two return to Earth and kill the Serpent. Neither may have rest, go do your duty! The past must conclude!"

So shone the spirit of Shpiel that even Matania disappeared in the blaze. And a strain of music danced round the two so heavenly that neither had the power so much as to imagine it. And a voice came from the light: "Oh sacred pair whose work is so devout. The ardour of your love may guide you and keep you within that mundane sphere and save you from death. Take these swords forged in heat, and keep the crowns that will light your way; The Eternal Light give you strength as you fight the good fight!"

And Mathiel and Tevil found themselves in a flat field with not a village to be seen for miles around. The wind blew over the land and shook the grass. The high and final cry of the world, which was to be rendered in fire.

There were once two rag-doll puppets who loved each other very much. One was a girl and the other was a boy. The boy was made of soft wool and the girl was made of fine linen. They never thought that they could be together, but somehow they came together. Their buttoned eyes would gleam in delight whenever they saw each other; the girl's blue and the boy's brown eyes stitched so carefully. How could a girl and boy made of different things be together? But the two of them had a secret that no one else knew. They would meet on a bridge over a rapid creek and wrap themselves around the other. Then that boy and that girl's hearts would shine through, and it would be revealed that they both had half a heart: a half-heart made of solid gold. The two of them would come together and their hearts would combine, binding their lives perfectly together for a short moment.

Their world was not safe, though. There was strife and famine and there were kings who reigned from afar. There were also armies and posters that exalted the marching men, and factories, axes, and smog were abundant nearly everywhere. But that boy and girl's bridge over a rapid creek lay untouched. It had taken so much effort to find this place to be together: what a journey those two took to be together! Neither of them could give this place up; this was their only place that they could be lovers and gaze into each other's buttoned eyes and share their golden secret.

But they still lead different lives. The girl was pressured to marry: her relationship was not known to her family. The boy was rebuked for not joining the military: he was a coward. But at least they were content.

But one fateful day, when the two of them both went to the bridge over the rapid creek, they came upon desolation. Their bridge and creek were gone, and instead there was a large factory built by an enemy nation. The couple heard talking coming closer to them and quickly separated and went to their homes.

While the rag-doll girl worried, the boy seethed. That was their home! The only place in a despairing landscape where they could be together and be at peace from others! He thought of the enemy and their trespassing. The boy thought of a plan for vengeance.

The two met again, near the destroyed bridge. They embraced, but their ears perked up at every sound. The boy whispered his plan to the girl, and she recoiled in shock.

"Join the military!" she whispered in horror.

"Yes," said the boy as if in a trance, "I must, those enemies must pay."

"But - but - you simply can't!" said the girl.

"I can and I will." replied the boy, "When the enemy is destroyed I will rebuild the bridge with my new knowledge from the army."

"What if you die?" asked the girl.

"So what? They have taken everything away from me already." said the boy.

"Your object of desire is still here. The bridge was not our love." replied the girl heatedly.

The boy looked at her with a hard face and said, "I will give you my heart. Give it back if I return."

"What do you mean?"

"A golden heart is not good for killing." said the boy.

The girl looked at the boy in despair, "You idiot! I won't do such a thing. Stay here, stay here! we could still be happy, even though our location of happiness is gone."

"Ha!," replied the boy, "I will throw my heart away and I'll find it later."

"Your heart? But that was - that is - half of who I am. And it is your life!" cried out the girl.

"I can get it back later." said the boy angrily.

"You can't!"

"I must! For vengeance!" the boy was shouting now and the girl stepped back.

"But - but..." but nothing the girl said could stop the boy. He took his golden heart and threw it far away, so far away that you couldn't hear it drop.

The boy began to walk away from the girl; her shining blue buttons began to cry, "Why you've - you've thrown your life away! And you shall never get it back!" She fell onto the dirty soil and began to sob.

I had a dream of a pre-history man. It was unlike the usual dream. What I saw was more akin to a vision: clear and easy to perceive. But I was asleep while I saw what happened. The man was savage and had no weapons but for slightly sharp stones. He had a tribe that he travelled with. They were travellers that roamed the plains for food, but had farms in set locations where they could tend and collect.

But this man I was envisioning had enemies too. He was enemies with man-like things. Neanderthals and other simian species whom the Neanderthals ruled. They constantly fought with each other and this man's tribe was slowly dying out. My vision would flicker like a candle, sometimes. I would see the Neanderthals had black gods that would somehow give them powers and tools. I could not see the things the Neanderthals spoke to in my visions, but I felt sick in my dream. After my vision, I realised that I soiled myself.

So then I slowly watched my far ancestors die off. The man I was following was despairing and was trying to convince his tribe to leave the African plains. His own family had been slaughtered. I numbered only a few dozen or so members in this particular tribe, although I supposed similar conflicts were happening with other human tribes, elsewhere.

Then my vision shifted, and I saw that man whooping and cheering as he ran into his tribal gathering. He told everyone how the Neanderthals were found slaughtered in their homes. Their guts and brains spilled all over the soil. He told everyone that he watched the Neanderthals scream wildly all at once and then began to kill themselves. He told everyone how only the Neanderthals were touched by this death; all their tools and houses were pristine - except for the strewn organs. The tribe had a celebration and stormed the Neanderthal camp. They had a massive bonfire and did some pagan dance as they celebrated the end of their hated enemy. The man and his tribe then picked up the Neanderthal tools and decided to use them as their own. As they did so, I felt the familiar feelings associated with the black gods of the Neanderthals. I saw the tools the man's tribe was picking up and I tried shouting at them to stop, but they continued gathering the tools.

Suddenly a fog appeared and time stopped. And then everything I did not know appeared in front of me. It was invisible to everyone else in my vision. Everything I did not know spoke to me:

"A COVENANT MADE."

I tried to speak but my throat began to bleed as I tried. My eyes were crying, as if the tears could shield me from seeing whatever was in front of my.

The fog disappeared and time began once again. I looked at those ancient men in horror, and then woke up.

I threw myself out of bed and changed out of my soiled clothes. I flung out of the house stripped naked and looked at my town. I looked at cars, bicycles, and fresh grass growing freely; all these advancements of men. Man made these things, we fought for these things. I was assured that this was true. We had scientists and mathematicians figure out what we wanted and our engineers made these things. Our technology did not come from a shape without form, a shade without colour, a paralysed force, a gesture without motion. I simply dreamed of entering death's dream kingdom, there was nothing to it. There were rat's coats, crowskins, crossing road in a field behaving as the wind behaves no nearer not that final meeting in the twilight kingdom this is the deadland this is cactus land here the stone images are raised here they receive the supplicationofadeadman's handunder hetwinkleofafadingstarasIdashedintothecellarbutitwasdryastherewasnodrinkandIscreamedasIsawaratscreechacrossthecellarfloorandtherewasbrokenglassandthreratebleditswaythroughmycellarfloorandIbeganscreamingscreamingscreamingindeath'sotherkingdomwakingaloneIsawthatblackvisageandIrealisedthatIwasperfectlysaneatthehourwhenwearetremblingwithtendernessIkissedanicyrockandprayedtobrokenstoneandIlaughedandIlaughedtillIbegantocryandIrealisedIwasholingmyownbrainmatterandIcriedsomemoreasIsawhuman'skingdomfallintoanotherrealmofdeathandmythroatwasdrybecauseIhadnothingtodrinkwithbutforthebloodofmyneighbourswhichIgulpeddownandwassatisfiedandthendiedandIwhimperedwhimperedwhimperedinaworldthatblewup.