candle in the dark.

Here is my latest work, a story entitled "Candle in the Dark." It IS a bit verbose, as it is supposed to reflect the time period that it represents, but for those of you who like action: it is well worth the wait. Those who get somewhat queasy at death might not want to read ahead, even though I don't find it to be TOO bloody. Anyways, enjoy!


Candle in the Dark

By Adam Gonzales

The Victorian hall was lavishly decorated. The six bullion chandeliers that hung high above the elegant marble floor below lit up the sparkling whites and golds of the seven grand tables that filled the hall. Each was set with a tablecloth made from the finest silk and laced with beautiful gold embroidery. Only the head table was any different from the rest. Clothed in deep red velvet, it was shaped into a half circle in order to stand out amongst the other six rectangular tables. That was where the Ambassador would take his seat. That was the spot that Lucien patiently watched.

Guests of the Ambassador were bustling gaily, exchanging words of gossip in the proper fashion, but no one dared to take a seat until their host arrived. So Lucien was forced to mingle through the thick sea of silk and linen dress clothes, occasionally feigning interest in the pitiful social façade of the guests by feeding them a false smile or nod of the head every few minutes. It was degrading enough, to be sure, that he was required to mask himself with frilled cuffs and a stuffed shirt, and as a result he kept his communal interactions to a minimum. He wore a crème suit that boasted a collar that was much too high and stiff for his liking, with pearl buttons and green trimmings. But what offset him the most was his hair. It felt unnatural to, as the phrase went, ‘tame one’s hair’ and yet he had found himself slicking it back for the occasion. Every once in awhile, licks of mahogany would fall loosely in front of his olive eyes, only to be quickly pushed back once more—he needed to do his best in order to maintain an outward appearance of divine respectability, for such was the standard.

An hour passed before the Ambassador’s arrival, so as to give time for the guests to become comfortably acquainted with one another. And, true, Lucien did recognize the woman to his left and the man to his right from earlier, lackluster, encounters but he could not recollect their names or positions for the life of him—it was not his concern. She was probably the wife of some important nobleman and he, the son of an acclaimed politician, no doubt (it was not difficult to deduce the foolish frailties of men in such worldly company), and as such Lucien’s interest in them was only pushed further away. And despite the fact that they were all cold-hearted, envious beasts under their skin, Lucien found the ‘well-mannered’, ‘sophisticated’ superficial pretenses to be the truly disgusting portraits. It was quite disheartening but true none-the-less, and if it was anything to go by then the Ambassador was the ugliest among the uglies.

He wore a frocked coat that matched the lush red of the velvet tablecloth in front of him, and a radiant shirt with a gold cravat underneath—not to mention his gold cuff links and golden monocle. Lucien sneered: too much gold. Gold belonged in pockets, not upon one’s viewing spectacles. It irked him, to be sure, but he strained himself to peer past the Ambassador’s vanities in order to collect his thoughts for the task at hand. And although Lucien felt that his irritability was a stain across his face, no one else seemed to notice. Lucien found this remarkable until it came to his attention that murmurs were flitting across the hall, everyone’s interest fixated upon the woman to the Ambassador’s right.

“If I am not mistaken,” the woman to Lucien’s left whispered, “that is not the Good Ambassador’s wife.”

Similar comments and remarks were arising in hushed tones at all of the tables, save the Ambassador’s. Lucien managed to quickly contort his face into some sort of semblance that resembled concern in order to meld himself into the overall hive mind of the dinner party. Not that the news surprised him; it was the reason that he was present in such a suffocating assembly. That and the gold coins that were weighing down his breast pocket.

The Ambassador, being the ostentatious host that he was, took the ill-gained attention and twisted it into his favor. He stood up, placing his left hand in his pants pocket and raising his champagne glass with his right. White teeth flashed brightly underneath his perfectly combed mustache as he smiled largely for all to see. His parted brown hair reflected the yellow light from the chandeliers above and his rich blue eyes slowly swept his audience as he cleared his throat. The hall became instantly silent other than the shuffling of the servants’ feet as they flitted between the tables carrying discarded glasses of champagne. Every pupil in the room locked onto the Good Ambassador, the Respectable Ambassador, the Kind Ambassador, the Honored Ambassador. Lucien stifled a cough of laughter—all these humble names were not fitting for such a man. The Adulterous Ambassador would be more fitting. Even so, the guests of the lying fiend slipped to the edges of their seats as he began to speak.

“My esteemed friends and colleagues, I am sure that you have all been somewhat mystified as to the night’s purpose. As you may or may not have observed, my dear wife Angelica—whom many of you are well acquainted with—is not present here tonight. The reason being is that I, months prior to our current engagement in this hall, found her to be playing part in an affair most scandalous.”

The hall became instantly calamitous. People gave utter disregard to the proper code of dignity and began to gasp and mutter loudly. One man even, to the disgust of those beside him, sprayed out the champagne that he was drinking across his table. Lucien did nothing of the sort. He simply sipped his cider and placed his glass gently back on the table. True, this did bring a moral complication to mind on whether or not he should still carry out his task knowing that the Ambassador’s wife was the genuine infidel, but, again, the gold in his pocket cried out his name. Lucien shrugged—money was money and he was not being paid by the Ambassador’s wife to sort out the law of chastity. No, he was hired to do something that he found to be much less conflicting. Lucien was to kill the Good Ambassador.

The cries of shock and subtle murmurs from the crowd became slowly muffled as the Ambassador pulled his left hand from his pocket to raise it for silence. His right hand still clutching his glass of champagne, he gave a nod of the head to his beloved audience as he, once more, began to speak.

“I thank you all for your concern and sympathy, but that is not why I requested your audience here tonight, although it plays a major part in its purpose. You see, I have called you all here to proudly announce my betrothal to the beautiful Malinda Wennebriar whom you see present at my side this very minute.”

If it was possible, the hall became even louder than it had previously been. An affair and an engagement announcement within the same evening was unheard of. And amidst the uproar the Ambassador set down his glass and opened his arms wide yelling over the hubbub, “Come! Share my happiness! Meet me in good health!”

Almost every person was up out of their seat, rushing to greet the Ambassador in congratulation. All save Lucien. A smirk slipped across his face as he rose out of his chair and did his best to make his way to the back of the crowd at an angle where he would have a decent view of his target. It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the Good Ambassador’s face above the bobbing heads of people who seemed to be drooling over shaking the man’s hand. To which, naturally, the Good Ambassador was obliged to do. One respectable balding gentleman found his way to the Ambassador’s left and gave a warm greeting before leaning to his ear to whisper something apparently provocative. As the man pulled away from his ear, the Good Ambassador began to laugh loudly, although the noise was lost to the steady hum of excited voices. This was Lucien’s moment—exactly what he had been patiently waiting for. His thoughts raced as adrenaline flooded throughout his body, but rather than succumb to its intoxicating pleasure he wiped his mind clean and breathed in deeply, as was his ritual.

