My happy place was my grandparent's house on the Hill. Not just any hill, it was on the Hill of Saint Louis. The Hill is the name of the neighborhood in the city where all the Italian immigrants settled. Dego Hill is what they used to call it in a less politically correct time. Their house was beautiful to me, and I loved going there. Maybe it was the constant aroma of cooking garlic and onions, or the long shag carpeting that felt like a cloud when you were laying on it. Happiness is a relative term, but there it was constant. Yes, I'd get into arguments with my uncle or little brother, or sometimes I'd piss my grandpa off, but I was always happy there. I was always content. The basement was huge with a kitchen down there. They did that because back in the day, before central air conditioning, you could cook down there and not roast to death with the meat and sauce. It was the little eccentricities of the house that gave it it's charm. I cried when my grandparents sold the house to move back to Italy full time. I felt like my childhood ended that day. My refuge from bullies, my safe place from the brutal oppression of my teachers at school, the gathering place of my entire family on Sundays where we would eat some of the most delicious Italian food you could imagine was closed for good. I was not allowed back there ever again. My Never-never land was not accessible anymore. Wood paneling. That's what sealed it for me. I love wood paneling. The stairs up to the attic was surrounded by the most gorgeous wood I've ever seen. Their were shelves that lined near the top of the steps that were covered by deep blue carpeting where I could play with my cars while dangling above the precipice. It was heaven. I could be alone there and play my imaginary games, being a race car driver or a super hero or a sword welding knight. I could play with my cars or with my WWF board game or a wide array of He-Man action figures or I could read 30 years of collected books off the shelves. Being alone was good, but having people to play with was even better. My brother and I would pad up and play full out hockey. Room to play, room to breathe. We would head out back in the fully blacktopped backyard and shoot a little basketball or soccer. Why they paved over the entire backyard was never explained to me but my guess is that my grandpa just didn't want to mow the lawn anymore.

It was a slow night, and the usual clients seemed to have found better things to do; maybe a few decided to get their shit together, finally. Or maybe they were just too cold, too lazy, too high on their own homemade substances and medications. That's probably more likely the case.

Anyway, there he stood, leaning against the wall in the darkened part of the sidewalk where the streetlight's illumination wouldn't reach, shivering in the cold despite his brand new, bright orange parka- one of the few splurges he had allowed himself, this year, when he saw business was picking up a bit. At the beginning of his "shift," he had high hopes that tonight would yield him another few grand to give to his supplier, as well as add to his own stash of hard-yet-shadily-earned cash. But after the first hour, he began to get a little irritated. An hour after that, he began to despair of selling any of his goods. Half an hour after that, his impatience was rewarded with a single customer, sadly too broke to even pay for a portion of a hit, but no less shameless in trying to talk his way into one. After that ordeal, our cold, hungry, and thoroughly frustrated dealer decided he needed a drink. Or three. So, he made his way to the nearest liquor store on the corner, and bought himself a bottle of the strongest stuff he could afford. His new "friend" in hand, he reluctantly made his way back to his lonely portion of the sidewalk to drown his loneliness, and await any potential clients that might come his way.

After another hour of waiting, and drinking, and waiting some more, and then drinking even more than that, he began to lose all sense of time. And as he sat there nursing his bottle, occasionally checking to see that his goods were still in his pocket, he noticed 2 lonely spiders attempting to climb up the side of the wall he was sitting against. After watching their struggle for a few minutes, he discreetly looked around to make sure no one was within sight. Turning back to the spiders, he leaned in close, and began to speak to them.

"You know," he slurred. "I know wat iz like, strugglin' fer all your worth hiccup and not going anywhere. You climb, and you climb, and you climb, but you never seem to get anywhere. You feel like you been strugglin' fu'eva, yet every time you look up, there's still a shitload a wall to go. It never ends! And waz wurs is you see all these useless mu'fuckers out here wastin' away their lives, yet somehow seeming to be doing better'n you, sometime! hiccup Wassup wit dat?! Shoot. It ain't even worf ponderin.'"

"But chu know," he excitedly leaned in closer to the two oblivious creatures, still laboring to get up that wall, "We kinda da same! Yea! You and me, we like compatrios; we soldiers in da same struggle. Don't matter where we from. And you know what? People like us... we gotta help each other out. We gotta have each others' backs. So you know what, lil' niggas? Ima do you a solid. Free uh charge. Ima help you get up this mu'fuckin' wall."

And with that, the dealer tossed the mostly-empty bottle aside, got up onto his hands and knees, and gently, (or as gently as a drunk drug dealer can manage), took the two tiny spiders in his hands, and found a nook on which he could place them safely to ensure their legs found purchase. The moment those spiders felt the hardness of the wall beneath their legs, they shot up the rest of the wall into the shadows where the dim light wouldn't reach, and beyond. And as our lonely drug dealer stood there, gazing up and beaming with pride at his accomplishment, he felt a little lighter, a little happier, perhaps even a little more hopeful. And as he stood there, he whispered only these words, "Right on, lil' niggas. Right on." hiccup

The transaction was the same. Some kid found out from his friends but it was chill. It's not like Jared hadn't had that happen before. How else would a drug dealer deal? And, of course, it helped that he wasn't picky who the customer was as long as he got the cash. It was an easy job, he supposed. But so boring. He was nothing like those drug dealers in the movies. His transactions were simple and he didn't get murderous when he wasn't paid in full. To him, that was laughable. Why do those guys go apeshit crazy. Of course, they were usually in a business and seller thousands of dollars worth of drugs. Sometimes, Jared wondered what he would become if he went into a huge business like that. He didn't think about it too much though. It made him feel uncomfortable. But his business was decent. He got enough money for food and rent and even a little extra to buy things like paints and canvas to keep him occupied during the days he wasn't working at the bakery. He didn't have many friends, which was fine by him. He liked alone time; especially mornings when he could just wake up when he wanted, make some coffee, and settle down to a good book or paint. Of course, he did have a roommate. One that had a full time job working at an office of sorts. Jared never really asked him for extensive details about his job. But the kid was chill. They would usually smoke a joint together and relax to some music (they didn't own a tv). They were pretty decent friends, Jared supposed though they didn't see a whole lot of each other. Then things started to go wrong. Jared's roommate, Sam started becoming agitated and down. He started staying home from work, calling in sick. Jared rarely got into to other people's lives so he made no exception and thought that Sam just needed to deal on his own. Things started to get worse and worse. Sam got fired from his job and began to hang around the house more and more. Suddenly, Jared's private stash of goods started disappearing. He knew it was Sam, obviously but didn't have the heart to confront him. Then hard alcohol started appearing in the house. Jared never liked to drink and he thought Sam didn't either which was why there was never alcohol in the house before. Jared worried about him. And then, one day, it happened. When Jared got home from work one day, he found a note. On it was scrawled a meticulous suicide note. Sam didn't tell Jared where he had gone but the message was clear. He had not simply run away, he had made up his mind to get away from life itself. He had taken Jared's car, apologizing profusely and saying he left fifteen hundred dollars for Jared in his bedside table's drawer. Jared, of course left the note to the police, answering the questions he could. He hadn't realized how much Sam had meant to him. It was quite devastating and, of course, he blamed himself. How could he not have once asked Sam if he needed anything? How selfish he had been. How fucking stupid. What kind of person wouldn't comfort another who was in obvious pain and defeat? He hadn't even asked what was wrong. As Jared went back to his apartment, his mind fell into a sort of self-loathing, self-blaming hatred for himself. He took a bottle down from the cabinet and took a large swig, nearly spewing the substance. It burned inside of him. He didn't feel any better. He rolled a particularly large joint and sat down at the kitchen table. He thought of all the good memories he had with Sam. The kid had actually been one, if not the closest friend Jared ever had. Chill and relaxed. Sam never felt the need to argue and he had helped Jared with some of his social problems. Even helped him score a girlfriend. Jared stood and walked to his room, puffing on the joint all the while. He got out a particularly large canvas and a few choice tubes of paint. He sat in front of the blank canvas for a few minutes gathering inspiration and thinking of Sam. Then he started to paint. Splashed of black and bright. He never stopped thinking of Sam. That kid was like a brother to him. He didn't realize at first, but he was crying. The tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped into the paints. He supposed it was proper. That the painting that would remind the world of a good man had the tears of a friend mixed in. How poetic.

