I witnessed the most beautiful meteor shower last night. My mother wept softly, her tears glistening like the falling stars, while my father knelt in prayer, his voice trembling in the stillness. I was too young to understand the gravity of the moment, too innocent to realize that in those fleeting seconds, my life would never be the same. The sky was alive with wonders, but below, a shadow had already begun to loom over us.

The bath was overflowing. I knocked on the door once, and no response. Twice, and still no response. I called his name. "Liam?" There was still no response. I turned the handle slowly and entered the bathroom, quickly turning to my son. A shiver went down my spine. Tears welled in my eyes once I saw Liam's lifeless body. The bathtub water was red. His wrists had deep, oozing cuts. He had slit his wrists whilst in the bath. My son. He was gone. He ended his life and I didn't even know. I never cared enough. I never saw the signs. I never asked him how he was. I never took interest in his life. It was all my fault. My son. Gone.

She was just lying there. Alone. The pill bottle still in her hand. Her corpse rotting away. Days passed and her skin became paler, her fingers colder and her once soft lips shrunk and withered away. No one saw. No one noticed. No one realised she took her own life. Because no one cared. I found her body three days after her death. I never called, I never texted, I should have checked on her. But I didn't. I couldn't be bothered to. If I didn't go away, she would still be alive. What kind of man would leave his mentally ill girlfriend home while he selfishly went away and had fun with his friends? Drinking 'till dawn, getting high with my mates, fooling around with various girls. I'm not a man. I'll never be a man. I'm just a boy. Because of me, she is dead. I left her. I left her to die.

Youthful days of summer. The warm glow of the sun on my cheek and the light wind caressing my hair. Careless moments with the people I loved. Everything was so happy and colourful. I was young and bright. I never took time to appreciate those moments. Childhood summers went too fast. No longer I could experience those times. Once again, I felt lost to nostalgia. My memories of youth takes over me, overwhelming me with regret and sorrow. Where has the time gone? I pass the house I used to live in; home to a new family. I see kids play in the same streets I did. I notice my friends walk past, older and duller. They either do not recognise me, or do not wish to remember me. Nostalgia is such a strange feeling. One cannot hate it or love it. It is an emotion of it's own, with none other like it. It reminds you of your past, and soon the present will become your past, and your future will become your present. Always appreciate the little things in life. You don't know when it's going to end.

Telling your drunk mother, she broke your toe, while cursing at step father.

With the collapse of the world’s last standing public governing body, they gained total control of the last raw resources they needed to do away with us. It took just five hundred years for the megacorps to strip the last of our rights and freedoms. We slave away to scrape by with water and food rations to survive on the dying surface, locked out from the last bit of green that still breathes fresh air into the atmosphere. All of this service only to be completely left behind by them, their broken promises of a brighter future made blindingly apparent as their rockets ignited, lifting them off to greater possibilities. Their rockets scorched the earth, burned the last forests, and dried the riverbeds as the lights of their engines became stars in the void. We had the last laugh as those very stars exploded, one by one, like the blood vessels in our asphyxiated lungs – our successful sabotage forcing the megacorps to burn up like the last air on the planet.

I’m always stuck in revisions. Poses and deletions. Sketches and eraser shavings. Shameful taps of the backspace key smacking against my eardrums like morse code to a past version of myself: “Fuck. You. You thought you made something, said something, were something. You thought and foisted it across the counter of the surrounding lives of your world, rotting fish at a fresh fish market. And you thought it was anything but rank. Refuse, rubbish, and ruin wearing on eyes and nostrils. Pollution. Thought bubbles of smog and tears of acid rain. Waste of words cobbled together desperately. Pathetic.” I stand constantly before the twin funhouse mirrors in my skull, di sproportioned and false. I pray the flattering angles are reality and that the warped and weepy images are lies. The one who stands hopefully before these twisted images Is a begging thing. A creature caught between vanity and shame, stretched over the pit below and gripping wildly at the lip of this chasm in the vain hope of escaping what waits beneath.

Darkness. Stillness. Truth.