Lucien slid his hand into his pocket and quickly arched his hand towards the Ambassador’s face, mid-laugh, releasing his grip on the object that he had so carefully concealed. A shrill scream of horror reverberated off the marble walls of the hall as every eye wandered sickeningly to the Ambassador. The hilt of a pearly white, double-edged, basilard dagger was sticking out of the Good Ambassador’s open mouth, deep red splashed across its blade and the curl of his lip. Lucien could not help but chuckle as a spurt of blood sprayed out of his mouth—he had timed his throw perfectly catching the Ambassador on a downbeat, knowing that he would try gasping for air upon impact. The crimson blood melded with the velvet tablecloth as it jetted upon the table, but did wonders on the Ambassador’s pale face as it gushed down the sides of his mouth. Flecks of red speckled his gold cravat and his new fiancé, proving to escalate her desperate screams. And, just as Lucien had known they would, the guests all tried to aid the Poor Ambassador as his eyes rolled violently backwards and his body seeped into violent spasms.

Lucien turned sharply and started to run to his escape. He knew that the Ambassador would surely have men that would try and stop him, but he was prepared. Stealing away into the shadows of the massive corridor just outside the hall Lucien pulled out a long dirk dagger from a concealed pocket in his sleeve, careful not to touch its heavily poisoned blade. Turning around the second corner he came to, he was thrilled to find two men blocking his path. They were both wearing light chain mail and helmets pulled down over their heads. Each wielding a long steel blade, they readied themselves in an offensive stance, placing their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Lucien laughed. Armor meant nothing to a trained assassin; it was their trade to know how to deal lethal blows even in the face of metal protection. He walked forward slowly, keeping his dagger hand pressed against his thigh. The first man rushed towards him, holding his sword in the backhanded fashion. And as he swung his weapon at his target, Lucien dropped swiftly to the ground and hacked the bare opening in the man’s crotch, where the armor failed to protect. There was a piercing cry as the man collapsed to the floor, clutching the burning wound that would kill him within ten minutes time. Lucien stepped over his writhing body and nodded his head at the second man. There was a pause in his stance as he contemplated whether or not he should do as he was supposed but he decided against faltering and raised his falchion over his shoulder, crying a fierce battle cry as he did so. The sword crashed to the ground, missing Lucien as he speedily side-stepped the attack. There was a fleeting moment of fear in the man’s eyes as he realized his fate; however it was quickly replaced with wide-eyed shock as Lucien slashed the bare side of the man’s neck just underneath his helmet. Blood spewed out of the precise gash in his skin and a red rash, a side-effect of the poison, began to spread around the wound. Not that it mattered—unlike the previous victim, this man was instantly dead. His body lurched forward and buckled down to the stone ground below.

Lucien sighed as he kicked aside the body in front of him so that he was able to continue forward with some sort of dignity. Pushing the wooden door that the men had been guarding open he stepped out into the cold chill of the night, his feet meshing into the wet earth as he spied a carriage some two hundred meters in the distance—his avenue of escape. An alarm rang out in the sound of a gong as the panic within the elegant hall finally reached the gates of the Ambassador’s magnificent stone manor. Lucien knew that a dash to the carriage was almost futile, as there were at least five armed men (albeit protected only by thick leather plating) between him and it, but he tried it none-the-less. Slapping mud up off of the ground as he bolted forward, he pulled a small misericorde dagger out from his pants pocket with his free hand and flung it at the closest armed sentry. It stuck firmly under the man’s mandible and he slipped to the ground. Knowing that he would not make it if he tried to fight them all off, he passed by the following two bemused sentinels without a second thought. By the time he reached the third patrol they were all aware and ready for a fight. Lucien was caught off guard as the man smashed the broad side of his rebated against his right shoulder, causing him to lose his grip on his dagger and fall to the ground. Thinking rapidly, he kicked the man’s shins with as much force as he could muster so as to send the man to the earth. Then, pushing himself back on his feet, Lucien bashed in the man’s teeth with his heel. There was a loud crack as the shattered bones snapped out of place, but Lucien was used to such noises in his exertion. He did not bother searching for his venomous blade as the fifth guard rushed at him with a double-handed battle ax. Instead he swept forward beneath the heavy weapon and smashed his fist into the man’s gut. And as the man lurched forward to gasp for air, Lucien wrapped his arms around his neck and looked into his face as his olive eyes flashed in the dark of the evening. In one fluid motion that was only possible for one as deft as Lucien, the man’s head was forced at an angle that was not possible to achieve in the natural world. A splitting crack filled the air as Lucien released the man’s body from his arms, a delightful and satisfying sound—even if there was no time to actually enjoy it.

There were voices growing close behind Lucien. The two guards that Lucien had passed were almost upon him, and the carriage lay in wait only ten meters ahead. His shoulder still in pain, Lucien hastened to the navy blue coach as fast as his body would let him. Swinging the door open as he reached its sliver handle, he slumped into the sticky leather of the seat inside and yelled for the driver to depart. And as the strident galloping of the horses’ hooves patted the ground, Lucien smiled smugly. Warmth filled his body as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the cloth sack of gold. He tossed it gently up and down, matching the horse trots, and sighed contentedly as he looked to the dull night clouds outside. The Ambassador was dead, and all was well with Lucien.

steampunk project (project #2).

Our Sci-Fi project has officially ended and we have all been pleased with what we have come up with. As our next project, we have decided to do a Short-Story in the genre of Steampunk. Steampunk is classified as ANY genre with the added ingredient of industrial presence. For example, the movie Wild Wild West is a Western in the genre of Steampunk. Our project will be single space 12 font up to five pages long, and we will not share our exact stories with each other in order to secure originality. Who knows? We may get a fantasy, alternate history, and western from tyhe three of us but all in the genre of Steampunk. So! Have fun and check back from us. We will be posting our stories as soon as Nick gets back from Chicago, so it'll be a few weeks. Keep checking back though! Thanks! -Adam

multiply.

