Modern Day Andromeda

I just wrote this short story for a 48 hour flash fiction contest where you don't know the genre/location/focal object until the contest starts. Mine were Horror/Planetarium/Ribbon. 1000 Words Max.

Modern Day Andromeda

Synopsis: A janitor working an overnight shift meets a stranger in need of help getting home.

She's not real...

The screen erupts with cosmic explosions and intensely realistic depictions of faraway galaxies, complimented by a deep, strident voice booming out veritable facts about the unknown that usually began with “since the dawn of time...” The rich history of the constellations paint pictures of a past that in no way conforms to the tame normalcy of today's world, leaving you to question its validity.

Did she ever exist?

This is the only time Ted is able to experience the magic of this place without it being ruined by children with short attention spans or the elderly gasping at how far technology has come since they were in diapers. There's something quite phantasmagorical about being here after hours. The planetarium feels infinitely larger when you're the only one in it. And the voice, the voice most would associate with how they expect God would sound if he were lecturing you, reverberates throughout the theater. Uninterrupted by mindless, idle chatter, you alone are his captive audience.

Once midnight strikes, Ted usually turns off the lights, allowing himself to be fully immersed in his own private spectacle. On this night he rolls out a heavy fleece blanket he keeps in his car instead of cramping himself into one of the wooden seats designed to keep people uncomfortably awake. The vantage point from lying down creates a more visceral experience.

This is the primary if not the sole reason Ted took the job. No one really chooses to be a janitor for the glamour or the potential. The fringe benefits, however, are just begging to be taken advantage of. Sometimes you just want the luxury of being alone, and for Ted there's no better place or time.

But sometimes isolation takes its toll.

Sometimes the imagination gets carried away by its own vivaciousness.

Or sometimes you just don't want to see what you see.

I'm alone and afraid...

He didn't have to get up to feel her presence. There was a chill in the air prompted by a sudden gust of wind normally felt whenever someone walks by. It's odd but you can always sense if you're alone or in the company of some other entity without actually knowing.

She sat there, staring up at the giant projection in the midst of explaining the origins of the galaxy. She couldn't have been more than nine or ten... if that, but she had the poise of someone much much older. The look on her face was one of awe and childlike wonder... the kind of look that would normally fill you with ease, but considering the circumstances, had filled Ted with anything but.

“Miss?” he attempts to call out confidently but knowing he has failed miserably.

She doesn't answer, her haunting eyes remain fixated on the screen above. He comes closer, unsure of what to do. “Excuse me, Miss?”

“It's amazing, isn't it?” She replies, indifferent to his presence. Her eyes still captivated by the show.

With his rapidly overwhelming fear undermining his genuine concern, he cautiously sits in the row directly in front of her. Close, but not too close. Her mere presence leaving goosebumps on his arms. How can an innocent child inflict such dread?

“Are you lost? Where are your parents?”

Slowly, she turns her head, gazing deep beyond his soul. Her facial expression never changing, but it is her eyes that tell a much more ominous tale. The darkness within spoke of unending sadness and terror.

“I lost the ribbon for my hair,” she responds matter-of-factly. “Mommy told me not to come home until I find it.”

The nonchalance in her tone and demeanor are beyond unsettling. So much that he didn't realize the looped video had finished and restarted. The voice booming out, startling him, prompting his head to snap back towards the direction of the words. Something seemed unfamiliar though. The voice spoke much slower... deeper. Like a record playing at the wrong speed. He turns to look back at the child, but she has seemingly vanished.

“L...little girl? He whispers out as loud as he can, looking all around the giant empty space for signs of life.

“Mommy gets very angry,” the deep, slow voice from overhead clamors out repeatedly. Taunting him.

As if on cue, a spool of sheer blue ribbon bounces down the steps adjacent to where he sits, unraveling as it went as if presenting a path. He watches as the spool meticulously makes its way behind the giant ancient wooden lectern stationed near the back of the hall.

Convinced he has no other choice, he slowly makes his way down the stairs to the lectern, finding a mysterious staircase he never noticed before.

or was it always there...?

Ted feels his heart racing as he edges closer to the darkness. Crouching down, he stares deep into the haunting abyss, allowing his eyes time to adjust.

