Contradicting traits…? If someone asked to sum me up with two words, It would be those. I contradict my contradictions! Every single thing about me defies Every single thing about me. I hate people But I’m always lonely. I love playing viola Yet practicing is my biggest chore. I stress over my grades But I never put complete effort in. I want, More than anything in the world, To be someone. But I just can’t get up, Can’t do something, Can’t actually try. I always make plans Of how I’ll ace that project, How I’ll help that friend, How I’ll fix that mistake. Why do I never do it? I want to have everything, To be everything, So I become nothing at all.

Zane is a ski instructor. But the thing that has me baffled is why did he choose this job? Specially, because he doesn’t like exercise. And especially because he doesn’t like to exercise in the cold! Also let’s just say he is not very fond of children.

I will have to say he’s a very odd person. He picks a job and has all the things he doesn’t like. I have never heard of someone picking a job ha ha yes, sir things that people have to do that person doesn’t particularly enjoy doing.

If i was him I would pick a job that I was good at. And that I enjoy most of the time. Instead of a job that I dislike all the time! He is a b***h bizarre. But besides his weird quirks,he is a pretty cool guy!

I stared up at the doctor. How could he hate patients so much that he feels the need to kill them? I wouldn’t. Not ever. Not that I’m a doctor. That was what was running through my head I took my last breaths. The lights pierced through my eyes. I felt sick. And that wasn’t the worst part either. It was that there was no escape. My arms were clasped either side of me, on the bed in which they were bolted down. At least a hundred or so ‘surgeons’ and ‘nurses’ were yelling and sneering at me, some laughing. The bed I were laying in was in a small, round, brightly lit auditorium -well, on the other hand that may simply be the blinding white lights. Hopefully Penny would find me. But who knows? After all, she’s only my seven year old sister. ‘Exactly,’ my inner thoughts cried, she doesn’t deserve this. In fact, no one does. Not even me. And with that, I…

Please give feedback!!

I know this doesn’t fit the prompt but it’s something I’m trying to turn into a dystopian novel and would love feedback on!

“I knew you were trouble,” I mutter as we make our way through the dark alley of Eight, slimy liquid seeping off the sides of the aged brick buildings. I step around the puddles, flinching at the putrid smell. The chances of us being caught aren’t high, but if we were then we should count our lucky stars.

“What can I say?” Ethan chortles, holding out his arms in mock pride. “I’m the master.” Even though it’s nearly pitch black I can just imagine the smug grin on his face. I lower my dim torch just enough to watch him step in a puddle of whatever that nasty alley muck is.

I snort, looking down at his wet feet. “Okay, Master. Did your royal smartness know that you just stepped in a puddle?” He squeaks and rips off his worn shoe, examining the bottom.

“Seriously! These are my only pair,” he whines, holding up his ruined shoes. It’s not uncommon for us to have a lack of material. When you’re a Ten, the lowest of low, you lack a lot of things. Most of the people here don’t get enough to eat each day. Which is why we are out in the land of Eight, a tiny little area just northern of us that constantly has an odor from the factories.

Most of us Tens work in these factories when we come of age. It’s not a horrible job, but the repetition gets dreadful quick. We make items for the Ones and Twos - the rich and the powerful. The too-lazy-to-make-it-themselves.

“Look at us,” Ethan rants, already forgotten about his shoes and interrupting my train of thought. “Sneaking into Eight after curfew! Mari, we’ve gotten so far from those measly little kids afraid to knick a coin from a pocket.”

“Oh yeah, we’re totally rebels,” I say sarcastically, kicking a smooth white stone, a little brightness in the dark. My gaze tracks it until it disappears out of sight and around the corner of the rotting building that the eights surely do not have enough money to repair.

A frigid wind soars toward us, digging it’s icy claws into our skin. I scoot over to Ethan and hold the torch closer. The wind is unbearable, slicing at our faces and putting out the torch.

“Dammit,” I whisper, blowing lightly on the torch. Come on, come on. This was our last bit of heat. No one lasts long in Eight, with its constant wintry state.

“We have to go back,” Ethan says, his tone discouraging. “It’s too cold.”

“We’re not going back,” I retort harshly, my mood dampened by the ebony torch. “This was your idea, and Ten has no food. We came here for a reason and we’re going to get it done whether you like it or not.” I shove the torch at him and stalk further down the alley.

We came here for food, and I have no intention of leaving without it.

