1 sentence Pasta-Red Back

Descending cautiously, I inspected this intruder, livid that my haven had now become a nursery.

Education

We've been together for as long as I remember, Rattata and I.

We bonded instantly when he was presented to me on my birthday. Summers spent frolicking and winters of snowball fights blurred into each other. Before either of us knew it, we were old enough to begin training.
Neither of us knew what that meant, really. My gym teacher just paired off the students one day, reading byzantine bylaws before yelling out, "Fight." I watched in horror as my classmate ordered his Spearrow to begin mauling my Rattata, under the approving glare of our instructor.

Malice flickered in the eyes of a child I had considered my friend. With each attack he congratulated his Pokemon on savagery inflicted. When I could take the grisly scene no more I forfeited the fight, earning a failing grade in the process.

That is when I realized, the other trainers didn't care for their Pokemon the way I did. They thought nothing of sending them into arenas, fighting for mere amusement. Their sharp, pitiless hunger for fame and fortune driving them to commit the kind of atrocities remembered by history books. This is why we do it; this is what strengthened our resolve.

There are enough fools wandering around, getting their fix for mindless violence, that posing as one is easy enough. Ask one to duel and they will agree readily - a vacant smile hiding their blood lust Only when Rattata attacks them directly do they comprehend the pain they have been callously inflicting. As his incisors slice their soft flesh they gain the gift of understanding. While they are excellent learners, I credit Rattata for being an excellent teacher, always eager and able to spend a little extra time on the required lessons.

But, no matter how many people we educate on the nature of violence there will always be more willing to engage in depravity against Pokemon. The void is never empty long. Evil finds a way to flourish. Our only consolation is that even if it takes a lifetime to fulfill our mission, there is no where else we'd rather be than by each others sides.

Distress (25 words)

Ship Capsized. Stop.

Cause Unknown. Stop.

Seas Calm. Stop

Crew Evacuating. Stop.

Send Help. Stop.

Time to join others. Stop.

I  Hear Their Song. Stop.

Shine

I surfaced from the dive reinvigorated from the desert heat. Jason was dancing on the pier near the waterhole; Full of  both mesmerizing and terrifying energy, he excitedly grabbed my flashlight from the planks. Had he wanted to spend his springbreak at a rave there were less remote areas than the dusty expanses of Australia.

His wild gesticulation drew my attention first to him and then to placid green waters around me. He'd turned on my flashlight and was panning it across the bank on the opposite shore. The tourguide mentioned that it was crucial to always bring a flashlight to the watering hole at night,  but it had seemed a shame to ruin the moonlight landscape with a reminder of modern life. Conversely, Jason seemed to be less appreciative of the natural beauty, with his dependence on the artificial.

A faint red glint shone in the water as Jason's light drifted past a floating pile of branches. As I stared at the illuminated globes I sensed a primal awareness. Just as a I squinted to gain a better understanding of the orbs they began moving towards me with a quick fluid rapidity.

"Get out of the water," Jason strained in desperation.

Paddling, I retreated to the safety of the pier. With each determined stroke I neared the shore, choking on algae as I swam. Jason sat my light down and extended his arm to assist me on deck, but before I could grab him a quick flash of teeth and turbulence wrenched Jason from my view.


Frantically crawling away from the edge, I searched for him by the flickers of the flashlight. The water, once an emerald green was stained with my friend's leaking life. Hands shaking,  I shone the light at where I had last seen poor Jason and, when it was positioned just right, I could  make the out the outline of a pair of glowing red eyes, deep within the depths of the idyllic tourist trap. .

Webcam Feed

A Slight choppiness disrupted the video stream, indicating the inferior quality of the equipment. Dimly lit, the basement featured a sole piece of furniture, a sturdy wooden table. Deeply grooved and stained red, the table was held only a piece of rope and three severed fingers.

Behind the table, I could make out the edges of a figure tied to a chair. Faint crying suggested the person was likely male, probably gagged. Despite the poor lighting, I could make the right leg of the jeans the person was wearing. Caked layers of dried blood staining the faded denim meant that he had witnessed everything. I could only imagine if he was wondering when the same would happen to him. To demoralize him further, a small pocket knife had been left out of his reach on the floor.

Everything was as I left it.

Urgent: Grant Application for local cable show

Listing the reasons why it was a treat to visit my grandparents each summer couldn't capture the joy of those lazy months. Besides being treated to old war stories, homemade candy, and an untamed expanse beyond the field ripe for exploring they were the first people I knew to get satellite television.

Never in my dreams of pizza mountains and Ninja Turtles could I have foreseen the endless bounty they had received from the channel gods. I delighted in spelunking into the unused parts of the dial, just to see what was there by mapping it one channel at a time. One cool June night, after spending an energetic day swimming, I collapsed into my grandpa's giant armchair eagerly awaiting picking up where I had left off.  Restlessly, I roamed until I was greeted by the pallid man on channel 472

He must have been starving, as his skin hung loosely from his fragile frame. Mesmerized by the intensity of his eyes, I listened as he shouted random numbers, letters, and words from assorted languages I'd never heard before. Eerily devoid of inflection or tone, he dryly continued for what must have been hours - not stopping once for a break. Just as I was reaching for the remote, his eyes summoned a faraway look for just a millisecond and then he whispered my name before returning to his task. I sat, transfixed, watching him until the dawn when I succumbed to exhaustion.