“Please help me get home, Ted,” the eeriness of hearing his name followed by a childish giggle sends shivers down his spine. But something or someone won't let him stop. He wants, no, needs to know what is down there. He follows the trail deeper into the darkness until he is completely enveloped by the blackness. Panicked, he looks back up from where he came but sees nothing.

“Hello??” he shouts out, paralyzed with fear. “Please help me!”

He reaches out, attempting to find something, anything to grab on to. Resigned, he falls to his knees. “Please...” he cries out to no one.

“Mommy said I can come home now,” is the last thing Ted hears before feeling the silky presence of a ribbon wrap tightly around his neck. His arms struggling to no avail to remove the tension as he feels life slowly ease away. The darkness somehow becomes even darker.

Up above, the faint, muffled sound of a familiar voice begins once again.

“Since the dawn of time...”

The Nights Alway Haunt

Written in 27 minutes in a coffee shop

The nights would always haunt me. The chatter of the trees outside, swaying was a humbling reminder of just how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things. Constant deafening banter sharing secrets in the wind always made me feel completely and utterly inferior to nature's unlimited potential. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to hide in the shadows, but even that didn't really feel safe. There was nowhere and everywhere. It's just a question of perspective and even that's really just a question of where your head is at. But life has never been about doing the "safe thing" or at least it shouldn't be. It's like they say, you live a thousand times but only die once. Or something like that.  And we all secretly hope to live by that mantra but the cold, harsh truth is that we're so afraid of that one death that we truly deprive ourselves of living... actual living. Does that already make us dead? Well, that's one way of looking at it I suppose. It's easier to picture it like you're standing by an open window, watching ordinary people do extraordinary things and you're paralyzed to do anything about it. It's easy to be envious of the living but in order to truly be among those it's absolutely necessary to be able to let go of your perception of what it really means to be alive.

To live means to embrace death.

Granted, it sounds rather morbid, doesn't it? But believe me when I say this, it's not meant to. Quite the opposite in fact. We all die. That is the only real guarantee in life. We all know this, but it's obviously much easier to ignore this reality. Instead, we prefer to live the lie that we're infinite, immortal, indestructible. Ironically, the moment you accept that the less you truly live.

This loaded .38 in my steady hand serves as a grim reminder that we are indeed mortal, vulnerable, inevitably dead.

There is no escape, no bargaining chips, no cheat codes.

"You're fucking insane, Todd!"

I wave the loaded harbinger of death in front of his very clearly panicked face, gently pressing the barrel against his temple as yet another reminder of the fragility of life and how quickly it can all be taken away from you without much choice. He frantically shakes his head side to side, clinching his eyes shut as if that's a feasible elusion to the particular situation. I can hear the sound of the plastic zip ties rubbing against the skin on his wrists and it stirs up a feeling of nausea deep in the pit of my stomach.

"This is the most fucked up thing you've ever done, you psychotic son of a bitch."

I haven't always been like this, or perhaps I secretly have. It's tough to tell who I am anymore. All I know is I'm no longer the person I used to be. It's hard to explain, but then again, I don't really have to now do I? I used to be a mild-mannered, typical white suburban male just living out my existence for everyone else. I had my small one bedroom condo and my economically-pathetic little automobile required to drive me to and fro my miserable job selling blankets for a boss who probably wouldn't have cared if I would have blown my brains out in the employee bathroom outside of the clean-up and ensuing hiring process. I mean who would really want the job recently vacated by someone who would rather be six feet underground? I'm sure you're telling yourself, "my god, this guy needs professional help," but the truth is it all saved me. Saved me from that inevitable outcome.

One day I woke up and decided this wasn't the story I wanted to tell anymore. I was tired of the complacency and all the bullshit I put up with that came along with being born without a backbone. I remember looking in the mirror and yelling at the soulless entity that stood before me. And, like it did for everyone else, it just stood there and took it.

"Untie me already for Chrissake," the voice coming from Erik's bulbous mouth no longer intimidated me the way it did at the office.

I could have done the noble thing by walking into work and giving my two weeks' notice but I decided if I was going to make serious changes in my life, I was going to turn the page with a little more panache than just saying "I quit." Besides, I know myself well enough to know that there's a more than likely chance I would have chickened out at the last second and adhered to the same bullshit conformist torture that I've become accustomed to for the last 50 some-odd years. No, I needed something with a little more... flare.