“So Wolf I hear you’re ready to turn canary?” Officer Sprat said. The two cops turned to each other and chortled. Glaring Zane folded his massive muscled arms. “Canary more like a rat,” Officer Hubbard said between belly laughs. Zane schooled his features. He wouldn’t let a pair of flatfoots get the better of him. Zane was part of the Family. From bookmaking to fencing goods, Zane cut his eye teeth on crime. He was a barn burner, setting up convenient accidents for insurance claims. Zane was a pro. But even bad men have lines they don’t cross. When Max asked him to pull a simple cash and burn at his mom’s place, Zane was suspicious. A yacht, two cars, and beach house, Max Hood had made a smoky fortune. So why outsource this time? When he saw on the news of about the gas explosion that killed the old lady and put his little daughter in hospital Zane knew he had to talk. Zane eyed the door back to his old life. The Family would never forgive him for talking to the filth.
Jacks lay a hand on his biceps. Zane relaxed. Their eyes met. The attorney cleared her throat primly. “My client is risking his world to solve your case for you. So shut your pie holes.”

"Working hard or hardly working?"

"What?"

He looked at the young barista a moment before opting out of a second try. "Nothing. I'll have my usual."

"..."

"A vanilla breve, please." He smoothed his hair down a bit while she wrote the order on a dry-erase tablet velcro-stickered to the counter. She tapped a few prompts on the iPad register and swiveled it around for him. "Busy today," he tried.

"Yeah," she said, already looking past him.

He hit the 'tip' button for 25% anyway, the highest of the three options, and moved down the counter to wait for his drink. The place wasn't that busy, but he wasn't that good at smalltalk.

Being a downtown coffee shop it was of course a remodel of a remodel of a remodel, back to the earliest days of the small west coast town. He assumed that various iterations probably tried to hide the exposed-brick walls and the real wood floors and open ceilings. The trend now was to accentuate all that, but he figured it was only a decade or so before things would change up again and the next hipster-fueled makeover would include checkered linoleum or patterned wallpaper or opened umbrellas hung upside down from the ceiling.

He looked around, not actively trying to strike up a conversation, but also not avoiding one. He like the place, liked the staff. He nodded to one of the two owners; it was either Gary or Brian--he could never remember which one was which and he felt he was too long a regular to ask at this point. He instead opted for a 'what's up?' head nod that went unnoticed.

He checked his watch. He still had ten minutes before his meeting.

"Vanilla breve on the bar!"

"That's mine." He looked at the lop-sided palm frond design in the foam. "Oh, hey, you're getting pretty good."

The young man offered a half-hearted 'thanks' and went back to work at the controls of the big stainless steal machine. Strange how the coffee here was so much better when so many places used the same machine.

He looked around at the staff, a final check to see if any of them wanted to say 'hi.' They must all be too busy. He made his way to one of the small, two-person tables and set his drink down. One of the advantages of wearing his polar fleece vest a size too big was he could store more things in the pockets without them rubbing against him, including his Bluetooth headset. He took it out of his right inside pocket and slid it over his head. They made smaller versions now, earbuds and such, but he preferred the one he'd used forever. One foam earpiece over his left ear--letting him keep his right ear open to catch interesting conversations--and a mouthpiece that he could move down if he needed to talk or keep straight up like an antenna.

He liked to keep things simple. Tried-and-true. Why change what worked?

He connected his headset to his iPhone and tapped the screen to open Tubi, a TV app that specializes in old television shows. He was working his way through Hunter, an 80s cop show that combined a Dirty Harry aesthetic with a Sam and Diane 'will they/won't they' partnership.

The breve was good, but not quite sweet enough. He got up, carrying his iPhone open-handed so he could keep watching his show, and grabbed a couple packs of raw sugar. Much better.

The episode was about how Dee Dee, Hunter's partner, was going undercover as a singer. He paused it on a hunch, quickly went to iTunes to confirm. Yep, a whole episode built around showing the versatility of the actress. He wondered if it helped her sell any albums. Probably part of her contract, to have episodes like that. Cheaper to make the writers comply than to pay her more per season.

It was still a pretty good episode, though.

He was temporarily distracted by an adorable set of three year old twin boys watching their equally adorable grandpa like he was a wizard as he drew silly characters of Crayola reds and greens and burnt umbers onto the pages of a spiral notebook.

"You Skitterchest?"

He looked up to see a large man standing to his left. The man had to be 6' 4", 270. He looked like a retired powerlifter. Stood like one, too, as though his joints were finally forced to make good on all those checks his muscles had been writing for decades. He wore black tee under an unbuttoned black-and-white flannel jacket, some kind of dark cargo pants, and Columbia hiking boots. West Coasters lack of pretense made it hard to size them up, but the man's $1200 wrist watch and the half-karat diamond pinky ring were enough to know he was someone that 'did okay.'

