Parched by the winds that blow in from the east, our mage stands tall in the regret that haunts him from the past full moons shine. It was that merchant that he still remembers and the look on her face when he professed his oracle’s curse upon her voyage that she has long past made due generations ago. Her heart was so set that he felt it wiser to keep his mouth shut, but that which rose inside of his breath that might never be able to explain spilled out the damning prophesy that now he wishes though he would have never brought into existence. He felt it his fault she would never look at him the same way again, never like the sweet blossom cheeked woman that held so much hope for the adventures ahead and so many blessings for the crew that served under her command. He felt it his fault; everything that might happen to her and those good folks with her and every bad thing that happens: he thought it all upon his shoulders now. She must come home safe; even if she never spoke to him again, she must come home safe. Then, as he solemnly sat upon the rocks looking out over the coastal waves that crashed therein and the vast waters that held his love’s fate, a sweet came to the distance that came rushing towards him. Like the ancient ocean beasts of legend, it wasted no time to close in the space where his melancholy ended and the mystery began. Suddenly, it came to its sudden halt and slowly exposed the crown of its head, and the knowledge of its identity became known to our Mage now, and his head sank into his hands. He knew who this was. He knew what it came for, and he didn’t want it now. Not now. As it rose from the misty ocean waves that smacked into the coastline, its eyes met his before it gave a gentle and said, “BRO! What the fuck is going on?” “Nothing, Kevin. I…” our Mage holds back the tears and struggles to continue, “… I just wanted to tell her! But it… IT HAPPENED AGAIN!” He breaks down and sobs now. Those tears he held back were holding back so much more than he expected. Our gentle ocean giant, Kevin, as he is known, took his tentacle, the smallest one, to console his oldest friend on the shoulder, “I am so sorry, ole friend.” Our Mage took consolation in this, “Thank you, Kev. I appreciate it. I do.” Kevin looked at his Mage with one of his more enormous eyes, smiles, and said comfortingly, “Now suit up fucker. It looks like you need some beer so that we have the most regretable of nights, ole friend. She will be fine. I promise.”

Joe never thought that he would ever be in such a odd situation. Since I have been narrorating my little wierd creation, I don’t seem to remember him telling his grade three class on “Carrer Aspriations Day” that he was super psyched to ever find himself blindfolded, bond at his hands and feet, while hanging upsidedown in his uncle’s warehouse on the docks. He is a strange charachter in this little world, but I wouldn’t think him to be of such peculeer and masochistic tendencies. I will admit that I was a bit tipsy on absenth while putting together his mental and intelectual characteristics, so I have myself to blame as he giggles to himself while the creeks in the empty warehouse remind him of a beat he heard on some comedic anime. Poor man is just oblivious to the gavity of any and every situation. Oh, look, a croony! A short stumpy man with sweet beading on his balding head drags a small chair over to where Joe is hanging, “Joey, how many times are we going to have to meet like this?” he say while mildly heaving the chair in place. As he sits he doesn’t have to lean down too far to meet Joe face to face. He let’s out one last deep breath, “What would your motha say,” he gesters to the situation, “to this?” “She’d tell you, ‘You nepolianic-limp dick-snubed nosed-half jacket! You breath smelt better when you smoked!’ is what she might say.” Joe said trying not to giggle, thinking that he nailed his mom’s nagging tone. His smile is met with sharp jab to his gut by a much bigger fellow. “Ionis! Why so violent? My nephew, brother, my nephew.” “Sorry, boss. Old habits.” Ionis says with a smirk. “Uncle Baba, is this about last night? If it is, I can explain.” Joe says while trying to catch his breath. “What? No, this isn’t about… what are you talking about?” “Nothing.” Joe say while straighting up in his reversed vertical position. “What are YOU talking about?” Uncle Baba sighs, “I am going to let you think about it for a sec. Think real hard, boy.” Joe seriously had no idea what particular thing that his beloved uncle might be talking about. With every stupid situation that he found himself in at any given moment (mostly of his own volition), any one of them could have concluded in a judgement like he curently found himself in. For some, he knows that the penalty would most indubidably be a bullet to the head. But still, Joe racked his brain only to be distracted by the tone the warehouse noises were making and what the name of that stupid song was. His uncle stood up, pushed the chair to the side with more ease than it took to drag it before, knelled down to Joe’s ear and creepily whispered, “Georgia, Joe. This is about Georgia.” Joe sighed, “Fuck.” This was one those “bullet to the head” situations. For the first time in his life, Joe could feel the gravity of this situation precisely as he could smell the gun oil. Ionis is pretty anal about keeping his guns clean and up to par. Poor Joe. I’m not sure if he ever felt the bullet going through his head, seeing as how I was never prevy to those designs, but I knwo that he died without crying or begging. He perished like the gangster he always said he was. It’s too bad he never really lived up to his own hype. He lived and died an authentic low-brow piece of shit, just like his mother never wanted him to be but always knew he would be.