"You don't have the balls to use that thing. You were a spineless piece of shit when I hired you and nothing's changed. Look, just let me go and we'll never speak of this again."

Of course my original plan wasn't to kidnap and tie up my boss... excuse me, ex-boss in my bathroom, but that's life I suppose. Honestly, I just wanted to go in there, maybe make a couple of idle threats Fight Club-style and then see what happens next, but things sometimes have a tendency to take on a life of their own. I'm not a murderer. Hell, I have a hard time watching movies about war. But, like anyone else, I had my limits. Rarely do you know what they are until they've been surpassed.

"Fuck you!" He barked out, spittle oozing down his chin, nervously annoyed that his demands have been met with complete nonchalance on my part. It's funny how even in this situation, he still cannot stop himself from treating me like a peon. Maybe that's the only way he knows how. Does he treat everyone in his life like this? His wife? Kids? I know he treats everyone else around the office with the same disdain. Is he simply incapable of compassion or empathy? Is intimidation the only way he can disarm a situation? If so, am I doing the world a favor by removing this bastard from society? Am I a hero? Seems like a fucked-up way to rationalize an even more fucked-up situation.

Am I thinking too much about this?

Don't let him get inside your head.

Just fucking do what you were meant to do.

I removed the safety from the small weapon and jammed it against the side of his head. All I hear are the muffled pleas and the sniveling of a weakened monster.

The nights will never haunt me again.

9 Lives and 1 Country

The receipt printed out slowly, deliberate, as if the amount wasn't truly official until it was on a flimsy piece of paper folded in my wallet.

"Jesus," I muttered to myself. "$127.60? This better be worth it."

I'd never filled up a tank in an RV before, but I should have known it wasn't going to be cheap. I also imagine it wasn't going to be the last unexpectedly steep expense on this little journey, and I did my best to prepare financially for any worst case scenario I may eventually encounter. I've dealt with enough bullshit in the months leading up to this existential crisis trek to clear my head and I sure as shit wasn't going to leave it up to chance to get the most out of this experience.

I stood on my toes in order to be able to peak inside one of the side windows to see what was going on and was immediately met with nothing but vulnerable stares. Three sets of eyes returned my gaze. Six very timid yet inquisitive eyeballs still unsure of what to make of their new, temporary housing situation.

"Meow?" I'm greeted with. "Meow, meow?"

When faces with any sort of life-altering situation, most people try to make life-altering changes in their day to day lives. Now, that obviously means different things for different people depending on the circumstances. New job, location, vices... it really could be just about anything. I, on the other hand, decided it meant everything. I was married for six years, living a very generic 9-to-5 life consisting of the occasional post-work beer with co-worked commiserating about the day that just past. But mostly my life was a steady dose of coming straight home after work to a homecooked meal followed by a very relaxing and needed evening lounging on the couch with my significant other, watching... well it never really mattered what we watched. That part was irrelevant. At thirty, it wasn't exciting by any means but it was exactly the type of life I craved. Simply put, I was happy and was still a ways away from facing and sort of midlife crisis... or so I thought.

"This is what I want," I would tell myself repeatedly, not in an attempt to convince myself. It was more of a reminder to appreciate it even though I never really needed it.

But then one seemingly uneventful March evening everything changed. I still remember exactly where I was sitting and, ironically, what I was watching, when the most devastating words came out of her mouth.

"I don't love you anymore..." she venomously spewed out without even having the courage to look me in the eye.

"I don't love you anymore and I don't see the point of even trying to continue this charade."

 It was so blunt and came so far out of left field that I couldn't even decipher if it was even happening or just a bad dream. I couldn't even fathom the severity of what was being said that I just continued watching TV. I was afraid to move or think or even breathe. I was an empty vessel numbed to the point of indifference.

From there, the only sounds I remember hearing was her noisily gathering a few necessities, her laptop and changes of clothes and then the sound of the front door being closed rather hastily. I never even looked back or tried to convince her that she wasn't acting rationally. The words were brief but filled with conviction. Her mind was made up. This wasn't the life she wanted, at least not anymore.

That was six months ago.

We haven't spoken since.

We never even said goodbye.

It took a while before it hit me like a ton of bricks. The delusions that this was all just temporary were like band-aids on a gunshot wound. Once reality set in, the process of reclaiming who I was became a long, arduous climb that, at times, felt impossible. Every step was an exhaustive. I wasn't ready to deal with pretending life would go on.