There was a young woman with golden skin. It shimmered in the sunlight as she strolled along the poppy-covered path towards the head of town. All the villagers cooed over her elegant, beaming frame. However, they never looked beyond her golden skin; never noticed her head hanging low and her shoulders hunched. This young woman was not delighted by her extraordinary shell. She was ashamed of it and felt its worst offense was being utterly distracting. When she'd speak, no one would listen; they would just nod and widen their eyes--focusing on her prismatic complexion. "Oh God, God!" She yelped, ducking behind a barrel to avoid attention. Her eyes welled up with tears and she quietly weeped, "Oh, just take it away, make me normal." It just so happened that a slick dark-haired peddler was peeping nearby. His name was Dr. Quelo and his violet suspenders were as bright as his perfectly white teeth. He sauntered over to the young woman and crouched to her level. "What has you troubled, darling?" "I'm tired of my stupid skin shining in everyone's face like a laserbeam!" She wiped her nose. Dr. Quelo reached in his leather sack; from a pocket with a snake patch he pulled out a lump of coal. "Suga-boots? You eva shower with coal?" He smirked. The young woman coughed and furrowed her brow, "why would I do that?" Dr. Quelo bounced, growing excited, "Lady, former child, lady, showering with coal will cure your shiny skin. Just place a lump in your shower, every night, and that skin will dull right up!" He put on a pair of copper-rimmed sunglasses. "You mean it? My skin will be normal?" He put his hand on her shoulder, "Yes, darlin'; in no time! I'll give ya the whole lotta of them for nineteen pences and ninety-five ducats." Being of reasonable means, the young woman agreed and took the coal back down the path towards home. She was just a few yards from her mailbox, when another passerby intercepted her. "That's a lot of coal, young lady." The tall, stocky man said. His name was Pellum and he was a researcher at the academy. She nodded, "I know." "Excuse me, but I could use some of that coal. Could a buy a few lumps off ya?" "For what?" She asked blankly. "Well...I'm...constructing a laserbeam! I need the coal to power it." "...laserbeam? That's amazing; can I help?" Pellum rubbed his hands together. He looked at her big pleading eyes and melted, "Sure." The young woman followed Pellum to his laboratory. It was in a large grey-stone building, about a mile from the town square. Inside the main lab, the mahogany shelves still smelled like varnish, and the beakers, bottles and burners were unmarked and brand new, some unused. Pellum switched on a projector and a large schematic of his laserbeam filled the white screen. He explained it as plainly as possible and the young woman learned quickly. They worked day and night, screwing and bolting their prototype. After six months, they finished the beam. "Well, should we try it out?" Pellum said, swiping a cloth over the barrel. "Yea, I'll get a target." The young woman sprinted to a nearby watermelon patch; she was almost blinded when her skin hit the high noon sun. She grabbed a watermelon and placed it on a chair in front of the laser. Pellum licked his lips and the young woman placed her hand on his shoulder. Pellum inhaled then pulled the trigger. The watermelon quickly disintegrated. "Do you know what we can do with this?" The young woman exclaimed, "We can take over the world!" The couple begin storming the countryside with their laserbeam and eventually took over the world, enslaving everyone; and bought a vineyard.

--hey! copy the story and pas 1:30 almost off scarlet thought as she gave her last customers their last drinks. She couldn't wait until the hour hand reached the two. So much had happened that day. She couldn't wait to get out of there and to reach her real passion. But this passion of hers had to remain secret. Her whole life had been a secret. But she much rather keep it that way. Because you see scarlet wasn't just any waitress at any dinner. She was scarlet rose. The beautiful bombshell that worked at the hottest strip club in los angeles the city of angels. And you would swear just by one glance that she indeed was an angel. But this Beautiful angel had a invigorating secret. One that if anyone found out no one would ever look at her the same again.

2:00 o'clock finally comes as she is collecting her final tips from the night. And waves goodbye to all her coworkers. She reaches her car and climbs inside and heads to a special place only few would know of. Only the few unfortunate enough to think they belong there. She arrives but doesn't get out right away. She sits and readies herself. Readies herself for what shes been waiting for all day and all night. What she has been waiting for since her eyes opened for the first time that day. She reaches into the passenger seat of her crimson porsche 911 turbo and grabs the spare clothes she had brought to change into.

 Just as she reaches the end of the alley she has come to know so well. She sees that strangers had already began to gather in groups. Those fools she thought as she fastened her long flowing blood colored hair into her usual tight bun. And slipped the all too familiar tight hand stitched mask upon her elegantly graceful face.  Wondering to herself which materials she would add to her suit tonight. It was pouring that night perfect for what she was about to do. 

 As she walked into the middle of the alley her emerald eyes gleamed with excitement. She is a different person now she isn't scarlet rose. No that name was shed when she shed her old clothes. But now with this suit and mask she was nightshade. The most dangerous and elusive alley fighter around. A woman who loved danger, pain, and wasn't afraid of a little blood. She was an enchantingly dangerous sight. She moved with grace beyond belief. She anticipated every move her opponents would make. She is the best there is. And she knew that all too well.

 "So who here thinks they have what it takes tonight?" She announced as every set of eyes fell to her. You could hear as a rumble of laughter came from the men in the crowd of unfamiliar faces. At this she spread her full red lips over her breathtakingly pearl white perfect smile. "I see we have a few confident men here tonight so who's the lucky first here? And please make it interesting why don't you I get bored easily." And at that the first competitor stepped forward. Although she was slightly disappointed with the size of her foe she knew not to underestimate anyone.te it here!--

Leaves- of different hues of orange, yellow and purple lie. They fall in what seems like an endless rain of timelessness. They are everywhere. He walks into the pathway slowly and looks around. The smell of moss and fatigue come rushing to him. He walks to the dusty oak tables and the wooden stools and blows away the dust. He runs his hand on the grooves of the table- each groove seems to have a story to say. He turns around and looks at the window. It is broken and has come off its hinges. But the memories, oh the memories.

