White flecks dot the air. They drift slowly downwards. Gracefully flutter through the sky. Petals of ice, crystalized by the frigid heights, made to tumble down to the earth below.

The first had arrived the night before. They made the lonely descent under the shaded moon light. Coming to rest on the departed grass. The blades rusted by the coming cold. They were now dulled and covered by a pale blanket. The foliage, once green then brown, now a colorless mat.

It was silent, no sound could be heard. A peaceful stillness had crept in with the snow. No noise made it past the meandering curtain. It was as if the world outside the cabin had been shut out. A bubble of tranquility in an otherwise chaotic time.

Not that it mattered. There was nothing to hear. Any living creature had long since left, or entered hibernation. The days of plenty were over. It was time to make use of their preparations.

The heavens opened. A ray of light broke through the clouds. The sunbeam being the first sign of the storm breaking. A keen eye might make out the slowing of the snowfall, but there was only one creature out to even notice.

A soft crunch cracked the silence. A man, bundled up in thick layers of clothing, trudged through the drifts. On his back was a large bundle of wood. His face, though wrapped in a scarf, was red from the chill. Tiny white clouds formed as his breath broke through the edges of the fabric. It made its way up to frost over his eyebrows.

The light hit his face. His eyes narrowed at the brightness. Glancing up he took a moment to bask in the sight. The beams dance among the snowflakes, illuminating them. Diamonds trickling down from the ether. A sight that could only be viewed in this harsh season.

The clouds closed.

He resumed his trek. They would have enough firewood to last the day. Luckily the shed was full of more. He will make the same trip tomorrow.

I saw him yesterday morning at 0915. I initially met ‘Client Xi’ a few years ago. I have never seen him regularly. He lived with his partner ‘Joyce’. Both ‘Client Xi’ and ‘Joyce’ are/were very sweet. I have a bit of banter with ‘Client Xi’. He has dementia but it is his memory and it is not his sense of humour that has been affected.

‘You’ll get arrested wearing those!’ (my orange mtb shorts).

‘By a policewoman in suspenders and stockings?’

‘What happened to your hair?’

‘After I saw you last time - it all fell out’.

‘What does your wife think about the way that you dress?’

‘I am not married - I am lonely.’

Yesterday when ‘Client Xi’ was sitting at the kitchen table and eating his cornflakes and toast; he had a sneezing attack and he sneezed about 10 times during a period of about 5 minutes.

‘Kirtyschooue’

‘Bless you’!

‘Kirtyschooue’

‘Bless you’!

‘Kirtyschooue’

‘Bless you’!

‘Kirtyschooue’

‘Bless you’!

‘Kirtyschooue’

You know what, ‘Client Xi’?

‘What?’

I am sick of saying

‘Bless you’!

‘What do you want to say?’

‘I want to say; Shut up!’

‘Kirtyschooue’

‘Bless you’!

‘Kirtyschooue’

‘Bless you’!

‘Kirtyschooue’

‘Bless you’!

‘Kirtyschooue’

‘Bless you’!

When I arrived at ‘Client Xi’s apartment. I found him the same as ever in himself, but with less teeth. I helped him have a morning wash and I put cream onto the terrible mass of sore lesions that were all over his body. The last time I saw him prior to this visit - Joyce was in hospital. She died. I wondered that the huge increase in the size, scope and power of his chronic skin lesions was a consequence of his bereavement.

Joyce was so sweet and lovely. She was 75. She told me that both she and ‘Client Xi’ had stopped smoking 25 years ago. She said that at that time she was fit and healthy, but that 2 years after she stopped smoking, she developed COPD. This is what she had eventually died from. The last time that I spoke to her was on the telephone. She called from the hospital to make sure that ‘Client Xi’ was OK. She could not say more than two words between gasping breaths.