Something had to change.

That's when I decided to step outside my comfort zone and end that chapter of my life. I'm not just talking about our chapter, I'm talking about that chapter of my life in general.

That's when I decided to sell everything, buy an RV and treat my cats to a cultural experience most cats would never dream of.

"Meow," I whispered back. "Fucking meow"

No Lives Matter

Written on a 1-hour plane ride from San Francisco to Las Vegas. Again, no editing or rereading. 

It was a savage scene to say the least. The blood stains saturating the entire morel room was akin to a mangled hose with numerous puncture holes throughout turned on to capacity. Limbs scattered in such a way that one could only surmise just how much pleasure whomever was responsible must have received from producing such a brutal masterpiece. The coroner took one long look around the room, surveying the carnage and exhaled in as exaggerated a manner as humanly possible.

"This isn't a crime scene, it's a friggin' bloodbath," he declared matter-of-factly, but oddly unfazed by the sheer grotesqueness of the spectacle before him. "You don't need a coroner, you need about a gallon of gasoline and a match."

"That's not the kind of professional opinion I was hoping for, Doc," Terry, the lead detective sent over to find answers, stated.

"Ok, you want my professional opinion?" The coroner mocked, frustrated by the obviousness of the situation. "There are people dead. I don't know how MANY people are dead because there are arms and legs and various other body parts scattered all over the place. My opinion? Get a forensic team in here to piece this flesh puzzle together. Make them earn their paycheck for a change." He smirked and guffawed when he thought about what he had said, a not-so-subtle hint of arrogance in his mannerisms noticeable by all.  

"Don't tell me how to do my job because you have no interest in doing yours," Terry snapped back, balling up his fists inside the side pockets of his wool thrift shop sport coat that was clearly not purchased with the slacks he was wearing. "Greg!" he called out to one of the younger officers on the scene who was still looking to make a name for himself by doing all the sucking up he could do. This was Greg's first dose of reality in regards to the potential grimness a police officer has to get used to while on the job.

"Yes sir?" He bellowed out boisterously, unable to contain his excitement of being hand-picked to perform a task at a major crime scene.

"Can you make sure our illustrious Coroner," he removed one of the tightly wound hands from his pocket in order to point and overemphasize who he was indicating, keeping the other fist clenched tightly out of sight, "finds his way back to his car? He's obviously got more important things to do today and we don't want to burden him with doing his job." He refused to look at the coroner while referring to him, as if he wasn't worth the effort of a head tilt or an eye roll.

The coroner humbly smiled and buttoned up his own jacket. "Don't bother," he mumbled, "I'm pretty sure I can remember where I parked it." He looked into the eyes of both men as if he wanted to tell a poorly-timed joke at the expense of both officers, "Gentlemen, have fun," and walked between the two towards the exit and out the door, whistling the theme of Dragnet as he departed.

After a few seconds of incredulous silence, Greg looked back towards Terry. "Sir?" the young officer offered quizzically as if he didn't understand what just transpired and was desperately in need of an answer or at least another errand.

"Nevermind," The elder officers quipped, maintaining his gaze on the door before snapping out of his own daze, looking back at the kid. "Where the hell is my damn forensics team?"

This wasn't the first gruesome crime scene that Terry had been assigned to in his almost 25 year career in law enforcement. Not by a long shot. But, it was true what they said about it never getting any easier. The adult casualties didn't really affect him all that much anymore, especially as most of the stiffs he's lucky enough to deal with essentially brought it upon themselves with a series of stupid mistakes and bad decisions. You the know the type, the ones who no is really gonna miss and, secretly, everyone is breathing a sigh of relief regarding their departure from this planet as they're no longer around to potentially fuck up someone else's life in some way. Sure, everyone now and again you get the unfortunate bastard who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time or was caught in the crosshairs of some other piece of shit, but not very often.

No, he stopped caring about those people a long time ago. He's seen enough assholes walk out in the clear from crimes they had very obviously committed, so he didn't mind the trade-off of one for another, even though that wasn't necessarily how karma worked. But, it was the kids and the animals that always made him question why he was constantly testing the limits of his emotional stability. He always told himself that even if he was able to do his job, it ain't gonna change the truth in that breathing things just don't start magically living again when justice prevails.  The sadness he's felt enduring the pain of the loss of complete strangers reflected upon his life away from the job. He never allowed himself to get close to anyone for that fear of loss. He had a fish once that he neglected and died within a week, but that didn't really count in his mind. After all, it's hard to become attached to something that could exists in a glass of water for it's entire life.

