I’m corporate wage-slave number 437.

It’s been a struggle, this job. I sit at my desk and push buttons. I have a list of buttons I need to press before I go home. I have no idea what these buttons do, and our company could be making space shuttles or pens. I spent the first four months trying to decipher exactly what it is we do here, and after that I was too afraid to ask. So I push those buttons every day until one day blends in to the next, and the next, and before I know it it’s next year.

One of these days I want to push the wrong buttons on purpose. I always feel a perverse thrill when thinking of the setup, the execution, and the fallout. I think the fallout is my favorite part. It’s the part where I leave and go back to construction, where the wage wasn’t as good but at least I knew what I was doing. I miss the days where I could watch a building transform over the span of a few weeks or months. I miss knowing that it was my hands that helped turn the dump into the palace.

I think the worst days of all, however, are the days where I’m happy. There is a day, usually once every few months, where I am content to sit and push buttons. I sit at my desk with my motivational poster and coffee mug and feel like this is the job I was meant to have. The afterglow of this epiphanic orgasm of mediocrity usually lasts me a few months. From the back of my mind I watch myself eagerly await the next day like a thirsty man waiting for his next drink. It gets me through the months, the years, the decades.

It’s only from the deep, dark recesses of my mind where my sanity hides that I scream at the thought of another day in this hell.

Write whatever comes into your mind, whatever the literary work triggers in your own imagination, whatever you think are the important ideas or values, based on your own experience.

There were dragons everywhere. That’s the detail that I find most engrossing about George R. R. Martin’s fantasy epicA Song of Ice and Fire.

There was once a single thing that could keep everybody in line. Don’t like that lord holed up in his new castle of Harrenhal? Burn it down. It seemed that in their early days the Targaryens could solve any problem by setting it on fire. Though it may have been peace through fear, it was relative peace compared to the times that Martin writes.

Overall, I feel like this story is intriguing. There’s always something hiding in the background, clearly foreshadowed and yet still surprising when it leaps out and puts beloved characters into peril and sometimes into the ground. It’s fascinating to examine in depth, as each event is so clearly foreshadowed and yet the reader makes his or her’s assumptions. What is one to expect when they are used to the good guys winning?

If I had one criticism for George R. R. Martin’s now famous (some would even say infamous) series, it would be this:

The last two books are not yet finished.

“Wait wait wait wait wait!”

My voice sounded shrill to my own ears, which to me meant it sounded worse to my competitor. His eyes still spit fire as he scorched the earth beside me, but he stopped.

“Why should I wait?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. At this point I knew I was saved. I had always had a knack of getting out of dangerous situations with my unique power. My thoughts went back to the days of school bullies, tormenting me until I showed them-

“WELL?”

I felt a scorching heat by my right cheek, and the grass beside me curled up and withered in the fire. I closed my eyes for a moment, pretending this was a bad dream and he would be gone by the time my eyes opened. A scorching heat by my left cheek brought me back to the reality of the situation.

“Okay, okay,” I said, almost on autopilot, “I can help you.”

“Help me? I can shoot fire from my eyes. How could you possibly help me?”

I paused for a half-second to figure out the right words. “Because you need to eat too,” I found myself saying, “and food is not easy to cook in this shitty jungle. You’ll waste precious minutes trying to heat up the food you’ve been given. And I could help you shave that time down to mere seconds.” I closed my eyes in fear of what would come next. My fears were unfounded.

For the first time in this conversation, I felt no heat.

“Seconds?” I could hear in his voice that he didn’t want to believe me. But from the simple fact that I was alive I knew he did. I spent an eternity on the ground wondering which side would win. Would it be the side that said to trust no one? That everybody was a threat? Or was it the side that said alliances, no matter how unlikely, would give you precious seconds in these games?

He finally reached out his hand to help me up. I grasped it and pulled myself up out of the grass. I returned his smile as he shook my hand, creating a de-facto declaration of truce. I helped him prepare his dinner in seconds that night, giving him the precious few moments awarded to moments of humanity in these brutal games.