I saw nothing. There was fog around me. My eyes could not peek through the clouded state of my mind. Until my hand grasped another’s. They saw my agony and desire and helped me. An angel to my rescue. I became enthralled the beauty of the world around me. But as I saw the world around me, I left its hands to chase the reality in front of me. I lost my vision. I desperately searched again for my angel. But I had left it. And when I came searching and searching for it, I reached out and ripped out its wings desperately trying to find its hands. I hurt my angel. And it left to protect itself from the lost man that I was. I searched and searched for it. Day through night until I had found it again. Until I heard it talking with another person. Curing his blindness, as he treated it right, unlike me. I cried and weeped, and no apology or attempts to amend wrongs helped. I sat and cried, for the rest of my life, unable to see anything, unable to reach for the hands of another angel, as my hands were full with the blood and wings of the angel I had hurt. I forever cried, listening to the rejoice of my angel, guiding another man, when it should’ve been me, being guided by her. I’m so sorry M.

• L

Among the six-thousand-or-so commandments in the Book of Holy Ways, there is only one dietary restriction. In the usual translation, it reads: “Thou mayest not eat an animal which died a natural death.” Reasonable enough, given what was known about safe food handling during the era when it was written. However, in practice, it is often taken to mean “Thou shalt slaughter livestock in the most unnatural way possible.” On my first visit I witnessed the slaughter of a rabbit by strapping it to a simple gunpowder rocket and shooting it into a rock quarry, the embalming (with a kind of barbecue sauce) of a rather agitated goose, and a midair collision between two pigs launched from catapults situated at opposite ends of the village. This last procedure has been practised to such a degree of refinement that under normal wind conditions, the victims will usually fall to Earth within twenty paces of the butcher shop in the town square, which serves as a sort of clearing-house for these activities. On this particular occasion one of the pigs had its fall broken by an unsuspecting pigeon, bringing the total number of victims to three. The pigeon was promptly scooped up by one of the nearby beggars, who briefly covered his eyes in prayer, no doubt grateful beyond measure that the Holy Ways had once again provided a modest bounty.

"I'm scared," my sister said to me, over the phone. I asked her why; her voice wasn't fearful like it used to be whenever she found a spider in our house when we were growing up. "I'm afraid to do things, and afraid of not doing things, afraid that my life is just passing me by. I'm stuck, Louvie," came the response from my phone. Spiders were easier, I thought to myself, but I said, "I think that's normal, Asia - we're all a little bit lost some of the time. You'll find your way if you keep chasing whatever makes you happy." There was a pause, then: "Is that really true, Louvie?". I replied, still thinking of the small spiders I would once-upon-a-time save my terrified little sister from, brandishing a rolled-up magazine with the swagger and drama of a hero from the movies. "Sure it's true, Asia. You just gotta get started, then keep goin'. Follow what you love, and I promise it'll work out."

Death. Well deserved, at last, the few last serene moments in the wet grass as the world fades to black and I draw my last shivering breaths, laying down into the earth’s warm embrace, finding peace like an infant in its mother’s arms.

I put it all away: doubt, Now, I let IT feed me, the hands of the wind itself, Now, tell me that truth which I knew once as magic, and, sing me to sleep no more for this moon will not have lullabies for supper but bright symphonies for breakfast at Dawn, singing my self back to Life with the birds, fat on the honey-butter of Sun, you Know, I once came down this way, and you Know, I once knew my Name, so, I put it all away: doubt, and now choose to sing and not say what I have Found once again and after The Play I play I let there be silence and let there be the ringing of cedars and let there be the ding dinging of Bells, I put it all away: doubt, so don’t ask me what I know, Now, for I AM only beginning, which is to say, Living! like us all in the centre of a Mystery that does not end...

After air drop into an unfamiliar city, the sky was filled with long red strips like martial arts belts holding coats closed. Remaining outside by the pool, I nearly fell from the cheapest seats to discover it was unequaled for malicious pursuance. We bought tickets and embarked upon a bus and, so you could send a cheap gift anonymously via mail for a contractually mutually obliging arrangement wherein I supply a copy of my household unit income receipt for reimbursement for objects found around my house, thus ensuring my online reject cracked chocolate egg business not under any further scrutiny. My secret? Condensed milk! "That's just all come out wrong!" he complained to the police whilst making his confession. Few lived to tell of their experiences on 'Sentient Banana Island'. I knew I wished I hadn't. There really was no going back.