He looked around, surveying the sheer brutality of the scene and suddenly he began to get a little lightheaded. Rubbing his eyes to shake the cobwebs, he sat on the ottoman in the corner of the small room, which happened to be the only piece of furniture in the place that wasn't sodden with flesh or blood. "Nothing ever changes around here," he whispered quietly to no one in particular.

"Sir?" Another of the officers, Thomas, heard Terry mumbling to himself, but couldn't make out specifically what was said.

"I said nothing every changes around here," he snapped out more angrily than he intended.

"No they don't," Thomas responded defensively. "But that doesn't make what we do any less important."

Terry got up, "which is what exactly? What DO we do that's so important?" He pulled out a stale pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket and lit one up. "Do we ever stop this shit from happening or are we just hired to clean up the mess like a goddamn cleaning crew? Seriously, some sick piece of shit goes on his merry way leaving a fucked-up trail of body parts in his path, and our job is to make it all just go away."

"You know that's a bunch of bullshit."

"Do I? Do you?" Terry took a long drag from his smoke and walked to the exit and flicked it out of sight. "I'm tired of this. Of all of this." He walked away to his car ignoring the deafening silence of the other officers starring, intimidated. "I'm going home."

There was nothing particularly peculiar about the crime outside of the obvious atrocities that took place in the small motel room, but it was the straw that absolutely broke the psyche of the law enforcement veteran. He hastily pulled away and drove for what felt like hours but in reality was mere minutes. Pulling his car over into an empty parking lot of a closed down Albertsons, he turned the engine off and sat there with both hands on the steering wheel, the years of enduring the stress of constant violence that had suddenly become acceptable in society paid a hefty price. When he first started out, he was filled was optimism that the world wasn't such an abysmal place and that he could do something to change opinions, or at least life paths. At first he felt pride in his ability to keep the "bad guys" off the street, but as time went on, he realized that the more he put away the more  that kept popping up to the point where all he saw were people up to no good. Suddenly the things that he originally paid little attention to angered him to no end. Jaywalkers, skateboarders, rambunctious kids that looked like they may potentially be up to no good... everywhere he looked he saw evil and threats. He had given up on the idea that good prevailed, that he was making a difference, that the world was still a good place. Frankly he had given up on life.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the old pack of stale cigarettes, laughing because he had quit more times than he could could yet always seemed to have a pack somewhere on him, whether his car or an old piece of clothing. He laughed at how much thought goes into the idea of not smoking yet impulse allows the notion of smoking a simple one. He crumpled up the pack and threw it out the window. That's not how he was going to do it.

He reached inside his jacket again, deeper, and felt for something hard, smooth and cold. He kept his hand gripped around the object until it melded into his hand so that even if he wanted to separate, it was impossible. He pulled it out and examined it, how something so small could hold so much power. He laughed again, but this time out of sadness and put the gun right to his temple.

The police scanner in his car urgently began pleading for any available officers to check in on a 217 just as the bang drowned out the muffled sound of the location.

Life Choices

The flashing lights of Downtown Las Vegas almost blurred together creating a directionless path to eternal darkness. Grant was overstimulated by the plethora of enticing vices that seemed to call out to him... which they were on occasion.

"Hey Mac, wanna see a show?"

Grant stopped, pulled out a partially crushed parliament out of the even more partially crushed pack wedged deep into his jeans pocket.

"Come on, man. You have GOT to see this."

He light his cigarette with the last remaining match in the matchbook he found in the pack, making a mental note to buy a kitchy lighter somewhere at one of the many souvenir shops lining Fremont, even though he knew he wouldn't remember.

"Yo, are you even listening?"

He flipped them matchbook over, recognizing the repeated words Circus Circus, as if trying to jog his memory as to when he was even there. He took a drag and used the same hand to scratch a non-existent itch on his temple, as if that helped push the wheels in motion when he felt an aggressive tap on his shoulder. Startled, he turned around, already forgetting about finding fire. "Huh?"