And I grinned as I drove his own blade into his back while he slept unaware that first night.

Ramen wasn’t the only thing I could prepare in less than a minute.

This was it.

I sat on a bench in the fishing village I had found myself in shortly after arriving in Vietnam. My wallet was stretched open by my thumb and middle finger, and within it sat a single, lonely dollar bill. I flicked it idly and alternated staring at Honest Abe and his memorial. With a sign I let my wallet shut and jammed it into my pocket.

The United States had been my home since birth, Nebraska to be more specific. I’d spent twenty three years holed up in the middle of the country, isolated like nobody else. I would watch the Travel Channel and dream of the day that I would see Hawaii, or California, or New Orleans. Those places I imagined I would actually be able to see. Between the stress of my mortgage and daily life, I had convinced myself that I would never see the world like I wanted to. I would never see London, or Lisbon, or Barcelona. I would never look at the Pyramids from up close, or visit Jerusalem. I would never look out on the rocks rising like pillars in Ha Long Bay, Vietnam.

As I sat looking out over Ha Long Bay, I smiled. I had made it to London, Lisbon, Barcelona, El Giza, Jerusalem and every country in between. My shirts were a little worse for wear and my jeans had a few holes in them. All of the walking I had done were doing great things for my health. Thinking about it always brought me back to where I was two years ago.

I was sitting on my bed, idly turning the gun over in my hand. She had left months ago, and it was a reasonable split as far as breakups go. She took Buster with her; the dog had always liked her more anyways. I spent a couple weeks in shock as the world moved around me. Her clothes, her pots and pans, and her belongings started to disappear.

That left me by myself, which had never worked out well. I tried in the beginning to focus on my job and college, but could not juggle both and eventually dropped out of school again. I went to work, I punched in, I did something resembling work for eight hours, and I went home. I drank more than I ever had and wished the world would let up; that it would tell me, “Haha, just joking!” and everything would go back to normal. It didn’t.

That is, until I held that gun. It wouldn’t be my first time, and with my depression it probably wouldn’t be the last. I pictured the faces of my family, distraught at losing another son. I hoped they would understand my note, scribbled hastily as I prepared my last moments. I pressed the barrel against my head and pulled the trigger.

Click!

I dropped the gun in surprise and felt myself start to laugh. I had never loaded it. I realized in that moment that I had never purchased any ammunition. I hadn’t been able to afford it. As I laughed, I felt better than I had in months. The horror of what I had almost done crept in but there was also a feeling of relief.

I was glad to be alive.

Then and there, I started to pack. I sold the house, I sold my possessions, and I sold my car. Then I started the four hour walk to the airport.

And here I was, sitting in Ha Long Bay, staring at the pillars that reached towards the heaven. My beard had come in nicely from two years of travel and my entire attitude had changed. After all, I had fulfilled my bucket list at twenty five years old. I stood, still smiling, and went to buy a half-dozen sea snails. I munched on them as I stood out on the dock and took my cellphone out and powered it on. I enabled roaming and dialed the first number: Mom.

“Hello? Zachary?” I realized that she was twelve hours behind me. The sun had just set here, so in Nebraska it was 7:00am.

“Hey mom.”

The commotion on the other line took a moment as I knew my mother was trying to get my dad up. After two years of isolation, they were probably very worried. We spent a few minutes getting caught up. When the commotion finally died down I got to my reason for calling.

“Mom, I’m out of money. Could I get a ticket home?”

“Sure thing, sweetie. It will be good to see you again.”

I smiled as my mom droned on about all that had changed in two years. I guess you can leave home, but that doesn’t change where home is. I was inwardly excited about returning to my birthplace. I finally felt like I’d seen everything and could focus on just surviving, day by day.

I had realized during my trip that that was all anybody ever did: just survive.

I’ve hit the jackpot.