The clouded skies reflected upon the aviators swerved like a gelatin in the tinted glass, and the leather glove tightened around Dimitri’s hand as his fingers curled around the handlebar. Gravel and dust from the New Mexico desert blemished the empty freeway and traveled along with the force of the storm’s wind. Dimitri studied the long straightforward road from behind his aviators. His short black hair tousled with the rushing breezes; his brown jacket waved as well, and as the Harley ’94 peaked 120 mph the storm began to pick up momentum.
A gust of cool wind from South of the desert had begun to travel towards Dimitri, picking up grains of dirt and pollen, and neared closer and closer until it struck a significant blow. Dimitri struggled with the motorcycle. He clenched the handlebars amid his gloved hands, and maneuvered the vehicle back on path. With careful thought, he anticipated more impact from the storm’s wind, and was more cautious to the handling of his drive.
He turned his head to the right where most of the dark clouds had formatted. The motorcycle’s engine continued to purr as it journeyed passed more and more road, but suddenly the noise began to rupture. Brief moments of failure began to interrupt the consistent engine.
“Perfect.” Dimitri shifted his head back towards the road, and glanced over at the gauges in the dash. Nothing of alert was being noticed by the car.
Then, the stalling began to take its course. The pauses took longer; the engine made effort to continue the steady path, but to no prevail. Gently the vehicle began to decelerate, and the orange indicator on the speedometer declined. 120...110...105…
“Thanks, Grandpa,” Dimitri said to himself, “you sure have a way with bikes.”
Dimitri pulled to the right shoulder of the long deserted road, and coiled his fingers upon the brakes. The rugged black motorcycle came to an easy halt, and Dimitri mounted off.
“Least it’s rainin’,” he looked up at the gray sky. Raindrops landed on his tinted lenses. As he wiped his aviators clean, Dimitri ambled to the item compartment on the back of the motorcycle. He unlocked the tiny stainless steel box–sprinkled with rain–and opened the compartment. Inside, spare pistol bullets, an August issue of Maxim, a folded miniature atlas, and a picture displaying a young girl with black hair was placed.
He took the tiny picture and gazed at it. A nostalgic wind gusted through the desert highway now, yet it remains a mystery what emotion was felt behind Dimitri's aviators. Soon enough, the storm’s rain began to land on the photo, and, as a cue, Dimitri pocketed the picture, picked up the tiny atlas, and unfolded it.
“Come on, little map,” whispered Dimitri; a violent bolt of lightning crackled in the background, “find me a Texaco.”
As he searched down the highway lines in the map, the rain began to fall harder. A sudden urgency filled the atmosphere, and the raindrops grew heavy. They parachuted down from the skies on Dimitri, falling and picking up speed. They began to freeze and crystallize in the sky. Hail. Suddenly, Dimitri was bombarded by a fleet of descending ice. He used the atlas to shield his head from the plaguing hail, but another torrential gust swept it away. The atlas now traveled through the air, manipulated by the behemoth winds, and was sent zig-zagging across the emptiness and dull dirt of the desert land.
Dimitri, realizing that the atlas was his only aid of direction, chased after the escaping map. His leather shoes imprinted the ground with the pattern on the soles. Shocks of pain from the hail hindered his balance, and Dimitri fell to the hard, damp ground, but stumbled back quickly to his feet. In pursuit–and in pain–he was cautious of what occupied the floor to prevent tripping again. Then, a cataclysmic, intimating boom that ravaged all noise with such amplitude bewildered Dimitri, and he fell once more. This time, leaving the atlas to lose itself amongst the wind.
Dimitri's energy was almost completely gone. It took effort to raise his face from the rough desert dirt. Veins in his neck pulsated as he raised his head, and he began to scan the clouded sky–with great difficulty due to the hail–for the map. Through his aviators, he frantically searched for his atlas, but aborted when his eyes constricted to the sight of the marvelous blue glow. A thick, jurassic, glowing obelisk of blue light fell from parted gray clouds seeming to land a few miles in front of Dimitri.
That must have been what caused the boom, Dimitri thought. The hail seemed to have calmed now, and the storm seemed less violent since the glowing rod surged from the sky. Nothing was left but the silence of awe and wonder.
As he laid there, galvanized by the unearthly marvel, aggression was evoked in the winds once more. This time with a more vicious strength. The winds began to pillage the once-tousled hair, and ransack the brown jacket. Then, the unscrupulous force physically began to violently drag Dimitri towards the beam. He skidded across the rough ground trampling dead cacti and empty carcasses. The bare skin behind his clothes were scraping against the irregular surface of the desert; pieces of skin dislodged and left open, painful, bleeding wounds.
He was being pushed closer and closer to the obscuring beam. Every now and then, he would skid on the heels of his shoes in an attempt to brace himself from the forcing motion with no use. Dimitri was closing in on the root of the beam. The aviators helped him see through the bright mystic azure glow, and as he was so close to the mysterious gargantuan light that he could almost touch it the wind halted, and he plummeted to a stop.
Once again, he stumbled back on to his feet, and was just arms-length away to the radiance. Curious to how the light must feel, Dimitri raised his finger and neared it towards the light.
“I would not touch that,” a booming voice commanded from behind Dimitri.
He turned in fright, focusing his eyes through the lenses, and searched for the voice.
“Where are you?” Dimitri yelled towards the emptiness.
“Behind you,” the voice sounded closer to Dimitri’s ear now.
Dimitri turned again quickly, and came face-to-face with a blue-eyed man.
“Who are you!” Dimitri shouted.
“There is no need for exclamations,” the man said, calmly, “I promise you. We–”
“We?” Dimitri interrupted as he gathered his breathe. “There’s more of you?”
“Yes,” he smiled, and his blue eyes lit up, “And we come in peace.”
Dimitri gathered his speeding thoughts, “Talk about cliche.”
A wrinkled smile formed on the mysterious man face. He held up a feeble hand towards Dimitri, “I can explain more, human. Please, take my hand.”
Dimitri’s irregular breathing grew hotter with frustration. He glared at the man’s hand, “What?”
“My boy, take my hand so I may show you.”
“Get the heck away from me,” his voice melted with spite, “I don’t know who you are.”
“I can explain all in due time–”
“I don’t know where you’re from, I don’t know what this whole blue-light thing is.”
“My boy–”
“And I’m sure as hell not holding your hand, old man!”
“Son,” the man with the blue eyes put his hand on his shoulder, “you’re delusional.”
“I said get the he–”
Suddenly, a bright blue, blinding flash of light filled the entire setting. A rush of motion passed through Dimitri's finger tips. His stomach rose to his throat and churned with the feeling. The ground from underneath his feet was gone, and Demitri felt as though he was falling and standing simultaneously. Then, abruptly, a wave of black darkness flooded Dimitri's eyes. He felt gone.
* * *
“Man, Stanley, this storm is crazy. Sure would hate to be the guy caught in this rain,” a regular said within his stool. He grasped his cold mug of foaming beer in his hand, and sipped the cold alcohol. “Anything on the news ‘bout it?”
“Let’s check.” The bartender turned the dial on a dusty television set on a shelf. The screen lit up, and the local news casting program was on.
“That’s right, Robert. A class-five state of emergency has been called here at New Mexico,” the woman on the television reported.
“Hah, state of emergency! I laugh at the silly folk who are afraid of a lil’ rain,” the bartender smiled.
“Now hold on there, Stan, I have kids at home,” the regular’s eyes widened with fright, “Has New Mexico ever gotten hit by a hurricane?”
“No, stupid, we live in a desert! There’s no water here!”
“What about tornadoes? What about earthquakes!”
“Sush it, Kevin!” the two looked back up at the television. Footage of a massive crafts hovering above the sky had been playing since. The grainy amateur capture caused the colors of the clouded sky and the crafts to blend in, making it hard to differentiate. Towards the end of the footage, the cameraman points the camera straight up to see a craft incredibly close to the ground. He scans the craft with the camera, and focuses in on a hole aligned to where he’s standing. Suddenly, the hole lights up with the ominous blue glow, and the camera is dropped.
“Once again, that was disturbing footage from earlier today in Cancun, Mexico,” the television announced.
Suddenly the television interrupted the news broadcast. A strange blue logo that looked like skull was displayed for a brief two seconds. Then, an elderly looking man with glowing blue eyes was facing the screen.
“Wow, he sure does look strange, Stan,” said Kevin.
“Must be the Japanese again…” said the bartender.
“We mean no harm, Earth,” the voice boomed from the television, “and on behalf on the Velascian race, we apologize for interrupting your inferior human activities. My name is Threon, I am chief linguistic of my people. We have studied your planet’s language, culture, and weaknesses in order to save it.”
“I don’t think these are the Japanese, Stanley…”
“Reoccurring trends in the galaxies ionic patterns suggest that your planet is conflicting its very existence with another paralleling planet. To put it bluntly, your all going to die.”
“This guy’s serious…”
“Worry is unnecessary. We have already taken precautions to preserve the human race.”
“Drink up, we’re gonna need it.”
“We have chosen two members of your race that inhibit all the traits of high-quality reproduction systems to multiply. One male by the name of Dimitri Escon, and a female by the name of Veronica Esquet. The two are with us. You have three minutes to live. Goodbye.”
The television fell silent. The entire bar fell silent. Only the two men inhabited the restaurant, and they each silently took the news in. After a few seconds, the bartender took the mugs, refilled them, and handed one to Kevin.
“To us,” Stanley raised his mug for a toast.
“To us.”