An short older man, maybe in his early 50s, was standing there, gawking at him impatiently. "I said, are you interested in seeing a show?" The tone and gruffness of the voice did not match the person which it came out of. "I guarantee it'll be like nothin' you've ever seen before."

He took a gander behind the gentleman, searching for clues as to what or where this show was, but all that was there was a hole-in-the-wall taco joint, already lined with drunken Vegas tourists eager to make bad choices. "What is it?"

The older man clapped his hands together, silently celebrating the potential of a job well done, "I think a better question would be what ISN'T it. And that's not a question that be easily answered either as this show has a bit of EVERYTHING!"

Confused but appreciative of the attention and oddly a moment of clarity from the overstimulation of the nightly block party, he took another drag and engagingly smirked, "You're gonna have to do better than that."

The man put an arm around Grant, as if the two has been friends for decades. He smelled of stale beer and a touch of B.O., which, unlike the voice, did fit the persona of the mysterious man to a T. "Well, lemme ask you something. Are you happy with your life?"

Grant was confused by the question. "Huh?"

The man slightly tightened his grip around Grant's shoulders, prompting Grant to keep a close feel on his pockets to make sure he wasn't being pickpocketed. "I asked are you happy with your life?" He smiled confidently, showing a set of pearly whites that stood out against the rest of the man's crude appearance.

There was something about this character that piqued Grant's curiosity. He was unquestionably brash but also allocated far more of his attention span to just one of the thousands of blank faces that walked in front of him. He felt oddly at ease in this man's presence even when most would feel intimidated and probably anxious to get away. It was as if this man, whoever he was, was sent specifically to search him out. He wasn't sure if this was necessarily a good thing or not, but, as is the case with Vegas, you take risks to seek out answers. Answers to questions you may have not even been asking.

"I don't know," was all he could mumble. "Does that have anything to do with whatever it is you're selling me?"

"Buddy," he slapped his leg with his free hand, laughing at what he thought was the funniest joke he's ever heard. "I'm not trying to sell you anything. I just want to know if you're prepared to explore the unknown. To take yourself out of a comfort zone you've been nesting in for far too long."

"What do you know about me and my life!?" He was rapidly getting defensive against a stranger who was speaking more truth than he was willing to admit.

"Well, young man, I know you've been pondering where your life is headed and that you aren't necessarily thrilled about the outcomes that lie ahead."

Grant pushed away from the man, "That's a pretty vague assumption that probably fits 99% of the people walking around here." Secretly he knew the man was right, but didn't want to give into the satisfaction of this obnoxious carny knowing him without having ever met him.

"True, but you've been here for, what, five years now? No one could possibly be happy selling insurance in Vegas for that long." The man seemed to know Grant on a far more personal level than Grant felt comfortable with, obviously. Still, he wasn't scared, just intrigued.

"I'm not going to ask how you know so much about me," Grant resigned. "What is it you want?"

The man leaned into Grant's ear, as if offering a secret that no one else could be privy to. "I'm offering you an opportunity to find yourself. To seek out the happiness you so desperately crave, even if you don't know how." He leaned back out and returned to his boisterous self, "All you have to do is say the word and I'll take you on a journey that you've been too afraid to go on by your lonesome."

He thought long and hard about his past and all the fucked-up decisions that he made that led him to this point in time. He thought about the days he spent glaring at himself in the bathroom mirror, disappointed, watching his face age with every poor choice. He thought about the nights he spent wide-eyed, staring blankly at the ceiling fan above, twisting lackadaisically, mocking his own drive and determination, the sounds of the air being lightly pushed in all directions, like his thoughts. He thought about the decisions that brought him there this very night, and how he doesn't even remember how he got there, like magically being transported to a place in a dream without any cause or justification as to how they got there. Conflicted, he grabbed for another cigarette, remembering that he had no way to light it and put it back in the crushed pack. He remember the now-discarded matchbook and whether or not he was at Circus Circus tonight, or any night for that matter. Nothing seemed to make sense, except for what this strange man was saying, which, was probably the most non-sensical part of this whole enigma.