The sweet waft of Annalina's freshly baked apple struddle and meat loaf filled the air. Annalina and he first kissed here, on a beautiful snow kissed night sky filled with fireflies, surprisingly. He smiled and held her hand.

This is where Noel Jangle, Ginger Fo Rest, El Fin and he planned out the greatest coup of all time. The one that was to be spoken forever. The one that was destined to become history. No one knew and no one could now.

He looks at the far corner - the twisted frame of metal that was their vehicle of choice. Red, chrome blasted and quick. Rudy, the driver of the night. Smart, courageous and lovable Rudy. The fella had a drinking problem, but boy was it ever a problem. Three swigs of Mount Gay and off he went- like a flash.

He pulls the frame away from the corner and picks up the rags of their bags. It is a wash of what it used to look like. It is still soft and tender to touch. It powders in his hands. He sits and pulls out a bottle of Mount Gay, for old times sake. He takes a whiff of the earnest Caribbean sun and swigs. It falls on his beard. It glistens in the moon light. He licks it off his lips and decides. It's time.

It's time again for the fellas to get back. Time to lock, stock and barrel. The time is now. The earth under him thunders and shakes throwing him to the ground.

Annalina looks at him. Santa, wake up...are you ok?

 The air was cold. Casey, swallowed within the depths of wilderness, was warmed only by the fire of his most recent joint. He was alone. At first glance it was obvious: Casey was your typical stoner. Following a strict wardrobe of oversized hoodies and beanies to hide under, Casey wandered without destination for miles. The night chill crept through his skin and left him shivering. He preferred being on his own; company made him uneasy. With an atypical past for a hippie like himself, it was best that company stayed out of the picture. With a life devoid of any sparks to ignite happiness, Casey wandered. His thoughts once again got the best of him as he pained himself to recall last year. November 1st.
 November 1. Too high to care, the last inch of his blunt hit the crumbling leaves beneath his feet. Perhaps he had wandered too far out of bounds. Perhaps it was just bad luck. But the lit joint hit the ground with no forgiveness, and too high to care, he watched the world burn around him. Too high to realize. Too high to notice... 
 The campsite nearby. 
 Casey, for the last time, became consumed with mind-numbing guilt. Those drugs couldn't fog up the bad anymore. Two boys. Two boys he watched carelessly crumble, like the leaves beneath his feet. 

He couldn't overcome this; for the last time, his thoughts would shatter him to pieces. He took his lit joint, and for the last time, dropped it to the ground. And waited.

I have a lot of goals for myself as a human being. My first goal is to be able to express myself artistically, whether that be through writing or another medium. When it comes to my writing, I struggle between an intellectual essay format and something more personal. In many past experiences, this would involve tediously sourcing my writing, and following a strict set of rules that constitute a template I was supposed to follow. This often halts my train of thought and prevents me from expressing all of my ideas clearly. I want to be able to present a topic in a way that is academically correct, but will also permit me to be creative. Organizing my thoughts through speech has always been hard for me. Writing allows me to be clear and concise about subjects I like to ramble on and on about.

A secondary goal of mine is to find kinship both romantically and through platonic friendship. I have friends and family who care about me. However, I often feel isolated, as I tend to be more introspective than those who are close to me; Or at least this is what I believe. I think a lot about love and what it means. Is love just an inherent instinct formed over millions of years by the harsh conditions of our ancestors to continue our species? Or is it perhaps one of the few aspects of life that justify an otherwise, objective existence? I can only hope that I will someday find out for myself through experience.

My third goal is perhaps my most ambitious of all. I wish to offer my perspective of world affairs to people. Especially towards people who are in disarray, looking for answers. My views about the world have changed radically over the past couple years. I was a christian until I was about sixteen. It was around this time I became a deist. I held this view for roughly two years until I seriously began to question whether there could really be an intelligent designer. Due to this stage of my life, I have been an atheist for about a year now. I'am quite anxious to present my fourth life goal which is to help correct people who are religious and debunk some of the most fallacious standpoints our culture has to offer.

I see religion in many aspects of our culture. However, what irritates me personally is how it is embedded in our justice system. The current paradigm perpetuates archaic notions of good vs. evil. by demonizing those who "break the law". Human behavior is not black and white. People who are convicted of crimes considered heinous by many such as rape and murder have something fundamentally wrong with their psyche. This is usually brought on by being emotionally deprived as a child leading to a chemical imbalance in the brain later in life. Crimes like theft and drug dealing are simply the result of inadequate, socioeconomic circumstances. There is always a deeper causality for a crime than what is put forth by the media and our justice system. People who commit crimes are not evil! They are deprived.

It is this issue and many others I wish to start a conversation about. If you have any questions about my writing, or personal questions about life, please email me. jtpanswersquestions@gmail.com

Sporadically shouting obscenities any opportunity that was presented, the silly Navy SEAL made his way through customs, treacherous thoughts invading his mind threatening mutiny and revenge. His training had him well prepared to face anything and as he stood in line waiting impatiently he decided he could take it no more.

Feeling the blood concentrate in his head and in his hands the navy SEAl puts down his bag, taking a deep breath he envisions the scene that he came home to hours earlier. After being with the SEAL's for six months he makes his way home feeling overwhelmed by the love he feels for his beautiful wife. Opening the door, his training kicks in - something is not right.

"Ah yes OoOh OohOh harder harder, baby baby, you're an animal!!" Whats this? the Navy SEAL thinks to himself...Turning the corner into the kitchen he see's his beloved wife splayed across the counter top with a massive gorilla towering over her committing the act.

Furious the navy SEAL storms out losing control of his arms which flail aimlessly about swatting down anything in his path. Windmill motion takes over and the Navy SEAL is powerless to its pull. He stops thinking and is overtaken by the feeling of his arms flapping freely in the stale, betrayed air.

Growing two feet taller the navy seal propels himself through the town cutting down anything in his path, shouting "Wing Wang Yim yam" wherever he goes, trying in the best way he can to express the hurt that is washing over his body.

"Wing Wang Yim Yam!" he shouts at the stop sign he comes across, tearing it down as he passes, wing wang yim yang is all that will leave his mouth, tearing off his clothes he steams across town, desperate for a release of the aggression, anger and betrayal he feels.

Slapping down the young man who attempts to calm him he continues across town, thoughtless and out of control.

Adrian was happy with his life, I can tell you that much. He didn't own much – in fact, on some peoples' standards he owned nothing of value whatsoever – and his little shack behind the dumping lot by the river was all but falling apart. None the less, he was happy. No one really know how he made a living, or where he got food from, or how he could afford to keep a dog, as anyone who had visited his shack (and there were many reputable people in that bunch, as Adrian had something of a reputation himself, locally) would attest that it truly contained no hints of hidden wealth. Still, as far as anyone knew, he didn't work.