Prior to that, she had had a rectal prolapse, she told me, and because of the atrocity - her NHS surgery to fix it had been cancelled. She was really suffering with it at that time. She eventually burned her savings in a private surgery at the Humana Hospital. That is the hospital where they kill poverty afflicted Indians to give their internal organs to the wealthy.

My time with ‘Client Xi’ was all too gone. I was supposed to be there for 45 minutes, but an hour had gone by. I had had plenty to do and I had sat with a cup of tea and enjoyed good quality banter with ‘Client Xi’.

Supplemental; Like many old people ‘Client Xi’ is now surrounded, encircled, beset and bewildered by a closing net of ravenous and predatory and disgusting and depraved ‘friends’ who have moved in to shave him dry, now that Joyce is gone.

I don't think I have always felt this lonely. Although I don't remember when it started. I've always been the type to sit and watch the cars pass by, to name the color and the model and the way it starts shiny and then it rusts, as i criticize the owner for not taking better care of it, and i critique the men in the shops for not being able to fix it. When I was younger I would perform these activities surrounded by people. My friends and I would sit on the curb with a bag of candy open, and one of us would point out a car and the rest of us would name the color and the model, and we’d talk about its flaws, the very visible problems like the dent on the side or the rust on the tires, and we’d make fun of them, and how battered they were, and how isolated the drivers seemed to be. That was until all of them got cars of their own, glistening pink and shiny, and now they drive past me as I walk the empty streets, and somehow, none of them have dents, or rust on their tires. But my car, the little one, blue as the ocean, the one that sits unoccupied in my garage, has dents all over, cracks in the windows and rust on the tires, and when you try to start it up the engine doesn't quite work right. My car is a junkyard, it is a stain that never was fully removed from cloth. I feel that this stain has always been on me even when I used to watch cars in my youth. I realize now the signs i didnt see, like after watching the cars when we parted ways, they took their pink bikes to their neighborhood in a cluster, and I walked the opposite way to mine. As I get older I realize the dents in my car are not my fault, but the fault of the manufacturer, the mechanic who built me, the world that told me to get a pink car instead of blue, and the other cars who have hit me. Every car has been passed down through generations, updated and adapted through history. Some models are more fortunate than others; they can handle snow and rain, some are more shiny than others, harder to damage than others. Although my car is battered and broken, I have finally decided to use it. I will take my car to the shop, and while I am there I will watch the other cars drive past me, and I will look at the cars like mine being worked on, and I will think of how much damage they have been through. I will think of how much their cars have survived, and how much work it takes for their engines to function

The sun is high, and the day is warm. Rays of light cascade down from the heavens; they drape over trees. Vibrant greens mix with yellows and reds. A canvas of color, painted for all eyes to see. The display is broken only by the occasional pine, stubbornly staying ever green.

A rumble forms in the distance. Gray clouds drift down from the north. A line of shadow cutting off the sun. A different form of luminescence follows. Sharp and swift the lightning crashed, arching across the clouds. Temporarily illuminating the world beneath it, before they go silent once more.

The air shifts. Once, where warmth sat, a chill sauntered in. It crept in before the storm, slowly sapping the heat away. Driving the comfort from the afternoon. The smell of grass and flowers is replaced by that of rain. The creatures that call this land home all hunker down.

A squirrel darted across the ground; a broken cob of corn clenched firmly between its teeth. Luckily, it was on its way to store the find when the storm began to break. Up a tree it went, only slowing to turn the cob sideways before disappearing into a hole.

Across the field, deer could be seen. Just their heads visible over the tall grass, dashing away. Making a desperate attempt to reach a far of thicket before the water fell. Suddenly they lept, two, three, four of them. Their hooves easily cleared, not only the browning pasture land, but whatever they needed to jump over. Landing softly, their heads only discernible once more, they vanished into the trees.

No birds sang. No crickets chirped. The rumbling grew louder as the clouds drew closer. Leaves began to bob up and down as the first drops of rain landed on them. What began as a soft splash soon grew into a roar. Water poured down from the flashing sky. Covering the world in sheets.