Sure, you might think that the “life” of a pebble is inconsequential. I have no way of affecting the world, of changing it for better or worse. Let me tell you, this is the best life I’ve ever been given, and likely the last.

I was once like you. Proud. Tall. With legs. I loved, hated, and tried to change the world to suit my image. I failed quite a lot. I lost loves, I was beaten by those I hated, and the world changed me. My existence was fleeting, like sand through an hourglass. Once that time was up, everything I managed in life was laid before me and I saw how pitifully inconsequential it was.

Now, however, I sit unmoving on a country road. So long as I sit here, I am one small part of what marks this road. I may be one in many thousands, but without me this road would be lesser. I may sink into the ground, where I could do even more to keep this road from washing away in the rain. Maybe I am a shiny pebble, and some family driving by will see me and take me home to their garden.

The life of a pebble is not fleeting. I have no chance of failure, for where ever I go there are humans working to ensure my existence is useful. I have no loves besides this road, but if I am moved I will still love my purpose. I have no hatred, for what can hurt a pebble?

Do not pity me, friend. I have all the time in the world, and yours is so fleeting.

Jackson sat contently, whiskey in hand. The expansive windows to his apartment offered a magnificent view of the sunset two times during the year, during each equinox. On any other day one building or another would block his view of the sun over the lake, but not today. Jackson always made an effort to appreciate it.

A phone vibrated and Jackson’s hand went to his pocket immediately. It wasn’t his.

“Hello?” Jules always spoke quietly, betraying a bit of her history. Jackson glanced over to try and figure out who had called her. His sister was a thin, wiry woman with an angled face that always looked intense. Now, however, she just seemed frightened. She ended the call and muttered something under her breath.

“What?” Jackson didn’t want to be too intrusive, but something about Jules’s attitude was off. She gave him a look that suggested he shouldn’t have asked, then sighed.

“I said that’s the sixth time this week.” She fixed her gaze firmly on her own feet. Maybe if she reflected on the colors of her shoelaces enough Jackson would let it go. She almost thought that he would when the reply came.

“What is it? Guy troubles?” Jules could feel Jackson’s signature grin, the one that made her want to hit him. She knew that he was joking and just trying to make it easier, but she just wished he wouldn’t make that joke.

“No. I keep getting calls from different numbers, but all I hear when I pick up is breathing.” Jules felt pretty good about the amount of worry she kept out of her reply.

“All of them were different?”

“Yeah. It’s really weird.”

“Yeah.” Jackson looked out at the sunset again and Jules exhaled in relief. She hoped for the sixth time this week that the calls would stop, because she hadn’t been totally truthful. There was definitely breathing, but the person on the other line also had something to say.

You’re next.

As the sun finally disappeared beyond the horizon, Jules stood. Jackson did the same, hugging his sister goodbye. “Love you sis,” Jackson said, “be safe.”

“I will.”

As Jules closed Jackson’s apartment door, she caught sight of Michael further down the hall. He waved before disappearing inside his apartment. Jules gave a half-hearted wave on the off chance he would pop out for a moment, even though she knew he wouldn’t. Michael was a strange guy.

Outside the apartment building, Jules took a right and took a brisk pace. Part of her felt horribly unnerved still. Everybody was a threat. They were coming.

I’m next.

As Jules turned a corner and her townhouse came into view, she almost felt like she was home free. The thought of being safe inside her home excited her, dulling her frantic analysis of the people around her.

A shot rang out through the quiet streets. Jules hit the ground instinctively, covering her head. As she glanced about, she noticed that nobody else had dropped or reacted yet. There was blood on the sidewalk.

Time stood still for a moment as Jules tried to figure out where the blood had come from. Then she realized, and everything went black.

“Hey?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever wonder why we’re here?”

Portland stopped and took a look at her friend. Austin had been with her for several months now. Ever since the sun started engulfing the Earth, it had been a constant fight for survival and he had been there every step of the way. Still, she didn’t like his question. Between running from crazed people, trying to organize some semblance of civilization, and scraping by for supplies, the thought of her place in the universe had not occurred to her. To Portland it was an unfortunate reminder of the days when she could waste all day on questions like that.