I fucking hate this game. We just started playing it; I don’t understand it, and it just… it just sucks. I'm not too fond of it. I wonder what the hell I ate to make my stomach rumble like this. I think Kyo told me that it was called Go, or Yogo, or Goyo. Some shit like that. I believe that the only reason he likes it is that he is the only person outside of Asia that knows how to play it. He gave me brief instruction on how to play and a thirty-minute lecture on the history, all of which I phased out being distracted while I was thinking of things I would rather be doing. I randomly place a stone on the board and sit back with a concentrated look on my face to give him the impression that I am putting in some effort. My stomach rumbles with a small deposit into my colon. “Kyo, what’s the name of this game again?” I ask with cringing hesitation, preparing myself for a scolding. “Mike, once again, the game is called ‘Go,’ yo.” Scolding, but short and salty. He places a stone on the board that looks more random than strategic. “Goyo. Right. I never brag about my…” I place another random piece on another random spot. “No, bro! It’s called ‘GO’!” he says, a bit saltier. Let’s see if I can trigger the steam. He aggressively places another piece on the board. “Sorry, ‘GO,’ right. Got it.” I put less effort into placing a piece at the far corner. “‘GO,’ the board game of golden peasants and British royalty,” I say while masking the smile, but I know he knows me too well to take it seriously or that I would take anything like this seriously. “You’re a dick, Mike,” he says with a smirk to acknowledge my jocularity as he places another piece on the board. “Your move, dick.” I get up, go around the table, lightly scratch the top of his head, turn around and walk out of the room to the bathroom. My move is to take a productive shit in a bathroom that is not mine because, upon further contemplation, I would instead do anything other than play that game. I hear him scream from the dining room, “Mike, hurry up, bro! It’s still your move!”

Jerry walked down the misty and almost forgotten path on his way back from Devin’s house with his hands deep in pockets of his hoodie while still realing from the night before. More accuratly, form just an hour ago. “It’s pretty late in the morning-night.” he and his friends would say when recognizing that it would be four in the morning as opposed to six in the evening when the drinking would start. Jerry only drinks like this every once and blue moon, but when he does it would give the impression that he and Devin were drinking to die or to have a near death experience. Jerry could only guess that it was around six in the morning now since the morning fog from the harbor started to lift, but he could still see it in the distance from where he was. While walking suprisingly in a simi-staight line as the path led, he tries to remember the last time both he and Devin, as well as their cohorts before they went off to do the proper adulting activities that one does like going to college, starting a family, paying your own bills, not drinking until “early-late-in the morning-night,” but the even conjoring up what little of his brain cells he didn’t decimate from the night before made him dizzy. He has flashes of those memories, though. Faint as they may be, as he looks to see his family home in a distance, he has those glimpses of times long past and a future envied. The grass has overgrown the path just as it was before so that means that someone has been tending to it at least every quarter year. The stagnat morning air was something that he wasn’t used to considering that he lived so close to the water and that it was a rare occation he ever wake this early, but it, in a strange way, gave hime a since of serenity and purpose. The land has been the some since childhood and he was okay with that. This meant that he could wonder when the momnet sruck him; this meant the dispite the wiles and stresses of the life he had, he was free and half it would be his one day. Sometimes he never wanted to the walk to end. Sometimes the trees in the distance gave a welcoming glow dispite how dreary they looked to others. He stops to survey the landscape for a moment as the effects of the night before fade from his eyes, mind, and stomach. Every breath he takes he tastes the morning air, as did his grandfather, and great grandfather, did when they were in their prime years. Every inhale through his nose felt as though it brought the purests of nature into his very being and danced with his soul. Though his friends from school might be out, proving themselves more responsible than he ever had the drive to be, at this moment, in this dance, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