Yet still, he wanted to know more. Maybe this is what he wanted. Maybe he needed someone to slap him across the face and tell him to stop wasting time consumed with regret and despair. He could either return to his place and repeat the same miserable process over and over or he could do the unexpected and trust this random fellow who ordinarily would have no reason to be trusted. He turned around to look at the unauthentic glitz and glamour of his surroundings, the flashing lights no less blinding and discombobulating than they were before. He observed the faces of those that passed and the sheer amount of discontentment he could see, clear as day, was something he never noticed before. Perhaps he was too preoccupied with his own sense of displeasure to realize he wasn't alone. He didn't want to do this anymore. He didn't want to be devoured with uncertainty. He was ready to evolve.

He smiled and quickly turned back around to the old man. "You know, I think I will..." But when he turned around the man was gone. Vanished into thin air. He looked in all directions, seeing if this man maybe slinked off to find someone else. 'Maybe another sucker,' he thought, and for a second Grant felt like he had been duped and got angry, until he looked down and saw a single piece of paper, an airplane ticket, for a flight leaving in 3 hours with his name on it...

The Vegas lights suddenly seemed as if they were flashing in synchronicity, pointing him in a single direction, on a directionless path.

The runs

- Written in 31 minutes with crazy cats. -

"Slow down. I can't keep up with that pace."

He heard his wife panting behind him, distracting him from the peace and quiet he had come to rely  on during his daily morning runs up the into the lush hills behind their house. The crunching of the dry soil underneath his feet rhythmically like a metronome normally allows him to concentrate his breathing in a similarly tempoed pattern. Prior to discovering nature's wonderland he was accustomed to the sound of music in order to help keep a high energy level necessary to maintain a competitive pace, It also helped in distracting him from the sounds of passing cars and obnoxious people that reminded him of the real world waiting for him afterwards.

"I'm sorry honey," he windedly blurted out, trying not to disrupt his breathing. "I'm just not used to running with anyone else."

His wife softly grunted and determinedly pulled up beside him, maintaining eyesight with the ground for fear of holes or any other hidden obstacles. A bead of sweat trickled down from underneath her headband and down her rosey cheek. "Go slower for a little bit and then you can go at your speed. I'll just catch up or just go back. I just want to run with you for a while."

He had only recently discovered the treasure chest of rarely used hiking trails, stumbling across one when searching for fire wood. For the most part he had assumed the rough terrain in the backyard was simply just that. He had never even imagined that others would be interested in escaping from the mundane realities of modern civilization by getting back in touch with the very essence of humanity. "Stupid me," he would mutter to himself in response to such ignorant thinking. Once he starting to become familiar with the lay of the land, his daily runs would lead him into the woods, jogging cautiously, unaware of what may lurk. He traded in his earphones for the sounds of silence mixed in with the shaking of trees and the occasional tweet from a bird.

"Honey."

The air felt cooler, crisper out in the open, without a hint of pollution.

"Honey?"

The slight downward shift of the hill quickened the pace, forcing him to shorten his strides.

"HONEY!"

He snapped out of his daze, remembering where he was and that he was not alone. His breathing was heavy, an obvious sign of abstractedly rapid ascension in speed. Abruptly slowing down, he turned around to find his better half a good 40 feet behind, standing in a rather disapproving way with her hands on her hips.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath and casually jogged back to his clearly irked wife. One of the things he truly loved about her was her patience and understanding, but when her limits have been tested it's not a pretty sight. This was very obviously one of those times.

"If you didn't want me to come out with you then you should have just said so," the fact that she was still out of breath just trying to keep up with him made it sound more pitiful than it was meant to. "I understand we rarely get a chance to do things together anymore and that you were excited to share this with me, and I appreciate that, but it's clear that this is something you would rather keep for yourself."

And the truth was she was right. This was something he wanted all to himself, not just from her but from everyone. Even if it was only 45 minutes it was 45 minutes of absolute solitude from everything; from life from stress from reality. He wasn't angry and he certainly wasn't trying to run away from anything. For him this was an opportunity to remember that life is much simpler than it's advertised as being. Nothing in the woods requires an update or an upgrade every few months. There are no payments to be made. This was something given to all as a gift and every day it's taken for granted and ignored. And even he needs that reminder that for all intents and purposed the best things in life are free.

He looked all around him, at the towering trees, branches softly bumping into one another allowing wild formations of light to peak through. He took a deep breath and smelled the earth beneath his feet. And then he turned to his wife.

"You just don't..." and then he stopped and looked at her, realizing that everything that he wanted from out here was the same as what he had with her. He spent so much time looking forward to his time alone out in the wild that he completely forgot about what he already had waiting for him at home and why he had wanted to share this with her in the first place.