“No. I don’t wonder why we’re here.” Portland decided to leave it at that. She resumed walking down the tunnel.

Austin looked at Portland for a moment, trying to read her expression. Her furrowed brow and narrowed eyes told him all he needed to know, but for some reason he felt compelled to continue.

“Well, I do. I think it’s about making the best of the time we have. Every moment we spend is a treasure.”

Portland couldn’t figure out why Austin was talking. He did this from time to time and she never could think of what to say. She tried to get him focused.

“Austin, I keep you around for your rugged looks and protection, not for conversation. You need to focus here.”

“Why? Last time we saw other people was eight weeks ago. Maybe they’re all…”

Austin thought better of completing that thought and both fell silent. The two walked the tunnels in that manner for a long while. The only sound each heard was the other’s cough and the sound of feet on pavement. Austin noticed Portland reaching for the water bottle clipped to her belt five times before he noticed it was empty. He realized that he couldn’t remember the last time it had been full.

Finally Austin couldn’t take the silence.

“How much further?”

This foray into the labyrinth had started five days ago. Portland had suggested a final foray to try and find the government facility hidden underneath the mountain but Austin had a suspicion that they were hopelessly lost. He wondered for a minute how much longer he could go before he realized that Portland had replied. He shook his head to clear the fog.

“What did you say?” Portland huffed and Austin knew he would never hear the end of it. As he stumbled over pebbles she repeated herself.

“I said it should be just around this next turn in the tunnel. See? There’s a light.”

Austin squinted at the tunnel ahead and could see no such light. He told her so.

“What? It’s clearly lighter. Look at those rocks.”

Austin could see her arm shaking. He stopped her and looked in to her green eyes. A couple of years ago he would have considered them beautiful. Right now there were more pressing matters.

“Portland, how much water do we have?”

Her eyes wavered, focusing on the rocks just over his right shoulder. Tears started to well up in her eyes. At the first tear, Austin took her in his arms and made her sit on a rock behind her.

It went on like this for a time before she spoke. Austin saw her mouth move but didn’t hear the answer. He didn’t need to. He leaned over her and wiped her eyes with his sleeve. Satisfied that she was calm again, he started breaking out the sleeping bags. Once he had laid those out, he helped her lie down on hers.

As he climbed into his sleeping bag he felt a nudge on his shoulder.

“Hey.” Portland sounded sleepy, but otherwise her voice was clear. He turned to look at her and was suddenly struck by her eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Ever wonder why we’re here?”

“So I went home and tried to find a prompt to write on, like you said might be good for me.”

I was sitting in the plush chair in my therapist’s office. I tried to resist the urge to glance at my watch again. I knew it was supposed to help but that didn’t stop the hour from dragging on. I waited for the inevitable question from the middle-aged man sitting across from me.

“And how did that go?”

I wanted to punch him in his smug face. I closed my eyes to get rid of that thought and tried to figure why it was always my first reaction to that question. I had been the one to say I needed therapy again. He was just there to help. Maybe it was just the fact that every time he asked that question, the answer was always the same. If my phone could tell me when I usually go to work, why couldn’t this man pick up on the running theme?

“Not well,” I replied, rolling my beanie again before straightening it out. I thought for the hundredth time why I could never just sit still and focus. The thought just made me want to look at my watch and I knew that the answer was that I just didn’t want to be here. I almost missed the second inevitable question.

“Why?”

Why? I tried to piece together my reply to make me sound like the sympathetic character for once. I opened my mouth once, thought better of it, and closed it again. Then the answer came to me.

“There was nothing worth replying to. I mean, they’re always going on about established universe stories and they’re so popular when done right. But I don’t feel I have the necessary knowledge to knock it out of the park like some users do. Every other prompt was either an image prompt that I could not for the life of me place in a story, or a normal prompt that another user had already written a fascinating response to. I mean, what’s the point when I can’t come up with something that nobody else has done?” I realized that I had opened up, and returned my attention to my beanie as I hoped that time would just be up already.