While I've never been able that man or his show again, I have spent my life researching it. The information is everywhere actually, if you know where to find it.  That is why I am writing this. I now know what he's was trying to tell us. And, for the sake of all humanity, I need to get my show on the air

Electrons and Limits

Electrons excite me. Perhaps that is why I took so readily to computers. By the age of 13 I had cobbled together my first computer from the odd bits leftover from the old computers of friends and family. The rush of creation and experimentation that I felt that day has never been matched, but my experiments are getting closer to recapturing that glory.

The issue of any computer is that it is always in the process of becoming outdated. There are always limits on what technology can achieve. This is why my work is so important, I figured out that the best way to make a computer that didn't need to be upgraded, that had few limits, was to harness the processing power of the living human mind. In particular, I harnessed yours.

Peeling back your scalp was the easy part; a circular incision prepared the skin to peel with one swift tug. When the drill met resistance I feared my tools were inadequate for my vision, but that crimson gush of blood and mental ichor provided reassurance. Don't try to speak on my account, I fear this grey, slithy mound here may have been important for that - necessary even.  Each probe and connection slid into place among the raw ridges of your untapped mind with only a hint of disagreement. Judging by your bright, undulating crevasses I suspect you were an extremely intelligent person once.

Excellent, I'd hate to be forced to upgrade again soon.

Es Fließt Frei. (NSFW)

The slight dripping from the kitchen abruptly ended my post vacation buzz. Anticipating the need to make an emergency phonecall to a plumber, my jaw went slack at the site of the thick red liquid dripping from my ceiling. I rushed up to my upstairs neighbors apartment as I dialed 911. My silent prayer interrupted by the dispatcher.

"My name is Edward Michaels and I lived at 3710 Santiago Lane. I just returned from vacation to find blood dripping from my ceiling. My neighbors are the Andersons and .... Wait, their front door is ajar."

Numb, I attempted to narrate the scene as I choked back a resurgence of airline chicken. Mr. Anderson at the head of the table, his wife to his right, and their little boy to his left all bound and gagged in their places at the dinner table. Each one gutted and served a plate of their own entrails. On the Dinning room floor a message, written in intestine, the one clue as to the mind of the one who did this.

"Es fließt frei."

Driver's Helper

Lulling and sweet, the rhythms of the rush hour commute comfortably eased the day's tensions. Waking from the drive time dream I motion for the horn, as a compact swerves to merge in front of me. Just as my palm is about to connect with the wheel I notice it; a tiny beast is lurking just behind the center of my steering wheel.

"There's nothing on my wheel," I tell myself, hoping to believe it.

Forgetting the stream of cars weaving on the road, I close my eyes for a second in an attempt to will the creature away. The plaintiff honk from behind me forces me to face reality, as the mysteriously emboldened creature slowly crawls out of it's hiding place.

Sun shines off it's hairy body, but all I see are its' overdeveloped fangs that hid it's mouth.  It stands on my steering wheel surveying the situation, as I try to weigh my own options.  At any moment, that thing could lunge for my hand, deploying it's venom into my soft flesh. My only hope is to keep it at bay for three more lights, without getting bitten or causing a car wreck.

 At the first light, it glares at me and shifts it's weight on powerful hind legs. Breath fails me when it stops staring at my hand, and instead turns to look me dead on. The only hint of humanity I find in its' glassy black eyes are my own reflection.

Carefully managing the car, I frequently glance at it as I continue on. It senses my fear. Every bead of sweat that falls from my brow is carefully weighed and measured by it's ancient gaze.

What does it want? Alone in starlight I have frequently wondered why humans didn't have a predator. We are so defenseless. It would be so easy to target us. It was at those moments when I contemplated if there was a species out there designed to feast on us. I had always brushed off such notions, but staring into those endless fangs I knew this thing had come for me.

Reaching the third light provides a measure of comfort. As if understanding the elevation of my mood it begins to posture again. Waiting like the sphinx, it almost seem to lose interest for a time.

 When I turn the wheel to seek the safety of my parking lot it readies a pounce, not wishing to waste its' last opportunity. In anticipation, I move my hand just before it strikes. Confused, it crawls anxiously exploring where my hand had been. Angered it stared at be before charging where my other hand was.

 Narrowly missing my downstairs neighbor's car, I managed a desperate parking job. I withdrew from the steering wheel just as it lept at my other hand. I fumbled for the door. Spilling out of the car was better than facing it directly. I closed the door and watched it jump from the steering wheel to the window.

Almost expecting it to find a way through the glass I stood frozen. It was only once I was satisfied it was detained in the car that I was able to go inside and relax. Reflecting on the encounter, if it had found a way into my car it could find a way out. Would if escape and pursue me or would it wait in there and attack again when next I used the car.

Maybe I'll call in to work tomorrow.

