"Writer's Block"

Amy just sat in front of her expensive new typewriter and groaned. She had no idea what to write. She thought a genuine typwriter would help her with her writer's block, but as it turns out it only made it worse. The clickering and cluttering of the buttons on the typewriter drummed into her brain, as if someone took a sledgehammer and hit her repeatedly with it. 

It wasn't until a few moments later that she took off: she didn't have an idea, yet her fingers flew by the typewriter on an enormous speed. She had barely time to read what she was writing. She began sweating, she was no longer in control of what she was typing. She was just typing, even when the page should've been finished it just kept on going. It wasn't as if actual sentences were being typed, it was just jibber-jabber, random nonsense. She could not stop. 

She tried to go away from the machine, but she was stuck as if someone glued her to the chair. The page just seemed to be endless. Amy started to scream in agony. This was a torture. 

After she had sat there for a good time the pace started to slow down. Eventually the nonsense writing started to form real words. The last thing written on that endless page was: "Perhaps our language leads you."

"Cold Oblivion"

He is alone.

All around him, the gray, dark walls of his room stand tall. No light comes from the cracked TV screen nor the ages-old lamp sitting by his bedside. He is a wreck - his hair is missing, lost from stress. His glasses are broken; they lay on the ground, unused. He doesn't need them. He doesn't go outside. He just sits and waits for the last moments of his miserable life.

Months ago, the electricity was shut off, for he had run out of money to spend, wasted on worthless knick-knacks, things bought to bury the pain, the horrible depression that had set in.

His whole life, he had done nothing, coddled by his parents. Now they are gone, and they took his will to live with them. Even his pets are dead - long dead, in fact. He is completely and totally alone. He will be for the remainder of his miserable life.

It doesn't have to end here. It really doesn't. He has no real adversities except himself, and his inability to change. The only thing that is different now is how much he lost. It was a rude awakening - for his whole life he had done nothing but be rewarded for his laziness. He had never worked a day in his life.

Now he doesn't know whether or not it is day or night, as the windows of his room are boarded up. The only thing he knows is a numb, cold feeling. He has no purpose. His entire existence now is just a cycle of sleeping and eating when it is necessary. Even the pests that had once roamed the house have abandoned him. He is in oblivion, and completely aware of it. He is nothing more than a shade, and his house is Asphodel.

It is cold. Too cold. It feels as if the air around him is closing in, suffocating him in a coffin of nothingness. He needs to go. Needs to escape.

He stands up, limps over to the door of his house, and opens it. Outside, it is snowing, and the only lights are from the lampposts. Not a single car cruises down the street. Even outside there is nobody for him. There is only one thing for him to do: walk.

He has no idea where he is going; he operates on pure instinct, nothing more. He passes houses, churches, and old broken down shacks. He continues on, walking down the isolated road until he reaches the edge of town. He wanders off through the forest, the snow getting thicker, a layer of fog settling in. His breath comes in short breaths.

Finally, he breaks out of the trees and finds himself in front of an ice-covered lake. Through a hole in the clouds moonlight illuminates the ice, putting him in a trance-like state.

He follows the light. He steps out onto the lake, and walks towards the center. He needs to be under the moon, needs to see it one last time. The moon is the one thing that is always there. It won't die, or go away from him. It is almost in its own state of oblivion, out in space. He needs company. Any kind of company.

Then, there is a cracking sound, and he falls down into the watery deep. The cold water pierces him like daggers, but it is oddly comforting. He doesn't feel lonely anymore.

Now the only thing he wonders is what he will die from: drowning, or hypothermia?

"The Man in Gray"

I was on a flight to LA, and could see dark clouds in the distance. I was about to doze off when I noticed him. He was two rows ahead of me and across the aisle. He was staring at me, smirking.

I'm afraid of flying, and he knew it. I could tell by the way he looked at me, taunting me with that smile.

Then I noticed his odd clothing: a gray jacket hanging open, exposing his black waistcoat that partially obscured his white dress shirt. And he had a hat, gray like his jacket and pants, which looked like the kind of hat reporters in the '30s or '40s might have worn. Or Dick Tracy.

I began to sweat. He continued to stare straight into my eyes, unblinking.

I turned away, looking again out the window. From where I sat I could clearly see the wing of the plane, which was kind of a blessing, as it somewhat blocked the view of the far away ground.

Absentmindedly, I glanced back toward the irritating and unnerving man. To my endless relief, his head was turned in front of him. He was looking down at something. He moved a bit and I could see that it was a pocket watch attached to a chain running from the pocket of his waistcoat.

At a certain point he seemed satisfied and put the timepiece away. He looked at me again, still smirking. His eyes flicked toward the wing that extended beyond my window. A finger scratched his brow.

Then, as though on cue, I felt a strong compulsion to look back at the wing along with him, like there was something important that I couldn’t miss out on; a morbid curiosity of sorts.

A bolt of lightning hit just outside my window. One of the engines erupted into a ball of orange flame, consuming a sizable portion of the wing. The tongues of flame licked toward me, a helpless feast.

Everyone panicked and screamed. The plane dove, descending at an exponentially increasing speed. I didn’t feel the crash.

I awoke on the ground, every inch of my body screaming in agony. Flames and debris surrounded me; it almost seemed like drowning in the middle of the ocean.

My vision was a bit blurry. I managed to turn my head to the side a little, and I saw his silhouette standing over me.

I blacked out again.