“Well Zachary, maybe you need to view it in a different way. Try writing the story before reading other prompts. Maybe just try writing for yourself.” A reminder tone sounded from his computer. As he turned to look at it I glanced up, seeing that his next meeting was in five minutes. I put my beanie on and smiled for the first time in an hour.

“That’s all the time we have. Have a good day Zachary, and just remember that happiness doesn’t need to come from other’s approval or appreciation. You make your own happiness.”

I resisted the urge to gag as I walked out the door.

I feel that this one deserves a foreword. I love making peach pies for my family and in no way should this be taken as me never wanting to make them again. Please keep asking, I love making y’all happy. 🙂

---

Peach Pie

~So good your family will ask you to make it forever and ever. ~

Ingredients:
Peaches
Sugar
Flour
Cinnamon
Pie Crust (Top and Bottom)

-If you’re a tryhard use flour, water, and shortening to make your own crust. Figure it out.

Now first peel the peaches very lazily. Nobody fucking cares if they get a bit of skin. If you like your family, maybe remove the pits. This step is purely optional.

Now put the peaches in a bowl. Then immediately move them into a larger bowl because you misjudged the amount of peaches like an idiot.

Dump in a little flour and twice as much sugar. Then, take the cinnamon and shake vigorously over the bowl. Now stop. Look upon the cinnamon you just got in and around the bowl and try to double that.

Now you’re ready to stick it in the pie crust. Dump the peach mixture into a tin. Then dump half of that back into the bowl because you misjudged it again. Run to the store to get another bottom crust. The first crust will get soggy but nobody’s gonna notice.

Now you’re back at your house, the peaches are in the crust, and you can put the top crust on. Crimp it really nice halfway around and then give up and crimp lazily to finish.

If you think that’s it, you’re mistaken. Dump a mixture of sugar and cinnamon over the mess you’ve made and cut vents in the top crust if you’re feeling like it.

Now stick the pies in an oven for somewhere between thirty minutes and four hours. Remove from oven and serve and make sure to mention what you’ll fix next time.

Congratulations! You’ve made the last desert you’ll ever make!

Mary was dreaming about school.

This was a fairly common dream and as usual, she could control her actions to an extent. The alien geometry of her familiar school went by unnoticed for the most part, but twisted her school into a strange progression where she could enter a room and exit further down the hall. She found herself late for class, but managed to talk to every one of her friends in the space of a second before turning around and seeing him.

He stood six feet to Mary’s five and a half, and was clad entirely in black. His hair was formed into perfect spikes and his expression was totally blank. She tried to go around him but found that no matter how she moved, he moved with her.

“Excuse me,” she said, but the boy did not even acknowledge her. She was stumped. How could she get around him if he wouldn’t move? She thought back and realized that there was alien geometry in this dream. She turned and bolted through the nearest doorway.

After closing the door she sank down to the ground, feeling unsettled. This dream had so far bent to her will, but he did not. She found herself sweating a little as she stood and prepared to go back through the door, which she knew would put her across the hall from her next class. She opened the door and bolted through.

He was there.

His face was twisted into a pained expression. Mary sensed that she was bothering him, and promptly turned to go back into the classroom she had just come from.

He was there.

Now he looked angry. Mary just wanted to get out of this place. She glanced left and right, but found that no matter where she looked she met his disapproving gaze. Frustrated, she balled her hand into a fist and launched it at the boy’s face.

Mary’s eyes fluttered open.

Her room was dark and felt strange. Relieved to be awake, she attempted to stretch. She wanted to get a glass of water and try getting back to bed. But she found that she couldn’t move. She couldn’t even turn her head.

Trapped as she was, she concluded that this was another dream. Her eyes scanned the room for anything strange or out of the ordinary. Her posters were all where they were supposed to be. The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, placed there many years before, were still bright. Her door was slightly ajar, as it had been when she had gone to bed. He was standing there.