Fisherman's Catch

Below me, the city's faint movement paints an image worthy of Dali. I scan the horizon for signs of waking, for signs that the day has begun. Squinting reveals picnics, games of Frisbee, and early bird fishers.As the Earth approaches I can't help cataloging all the details of the happy people going about their day. Maybe my death won't ruin it for them.

Gasping for breath, I struggle against the wind. I pray as I attempt to steer for the lake. Had my emergency chute opened sooner I'd feel more confident about any landing, but at this point prayer is as good a tool as any. 

A flock of geese has settled on the northern bank. Do they appreciate the gift of wings they have been given? Had I wings just imagine what could be done. There'd be no parking hassles, no traffic jams, and no need for parachutes.  

Nearby several fishermen seems to be measuring a catch. Several small fries are discarded into the muddy blue. Judging by the shadows on the water, someone's about to get the catch of their life. 

Stillness of the Water

Carefully I panned my light across the entrance to the southern cave. Most divers chose the western path. It had been accurately mapped, however safety can be a synonym for boredom.

For all I knew I was the first diver to reach this area. I marveled at the seemingly endless cave until I spotted a glean in the silt. Upon close inspection I recoiled at the discovery of a pile of dozens of empty oxygen tanks surrounded by the remains of diving suits.

Gulping I attempted to retreat the previous cave, however I stirred up the silt with my desperate actions. All I can do now is wait until the murkiness settles before I can find my way out. I hope I have enough oxygen to wait here that long. More importantly, I hope that I am alone.

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Stillness of the Water

Reclusive

My right leg bursts with pain, waking me abruptly. Unprepared for the tenderness I scream as I my attempt to roll out of bed places too much pressure on it. I land in a less than graceful heap on the floor.

Alone through misanthropic choice I have no one to call out to. I prop myself against the night stand and reach for the phone. It is only when I attempt to dial 911 that I realize my fingers are stiff and swollen. Eventually, I reach the operator and muster a whispered plea for help.

Overcome with dizziness I lay down on the floor. I focus on breathing and attempt to relax until I see it. In the corner of the room above my bed were several small silken havens overflowing with a tide of tiny brown spiders.

Slideshow

Fingers trembling with excitement I opened the package. Just as I had hoped, it was the camera I won on ebay. With mild delight I realized I had received a better deal than I had planned because the previous owner had left the memory card in the slot.

Before sending an e-mail to the seller alerting them of the mistake I decided to see if anything was on it. Setting the camera on slideshow I watched as the camera displayed a picture of a shipping label. My confusion turned to horror as the next image was of a person brutally murdered. The rest of the card was alternating pictures of a mailing address followed by a murder scene.

The last image was of the shipping label from the box I had just opened.

They Always Forget the Pickles

A certain resignation fills my soul when I must order fast food. No matter the chain, food in the order, or continent I am currently on, my order will always be wrong. I'll get the wrong drink, have mustard when I had requested none, or never get the requisite number of pickles.

There's a Monster Burger a few blocks from my place that is better than most. Instead of completely butchering my order they just always forget the pickles. At least, they had never been too far wrong, until today.

Judging by the contents, they gave me someone else's order. Fries instead of onion rings, a small cheeseburger instead of my Double Monster Burger, and an unordered large mystery item wrapped in paper, and leaking what appeared to be ketchup, greeted me upon opening the bag. Revulsion struck halfway through unwrapping the paper around the unknown "delicacy", forcing me to drop it on the floor with a wet thud.

What kind of freak would order a human heart?

I Must Type

I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. I don't know why this works, but it does. The faster I type, the further away they are. Sometimes, I think I might be able to type fast enough to make them go away. Yet, if I stop for only a moment the will return.

I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. If I knew why they targeted me, it might be worth some comfort. It would at least let me know what my fate would be when I tire. Will I be eaten? Am I to be tormented? Will they simply kill me? Just knowing what was next would be enough.

I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. Oh, god it's been almost a week. I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. The cramp in my left hand stopped over a day ago; I just can't feel it anymore. I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. Can anyone help me?

I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away ...

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I Must type

A Killer Fable

Gather close and let me spin you a tale. Let me help you cast aside your tiresome day and mundane woes with the gift of a story. Don't worry about compensation, really you are the one doing me a favor, for I have so few opportunities to spin a truly killer fable. 

Once there was a raconteur who grew up on a farm, full of optimism and faith in the human spirit. Wanting nothing more than to bring a tiny seed of country wisdom to the metallic city he set out on a personal quest. Sadly, the city was a much sharper foe than the simple country boy had envisioned. 

Upon arrival in the city all his possessions were stolen; after a few muggings and burglaries the fleeting futility of ownership was made abundantly clear to him. Bruised and beaten, he was turned away from the vendors who would not spare even a botched morsel for the poor wretched soul. That was when the boy realized that during his entire journey the city had been working in him like a poison. Eventually, He was as hard and sharp as those who had abused him, possibly even sharper. 

moral: Never fall victim to the distractions of a charismatic mugger, especially when witnesses can be such a bother.

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A Killer Fable