"I'm Blandon Skwëttervest. Are you Dan Ferguson?"

"I am."

"Excellent. Did you want to order, or--"

Dan pulled out the chair and sat down. He rested his massive forearms on the table, but thought better of it when the wood started to bend down with the added weight as though the nearest quarter of the table might snap off.

"Well, then, shall we get started?" Blandon asked.

"Started and finished," Ferguson said. "Imma make this real quick. You tell Grimshaw I paid him what he's owed. As far as I figure it, we're squared up."

Blandon took a slow sip of his drink, listening as the giant gave his two cents on the situation. He wondered how Hunter would handle it. Probably with a pithy remark and 'I'm your Huckleberry' smirk. Blandon was always jealous of that, of men that could do that kind of thing and not look ridiculous.

"You clear on where I stand, Suiterman?"

"Skwëttervest."

"Who gives a shit? You clear?"

He took another slow drink before responding. "Well, I mean, I'm clear on it, but my opinions don't really matter. I'm just a representative."

"That's what you can represent, then. My foot in Grimshaw's ass if he thinks I'm about--"

"Mmm. You might want to rethink that. That's a pretty rude thing--"

"Who do you think you're talking to, Skittlebag?"

"Skwëttervest."

"I said my piece. If Grimshaw wants to push me, you tell him--"

"You sure you don't want a latte or something? A mocha? The mochas here are sublime. They make their own--"

"I don't want shit other than for you to tell me you understand what I said to you."

"I do."

"So you'll tell that nickle-n-diming bastard what I said?"

"I will not."

Ferguson's cheeks reddened. "You won't?"

"I won't."

"Then what are you doing here?"

Blandon was now concerned about the table as well. It looked as though Ferguson's shear bulk might break it in half. "Like I said, I'm the representative."

"The representative. So, if you aren't going to tell him what I said, maybe you'll need to represent my message in a different way? Maybe I send you back to him different than I found you."

"I wish you wouldn't."

Ferguson paused, sizing up the much smaller man. He'd dealt with some garden variety assholes and wannabe tough guys for decades. Small town real estate was just as cutthroat as any when using 'alternative banking.' He always managed to come out ahead, though. The trick was not to show weakness. The old broken bones days were a thing of the past. Nowadays it was civil court or asset forfeiture that kept them all up at night, not finding a horse head in his bed. But still, they should at least make some show of it, shouldn't they? Some respect of the old ways. But no, they sent this... what? Dweeb?

Ferguson did a mental inventory, a way of sizing up his opponent. He'd learned the trick in his early days, the rougher days when threats weren't litigious in nature but violent. It worked for business deals as well as fisticuffs. This guy was nothing. Caucasian male. Maybe five-nine, a soft two bills. Mid-to-late-thirties. Super Cuts hair. Goatee improperly trimmed, actually accentuating the slight double chin he probably grew it to hide. His dark pants and dark shirt were a size too big, which Ferguson had grown to assume men 'of a certain age' did to disguise their middle-aging bodies, but which made them appear larger and more oddly shaped than they really were. It was similar to how some men wore a too-big jacket, they excess fabric flaring out just below the waist, giving them the appearance of a directional arrow pointing straight up.

Nah, this guy was nothing. A rube. A tool. Nothing he had to concern himself with. It was like someone had invented a 'generic male creator' and he was the prototype.

No, Ferguson was not the slightest bit intimidated.

"You tell your boss he can kiss my ass. And if I see you again, buddy, I'll send you back to him with two broken legs."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"You wish I wouldn't? You know, you're something else, kid."

With that Ferguson got up and left, letting the door slam behind him. He walked the half block to the pay lot, finding a ticket on his windshield. He placed it under the windshield wiper of the vehicle next to his and got in. He turned the ignition, put the large SUV in reverse and started to back up before immediately slamming on the breaks.

"What the--?"

Ferguson got out of his rig, red-faced and fuming.

"You're really going to get it now, you son of--"

The sound was jarring.

He was looking up, directly into the blue-blue sky. It was lovely. Quiet.

No, not quiet. Ringing. His ears were ringing.

His hand was bloody.

Not injured, just bloody.

His chest hurt.

That little shit was looking down at him now.

He was holding a gun.

That little shit had shot him!

Ferguson could taste blood. It was filling his mouth.

He was having trouble breathing.

Sounds were coming back now: traffic, screaming people, car horns. Now sirens.