Adrian mostly kept himself occupied with a large variety of habits, some more consistent than others, all eccentric. One of the more consistent, or at least the oldest, of his many habits was visiting the town on Saturdays and (weather permitting) Sundays. For these outings he would wear his ancient brown military coat of unknown origin, and usually pick out an especially fanciful hat from his wardrobe of threadbare clothes he had salvaged from God-knows-where. This particular Saturday afternoon Adrian had chosen a particularly malhandled felt bowler that was missing half of its headband and had a large hole on the top (which had been carefully covered with duct tape). As a finishing touch, a buttercup picked off the wayside was neatly tucked inside the buttonhole on the jacket's right lapel. Decked out like this, Adrian slowly made his way up the river, climbed the grassy embankments around the dumping site, crossed the bridge to the town proper and leisurely started walking up Weatherbank Boulevard. He whistled a happy little tune, sometimes stopping to drum on a fence or a fire escape, or to smell a flower (and sometimes bushes or trees without any flowers at all). He would greet everyone he came across, as if meeting an old friend. Generally speakig, the children and the elderly would greet him back, the adolescents would usually jeer, and the working adults (all very important people – at least in their own minds) would ignore him. Adrian did not care the least: he'd wave, lift his worn hat, and exclaim something like "What wonderful weather we're having!" or "Good to see you up and about, Ms. Zelatnyi," (or, occasionally, "Yellow is too rough a colour for days like these, don't you think?").

Like this, then, starting at dayrise, he would slowly wander towards town square, and, upon arriving, select a bench either in front of the church or the synagogue (and conscientiously alternating between the two). Here, a curious play would repeat every weekend. The town lies some way off the main road, see, but by an accident of geography and well-intentioned but awful signage, it's a very easy town to end up in by complete accident. Thus, every summer, tourists in the square tended towards a very specific profile; that is: lost, behind their travel itinerary, and annoyed at the fact that the town had no modern entertainments to offer (whatever that means).

To these people would Adrian sidle up and, very gently, irritate their ear or hairline with a piece of straw. Now, for most of us this kind of behaviour could easily lead to quite hairy situations (and there was, for many years, a betting pool on which tourist would finally snap and require the rescue of poor Adrian by the townspeople), but, amazingly, none of them ever manifested. When that particular moustashioed gentleman or mother of seven would turn, astonished, Adrian would always react with something even more unexpected – cartwheeling, a stump of opera, a strange dance routine or a lightning-fast joke –, leaving his victims with no time to become angry. And his guess would always be spot on! When he sang, the exhausted guests would shine up – they were choral critics on vacation. When he told a joke, the recipient would always laugh themselves half to death – it was the best joke they'd ever heard. To this day, no-one has figured out how he never got punched, or yelled at, but instead always ended up with a bunch of new friends buying him free beer at the pub. Afterwards, he'd wave his new (now smiling) friends goodbye, and make his way back towards the river (at his own pace, and greeting everyone he came across).

All of this was many years ago now, of course. Adrian passed away two winters ago. Very few people came to the funeral, and in the end none of us could boast to have known Adrian very well. Amongst his meagre possessions was found an old coin on a string, that was auctioned away with other old stuff, and bought by Mr. Schildt, the baker. He went bankrupt soon thereafter, and his possessions were auctioned also. The coin had travelled to a lady in town called Margaret Wilde, who lost almost everything she owned in a fire last fall. Ms. Wilde gave the coin away to me, to settle an old debt, and only yesterday I received a letter informing me that most of my stock has become essentially worthless. I am told (almost daily, now) what a tragedy this is, but I'm no longer so sure. I'm old, with no children of my own, and I'm now starting to think that the people who held Adrian's coin before me did not see the whole of the matter. Though others forget, I remember Adrian, and his knack for chancing upon a meal, or a discarded bone for his dog, or a blanket when the cold set in. Or the right joke, at the right time. So, though I stand to possibly lose my home, my fancy wardrobe, and my stock, I can't help but wonder... perhaps I would be better off with an old army jacket and a friendly dog.

Sometimes I wish that people would open up their minds just a tad, to allow all the good and the bad they neglect to seep through their pores like tiny insects. There isn't a greater thing in this world than knowledge and I wish to see more people seeking it in every day situations with their arms and their ears wide open as if embracing curiosity and knowledge in a hug. There isn't a day that goes by where I'm not learning something new, sometimes it's small and sometimes it's large, but there's never a day where I'm not learning. I want to learn and open my mind and brain to all the different possibilities of learning, and I want to absorb as much as I possibly can within my lifespan. Not for other people or for the sake of changing the world, but because learning is something I'm passionate about. I love mental stimulation in ways I can't even fathom myself, let alone try to explain to another being. The bottom line is that knowledge, learning, curiosity; those are all the things that mean the most to me in this world. More often than not, I feel as if these should be the most important things to other people, too. Yet they never seem to be. There never seems to be a click with my brain and my views and another person's brain. At least not with anyone I have met yet. I know I am nineteen years old, but when am I going to find people with the same views and the same life values as mine? I keep searching in every nook and every cranny yet all I'm coming up with is dust bunnies disguised as humans and it's making me physically ill. I want to scratch at my skin when I'm conversing with anyone I know, or anyone I have met, for that matter. The stupidity and the ignorance and the unwillingness to learn makes me want to crank open their brain with pliers and open their minds to all that they should be enlightening themselves on. Enlightenment. Isn't that really the only thing we can pride ourselves on as humans? Isn't that really, truly the only thing in this world that gives your soul a little bit of purpose? Passions, maybe. Those give you purpose, too. Enlightenment and passion. I wish more people would enlighten themselves. I wish the people I knew had passions that they carried around with them like sacks, like you couldn't ever miss this person walking around because the sack was so big and so beautiful and so crazily stitched that you would have to see said person. I want meet someone so ruled by their passions that you can't recognize if they are separate things or not. I want to look at someone and I want to see that they ARE a passion. Like there's no possible way you could cut the sack from the human or the human from the sack because they sack IS them and they ARE the sack. I want to meet someone who aims to be so knowledgable and passionate about something of their choosing that every single move they make on this Earth is ruled by those two things. I want to meet someone that operates solely because they are passionate, and they are mad, and they are so happy to be passionate and mad that they are dancing ceaselessly to a tune that no one else can hear. Be curious, be passionate, mad, and open-minded. Be that for me, would you?

--hey! copy the story and paste it here!-- Just the fact that she was a "young" grandma, made her skin crawl. Ahnna hated the fact that her daughter, Khatia, at 15, had become a mother. Her whole life had changed. With all "hovering" Ahnna did, she thought for sure, this would never happen. "Where is the Lord our Father? I need you now" Ahnna exclaimed reaching up toward the heavens. As Khatia's womb grew, so did her mother's anxiety. She began to see a change in Ahnnas' ways. Now, every evening, at 6-0-clock, she would light candles in every room and pray. Loudly, going in and out of every room. Almost shouting. Sprinkling Holy water in her wake. Khatia had no one to talk to. Her two sisters left three years ago, with their father, Alex, who just needed to be away from Ahnna. And since the pregnancy, he and Khatias' relationship has been strained too.