The man looked out his window. Wishing the rain had come a few months ago, but happy that they were getting any at all. Water beading on the glass. Rolling down faster as droplets merged and grew. Watching the sight before him he took a moment to be thankful.

The work of the summer had grown feverish of late. The harvest was coming in. Fresh vegetables and fruit were in abundance. The time of plenty was upon them. He had food on his table and more yet filled his larders. The hard work had paid off, yet there was still more. Canning and preserving the bounty was a monumental task, and they only had three months until another shift in the weather.

His children, thankful for the break, lazed. Reading or munching on some of the fresh produce, they thought nothing of the coming storm, or what was to follow it. The chill in the air signaled it. He knew though; it was his job to prepare.

A woman, his wife, brought him a steaming cup. Coffee. Too hot for last season, just right for a day like today. The first sip warmed his bones and drove the cold away. He might have to build a fire tonight.

The rain fell harder, thunder crashed, a change was coming.

There she sits among the reeds with her feet in the water. Hunched over, her shoulders cradling her belly, her arms at her sides, limp in the dirt. Her face is still, like a stone statue, and written upon it is nothing. Her lungs are thirsty for air, but will invariably vomit it up; so here they rest, waiting for the next attack of life upon them.

She has no desire to look up from her lap; and indeed, her lap is not so much the object of her gaze as the canvas upon which she weaves her expression of nothing. She does not seem to have time to notice whether her legs are hairy or not, or anything else about them.

Who knows what has happened to her over the course of the past 24 hours? Or her entire life? She does not care to remember at this moment. There is only the embrace of a death-like paralysis over her mind and body.

She is my ancestor, who let the tide wash the grass around her and wash her, forever and ever.

And when her companions found her, they of course may have had some things to say on her behalf. What is written, though, she might as well have written herself: she was a catamite- childless, motherless, sisterless and brotherless; she had done evil with her eyes closed and her hands tied, and had never thought to ask anyone for forgiveness.

Green hues. Like blotches of paint. And like blotches of paint, now blurred. If not to u, then at least to him. Frosty almost ice-like, pinchy almost knife like grass hugged his shin, elbows and arms, in a place full, full of what? Full of trees, full of insects, full of petrichor, and now, full of breaking, pouring, screeching, and soon hoarse voice. Full of his voice.

In a fetus position his hands of arms parallel to the other clasped the arms nearby, so tight, so, so tight. The nails piercing through them could have him feel something metal-y and magnet-y.

His eyes now liberated of all the tears they could accumulate and more, felt dry, yet he knew he could keep on and on and on shedding droplets. He knew no one would know. That was one thing, the only thing that comforted him.

He didn’t hate her, no how could he? He knew she wasn’t perfect, he knew her problems, he knew who she really was. But he also knew she was everything he wanted. He tried, trust me he did, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t work harder, he couldn’t accept that she was better, he couldn’t accept that maybe she had more mana, more charm, more friends, more capability more everything. It’s not like he could help being weak.

Except he wasn’t, he was strong, she was better at school but he was capable, capable at things other than designing other than…other than trivial things like like handwriting or or productivity or whatever else. But that was all he could see.

He did understand that, he understood how much he chose to see. But he was still human. He felt his heart gouging out. Was he even himself now? Where was the, the better child, the smart student, the mature one? Now, there was just a child, a student, a person.

What could he do? better? He knows, he tried, it’s an insult that you think he didn’t think of something as simple as that.

He loosens his grip for a moment, glancing over that part of his arms, then fingers lastly palm. He shifts his hands over to his jet black hair with highlights of velvety, deep green stands scattered rarely here and there. slowly, sensually he ran his fingers throughout, trying to catch a breath, trying to calm himself. After two sharp yet longing breaths his body gave out. Vulnerability is hard, yet inevitable. Especially for an eccedentesiast.