After sleeping for too long one afternoon the transformation became permanent, leaving him a goldfish within a sideshow attendant's prize, tied, clear plastic bag, filled with water and realising it was being carried by a hand on the end of an arm through a city full of air breathers. It's been raining and someone's listening carefully to the sound. It's too late to back out now. Every time I fell asleep he gained the upper hand in our game, one verging on the virtual expiration of myself. A complex dental hygiene related situation to which her only response was in hiding all of her family's cadavers in the soft sand at the back of the beach and my forfeiture to her of my part in their inheritances which made for a deal wholly unattractive to my sensibilities. The only known method by which we might extinguish the influence of these, recently uncovered witchcraft spell-imbued artifacts over our lives was to note, via photograph, the length of each other's hair, (as seen from behind) and then to compare. We could find no reason to go back and even less to stay, as over my shoulder I threw back in a lit match.

Not long after I lay down to sleep did they come in and start making noise, playing records and boisterously talking, muffled after doors closed; then again came silence from their end of the house.

It was as I drifted off to sleep that I recalled living alone.

As I returned to my seat I noticed through a cabin window, two airline pilot uniform wearing parachutists, quite obviously recently ejected from our plane through a pair of still open emergency exit doors, followed by a disconcertingly squealed message from a befuddled air hostess through the plane's intercom, requesting anyone on board with even the most rudimentary of flight training skills to, "Please assemble beside the cockpit door hatch".

I think there is a problem with my eyes. Wherever I turn, they seem to be searching. Always searching, always seeking, that familiar black hair, those mesmerizing brown eyes, that charming smile. Always wondering when they will get to see you again, to soak in your presence, to bask in your brilliance.

I think there is a problem with my ears. Wherever I go, they seem to be listening. Always listening, ever so keenly, for that familiar voice, that silky smooth tone, those captivating words. Always wondering when they will get to hear you again, to drink in your speech, to relish in your words.

I think there is a problem with my head. Wherever whenever, lost in thought, in fantasies, in delusions of you. Always thinking, always dreaming of you. Only you.

I think there is a problem with me. Wherever whenever, I can’t stop myself from looking for you. Can’t stop myself from scanning the crowd in hopes for finding you. Can’t stop myself from smiling every time I think of you. Can’t stop or won’t stop, I am not sure. But there is one thing I’m certain of. I’m certain that there is something wrong with me and it is all because of you.

"The problem is not doubt," he said over the sound of the wind. "I'd dearly love to feel any kind of doubt." The rest of them backed away from the bow as the waves broke over the railing with increasing violence. None of us knew how long the thing would remain seaworthy, how long we had, only that it was not going to be long enough. But he was the expert, hired to get us across in safety, and now that it seemed impossible all he could do was explain why he was never wrong, could never be wrong. The young ones didn't cry, but some of their parents did. All he could do was stare into the horizon, at the approaching whirlwind, and try to find doubt.

"I like the sound of the flute, but not the sound of the price" he said with a grin. "I'm wondering if there is any wiggle room here." The man shook his head in sadness. No, he said, the price is the price. If you pay less you'll never love the instrument. He didn't actually say that of course, nobody ever does, but that was the message nonetheless. A lot of people were paying attention to the seller, and the flute player that could not afford the flute. You might think that that at least one of them, having enjoyed the music he made so much, would speak up in his behalf. But nobody did. They waited in silence for something else, someone else to resolve the problem. Maybe they were waiting on you.

Imagine thousands of mosquitoes in your veins ingurgitating your blood slowly until there’s none left and you die from blood loss. But when you enter your next life you become a mosquito and you are then forced to usurp the veins of your loved ones from your previous life just like the mosquitoes that killed you before.

After I finished my story she said "I'm nothing like her." She held her hand up, palm toward me, as if to punctuate her point. "I would never accuse you, or even talk to you like that." Her hand began to wiggle, making "never" in the air. I didn't say anything right away, and that was probably my mistake. I saw her face darken, the growing resentment pricking up in lines on her forehead. "What, are you implying something? Just say it, then. Just say it." I didn't. I knew how this worked from years and years of experience. I just needed her to tire, to fade, to allow her other to emerge. Then the argument would be the other way around.