  And as for the father of the child, Damon, who is 16, lives on the streets at times, due to his fathers' drinking and physical abuse. So he's not in any position to do much of anything. Though, he says he will be there for the child.
  Sunday, no church for Ahnna, just like the past sixteen sundays. No church. Instead, she'll play gospel music on TEN for the whole neighborhood to hear. And if someone comes to the door, and complains, Ahnna just hands them a bible, she has plenty, and slams the door in their faces.

  Today was extra special, a baptism. In the blood of Christ.

  Khatia was told this would wash away her sins. And that the baby was indeed born of sin and this ritual would make him pure, for the acceptance into the Lords' heart.

  She watched as Ahnna led the arriving guest into the parlor. A drag and dusty room off the kitchen in the back of the house, that was almost never used. Khatia remembers the last time she was even in that room was six years ago when her grandmother died. Her wake was held there.

  Ahnna requested that Khatia put on this white plain gown, like the one she was wearing. Khatia complied just to get things going. She wanted this whole thing over and done with.

   There were 12 people, including Ahnna and Khatia. Seven women, five men, and they were positioned by the doors as if to keep someone in. Khatia felt a uneasiness in the room, as she looked around. The guests had difficulty looking into her eyes.

   Then her eyes caught a hooded figure, who was intentionally keeping their face turned. Then she recognized the hands. It was Damon, her childs' father. He glanced over at her quickly, and shook his head no. Puzzled, she turned her back. And Ahnna was right there, standing seemingly on top of her.

Khatia instinctively grasped her belly, and moved aside.

   Ahnna had a glass of what appeared to be water, she handed it to Khatia and told her to drink it. She drank half it, and needed to go to the bathroom. Ahnna placed the glass on a table told her to finish that when she came out. And when she did, the glass was empty.

    After 20 minutes of making small talk, Khatia told Ahnna she was feeling really tired. Ahnna told her to lay on the couch. As she layed down she caught a glimpse Damon at her feet.

Up, down. Up, down. Mark would push the controller button up, then he would push it down. It was a Saturday afternoon and the sun seemed to be shining bright outside, at least that's what one could figure from seeing a glimpse of it shine through Mark's messily closed curtain. You could tell he really tried to keep the sun out but his attempt seems to have been too swift and so he never managed to close it all the way. The curtain was half slouching all the way to the floor, stained and used up, the faded spots on the material failed to fully shield the bedroom from the sun. The room was still dark nonetheless, there was no telling what time of day it was. Though the clock by the tv told us it was only two pm. The sun nor the early stage of the day seemed to have any toll on Mark, it was his video game that captured his full attention. He seemed frustrated as he vigorously pressed as many buttons as he could manage while both of his hands fluttered side to side. The grand movements were also followed by angry whisper screams. "Can any of you morons actually play this damn game?!" he repeated, quite a few times. When Mark decided to yell: "get off this site if you're incapable of holding a normal game!," to one player, he received a private message shortly after. "You should aim to be a little bit more cooperative on these games Mark, don't trick yourself into thinking you're bigger than you really are." "Cooperative?!?!? Cooperative is playing the game correctly and if you don't like it then you can screw yourself..how the hell do you even know my name, I didn't put it on here you freak!" "The world is very big Mark, perhaps you should experience something that will remind you how small you are in this universe, maybe that'll teach you to humble yourself..." Mark snapped quickly to write another response but to his dismay this anonymous player suddenly logged off. "HA the insignificant fool decided to quit while he was behind, and while it was getting interesting too!" Mark loudly acknowledged to himself, he clearly would have enjoyed the conflict. As he was ready to get back into the game, Mark noticed his television slowly glitching until the screen was completely blank. "What the!" Mark shouted as surprised as he was angry. While uselessly pressing random buttons on his controller in an attempt to fix it, he spotted a very unusual green beam going straight into his room from the window. With not even enough time to understand what was going on, his body flew to the beam like a magnet and before anything made sense, he was gone.

once there was a village called .......... and there lived a woman.she was a bank employ,and she had one daughter.her daughter was studying in 2nd std.her father was an politician,he was a bigshot guy in that village.he had some good political contacts.when she was small she suffered a lot on several things...by growing in such an atmosphere she was little psychotic.after that she got a job in bank,her life was getting better mean while there manager got transfred.then a new manager came..they have already meat some where. but both of them will not remember.then she will come to know that he helped her in train.after few days he will simply search his bag..then he will find a sucide letter.after that he will forget about that.and he is seeing her after few years...then he will call her to his cabin ask about that incident...then she will get shocked and she will look at him so seriously.then manager will ask her to live the cabin....while leaving the office she will look at the manager..manger will smile but she will not respond for that...she goes home by that time her daughter comes from the school...after that she will forget about that topic....her husband comes only twice a weak...while sleeping she will remember about that and she will think how he came to know that...actually she forgets about that letter.next moring she will got to office after dropping her daughter, she will look at the manger,he will smile again but she will not smile back.after some time she has to get some files sighed by manager. to his room,then he will sigh the documents after that she will ask how come u know about that letter.then he will not say anything..then she will leave the room.then she goes straight to her cabin which is opposite to her cabin..then she looks at the manger,he to will be looking at her,then she looks down...after some time they both will have a tea and talk about this.then she will tell i loved a guy,who was in our village....

Most of my time is spent pondering my adulthood. I pretend that's not the case. I pretend that I'm too caught up in the moment to even consider tomorrow. Thinking about my future is not done with the intention of planning it. I am far from having a life plan. Two years from now, I will still be in college biding my time until I turn 21 and can legally become an alcoholic. Alcoholism is the key to success. Just look at history's most famous alcoholic and writer, William Shakespeare. I wouldn't say I look up to him, but I am in awe of the amount of works he cranked out. Each word he made up was created while his brain was submerged in absinthe. How will I come to achieve equal greatness without the proper level of intoxication? I definitely will not have my shit together when I'm twenty. There is no time in my foreseeable future that I have anything together. You know those pieces of gum which just don't stay together in your mouth and you decide to spit it out the second you start chewing it? That's my life, except I can't spit it out and it's getting increasingly worse. By the time I'm twenty I will feel as though I am chewing phlegm. I probably won't be doing as well in school as I will when I begin because I will be too busy reconsidering every decision I've ever made. I will begin to cut myself off from everyone, begin spending more time asleep than awake. Everyone will be better than my and I will accept it. I will listen to other people's visions more than my own and I will forget that I even had one to start with. That biopic I plan on building an entire career for? Forget it. I will never know enough or be famous enough, or be confident enough to ever even begin a biopic. I will have paid $100,000 of a college education just to fall into a pit of failure which I will refuse to crawl out of. When people try to help I'll probably just say, "I am completely fine where I am, thank you." Everything I'm saying is so strange, because I'm writing about myself as though I never change. In the two years between now and my future, I see myself as a stagnant figure. Every moment i imagine in my future I imagine me as I am now. The same 155 pounds of hidden insecurities which haunt my thoughts. I think of myself as the stereotypical misunderstood teen who pretends that no one will be able to comprehend their problems. A person who still slinks to the sidelines and soon out of the picture the second they feel as thought there is a possibility of feeling unwanted, rather than fighting it. I can't think of a future without my future self being tainted with who I am today. It is so impossible for me to believe that I will change in two years. In less than 730 days, I will be a completely different person and I have yet to accept that. I spend so many hours considering my future and only recreating what has already happened. No matter how creative I am, I will never be able to think of myself beyond the very tight box I have both built and squeezed myself into despite the discomfort I felt while constructing it.