-@lawlnick

xetragade.

So this is my first Sci-Fi type short story that I have ever written. It is not your stereotypical Sci-Fi in the sense that the only real Sci-Fi feel you get is the fact that it's in the future and there is a mention of robotic technology. Everything else is what it is like today. This project did not take me as long as I thought it would and I had a TON of fun working on it. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Xetragade
By Adam Gonzales

The deep movements beneath the murky water sent soft ripples across the glassy pool. The Dutch spectators leaned forward in their seats trying to get a better view of what was held in the slick fiberglass-enforced tank, clutching the bottom of their seats until their knuckles throbbed white. The churning bubbles that flitted across the top of the almost black water were eyed by the many rows of families and business men that filled the cold white bleachers. A sudden loud beep rang through the air and continued at a steady pattern of exactly thirty beeps per minute, but the spectators did not even so much as bat an eyelid. Probably they were too engrossed in what lay at the bottom of the pool, but it was shocking still that they seemed so unfazed by the abruptness of the strident noise. The sky was orange and dusty, and despite the hollow rushing of the wind and the precise pattern of the beeping, the crowd remained absolutely silent. Time put itself on hold as the half-eaten bags of popcorn and hot dog wrappers fluttered slowly beneath the feet of the seemingly lifeless audience. Even the children, usually restless and bursting with uncontrollable energy, had been tamed by the moment; their eyes dark and wide, locking onto the calm surface of the glossy water, waiting for Xetragade to show itself.
* * *
The scientists at Muiden Harbour had been busily piecing together the mystery that was Xetragade for years. Hidden under the tourists’ noses within the walls of a small warehouse near one of the docks, the scientists had poised secrecy with productivity. Although the government had established the testing to last only three years, the Xetragade Initiative proved to be difficult to assemble correctly and was thus granted an extended ten year development plan. It was not long before the rusty warehouse walls were replaced by the slick white of the plexi-steel, and that the testing facilities were moved under the new ocean theme park that was being erected. Not that the scientists objected; it was quite fitting. For Xetragade to be accumulated under an ocean park was nothing short of ironic. The scientists knew that they would be able to experiment on the tourists above without their knowledge by placing slight traces of various serums within their purchased drinks, and without any harm. So when the park was erected, they made sure to attract as many tourists as possible. Everything in Muiden was perfect. Everything in Holland was perfect. And nothing could hinder the progress of Xetragade.
Then there was the announcement of Holland’s resignation from the U.N. At first it came as a shock that could barely be compared to anything that had happened before to the Dutch people. But when the rest of the U.N. slowly followed suit, the people of Holland quickly shifted their emotions from astonishment to fear. There had been rumor of an international epidemic, but mostly it was thought to be gossip and propaganda. The U.N., acknowledging some sort of viral scare, had apparently decided that due to the evident chaos that was going to flood the world, it was only right for each country to focus on their individual survival. Media buzzed, people yelled, but still there was no answer to the question that rang in everyone’s mind: what was the epidemic? Government officials had mentioned little about what was suspected to be the threat, but many had whispered something about the fish. To the people of Muiden, Holland, fishing was a way of life. So when word spread that the cause had been aquatic, there became a steady decline in the market. Not that it mattered; the decline in the market simply reflected the decline in government stability. Confined trepidation was soon shifted into uncontrollable bedlam as more and more of the Dutch people found themselves wondering if they would make it through the night alive.
It was not long before world officials declared the Viral Rotsje Epidermal Piscus Virus, or VREPV, the cause of the mass panic. Although the origins of the virus were not detrimental to humans, it had been discovered that the German authorities had been developing viral weapons using different viruses ten years prior, including VREPV. Originating from a fusion between the non-lethal Viral Hemorrhagic Septicemia Virus and the deadly Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis, VREPV was incurable and impossible to destroy. At first it had been confined to the workspace of the German scientists, but after the government’s disbandment of the test facilities, it had been discovered that the viral experimentations had been tossed into the North Sea, where both Holland and the U.K. received their main supply of the fish market. Trade between the U.K. and the rest of the world ensured that the infected fish in the North Sea were globally expanded. Smaller landlocked countries that did not necessarily find themselves in the fish market, such as Hungary, Botswana, Nepal, and Paraguay were more or less safe until the Spread of 2026. At first only the countries that bordered the ocean had been affected—it was not until later when the virus was discovered to be transferable by touch that landlocked countries had been receiving massive breakouts via human hosts. It was spreading, and it was spreading fast.