I've been in the hospital for weeks now. The doctors tell me that I shouldn’t be alive. They also say that this mysterious man is just some kind of hallucination brought on by the trauma I’ve experienced, and that the mind can fabricate false memories.

I know better.

This evening I’ve done nothing but watch television. Some reality show or other--I’m not really paying much attention.

Just now that annoying weather alert erupted loudly from the speakers. Text scrolled across the bottom of the screen, informing viewers that there is a severe thunderstorm warning and a tornado watch until 7 p.m.

It is 6:59.

I know what happens next. He's standing in my room now, smirking while staring at his stopwatch. His hand is reaching up to scratch his brow.

"Repeat After Me"

Wake up.

I said, wake up.

Congratulations, your operation was a success.

Open your eyes and see the new you.

"The new you."

Purification is not an easy task, especially not with somebody such as you. You had a little 'bird problem', I'm afraid. We managed it, though. There was quite a space to fill.

"Fill quite a space, I'm afraid."

This is the first time we've done this experiment. You couldn't feel pain, but if you could, it would have hurt quite a bit.

"Hurt quite a could pain experiment. A bit."

Yes, yes. You're probably moving through the stages faster than normal do to the amount of ink in your system.

"Ink, ichor. Water. Ponds. Substance. Knowledge. Perfection. Me, me. Perfection. Camper."

Hm. You're probably reaching the end of the repetition stages by now. Tell me, how do you feel?

"Feel?"

Yes, feel. How do you feel?

"Hollow. Perfected. Purified. Hey..."

"Who are you? Where am I?"

You were in an accident. I'm afraid the Bright Ones could not help you in this situation. So I came in and fixed you. You are now perfect.

"The Bright... you mean... them... they're... gone? I'm empty. Empty. How... why-"

"It is no matter. I am perfect. WE are perfect."

"Wait. We? I don't... I don't understand. Yes, we do. We understand - there is no way we can't. We are perfect. No. I'm one person. An individual. Not many. No. We are many. We are thousands. We are one."

Ah... I was worried about something like this. You're going too fast through the phases... You're meant to be more than perfection.

"You. I know you. You're-"

That is not important. Why do you want to go back to the way you were before? The old you was imperfect. Those birds couldn't save your parents from the fire. They didn't stop the destruction of all that you loved. You are better off this way.

"Yes. We are. We're better off this way. No more running from the other beings. We are now part of the crowd."

"Ugh... hurts. Pain. Pain... why...? How...?"

Oh. Uh-oh. Nonononono. Stay with me here. This is not good. I'll have to press this button... remove some of the ink.

"ARGH!"

That was a bone... um... I don't think you need that anymore, anyway.

"Bone. Um. Anymore, don't think. Anyway."

Better?

Ah, no...

Your veins are NOT supposed to do that... Okay, okay. Aborting experiment. I'm afraid you'll have to be terminated.

Goodbye.

"Door slam. New person. Black hood, robe. Beak mask. White mask. Feeling... sick. Polio. Swine flu. Black death. Chicken pox. Hypothermia. Chickenpox. Filariasis. Hurts. No, stop, don't- oh god.

Notamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamasknotamask-"

"Gunsmoke"

Private Delwan was tense and nervous as his scope scanned the area. He was seeing his first active combat duty, after all. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a silhouette in his view for a split second.

He retrained his scope searching for the silhouette again. Sweat dripped down his brow. He found it. It was the enemy. They were signalling to a small group behind them.

He was breathing heavily; he couldn't aim. His face was, by this point, drenched in anxious sweat. This was the moment and he was too scared to shoot.

His vision blurred; it was like he was looking through a cloud of smoke. He could hear war drums beating steadily in his ears, and it took him a few moments to realize it was keeping time with his heartbeats. He felt himself relax, his breathing becoming smoother.

He trained the sights and fired. The leader was down.

He reloaded quickly and took aim again. A bang and another enemy down.

Reload, aim, shoot. Reload, aim, shoot. It was as natural to him as breathing. Reload, aim, shoot.

Soon they were all dead, their blood congealing on the dusty road. He congratulated himself silently.

The blurriness cleared from his eyes at that moment and he gave a cry of horror as he truly saw the bodies on the ground, their faces wretched in pain. All of them women and children.

"Echoes"

He sits at home, the television on in front of him. The sound is muted but still every word and sound booms in his ears, echoing continually. He turns off the TV but the voices and sounds don't stop.

He goes to bed. His room is dark, calm, silent. Still the sounds bounce around in his skull. Never dying, there for eternity echoing in his mind. 

He gets up and heads to his study. The sound of creaking floors and doors merge with the insistent sounds in his head. 

He slides open the drawer of a desk wincing at the scraping sound. He takes out the gun and loads it. The sound of the bullets falling into the chamber are each an ear splitting explosion of noise reverbrating forever in his cranium. 

He puts the gun to his head. He pulls the trigger and everything goes silent.

"Hunger"

I am alone.

My family has disowned me (yet they keep coming to visit for some reason, just to fling more insults), I no longer have friends. I am locked in a cell.

It is a large cell, certainly, but they taunt me with a long table full of empty plates and platters.

I have been here for over a week now. I will soon die. The door is locked and no one will open it. My father and my wife point and laugh when I call for their help.

My ribs are showing; I am going to die of starvation.

I've tried eating this grey stuff on the walls, but it tastes bad.

It has begun to grow on my skin.