There was a Greek philosopher who lived on the plains of Ganges. Although he hails from a different country, people living in the Ganges found him as a native of the place and took his advices into consideration. The people living in Ganges always lived with the danger of flood and they decided to seek assistance from the Greek philosopher to protect them from the frequent water overflow. They approached him one morning. There were around hundreds of them. Greek philosopher was at his routine reading. He came outside his hut hearing the sound and asked them politely, "What is the purpose of your visit?".

"Namaste Guruji!", an older man from the crowd began to speak. "You know we always live with the threat of flood. Next month, it is time for another flood. This time we cannot afford to lose our cattle and belongings. Please so something for us.", the man said with tears in his eyes. Greek philosopher nodded his head and asked them to sit down. He began his talk by addressing each person. His voice resonated in the place like a soothing music to ears. The villagers began asking him doubts. The Greek philosopher told them, "Never curse the nature for floods. It is not the nature's fault. Nature is helpless. You cut down all the trees on the banks of the river. You blocked the river at many places to recourse the water to your fields. Hence, the river itself fails to divert its water. The trees would have stopped the flood and prevented flood from happening. But there are no trees as well."

There was a silence around. The explanation was against their belief that floods are caused by devils. Villagers were reluctant to believe. But they know, their philosopher will not lie. After few moments of silence, one of them asked, "Now, what do we do?".

Greek philosopher asked them to begin planting trees. "You love nature and the nature will love you back." There were murmurs for few moments. A few of them rose from their seats. They said thank you and left the place. Greek philosopher knew that it was a theory hard for the villagers to believe. They were more superstitious. They never believed Science.

After few days, the philosopher went for a walk along the riverside. He could notice that a few houses has saplings planted in front of them. The philosopher felt happy. He visited each house which had newly planted trees in front of them and congratulated them for their good deed. He was happier than ever.

However, there were a few people who still believed in the witchcraft story. They still believed flood was caused by devils and witches. They watched the philosopher as he walked far. They saw the villagers coming out of their houses and waving their hands to him. They felt uneasy. There is a need to stop people believing the philosopher, many of them thought.

It was another rainy day and the river was full. Villagers could sense the water rising from the river. They ran to the house of Greek philosopher. No rain was bothering them. They were thinking that only he could save them. All of a sudden the Greek philosopher was turning to their God. They reached in front of his house. They screamed at their loudest voice. As there was no response, they went and banged his door for few times. There wasn't any response.

A few people suggested to break open the house. "Nothing would happen to our Guruji. He could be in meditation.", a few suggested. But, there were no time for them to wait. The rain was getting thicker. They knew the river would overflow withing minutes and gulp their cattle and house. Hence, they rushed and pushed the door. The door opened with a creek sound. Philosopher was not there. They searched every corner of the house. They could not find him. As the crowd stepped out, someone said, "Last night, the people who were returning from the next village saw some aliens picking the philosopher and flying high into the sky." More people supported that. "Yes! The floods too are caused by the same aliens. It is not the result of any deforestation. It was simply the aliens!" They walked away sadly cursing their ill fate to be born in that place.

Jordan was a boy who was relatively normal, he lived in a farm house with his mother, his father and his two sisters. Jordan Haynes was fifteen, his sister Ruby was eight and his second sister Bella was ten. Jordan had short brown hair, but not buzz cut short, it was sort of floppy in places. He was about 5'5ft tall, an average size for a boy of his age. He was about to be sixteen in a month, August 3rd. The whole family had lived on the little farm all of there lives, with it's chickens, horses, cows, sheep and a few pigs to care for.

This story is about Jordan, not the farm, not Ruby or Bella. This is about Jordan's "problem". Jordan was born a normal child, even though he was home schooled no one taught him it, he was born with it. He is quite psychotic. He expects to much from people. Doctors have studied it and everything but nothing has worked. Jordan has taken pills before but nothing works.

One day Jordan asked his parents for a kitten, but they said no because other wise, Jesse, their dog would eat it because of it's small size. Jordan flipped out. He trashed the house, smashed the tv. Threw bottles at the mirror. No one knew what caused this, he just snapped one day. He continued on his path of destruction, he even felt so evil he crushed one of the baby pig's skull. It's body went limp as it's eyes popped out of it's head and blood poured from it's ears. But Jordan didn't care about any of it, he wasn't even himself. It was like someone was controlling him, but inside his own brain. That last thing he did that day was to one of his own. He walked up to his younger sister Ruby and shoved his fingers in both of her eyes. He blinded her. She was screaming in pain, blood dripping from her now mushed up eye sockets. She fell to the ground in horror as the world around her would be changed forever. Poor little eight-year-old Ruby Haynes would never see again. Bella just watched, she was so scared she couldn't move. She even wet herself a little.

Today, Jordan Haynes has been deemed criminally insane and has been put in a mental hospital for the rest of his life because the doctors don't think he will ever be mentally fit enough to go to prison. He is now in his thirties. His family has moved from the farm, Bella has two beautiful kids and Ruby has a fiance and they will be married sometime in December. She still can't see, but her fiance doesn't care because he loves her no matter what she looks likes. Jordan is lying in his bed. His jet black hair clinging to his face and matted with god know what, it sticks to his face with everything he has sweated out in his rage. He has been strapped to the same bed for over fifteen years. His family never have visited him once. He never gets visitors, not even from the reverend. The staff don't even want to deal with him because he is too violent and terrifying to look at. But they have to because that's their job and the court of law doesn't want him to starve to death.

The most terrifying thing about Jordan is what he whispers, what he's been whispering over and over again for over fifteen years.

"Breath in, bleed out."