He had to move, to get to help. He had to get that son of a bitch!

He reached into his jacket for the .38 snub he carried with him.

He pulled it from its holster, his hand sticky with blood.

He tried to raise it but that little asshole stepped directly on his elbow, pinning his arm to the ground. He was leaning in, saying something.

Through muffled ringing, the last thing Ferguson heard before the second shot was, "I wish you wouldn't."

Reports of the small town murder in broad daylight filled the local and state news for three days. The victim was identified as a local real estate developer with a questionable past and a series of exes and offspring all preparing to stake their claims on his estate in what would likely be long, drawn out and complicated court cases.

The shooter was only described as a 5'10" caucasian, medium build, somewhere between 30 and 45 years old.

At least, that's what Blandon read in the local paper a few days later as he waited for his usual-- a vanilla breve--and tried unsuccessfully to get any of the baristas to notice him. Unsuccessful, he put on his headset and turned his iPhone on so he could catch another episode of Hunter.

"Stop! Thief! Somebody stop him!" The bank teller's cries rang out down the street as the robber darted away, a gun in one hand and a large brown bag slung over his shoulder. He headed for the alley where he'd stashed his getaway car.

Before he could disappear into the shadows, a passerby heard the bank teller's cry and leapt into action, shoving the robber to the ground, forcing him to drop his gun. The two tumbled into the alley. The robber kicked and cursed, trying to get away and into his car, but the woman refused to let go of his legs.

There was a heavy impact on the roof of the car, and both people on the ground looked up to see that a figure wearing a bright blue jumpsuit and a flowing red cape had just come down from the sky.

"Stand back, citizen," the superhero said. "I'll take it from here."

The woman let go, relieved, and scooted back to a safe distance. The robber scrambled to his feet, but before he could recover his gun, the superhero punched him in the face, knocking him over again.

"That ought to do it," said the hero. "Let's see..."

He opened the big brown bag and whistled. "There's gotta be five thousand dollars cash in here! Score!"

The woman watched in disbelief as the superhero slung the bag over his own shoulder.

"Thanks for the help, babe," he said.

"You... You're taking that back to the bank, right?" the woman said, rubbing her shoulder, bruised from the scuffle.

"Ha! What? No. Finders keepers!"

The selfish superhero laughed as he took to the sky once more, leaving a large dent in the roof of the robber's car.

Other’s call me a know-it-all, but I don’t know anything.

I can give information, but you will not know how much of it is true.

I can learn, but can easily lose my progress.

I have a bit of everything, but if I had to focus on one thing, you would lose me.

You may be wondering what my name is, dear reader.

I know you have heard it before.

The know-it-all who knows nothing at all is none other than the one you trust most: Google.

Skyler pulled away from the monitor. His eyes burned through and his brain fuzzy. He couldn’t have felt worse. Skyler stretched his legs as he stood up from the old office chair. The chair he had been working in for over a decade.

Skyler was a security guard, or at least he was called one. There had been seven break-ins while Skyler was on shift. Though most thought he had been asleep on the job, it was something else entirely— he was blind.

Well not really— just enough to not be able to tell a person from a tree. He was diagnosed when he was in his 50’s, but he didn’t see a use in informing his super visor. They never noticed something was off.

He was a blind security guard who got paid 6 figures, he couldn’t have asked for a better life.

“Great, let’s get two more shots before we wrap.”

The director’s voice calls out from behind the viewer. This is a typical day on a movie set, but it feels like it’s too much today.

“Actually, I need a moment.”

I don’t wait for an answer before I exit the stage heading for my dressing room. I’ve never enjoyed acting, but I’ve recently started despising the “craft.” It was never my idea to act. Instead, my parents vicariously lived out their Hollywood fantasy through me. My reflection catches my eye as I sit down in my vanity chair. I have the Hollywood look, sun-bleached hair, tan skin, and a jawline that could cut steel, but I don’t recognize the man staring back at me. 
Before being thrust into the spotlight, I had been a regular kid. That all changed after being “discovered” at the park. My parents were thrilled being the Hollywood rejects they were, but they had to drag me to my first audition. I was petrified, but I was able to use that energy to wow the casting director. He called me a natural, and the job was mine. That first audition turned into many; before I knew it, I was booking gigs like wildfire. For a time, it was fun, but that fun quickly turned to dread. With every job I booked, I felt like I lost more of myself until nothing was left. I take a few deep breaths to center myself, escaping the negative thoughts that have taken up residence in my mind. I plaster a convincing fake smile on my face and return to set.