He was standing there.

Mary’s eyes grew wide and fixed on the intruder. She felt chills run through her body as the figure opened the door further.

He was no longer a boy, now he was just a silhouette. His eyes were red circles and every part of him oozed malevolence. He threw her door wide open and she shut her eyes tightly, wishing with all her might for this to end. Please be a dream.

She could feel the figure stepping closer. The smell was sickly sweet and she could feel it invading her body. She tried holding her breath to shut it out.

Please be a dream.

She gasped for air as she realized that holding her breath was impossible. She opened one eye only to see him leaning over her. She shut her eye again.

Please be a dream.

She felt a touch like ice on her shoulder. It ran up her neck until she could feel a hand of ice cupping her chin. She felt herself starting to tear up. She tried with all her might to struggle against the figure as she felt his face right in front of hers.

Suddenly she felt an impulse to open her eyes. She struggled against it before realizing that it was pointless. In her mind there was only terror, except for a small presence that seemed to be looking for something. Suddenly, surprise echoed through her mind. She felt the presence race from her subconscious to her conscious thoughts before leaping out her forehead.

Mary finally opened her eyes. That horrible figure was still there, his red eyes meeting hers. She tried again to flee, but found that she could only open her mouth.

Good enough.

Mary screamed at the top of her lungs. The figure heard the movement in the house and seemed to be waiting for it when suddenly he wasn’t there. Mary could feel him, however. She scanned her room and saw a glint of red in a corner of the ceiling, directly over the door. Mary closed her eyes.

Mary’s mother appeared in the hall and looked into her daughter’s room. “Mary?” she called, “Are you all right?” She stepped into the room and crossed over to her daughter, shaking her to try and wake her up. Mary’s eye shot open, looking at the figure over the door. The boy was no longer looking at Mary. It was looking at her mother with eyes that were now blazing bright.

“Mom!” Mary’s mother followed her daughter’s gaze and fixed upon the figure. She opened her mouth to scream but couldn’t. Confused, she put her hand to her throat.

Mary watched her mother intently, hoping that she would still be able to call somehow, when she noticed what looked like dust blowing gently from her mother’s head.

Mary screamed again as her mother dissolved before her eyes. In a matter of moments her father was in the room, arriving just as his wife had blown away. He was holding his pistol at the ready, scanning the room as he dissolved too.

Tears streamed from Mary’s eyes now, pouring like rivers over her cheeks. Finally she was able to get out of bed. She ran to where her parents had been but there was nothing left of them. She fell to the floor and sobbed.

When Mary finally stood again, she had only one thought in her mind, burning like fire. The figure was standing in front of her again, its head cocked as if to ask, “What do you think you can do?” Mary balled her hand into a fist and launched it at the figure’s face.

Mary’s eyes fluttered open. She sat up in bed and rubbed her forehead, relieved to be awake. She got up and left her room, instinctively closing her door behind her as she went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. She splashed her face with the water to try and get the thought of that dream out of her head. Returning to her room with a glass of water, she felt almost like she would be able to get back to sleep.

Mary opened her door.

He was there.

The glass of water hit the floor and spread like a miniature tidal wave over the hardwood. Trembling but feeling in control, Mary balled her hand into a fist and launched it at the figure, feeling like resetting this was a better deal then whatever he could do. But before her fist met the figure’s face it started to dissolve before her eyes. The dust blew in the breeze of a window at the end of the hall and Mary suddenly felt the horror throughout her body again. She tried a left-hand punch, then a kick. Every time she was about to strike the figure, her limb would dissolve. The dust came off of her arms and legs, and slowly spread up her body only to stop at her neck. This wasn’t like her parents disintegration, thought. This one involved blood. It hit the floor and suddenly billowed up as a dense mist.

Mary’s head hit the hardwood, her eyes open in a horrible, tortured expression.

She didn’t even get a chance to scream.