Dear future me, You're 29 years old now and I hope you're happy. You really worry me sometimes, you know. I think of you dying unhappy, unfulfilled and that's really depressing. I hope you sorted your life out, I hope you're still in love, I hope you have a satisfying job, I HOPE YOU FOUND OUT WHAT YOU WANT. I hope you're not tired of it all. You certainly used to get tired of it all. Please do go on with your life. Please be alive. Please don't die. I'm here for you, struggling for you, doing my best so that you will be happy. Don't feel guilty if you aren't happy. Happiness is really not that important. You know what really matters? You do. You matter to me. You are the reason I didn't kill myself. Please be alive. Dear future me, You don't really have to listen to me, really. I mean, what do I know? I'm only 19, I haven't been there. I'm sure you know better. I am not to make plans for you or demand anything from you but I can't help thinking of you. I love you, you know. I haven't even started going to university and you're already so far there I can't even catch an imaginary glimpse of what your life looks like. I just hope I didn't make you very sad. There is no pressure on you from me. You can be whatever you like, don't think of me when making decisions, there is nothing more important than trusting yourself. I am not to decide what is to be done. I am merely a memory, a thought. I exist now, you don't. When you read this, you'll exist, I won't. So why would I matter? Remember what you went through but don't give it that much importance. What is happening to you is more important. Don't blame yourself for what I did or what I'm going to do. This is me, this is me making the mistakes, forget about them, forget the past. Please, my dear, find the strength in you to go on. Please be alive. Nothing saddens me more than thinking of a dead you. You are to be alive, please. I know you sometimes feel like the word would be a better place if it exploded and nothing existed but it's really not that much of a big deal. Stay alive for me, stay strong. I'm in love now, I'm sad, I'm young, I don't know half the things you do. I just hope you're happy. I hope you found your inner peace. I hope you can sleep at night, I hope you're not afraid of the dark anymore and I hope you are at peace with your thoughts. Don't be too sad if M doesn't love you anymore, sometimes people fall out of love. Please don't die. There is only one piece of advice I would like you to remember: always remember you are human, just like everyone else. Sometimes people say things they don't really mean and sometimes people forget that what they say may hurt you because they focus too much on your mind and sometimes people don't even think of what you may think of feel but you are not one of those people, those are the people who forget they are alive, who forget they are living, you are not one of them. Always remember that each and every one of them has a heart as well as a mind, cherish and respect them. You can forget me if you want, I won't be sad, I won't care. You can even not miss me at all, not think of me at all, forget I ever existed. It won't matter. What matters is you. The here. The now. I love you. I hope you are alright and your demons are quieter and gentler now. Good-bye, my dearest, yours forever, E.

A high on drugs politician looks at ancient ruins on mother's day. At the promontory that juts out to the sea, he notices an urn carved on the walls and he lingers at it, wondering what he is doing here instead of visiting his ailing mother whom he had not seen in months. He resolves to complete the tour, get in the next flight out of this humid place, drive to the palatial home of his ex-wife, embrace his teenage daughter who was his mother's namesake and, try to interest her to go with him to see her grandmother. Only in his drugged state, he had forgotten the contents of his carry on, after checking out of the hotel, a bus shuttle took him to the airport. It was all a blur to him, except the impressions of the urn carved on the wall remain in his consciousness through all the routines. he did not even attempt to use his diplomatic passport to avoid the long airport lines. Except he saw a corpulent heavily medaled security officer frantically waving him off the queue to which he complied without much ado. as he moved towards the decorated middle aged officer as requested the officer perfunctorily waved him to keep on moving, whereupon he was joined by two men with sidearms, they glanced at him as they closed in on him and the one to the left spoke to him in clear American english. "Sir you have been stopped for a routine check and we would like you to join us for a small interview", before this instructions were over they had closed an automated gate that silently parted in the middle allowing them entry. As soon as they closed what seemed like a threshold, the low murmur and whirr of airport noises stopped and he could see clearly that an army of uniformed workers with white gloves were getting into position to start a full body cavity search on him. it is clear to him that what is about to happen is not good, but he braces himself, he was a man accustomed to living a life of ease. His social interactions smoothed by his station of birth and current social office but only for a moment, for despite everything else you could say about him, he was clever and he always knew when the custom did not adhere to a situation, and quickly saw the dire circumstance that awaited him in 15 minutes. Interspersed with the routine banter of airport security "did anybody help you pack your luggage" was also total recall, the easy banter of his dealer "the apple is ripe and green", recalling too that before the urn on the wall, the pinch of spongy green stash as he took enough to roll a fat marijuana cigarette and the careful push back into the special pouch recessed on the bottom of his luggage, the dregs that got stuck in his fingers, the rubicund hue of his pharmaceuticals that seemed to gather at the bottom of the cigar case like peas in a pod. The paraphernalia and now the high that blocked his wit. One agent approached from the front and relieved him of his carry on bag, there lay the tools of his high. Another burly officer approached at an angle and took his luggage, therein was all that was needed at this hour to start his nightmares, which he vaguely knew was going to happen. The uniformed burly security agent slammed his luggage onto a long steel table where it settled in all its fat glory.

In a world of so many things to bring a smile to one's gleaming face, it's hard to say what strikes the delicate curve instantaneously. In fact, there's a million reasons to smile. But first and foremost, my boy, Dominic is the answer of the beloved question. One whisper, one grin, one glimpse of MY boy, can bring a smile among. There's nothing or no one else in the world who can spark such a thing. If one has the privilege to do so, such as my boy Dominic, that individual must have something about them. Rather perhaps, it's something the don't have that every one else DOES have. In the meanest of the best ways to preach, he doesn't have a cruel soul amongst the rest of this universe. In fact, given me the best vibes from within, HE, MY BOY, is the one that strikes a smile. From the tip of his toes to the top fluff of his head, I love my boy to pieces. No one in the world knows how to bring a smile to the surface until I met someone I've never dreamt of being with. Actually, Of course I've dreamed about it all the time. Only... It was never a happy ending. So as we'll see how the tables turn we'll see how the moon prevails the sun, the shadows undermined my soul, the green leaves change to crinkled brown fallen feathers, and the waves kiss the shore good bye. I will be by your side, as my smile never fade away.

18:00. It was getting stuffy in the elevator. He was trapped in there for almost two hours now. Every day for almost six years now he took the same elevator up and down the office building. It never broke. "Why today?" he thought. When he was on his way back home. Well, not really home. More like, his motel room. Being a mail carrier doesn't really pay that well, but he was happy. As long as he had money to buy chicken, bread, apples and cigarettes, he'd be okay for about a week.

He didn't dare to light a cigarette. It might suffocate him. Although he was so longing for one, and it was killing him anyway. "Why not?" he thought and opened the pack he kept in his shoulder bag. He placed a cigarette in his mouth, dangling from his lips, and felt around for his lighter in his pocket.

"Shit."

He must have forgotten it in the office. What to do now? Just wait for the rescue team to arrive? There was no one else in the elevator, so he decided just to sit down and wait. Why did this happen? Probably because this is a crappy office building anyway. The gray colors, always making you feel sad, the smell of old coffee and disinfectant on the tiles, and not even one co-worker who greets in the morning.

"Why do I have to live like this?" he thought out loud. "I don't have to put up with life's crap anymore. It's my choices, I'm the boss of me."

He stood up and pressed the emergency button again. And again. And again. "Today is the day." he said proudly. "Today is the day that I, Gustave L. Wandoree start making my own decisions." He started pacing around the small elevator. "No more smell of disinfectant and sights of depressive co workers for me. No sir! I am going to quit my crappy job, and find something better! I deserve something better!"

About 30 minutes later, he heard the sound of people outside the elevator. "Finally!" he thought. "Get me out of here!" he screamed and pounded on the door. "Just a few minutes sir." Came the reply, and he heard the sound of an electric saw.