It was the first cry That brought me to my knees; That brought that wonder Back into my heart And longing for a better life For she that cried for the comfort That she was used to for nine months.

It was the first nap That helped me understand true peace; That helped me see true serenity. Though she knew not who I was, She understood why I was here Before I could give myself any credit For anything, I did and will forever do.

It was the first smile That helped me understand true joy; That brought tears to my eyes And helped me realize who I am. For it was that smile she discovered That held me up and discover The smile that I thought had gone so long ago.

A cell phone rings underneath the fresh air suit of the recruit, Kenny, to which he responds with a sigh and an educated guess on where the ignore button he is more than happy to press. “Claire can figure it all out on her own. She’s a grown-ass woman.” Kenny thinks to himself, knowing the tight time frame that is set for the job today. He doesn't have time for this; no one has time for anything else other than focusing on the demo and getting this radioactive garbage on the road to the labs that it will call home until it is no longer needed or until at least three lab techs go mad trying to figure out the impossibilities that are constructed into the mechanics of this craft. Yes, Kenny, Claire is going to be on her own for a bit. There are several other jobs that Kenny could have gotten. Still, none could pay as much as a Make Ready Tech with the Interdimensional Industrial Research Union (I2RU as advertised with the patch on the left shoulder of their union-issued jumpsuits). And it’s not like he never tried from being a line cook while at University to his degreed field in theoretical physics at the university that he is an alumnus. Now, in his position, he makes ten times as much money than any of the other ones paid. This job will set him and his sister, Claire, up for the rest of their lives, but she has got to get used to him being off planet and he has got to get used to the long hours in actuallity and the alien types of radioactivity that his old studies tought him as mere thoeries. This is Kenny’s second job since orientation, but he has already heard a few of the veterans say that this was job was by far the dirtiest before joyfully sending him in with snark in their voice. Listening more to the dogs he can still hear on the outside then in his own footing, Kenny slightly slips in some old goo, but is saved by a hanging cord . “Fuck my life today. Fuck this shit. Let’s get this fucking shit done already.” Kenny says with a suppresed irritation and continues as serene as his anger will alow him, “Center yourself, Kenney. Find that center. I’m not done yet.” The lights flicker in an alarming way and have become the only source of light as he continues to go deeper into the ship wreckage. The globulars of slime come and go to insinuate that what he kept slipping and sliding on were once alive. He will never be able to get used to the nausia that occompanies this realization. All he can do is stop, breathe, and find his center of focus. Despite all of this, the verbal abuse from corporate, and the slothy ignorance of his supervisors, Kenny pushes on to silence the voices in his head that influences the crippling fear of not being able to pay his bills. Despite all of this, he pushes forward in the dark spaces of the wreckage knowing that Claire will never have to worry about anything for the rest of her life.

This is about as fucked as it could get. I never asked for this, but I should have seen it coming, but when you look at the world through rose-colored glasses, the red flags look like flags. John struggles against the current of the river that was never known to be still and calm. With each stroke of the ore, it kicks it back to tell him that this is all futile, to assure him of the painful death that is to come. This is not where he saw himself when he was a child.