My parents are getting ready for the arrival of a new sister. They tell me that the baby could be a girl or a boy and I should be open to the possibility of a brother, but I know I’m getting a sister. I’ve waited five long, gruelling, lonely years for a sister. I don’t want a brother.

My mom and dad are busy offering and rejecting names for the new baby. Cameron, Renée, and Pascal are all vetoed. Finally, my parents turn to me.

“What do you think we should name the baby?”

I’m glad they asked me, because I have an idea for the most lovely, the most wonderful, the most perfect name that anyone on this planet has ever heard.

I sit up straighter. I look at my parents to make sure that they’re both ready to hear this beautiful name.

“I think you should name her Lasagna,” I say.

Try saying it out loud with a dreamy and faraway look in your eyes. Lasagna. Feel the shape your throat makes when the sound comes out, feel the soft vibrations. La zahhhhn nya.

Just try.

Droplets of water shiver. Rolling slowly down off of their green beds; the blades of grass bend under the shifting weight. The dew moves with the coming dawn. Trying desperately to hide from the rays of the sun.

They don't make it. New light hits them, splitting into seven as it does. All along the verdant lawn spots of color explode outward. To any eye sharp enough to notice, the ground has turned into countless pinpoint rainbows.

The sight, sadly, doesn't last. The rising heat takes hold of any droplet not quick enough to hide. They shrink under the sun's grip. Vapor slowly rises into the sky; the air ripples as water is freed from its earthly bonds.

On these rising currents drifts a large bird. Amber orbs perch atop a sharp curved beak. They dart this way and look for breakfast. Now that the lawn is still, it can perceive any movement. Talons flex hungry, as it lazily floats above the world.

A soft buzzing drones over the now motionless yard. Looking for a flower amongst already ripened berries; a bee bumbles along. It had found pollen here earlier in the year and was back to check for more. However, it had done its job quite well and now all that could be found was fresh fruit.

A rustle in the grass causes the hawk to dive.

It lands with thud. The full force of the plunge burying wicked talons into its prey. A few flaps and it's off, a rabbit clutched underneath it. There is no remorse for this act from the hunter. A nest full of screeching chicks demands to be fed. It flies back over a cabin, bringing the fresh meat back to its young.

A small girl stands on the porch looking in awe at the retreating bird. Too young to really understand what she had just seen. She dashes out into the late morning sun, taking a wide course around her home. Behind the cabin was a large patch of black earth devoid of any grass.

A man and two older children were bent over. Careful not to step on any of the small green shoots coming out of the ground. Their steps leave deep footprints in the soft soil. They were inspecting each seedling coming up in their respective rows. Fingers reached out and pulled plants gently aside. Selecting the undesirable ones and removing them from the tilled earth; leaving only the growing vegetables.

The girl sprinting, called to her father as she approached.

All three looked up from their task. The man's face breaks into a grin.

She entered the garden; slowing her pace, she picked her way carefully through remaining plants. She had learned last year to be careful. When she reached the man she proudly exclaimed her sighting of the hawk.

The man lifted her up, resting her in the crook of his arm. Praising her sharp eyes, he gave her a tight hug.

She burst into a giggle before forcing her face into a pout, imploring her father to come play.

He took a moment and looked around the garden. The weeding was almost done. Then he turned his eyes to his other two children, who had barely masked desire on their faces. He waved all three of them off, telling them he would finish the chore.

Their faces beamed. Joyful children dashed off through the grass. He called after them to be careful.

He gave a proud, contented smile. There would be more work for them this afternoon and even more tomorrow. There always was this time of year, but for the moment they could enjoy the weather.

Pepperidge Farm remembers. Pepperidge Farm knows. Pepperidge Farm knows your Social security number. Pepperidge farm saw what you did with that priest’s wife. Pepperidge farm has been gathering intel on you for quite some time now. Pepperidge Farm is disappointed with your outlook on life. Pepperidge Farm wants you to be happy, and productive. Pepperidge Farm wants you to know that Pepperidge Farm loves you. Pepperidge Farm has a task for you… Pepperidge farm is threatening to expose you unless you assassinate the finance minister of Liechtenstein. Pepperidge Farm has left you a suppressed German sniper rifle on the roof of your hotel.