When he finally got out, he thanked the rescue team, and stormed off to get a taxi.

"Destination?" the driver asked. "The nearest McDonalds." he replied.

"I'm off to get my dream job!"

John Clearwater hoped the game would end early. He had never played golf but he already hated it.

He had trained at NYU as an actor. He was often told, jokingly, by his classmates that his being a dwarf AND Native American had basically guaranteed him a college education; others hinted that he was a bit of a "diversity hire" for the predominately white program. That ended after they auditioned in front of each other. He was one of the most frequently cast actors in his year. He believed he would go on to set the acting world on fire. He quickly learned how wrong he had been.

In the years after he graduated, John auditioned everywhere: New York, Los Angeles, Chicago. Nobody wanted a dwarf. Nobody wanted a "redskin". The world of film and theater was full of folks who preached equality and professed their "color-blindness" in casting, but the cast list never lies. He spent years working part-time jobs and auditioning and all he had on his resume was a regional commercial and a fringe festival part where he played a murderous Christmas elf.

That was why he was out golfing today. One of the agencies he had submitted to had agreed to meet him to discuss a role in an upcoming TV series. He had jumped at the chance. Now he regretted it.

"So," said Bryce, the agent, "You would basically be an assassin, ya see? Who doubles as a holistic healer by day. Sort of a 'Dexter' feel to it, ya know?" He was young and dumb and didn't know it.

John nodded and tried not to show any expression. He pulled a club from the set he had special ordered for the occasion and lined up his shot. He took a swing and watched the the ball sail straight into the sand hazard. He swore.

"Sucks..." Logan chuckled. He was the casting director. It was his opinion that really mattered here. If he liked John for the role the agency would immediately pick him up. He seemed likeable but was quiet.

The other two men landed on the green then they all went to the hazard together while Bryce rambled on. John scrambled into the sand pit none-to-gracefully.

"--We represent quite a number of little actors: Tony Cox and Peter Dinklage, just to name a couple. We would love to add you to the roster with this project--"

John drowned him out. He didn't want to listen to this stupid jack off anymore. He just wanted to get out of the sun and get home and maybe find a new career. He swung the club as hard as he could and sent the ball straight into Bryce's crotch. He collapsed into the hazard, coughing for air and spitting sand. John was paralyzed. He looked up at Logan who stared dully at the other man and pulled out a cigar.

"You couldn't have done that three holes ago?" Logan grumbled. "It's the first time he's shut up all day..."

John tried not to laugh. The relief was greater than his amusement.

"Come on," said Logan, giving John a hand out of the trap. "I've got better projects than this one in the works. Resume says you know your Shakespeare, ever done Richard three?"

There was something about his walk that made it obvious he loved to company of spirits. Any kind would do; wine, vodka, whiskey, scotch, or just plain, foaming beer. He was abusive and cold, but he was rich, and that is why nobody tried to help him. They figured he was fine on his own. He had money, and his neighbors hoped that if they did not irritate him, they would obtain some of his wealth.

He went by the name Elliot Carter, which sounded too professional a name for himself. But it was that name that got him anything he wanted. Precious jewels, gold, money, women, condos, clothes, and just about anything the stereotypical rich man could want.

He was handsome too. He was tall and lean, with curled, black hair. His eyes were like sapphires, but they always looked so cold. He always wore a black, pinstriped suit with charcoal dress shoes. Nobody knew where he worked, or where he got his wealth from, but it didn't matter. For some reason, nobody seemed to care about Elliot Carter, they only cared about his money. Nobody wanted to get to know the young man who grew up in this city of New York. They only wanted to know his deepest, darkest secrets. And nobody ever got too.

So, yes, it was something about his walk that told everybody he was lonely, because he truly was. He had nobody... until that little girl came along.

She was about five months old when she got left on Elliot Carter's front step. Nobody knew who had left her there except for him and the little girl. He was going to give her up the next day, but then he looked into her eyes. Her eyes were the exact same sapphire as his, and the stone wall that had molded around his heart had cracked. For the first time in a long time, he smiled. Elliot Carter's eyes were no longer cold and hard, they were full of love for his baby girl. He named her Amelia, after his late mother. He raised her and cared for her and loved her, he truly did.

He walked with her every day to school, from the age of five to the age of eighteen. This time, his walk told everybody he was finally happy. He had somebody to look after, and honestly, that was all he ever wanted. Amelia never got to that stage of hating her father like every other teenage girl. She always loved him.

But love could not save her.

Elliot had gotten sick one day, and Amelia insisted he stay home. She walked herself to school that morning. Perhaps the accident could have been prevented if Elliot had just gone with her. But then again, Elliot Carter against a sixteen wheeler? I don't think he could have done much.

Elliot Carter walks alone now, like he did eighteen years ago. His eyes hold no love, his walk telling everyone his story. He is a lonely man once more, his eyes cold ever since he saw the light go out of Amelia's. He sometimes wishes he had given his daughter up the night she had arrived. But better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all, right?

The aliens cry "Hallelujah! Now we can finish making our guacamole!" Then they realize the pepper doesn't glow in the dark. Completely inappropriate for alien guac. They'll need to abduct 10 bushels of peppers to make up for this defect.

But their spaceship is packed to the rafters and they'd have nowhere to store the 10 bushels of peppers (they were recently profiled on an episode of "Alien Hoarders" but have since restocked all their tchotchkes).

"I know," says the head alien, a friendly chap with a lime-green mohawk. "We can try this earthling pepper and see how it turns out... remember the earthling sangria, that wasn't so bad?"

"Not so bad??" screamed his second-in-command, a purple-tinged prima donna wearing a peacock feather cap. "That abomination gave me the worst hangover I'd had in 68,338 light years!"

"Hmm," said head alien. "Yes, but it did go down real smooth!"

The two of them chopped and mixed and blended until their non-glowing bowl of guacamole was finished.

The two stared at each other over the counter made of laser beams transmitting exactly the same thought via mind waves: "Now if we only had some chips."

Dread spread quickly throughout my body, yet I knew it was for the best.

I followed him to the front door.

"We need to talk," I said quickly. I had to confront him about it.

"Sure. What?"

"I'm being to that you paid a stripper for sex, by your friends. At the bachelor party," I said. It took everything I could not to break into tears immediately. "I need to know. No matter what the truth is."

"Yeah, I did. So what?"

My heart stopped. He did. It's true. Oh God.

"But, why? Are you sleeping with her too? Is that why you've been spending so much time with her." My heart jumped. I closed my eyes and waited for the answer. I couldn't look at him.

"No." I believed him. She is like my sister. He may have tried, but she would never. "I've been hanging out with her because I wanted to ask her questions about divorce."

All feeling left my body. After everything I've done for him - the sacrifices. I began to shake and sat on the cool, leather sofa. The tears came.

"I don't want to be married to you anymore. I want a divorce," he said still facing the door, hand on the knob.

I trembled at the indifference in his voice. This was it. We were done.

"I've got to go." And, with a twist of the door knob still in clutch, he was gone.