Skin rotted throughout the world, no one was safe. Controlled news broadcasts stated that the rotted skin flakes in the air could dissolve and travel on the air currents from place to place. At night government trucks would sweep the streets, spraying disinfectant into the air. It was a futile attempt, as everyone knew it was, but the presence of the government kept families from giving up entirely. Time went on and slowly the population began to dwindle. Soon every door remained locked, every window chained. The brave could be seen making fast trips to general stores in search of clean food and clothes. But, as it always does, the inevitable stuck loud and hard. Every family, every businessman, every government official of Holland found themselves slowly shedding their skin. The point of fear and panic had faded into grim acceptance, and the streets were soon filled with a silent huddled mass of a dying people. No one talked—no one saw the point. There would be an occasional gurgle of laughter from a small adolescent on the street, but it would quickly fade away when the child peered into the lifeless eyes of his elders. The only sense of life came from the caw of the birds in the sky and the desperation for clothes. Clothes were they only comfort that the people had; it was thought that it could be possible that if one was protected by clothes that their skin would stay intact longer—failed attempts at menial security, definitely, but it was all that the people of Holland had.
The people began to become more and more lethargic, until they were so lackluster that they did not even notice the government’s disintegration. Everyone was still human, but there was no life left in their eyes. Quiet spread across the world and the only thing keeping the human race from becoming extinct was the sole fact that the disease took months to completely devour a human host. The pain had become so customary that the only acknowledgment that the people showed of it was their habitual scratching and peeling of the skin. Many of the people of Holland had retained normal cerebral activities, but because of VREPV’s rapid deteriorating properties, there were some who had lost major amounts of brain tissue, rendering them almost mindless. But it was those who still understood the world around them that finally came upon the secret that was Xetragade. It had been widely known that there had been strange goings-on within the high white walls of the aquatic amusement park at Muiden. Noises could be heard nightly, quiet thumps, beeps, and screeches barely audible to the human ear. Almost two months had passed since the government’s fall when the people finally had the mind to investigate. It was not a raid; no it was something far less than that. Just a simple inquiry into what was supposedly a vacant theme park. So a slow procession of businessmen, tired adults, and small children trudged into the brilliantly white gates of what was known simply as Whale World.
Dressed to the teeth in the finest clothes, the people searched for the hushed sounds of a persistent beeping while their skinned gradually peeled away. It was when they came upon the large tank that once bore host to the Harbour’s famous killer whale, that the people pinpointed the source of the sound. Towards the back of the arena was a heavy steel hatch ingrained into the cement ground. Every two seconds a beep could be heard resonating from beneath the door. But the people dared not open it. For standing over the door were three men dressed in white, rubber, radiation suits. Their faces were obstructed by a glossy silver visor, and there only sign that was given of their humanity was the loud breathing that could be heard coming from their respirators. The people were too drained and languid to even consider running, but the fear on their faces showed their desires. The men in the suits stepped forward, and one pointed directly to the large tank of water. He spoke in a deep and airy voice that frightened the people; they had not heard any form of speech since the government had sprayed the streets.
“There is Xetragade. There is your savior.”
That was all he said. He spoke, and then he directed them with a gesture of his hand to the bleachers. Nothing more, nothing less.
And so the people waited. They clung to the edge of their seats and watched intently as the bubbles in the black water rose slowly to the surface, as the sky turned a dusty orange, and as the popcorn bags scattered beneath their feet. The men in the white suits stood just outside the hatch with their arms neatly crossed. The door flung open and the muffled beeping beneath became suddenly loud and clear. Thirty beeps per minute, one beep every two seconds. A fourth man rose out of the hatch, and looked to the other three. Although his face could not be seen behind the slick silver visor, his posture said enough. It was time. They all walk slowly and deliberately down the hatch and closed it tightly behind them with a loud click. They had known the time would come, for after all that was why Xetragade had been fashioned; that was its purpose.
All throughout the rest of the world, similar actions were being taken. Aquatic theme parks that had been constructed ten years prior to the Spread of 2026 were luring in remaining sentient infected via soft and soothing noises. They would find a hatch. There would be men in white suits. And always there was promise of a savior.
“There is Terragade. There is your savior.”
“There is Celtagade. There is your savior.”
“There is Aussigade. There is your savior.”
Always the same. Three men greeted, one man led them down into an airtight hatch. It was not something that had been planned by any means, not in the normal sense at least. The Gades had been a precaution, a simple means to stop such an epidemic. They were not planned on being used, but the time had undeniably come. Arenas around the world were filled with people who felt promise in the air. Arenas around the world were filled with people who watched dark pools of water with intense deliberation. Arenas around the world were filled with people who saw the bubbles rise. And arenas around the world were filled with people who were going to die.
The teams of scientists had kept themselves globally connected with remote radio locators, and had carefully kept their spaces beneath the aquatic parks clean and sterile. None of them had been diagnosed with VREPV, and none of them had let loose the secret of the Gades. They had busily filled their labs with food, clothes, and all the necessary products to last them until VREPV had ebbed away with time as soon as the epidemic had been confirmed. Everything was sanitary, everything was usable. Nothing was sullied. And so they had, together, planned the rebirth of the human race with precise calculation. After doing tests on flakes of dead skin they had discovered that VREPV receded after completely destroying the epidermis; cells in the air were only able to spread the virus because they were still clinging to living skin. So the scientists had planned their wait so that they could live after the virus had vanished. But their supplies were beginning to wane, and the people were still not dying fast enough. So the Gade Initiative was called into effect. The purpose of the Gades was to destroy viruses that harbored no host, not humans. But with resolute ambition they had been reprogrammed to terminate hosts of virus so as to further the process of VREPV’s dissolution. With the infected gone, there would once again be promise and hope upon the face of the earth.
At approximately 3:42pm Central European Summer Time, the Gades rose out of the water. They had been built in the image of fish with arms. Making them aquatic ensured to protect them from the harshness of weather and cruel human eyes. Their sleek and dark texture was frightening to behold, but still the people in the arena in Muiden, Holland did not move. Maybe the virus had taken its toll, or maybe the people were contented in knowing that their pain was about to end. Whatever the reason, the Gades found no resistance against their programmed objective. They were ready. It was time.
Dust rose into the orange sky as the clock moved its hands to 3:45pm CEST. That was how long it took. No struggle, no crying, no pain. The Gades had slumped quietly back into the water where their optical intakes flashed red just before they shut down. A still quiet spread across the planet and for the next fifteen months not a single human form walked its surface. The Gades had done what they had been made to do. The Gades had saved mankind.