Pepperidge Farm has disavowed your actions and planted evidence on your still-cooling body implicating Nabisco.

Pepperidge Farm is painting a fresh cookie on the wall behind their reception desk. Pepperidge farm remembers.

The eastern sky is set ablaze. Blanketed hills, white a moment ago, are now adorned with red and gold. A luminescent orb rises. Higher and higher it sores above the horizon. The cold retreats, with its departure goes the bite in the air.

Music fills the warming sky. Songs flit from tree to tree, composed by the second arrival on this day. Wings flap and feathers fly as birds hurry round. Searching for building materials from amongst the fading snow.

Their chirps wake the pines. Branches stretch wide as they wake, bent back by a south wind. The evening cowl of hoarfrost loosens. Drifting down it adds new flakes to the slowly melting banks.

Stalactites of ice shrink under the direct gaze of the sun. For months they had grown, stretching from roof to near ground. Now they dwindle. Their time is drawing to a close. Cold tears roll off frozen points as fate begins to take them.

One drop falls onto the head of a rodent. Fur bristles and whiskers shake, making sure there is no water left on its coat. A field mouse, its rations low, has ventured forth into this rimed world. Hunger pushes it from the warmth of its burrow into danger. It keeps the cabin wall to its left as it scurries towards a potential meal.

Cries of life echo from the home. Its night cap of ice receding as the day has now grown warm. The front door suddenly opens, gaping wide. Screaming children are ushered out by vexed parents. Clad in thick coats and leggings, they dash into the afternoon sun. Laughter fills the air. The mouse turns stiff, freezing but not from cold. Birds scatter as their construction projects are interrupted. Tiny fists grasp and ball up snow. Hurling the hastily formed spheres through the air, only to have them bounce off their target's jacket.

Past its crest, the sun now begins to wane, and with its passing returns the chill. Steaming breath and rosy cheeks sound the signal that this day is done. The work and fun are over. All who journeyed forth hurry home. Hunkering down to keep the now frigid air at bay. The heat but a passing memory; felt in partially built nests, a hasty but fresh meal, and aching muscles. These reminders will be held close, for they are a promise of more to come.

Author's Note: This story has been narrated by me. If you would like to listen you can find it here. Thank you, feedback is appreciated.

“Welcome to here” a piercing, beautiful, smooth, maternal voice, like that of ten thousand screaming nicotine addicts, echoes singularly through your skull. You attempt to speak but nothing happens. In fact, there is nothing. More accurately, there is an overwhelming amount of something. You attempt to perceive it yet there is nothing. But you feel something. You can’t put words to it. In fact you don’t know what words are. You know everything and nothing at that narrow intersection of something. Suddenly, instantly, slowly, jaggedly, methodically things begin to appear. But you cant see them. In fact youre not really sure what you do to them, yet they exist. Everything exists. You perceive them, just simply without senses. You know yourself. Wallace. Boonville. Missouri. United States. Holy fuck what is this place? Rice. Earth. Where am I? Man. Human. What happened? Animal. Where is she? Life. I need to find her. Matter. I need to make sure she’s okay. Existence. Where am I? An infinite number of raspy, decrepit, disgusting screeches, like that of an angels beautiful song, “Welcome to Here”

the cops are no help and this person has been coming for months now just fucking up my car. I cant afford all this stuff to stop him. I am down to let my car be used as a boobytrap if you want to help me catch this person and bring this person to Justus. honestly i want to cut off this persons eyelids, hands and feet and tie him up someplace to be eaten alive by little ants but i know I cant do that if you help me catch him so please just help me catch this person and i wont do anything crazy to this person when we do. will anyone help me catch this person?