He walked over to her and took her hands in his and smiled. "I want you here, with me, right now," he whispered, smoothly brushing away a tuft of hair peaking out from over her soaked headband.

She looked down sheepishly and girlishly smiled. A squirrel, as if on cue, scurried across the path and almost bumped into her foot, startling her. Her breathing remained short, but less from the exercise. I leaned in and kissed her. She melted.

"Let's go home."

She nodded.

And then I proceeded to run as fast I could back to the house.

At least I can get some alone time at home.

Priority lost

-26 minutes -

The rain finally subsided after what felt like an eternity. The heavy weight of the mist still lingered in the air, making it harder to take in the crispness of what remained. The sleek pavement shone under the blanket of street lamps uniformly lining the road. The faint sound of the wind swaying through the trees could easily be mistaken for a repeat performance from the rain gods, either way the sound emitted a sense of caution to all those within earshot. An odd warning to temptation of the serenity brought forth by nature's cleansing.

Erik crept over to the bedroom window, quietly opening it while taking a deep breath. A harsh gust of wind caused him to shutter ever so slightly, but not enough to influence his stance. He peeked his head out and looked in both directions - not a soul could be seen anywhere as was expected. The reflection of the light bouncing off the wet ground left a lava-like impression. Things were rarely as in focus as they were right after a storm.

"Honey? Did you open a window?"

Erik glanced back into the darkness at the silhouette at the body curled up on his bed. The light from outside positioned in such a way that divided the room into two.

"I Just wanted to see if the storm was over."

"Well now that you know, come back to bed." Her watched her turn over and pull the blanket up over her shoulder, signaling her disapproval. He turned his head back around, once again peaking out of the window. "I'll be there soon," he mumbled, unmoving. A lone drop fell from the top of window pane onto the back of his neck, startling him as it split up and raced on both ends down the side, startling him and snapping him out of his daze. He took one last deep breath, savoring its lushness and closed the window as quietly as he could. It wasn't until he walked back to the bed where he felt the coolness of the room and immediately sympathized with his wife's disapproval.

He was awake. Wide awake.

Moments like these rarely happen, at least to him. His schedule keeps him bogged down to the point where being able to stop and appreciate the simplicity of life is more of a chore than an opportunity to remind himself of what is really important.

He walked around the bed to the side his wife was on and gently kissed her forehead before pulling up the blanket tight around her shoulders. She smiled, subtlety and innocently, eyes remained closed as if she only dreamt the kiss happened.

Grabbing a coat, he crept down the stairs and out the front door. The creek of the heavy wooden door was the only other sound aside from the rustling of the leaves coaxing him to follow. So much of his days are spent hibernating behind the warmth of a computer screen, under the dull guise of overhead halogen lamps leaving nothing to the imagination. Every day the burden of the guilt from all of the self-realization regarding life and the misplaced priorities grew heavier and heavier. Distracted by other people's interpretations of what was important made it harder to remind himself what mattered the most to him. Nights like these were important for that. An emotional reset button.

A small puddle formed at the edge of his driveway. He crouched down and dipped his finger in, the water felt cold. He missed moments like these. He looked back around at his modest 3 story house. He wasn't ashamed of all that he accomplished, just disappointed in what he pushed into the back of his mind, nostalgia piled up like a trunk of forgotten memories in an attic. He was happy with his life but longed for a chance to do it all over again just to have that time back.

Up and down the street leaves glided down from their nesting place, high up in the trees. Once thought unreachable, they leisurely descended without worry of their final resting place. Erik put both his hands in his jacket pockets and stood in the middle of the deserted street for what felt like days. There was no other movement in his sightline, as if he were the last person inhabiting what was left of this world. The remnants of the rain soaked through his slipped like sponges, wetting the soles of his feet. A few faint droplets fell from the sky, or perhaps the tops of the trees, making contact with the tight leather of his jacket with an almost cracking sound. The wind picked up again causing more drops of rain and more leaves to fall at a more feverish pace. The breeze felt good on his skin.

"Sometimes," he thought to himself, "this is all the matters."

As if on cue, the rain began to pick up again, prompting Erik to scramble back to the house. Taking one last look outside he closed the door and took off his saturated slippers before proceeding back upstairs to be in the arms of the woman he loved.