-@alsenoth

the ravine, the sticks.

This was a little short story I wrote in a single hour at 6 in the morning after pulling an all-nighter. I was spending the entire night searching the internet and reading Stephen King's "On Writing." The book is truly remarkable, and King offers a wide variety of advice on the art of writing. One of the greatest tips he gave on creative writing was to start off with a character and then just let him live. So here was my experimentation of just starting with a character, and letting the story unfold itself. NOTE: This story may be a lot of typos, due to the state of mind I was in when writing it (I pulled an all-nighter!). Enjoy!

Half-and-half was the coffee type best suited for the journey. Caffeine-powered energy circulated throughout the nervous muscle system. The surface rippled as the decrepit wooden paddle stroked the ravine's still water, sweat accumulated on the brow of the white-haired boatman; agitated by the ambiguous sting in his eye–yet paddled onward. The road ahead: the only passage available to getting to the boatman's "home," was prolonging. The ravine tested tolerance.

He raised his chrome thermos to his large and violently pink lips. As the hazel coffee grazed his chapped lips, the man took notice of the mist surrounding his vessel. The boatman–although tolerable–was agitated with the mind settings of yesterdays and the previous, despite the relaxing waft of the ravine current. Paddling, stronger, faster, towards the mist: which once soared at the heavens; the boatman reminisces of skeletons from the past. Resilience to forget–the punishment for a guilty conscience.

More impulsive, his strokes began to turn. Steady ripples now turned to light splashes; the rowboat now tilted and turned with a faster, more complex rhythm. Veins tightened within his arms, wrists, and shoulders: frail, like any elder senior–patiently waiting for the final rest.

Shortly, pain crept into the consciousness of the boatman and he aborted his frantic paddling. Resuming a sense of tranquility, the boatman released the paddle–midway below water–from his firm grip; allowing the utility to float on–far from him. He let go, permitted peace to gather, and allowed the current to guide.

"There ain't no use," he screamed to the mist, "I can't run away."

Nearby stalks of plants–peeking above the water's surface–bent to the strong, sudden draft of wind, which has manipulated the vessel; it steered the boatman deeper into the vague obscurity of the mist. The boatman refrains from tears; congenitally, crying in any situation was a niche for weakness. He kept his eyes resistant to–his own–perception of this eldritch phenomenon. Yet, no senile man in his late 80's could resist what the boatman saw next.

Deeper and deeper, the wind emphatically guided the boatman into the mist. The surface tension began breaking and reassembling with the speed of trek of the vessel. And suddenly–a stop. The contemporary stillness and tranquility temporarily revisited the boatman again. He takes advantage of the calm; as still as the stars assigned to the sky–and takes a last profound and long breathe of chilled mist. His caffeine-stimulated muscle attempt relaxation–unknowing to the boatman his body was going a mile a minute–but, at the inhale, a gentle "thud" is heard from below the raft. The boatman peaks towards the edge of the rowboat–and his cardiac, ventricle, and muscle system reach the speed threshold. His body: a light bulb burnt out after it's final switch-on, a manual motor grinding it's gears, the putting out of a candle–fell into the still and peaceful waters; he floated next to the corpse of a women: in the early stages of decay–larva already picking out at her large and, what was once, violent pink lips.

With only the last final tremors of the boatman; they both rested, calmy and tranquil, atop the ravine–allowing the mysteries of the mist to engulf them.

-@lawlnick

sci-fi project (project #1).

Nick had the privilege of choosing our first writing project. We are taking on the challenge of writing a Sci-Fi piece under the strict rules that it cannot be more than four pages single spaced. This way you can see how each of is gets a beginning, middle, and end within the same amount of space. We will be posting at the end of next week, and each of our pieces will be COMPLETELY different due to the fact that neither of the other two will see what the others have written until it has been posted on the blog. Check back at the end of next week for our projects, and keep checking back daily to see works that we have already written and that will be posted on the site. Thanks! -Adam

-@alsenoth

the death of isaac brunelle.

This story is VERY dear to me. It was an assignment for my Creative Writing class, but it turned into something MUCH more. This story is semi-reflective on something that has happened to me and I really enjoy the emotional depth that it holds. Please let me know what you think as I hope to turn this into a full-fledged book AFTER I have written my eight book series. Until then, I'm not planning on touching it. Thanks!

The Death of Isaac Brunelle
By Adam Gonzales

It was the day I died in every direction.
I’m sure I had it coming—in fact I knew I did; I had been asking for it. But as it goes with all things that we wish for, it didn’t turn out the way I thought it would.