His moves were wild. To his credit he did literally the best anyone could do at this here job. He wore a red morph suit with the top cut out so his locks could go wild with the rest of him. He caught attention like a magnet. It was a Tuesday evening, a day like any other, when John happened to fall victim to this wild man’s pull. He watched the man work, arms flailing, spine twisting, hands waving, shoulders shaking, head bobbing. His bending was at the waist. John felt the urge to talk to this man. 

The way the wild man moved made it obvious that his body would require ever so many breaks here and there throughout the shift, however many depending on how long the shift. John knew this and decided to stay until such a break. He waited longer than expected. Finally the wild man stopped, standing still except for his heaving chest . John walked closer. 

“Is this your job?”

“Yes. I’ve just been promoted.”

The wild man was proud of his promotion. He didn’t know his boss couldn’t afford to repair the skydancer they’ve been using, that this “promotion” was his way of pinching pennies. But that didn’t matter. The wild man loves his job. 

“I didn’t know someone could actually do this as a job.”

“Me neither.”

“How do you do it?”

The wild man looked at John who saw no eyes. 

"The suit hides the needle marks."

So, we went to a roadtrip in some European countries. One of them was Hungary (i swear i don't visit again). After some days we received a fine for not paying a vignette! We didn't even see anywhere saying that we need to pay for a vignette in English! Anyway, we payed the fine. Thing is after that we received a second fine for the same day, same road, some hours later!! And then a third one on our way back! Is it possible to charge us for the same day two times?? Tried to contacted them through their system couple of times and all of them we received an automated message that has almost no relation to what we where asking. We tried to call them and the employee just give us an email to contact them(evidence@epcplc.com). We did sent an email also there and guess what we received the same automated reply again! Wtf should i do?! I'm not willing to pay double fine for the same day, it doesn't make any sense. Ok to pay one everytime we went through the country (so 2 in total) but 2 in the same day? What if they had 20 cameras in the same road? Should i have to pay 20 times? They also claimed that if i don't pay for it in 60 days they will charge 3x the price of the fine and if i still don't pay it they will charge 3x the price plus jury fees. Have anybody experienced something similar?! The company called EPCplc and is located in GB. Site is www.epcplc.com Phone 004402038234975

“Blessed is the man, who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who who love him. Amen!” “Amen!”, the gathered men shouted. Above their heads a lonely vulture circled. The Reverend closed the bible and nodded to to the man, standing beside the tree. “Do you have any last words my son?” The man, his neck in the noose, hanging over the branch, only stared into the distance. One of the lawmen grabbed the reins of the horse and with one “C´mon.” the convict hung in the air, kicking his legs, and grabbing the noose with his hands. The other men rode on, leaving him dangling. He tried to cry, but no sound other than a short gasp came out. Minutes felt like hours, as his kicking became weaker and his face turned blue. He could feel death sitting on his shoulder like a vulture, waiting for his prey to die. When the man didn´t stop kicking and gasping for air, the real vulture landed on the branch. The condemned man threw his arms in the air, trying to shoo him away. He could feel his body temperature sinking, the blood flowing slower, and the pain in his shoulders and neck was unbearable. The only sounds heard, were his gasps and the shrieking of the vulture. He didn´t know, how long he had hung there. All sense of time was lost with the thirst and hunger coming up. He had tried to loose up the noose, but only after many failed tries, he had loosen it a few inches, so he could breathe better. When the sun began to sink, he had tried to swung his legs to the tree, trying to get a grip around the trunk. As the moon was high up in the sky and the stars were blinking down at him, he had given up on everything and just wanted to die. His whole body hurt and his tongue was so thick, that he thought, he would choke to death on it. In the morning he discovered the vulture had vanished. And at midday the rope snapped.

My throat is taut against the rope choking off words and air; I´m reduced to knotted muscle. Blood bulges in my skull, my clenched teeth hold it in; I bite down on despair

• Margaret Atwood, Half-hanged Mary