We joke online about “first-world problems,” but we really have become victims of our own success. Stress-related health issues, anxiety disorders, and cases of depression have skyrocketed over the past thirty years, despite the fact that everyone has a flat-screen TV and can have their groceries delivered. Our crisis is no longer material; it’s existential, it’s spiritual. We have so much fucking stuff and so many opportunities that we don’t even know what to give a fuck about anymore. Because there’s an infinite amount of things we can now see or know, there are also an infinite number of ways we can discover that we don’t measure up, that we’re not good enough, that things aren’t as great as they could be. And this rips us apart inside.

The playground was a wild cacophany of violence. These were the children that had suvived the first attacks, and thus were the strongest of all. The horizon glowed purple with ionization and the air smelled like metal. They had, as children do, segregated themselves into genders. The boys jostled for control while the girls made plans. There was no supervision anymore, of course, and they knew it. There was no question what was about to happen, only a matter of sequence and velocity. The hopeless world waited on the outcome. This was the final generation, the end of history. In a few moments someone would begin.

How grand it would be to sit all alone under the expansive sky and watch the clouds of possibilities go by and by without a care in the world beyond the rich passing of time, bathed in rays of sunshine like armor made but only for this very moment. Towering summit, face growing old in glorious panoramic, shrink the distance between us to something negligible if you can. Please, by all means, take your time tracing each of our paths through the valley of the shadow of your rearview mirror, for we can only watch and wait in stitches of wonder.

He took a backpack and walked aimlessly: he sought to find his emotions. All day he walked, and most of the nights too. The moon's beauty, the view from the bridge, the streets' musicians none gifted him the power to feel. On his journey he thought writing on a journal would help him find what he wanted most, but his verses had the taste of paper, and his mind remained mute. He became weaker and weaker as the days went by. Now the pain in his legs mocked his quest. The silence he was in often made him doubt he still had a voice. Years went by he became an old looking man. His face saw so many beautiful things, and he travelled many lives worth of times. But nowhere, physical or mental, did he find something to feel. He returned to the city he bid farewell to long time ago. His only valuable treasure was his journal, which like a chest contained his life. It was only on the last time he would suffer climbing stairs that it occurred to him he did feel. All he ever felt was deep sadness, he sketched a quick smile on his face reached to his treasure chest to write his conclusion.But the exhaustion of climbing struck his chest and the heart in it. All that was left were the pages he wrote on, from these someone took the words and made many tears fall all around the world.

The man who lived next door when I was 7 rarely left his house any farther than the curb. Deiter. His mailbox had no name on it, so Deiter was all we knew. My mother would shade my eyes when he went to check the mail because he always did it in his tightie whities, which did little to contain his bulbous scrotum. He looked so old to me, but then all adults do when you're 7. The day that Deiter stopped checking that mailbox turned out to be the day he died, and my father called the authorities after two days to check on him. The looks on their faces when they came back out of his house still haunts me to this day. That, and the smell that emerged when they left his front door open.

The sun reaches over the bleak horizon, barren and unforgiving. A man pulls his mask off to reveal a mournful expression with the slight glimmer of hope at the rising sun, as heat washes over him he smiles and basks in its light, the shock waves rippling through his flesh and the gusts of violent and destructive wind wash away all that is left. There is no more, everything that defined this world, this reality that this man had lived in and struggled to continue in for so long a mere speck of dust on the ground. what next can only be described as the bliss of silence, the echoes of nothing, the deafening roar of a world held still. The fat man stands up and brushes the dust off of his shorts.

I plunged deep into the sea. Down into the abyss to find beauty. To find rich haunting depths. I sank deeper into the breaches of hollowed alien waters. Confidently, i fell, trusting my count, my heading, my hoses. Secured the gear myself; It didn't matter. It only showed me clearly who's fault it was when the gauges fell and the tank began to bleed. I froze in fear that gave way to panic. An accelerated burn. A fire in the lungs. And I kick now desperately toward the light above. Toward air, wishing I even knew how to swim.

Bonnies billboard,“Bonnie’s big blunt business”, bolted below bills billboard,“bills broad branch bank” began being belittled by bellowing businesses. Bosses believed Bonnie’s billboard brought bills bank bad business

The tumor, a treacherous torment of true terror trembling throughout Tim’s tonsils, turned terminal Tuesday