It was early November. The trees were molting the last of their fiery leaves and the wind was getting cold enough to slice through skin. I was walking through the brazen colors of my grandparent’s orchard when I noticed Collette sitting on a wooden stump just past the row of trees. Her hair was smooth and straight, only curving upward at the ends. The breeze rushed against her face, sending tendrils of blonde strings to pass in front of her amber eyes.
I walked up to her, offering her my brown hoodie. She gave me a quick nod as I sat down in the orange pile of leaves next to her, and pressed the jacket to her cold cheeks. “It smells good,” she said happily.
“Huh. Haven’t noticed.”
Clouds were forming up above and the wind suddenly decided to speak louder. I was fine in my torn jeans and short-sleeved shirt, but even with the extra warmth of my jacket Collette began to shiver.
“We can go inside, you know.”
She looked at me, water forming in the corners of her eyes. “No. I’m fine.”
We sat there for awhile, letting the leaves whip up against our faces until my curiosity overcame my indifference. I cocked my head to the side, my short brown hair standing up at the back. Furrowing my brow I pulled my legs up against my chest as I turned to Collette.
“So. Why’d you come to the orchard? It’s quite aways from your house. Four blocks, isn’t it?”
“It’s pretty here. I like the trees.”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. Pretty enough to walk practically half a mile to see. I know you better. Why’d you really come?”
Collette’s eyes wandered from tree to burning tree, but I could tell that she was thinking of something else. I stood up, looking down at her with my arms crossed. It was usually easy to read Collette’s thoughts from her facial expressions, but this time she was blank. That really upset me. She was definitely hiding something—and she never did that to me. I pouted with my face.
“Seriously. What’s wrong?”
“Well…”
Her eyes lost their glaze and stared at me with a shadow of concern. ‘Great,’ I thought, ‘I did something stupid, yet again.’
“I heard something about you, Isaac—from Piers.”
Suddenly I felt real cold. If we were talking about Piers, only one thing could be coming. And I wasn’t sure that I was ready to talk about it just yet. I abruptly started shaking, and I was certain the weather had nothing to do with it.
“And?”
She gave me a look. The look, rather. It was funny how she was able to unexpectedly demand control with her eyes. She was a year and a half younger than me—seventeen—and yet she still could make me feel smaller than her in every way. I knew that the conversation was going to end as messy as possible.
Six months earlier I had realized something: I loved Collette. Not the same kind of love that I’m sure other people felt where they would woo and dote over their “catch,” as it were—and certainly not the physical attraction that some believed to be love. No, this was something else entirely. It was just a stronger sense of what I had felt about her before. She was my best friend, and had been my only real friend for quite some time. In fact I was willing to stake all my money on the fact that she knew more about me than even my mother. But the problem was she didn’t know how I felt about her yet. Unless Piers had been a fool and told her.
Piers.
Sad as it was, Piers did know how I felt—although I hadn’t intended for him to ever figure it out. I certainly hadn’t told him, he had just put two and two together. I guess I’m not as subtle as I think I am. But Piers wasn’t the whole of my problems. In fact, he wasn’t the problem at all. The problem was with two people: Claire and Lloyd.
Almost a full eighteen months ago, when she and I had started our friendship, Collette had been in love with me. I had known it, Piers had known it, everyone had known it. The problem was that I liked Collette’s sister, Claire. Truth be told I made such a big deal about liking Claire and everyone made such a big deal about me needing to go out with Collette, that when the time finally had arrived when I realized I loved her I was too stubborn to admit it. I’m not one for being wrong, so I took it as a stab at my dignity when I came to the understanding that everyone had been right. I guess that’s me: the one who goes against the crowd just for the sake of it. I didn’t want everyone to be right, so I had dumbly pretended otherwise.
The other problem was Lloyd. Collette had given up on waiting for me and had found a boyfriend. He was a nice guy—tall and funny—but I guess I looked at it differently; my eyes were clouded. Some part of me was jealous, yes, but there was another part—the part that was her closest friend—that feared for her. I didn’t want anything to go wrong for her; I just wanted her to be happy. And unlike me, she hadn’t tasted how quick the milk could turn sour. So I grew angry with him. For no particular reason other than the fact that he could turn on her. Soon everyone knew it. Except Collette.
“How long have you…” She looked at me expectedly.
I turned away, my face getting the full blast of the wind. It chilled me and my cheeks grew red as I grunted. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Isaac.”
I turned back towards her, my eyes hollowed. “Six months.”
“That’s not what I meant, Isaac. I already knew about that; you’re not that good at hiding your emotions.”
My brow furrowed, showing my confusion. What else could she possibly be talking about? Then it hit me. Lloyd. She did know about my hostility towards Lloyd. My heart sank. There was no way in hell’s fire that she would forgive me for that.
As soon as I had found out about Lloyd, I had suppressed my jealousy towards him in order to mask my feelings for Collette. But as time dragged on and Piers learned of my anger, I told him things. Just simple things that I thought about Lloyd and things that I didn’t want to happen to Collette. Things about Lloyd’s past, and how he would make the same mistakes he had done once already. Things like the way he had mistreated his previous girlfriend and had seduced her into doing things that even he himself didn’t want to do. Things about how he was known to treat people in his anger, and my fear that Collette would be treated the same way. I know that he was good to her in spite of his past—that he hated what he had done in his past, and that he truly was changing—and obviously there was some hate behind those words, but I never thought of them as anything else: just words. But I was known for putting too much emotion behind my words. I knew there must have been animosity behind them, and I knew that the snide remarks I had made would not be taken lightly. Piers must have thought so, too.
He had told his friends about what I had said, and they all had taken it as serious ideas and comments rather than expressed emotion. And so my words spread. Apparently they had even reached Collette’s ears. I knew this wasn’t good, and I knew—given her stubborn personality—she wouldn’t hear me through.
“I heard what you said about Lloyd.”
I gave no reply.
She suddenly looked up at me, sadness in her face and tears in her eyes. It ripped me apart to know that I had done this to her. “Why?”
There was nothing I could say. I just stared blankly at her, my heart to full of regret to even try to explain what had happened.
“Well,” she said sniffing, “I want you to know that what you said reached my mother—and Lloyd’s, too. They both agreed that we should stay away from each other—people have been saying stuff about him, and it’s hard for me to be near him without hearing people say how mean he is.” She inhaled deeply. “So I’m going to ask you for a favor. I-I-I don’t want to do this—really I don’t—but it sort of happened because of you, so I ask: please stay away and don’t talk to me. Okay?”
I nodded grimly and tried to hide the tears in my eyes.
“Okay then,” she said getting up. She left my jacket on the stump and waded her way through the piles of lifeless leaves, crunching them under her short black boots.
I watched as she made her way past the line of blazing trees, past the rows of fire, until she found the cold grey cement of the sidewalk. I had lost my best friend. I had lost my heart’s beat. I had died.
I had deserved it.
I silently let my tears fall as I pulled my jacket into my arms and sat on the tree stump. I let the cold bite my face until it became too much and I had to pull the hoodie to my cheeks. I inhaled deeply. Collette was right; it did smell good.

-@alsenoth

victor vacinni.

No one ever grew fond of Victor Vacinni. Amid our preadolescence years and elementary era, middle school society conformed to the norm of growing use to someone; Victor Vacinni was an exception. In classes, we usually found him–glassy eyed and nosed stuffed–staring straight at someone: no blinking, no nonchalant glances at the ceilings. At lunch, his isolation often disturbed our ability to eat with tranquility. He sat there, in his own empty table, staring straight at one of us: no blinking.
We all had our reasons to feel uncomfortable near him. Daniel Clemens once told us that they both attended the same private preschool and he would perform acts of passive-aggressive sexual exploitation. “He would take off all the clothes of the girl’s Barbies and draw all the privates where they should be,” he reported to us, during one of our many lunch-table gatherings, “When our teacher caught him Sharpie-ing a penis onto a Ken, he told her that he liked things to be realistic.” Sunny Days Preschool admits students from age four to six; Victor was five in Daniel’s testimony. Jared Stewart cited another example of Victor’s odd behavior at a viewing of The Godfather. “We went to the same church when I was eight,” he said, taking a swig of his soda, “every time the pastor would want us to repeat a passage, he would always talk in tongues. To this day, I don’t know if he was faking it or if he was actually possessed by something.”
Chris Peters once recalled an event where he was rehearsing through another laborious period of biology–which he and Victor both attended–and, unfortunately, had the pleasure of sitting by him. Here, Chris, the opportunist that he was, paid careful attention to the physical aspects of Victor. “He looks even crazier up close, man,” he said, lighting a cigarette as we all huddled behind our high school bleachers one Sunday afternoon, “that crazy bastard had two lazy bright brown eyes. I remember Mrs. Smith, dumb braud, told the whole class to ‘converse’ with each other about decomposition or something. Hell, I needed to pass, so I talked to him, but as soon as I uttered a word he got really close, like this,” he got as close as he could to Johnny Carlson’s face; the tip of his cigarette brightened as it inched closer and closer to Johnny’s nose, “About this fucking close that creep-o got. Tell you all, I never seen so much disgusting hygiene on a kid before. Fuck, I’ve seen roadkill cleaner than that boy.” We all urged him to go on. “His snot: wet and dry. You could notice the dried up layer because it was magnified, like a jello, by the running wet snot falling and gathering up on his upper lip. His skin was greasy and reminded me of an old leather wallet. God damn it, man, I’ve never been so disgusted by a person in my life.”
We all formed separate opinions on one or two differing physical traits he held. Jared Stewart recognizes Victor the most for his sporadic hair lining, “It’s the type of hair lining where your only hope to pull it off is to completely shave it.” Daniel Clemens remembers him for the huge bug eyes he had, “They always look as though they capture the light in the room. It has a strange gloss to it.” Robert Miller recalls his mangy posture and the way he raised his wrist to chest level. Rudy Romeo juxtaposes Victor’s unspeakably high voice and his greasy curly hair. Kevin McDonald, his scrawny legs. Tyler Beard, his skinniness. Taylor Jackson: big cheeks. Johnny Carlson: mongoloid teeth. Chris Peters: snot.
Every lunch, we all sat parallel to his empty kingdom. Victor never ate; he stared. It was a silent mutual rule that none of us ever bring up his prolonged gaze towards us at the table. We would either burst out into false laughter from Chris’s naughty joke or made fun of eachother; We all looked for ways to conceal the discomfort of his stare.
Once, during an after school detention, Chris Peters and Taylor Jackson decided to amuse the two-hours of confinement away by passing notes. It started with a game of hangman inscribed into the college-ruled by granite pencils. The frustration of guessing, the silent laughter with the eyes, and the lingering hint of boredom at the innocent entertainment evolved the topic, evoked into the wadded up paper ball, to the taboo that was Victor Vacinni. First, a drawing of Victor with the more cartoonist angle. Chris exaggerated his odd shaped head, his bug eyes, and payed the most attention to the running snot. Taylor added labels and arrows such as: tiny dick, shit-stained pants, unzipped zipper–each arrow pointed to the appropriate anatomy location. The mocking within the note escalated with such a speed that the velocity sped up the detention time itself, but before the last two minutes of their sentence Taylor wrote one last thing into the flagrant note: Victor Vacinni is gay.
“I threw it out,” said Taylor, when we all asked while walking at a mall one evening, “someone might have picked it up.” Whatever the cause, the rumor permeated through every hall of middle school. The topic penetrated every gossip requiem the day prior. ‘Victor Vacinni is gay’ invaded the notes passed, in secret, throughout classes. The questioning of Victor’s sexuality spread faster than the medieval Black Plague, carried out by rats and maggots, infecting virgins to the news. It was a God damn epidemic.
Maybe it was bias on knowing that we spread the rumor, but Victor’s gaze at the cafeteria seemed more concentrated since. We all knew laughing loudly or telling an irrelevant story wouldn’t cover up the tension amid our sandwich eating and the glare, so we feasted in silence those days–the days the news was still saran wrapped. “You remember that one day, when everyone, like, made fun of him during fifth period and all he did during lunch was stare at us and write in some weird notebook?” said Tyler Beard, in a reminiscing moment we all shared during a lull in a road trip.
All of us produced theories of what he might have written in the notebook. Daniel thought he was compiling a hit list. “Come on, guys, he had all the motives to want to kill us. He was a major creep and he probably knew about the note that started it all,” said Daniel once, ill in bed. Kevin McDonald speculated that perhaps Victor was an artistic individual, and was simply jotting down his emotions. “Nothing great, in art, is ever produced through happiness,” Kevin stated, as we all drank coffee at a Starbucks, “the haunting experience may have been perfect inspiration for a piece.”
Over time, we all abandoned justifying the mysterious writing. Over time, we resumed our obnoxious laughter and mechanisms to refute the discomfort. We all continued digging into our lunches, our Pringles, Cheetos, carrot sticks. None of us could resist the thought that we were silently mocking the kid as we ate. Here we were: eating. There he was: alone.
However, our middle-school mystery of Victor Vacinni was answered by Mrs. Devila–our study period advisor. We all notice that he was gone that day at school. “I knew that day was gonna be really fucking weird. He was never absent at school, never,” Chris stated to us, beneath the bleachers, dropping the cigarette stub and extinguishing it with his foot, “it was ironic ya know. The thing more creepier than him being at school was him being absent from it.” The classroom air had a mundane chill the day we all received the news about Victor Vacinni. “You know ever since preschool, that kid always sent an eery warmth into the atmosphere. Like a dying animal breathing his last warm breath,” said Daniel Clemens as we all packed our left-overs of lunch and placed a tip for the waitress. The distinct facial expression Mrs. Devila wore, as she stepped up from her desk onto the center of the room–we all remembered that look, the look of sympathy and mourn. “Tell you one thing, our middle-school teacher was a heartless bitch, the way she gave us the news felt so forced. It’s a shame. No one ever liked that kid. The teachers had to act,” said Jared Stewart, as the movie credits fell and we begun to exit the theatre. We all remembered how we simultaneously stopped talking and turned in our chairs to face her. “She always use to complain about how we never stopped talking. I wonder why that day we all did,” yawned Tyler Beard, as he approached sleepiness and began to rest in the backseat of our car.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs. Devila, “I am sorry to inform you that Victor Vacinni will not be joining us any further,” that long pause, “Due to some graphic news that was sent out into the school today, it was brought to our attention that Victor is no longer with us. He died. I have been taken aback by the news that his life was taken,” another lull, “by his father.”
“His father apparently was some psycho murderer.”
“Fucking tells you a lot about why Victor was the way he was, huh?”
“The father,” Mrs. Devila now crossed her arms: body language for sincerity, “was arrested this morning, and, rest assured, he has been imprisoned and will not harm anyone ever again. A notice to each of your parents has been sent out to bring this to there attention.”
“Makes you think.”
“Why do you think we never stopped messing with him? Wasn’t it obvious this kid had problems?”
“We were kids, man, we were kids.”
We all waited through Mrs. Devila’s longer pause, and then she stated, “Let’s all take a minute in silence, to remember Victor Vacinni.”

-@lawlnick