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Every page was filled with the same asinine drivel as the page before. Wear this makeup, take this sex advice, lose weight with this new diet fad. Boring, boring, boring. Mary closed the magazine.

Suddenly the door opened and two large dogs came bounding in, followed by barely-a-man in designer jeans and button down plaid shirt. "Hello!" he chimed gleefully. It was Martin.

Martin was a dog person. He did not only love his two pure bred mutts, but insisted on taking them everywhere with him, as though they were children. Yes, he was one of those dog people, but Mary didn't really mind.

She got up and hugged him. "Oh dear, I'm so glad you came to visit," She smiled as he began to sit his things down.

"Well you didn't really give me much choice, did you? Now, what is so important that it could not be said on the phone?" He walked to the kitchen of the studio apartment and began to make a cup of tea.

She sat back on the sofa peering over the back at him. "I've made a very important discovery."

"Mmmhmm, oh really?" He raised one eyebrow. "What this time? Men are actually from another planet? The media is out to get specifically you? Or maybe you're actually from another planet…"

She threw the magazine at him. "Shut up! This is important!" She smiled mischievously. "I have realized… that women's magazines are rubbish."

Martin blinked, looked down at his tea, then looked back up at her. "You're an idiot, Mary."

No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition

The penthouse office was pristine. Every night a special cleaning crew came in to detail every corner to insure nothing had made it past security.
Except tonight.

He sat at his desk, hands folded, deep in contemplation. The world was coming to an end. Well, not the world. Just the world as he knew it.

If the truth was revealed, which was a great possibility, there would be no end of violence. The country had long been divided into two classes, and finally, the lower class had begun to realize that they had been duped. Most of the "peasants", as he and his comrades jokingly referred to them, had been content to believe that one day, they would be in the top two percent, making millions. With television, internet, and radio, it was easy. How could they not be convinced?

He pondered for a moment whether this was what Louis XVI felt like when it dawned on him that his life was nearing an end. The man in the office was never a king, not even a president. He was just a man, doing his job, telling the citizens of the country what he knew in his heart they all believed. He would carry this belief to the very end.

Which was, as it turned out, to be the very next day. Instead of going down as the martyr he dreamed for, his death would be a symbolic sacrifice. He represented the death of the mindless, out of control, media that had destroyed a once great civilization with such simple tools as lies, deceit, and untruths.

Decades later, after the civil war was over, students would philosophize over whether he had found humor or humility in the fact his execution was aired on television, streamed on the internet, and described in detail on satellite radio.

This is under construction. I wrote it late at night and can't really think anymore, I'll continue it later.

When it all goes wrong again

Toes curled around the edge of the cliff. Seventy five feet and mere seconds until eternity. The wind howled, and outstretched arms caught the breeze. For a moment, the existence of gravity seemed questionable.

Nevertheless, they landed.

Suddenly Janie was standing among all of her, quite literally, fallen comrades. Among them stood a tall man in a dark cape. He seemed to have the most beautiful features and most repulsive features at once. Sometimes it looked as if he had no face at all, but that couldn't be right. Her delicate post-human mind couldn't quite grasp the ethereal qualities of the Angel of Death.

"Wow, now I've seen some interestin' cult deaths in my day, but good lord," he gestured to their mortal bodies behind them, "THIS is completely off the wall!" And in a whisper, "Or cliff, as it were."

Janie couldn't understand why he sounded Scottish. She always assumed he would have a boisterous, guttural, angry voice. I suppose the Scots can be angry at times, she mused.

"So right, some of you are goin' up, some down, some..." His voice trailed off when his eyes rested on her.

"You? You aren't supposed to be here." He scratched his head, and surprisingly, pulled out a mobile phone. His fingers tapped the keys.

Beep beep beep.

He held the phone to what one would assume was his ear, sighed, kicked some dirt around, then looked back at her, and sighed again. "Oh, hello, yes. We um, er.. we have a problem."

Don't you love her madly...

“A literal scarlet letter?” Wat asked, surprised.

“Apparently so.” Replied Wesley, eyeing his hand, stretching it to see how much tension would cause the fresh scab to crack.

“Well that’s just ridiculous.” Wat scowled. “What kind of backwards town believes in that non sense in this day and age? Not having an overruling government is all good and great, till you wander upon one o’ these little villages who still believe in silly things like marriage. Why, I remember when…”

Wesley began ignoring Wat at this point. His old man rants about the times before micro governments were tiresome, and Wesley had a lot more on his mind. This permanent scar, for starters. At least it wasn’t on his head like a film he'd seen, oddly enough, on one of the few existing dvd players left, which happened to be owned by a woman with ten husbands. She wasn’t an adulterer, divorcee, or widow though, she literally had ten husbands. A harem of men. Wesley thought it was an awful lot of work, for her at least. He found out she was a very needy woman though, and that several husbands were required to completely satisfy her. Each of them had their role. It worked well and everyone got along swimmingly. Wat had laughed at his own comment about her residing in what used to be a “state” called “Utah,” but Wesley didn’t understand the humor in it.

“And not to mention you had to go to a Zoo to see wild animals, not worry about them eating you in the middle of the night!” Wat harrumphed and plucked a long blade of grass, which was immediately shoved in his mouth.

The fire continued to burn as the duo sat discussing which way to head next. Their overall goal was New Orleans. It was now one of the largest remaining water and air ship ports in this particular part of the world. The two intended to part ways upon arrival, and find work on the docks or as sailors. No one was expecting them, so they were at their leisure, taking all the time they could to stop and visit small towns, for Wat to see what the world had become, and for Wesley to see it for the first time.

Now, Wesley needed gloves to cover up his permanent marking. There were lots of other towns with people who still held similar archaic values, and he intended on avoiding those folks from now on, no matter what temptation might lie among them. He knew of a leather maker who lived in a village not more than twenty miles from them. A man by the name of Trent, who happened to owe him a favor.
She slid the derringer back into it's holster as the dirigible disappeared into the sunset. A laugh escaped her lips as she realized how completely cliche' this entire adventure had become. At least it was finally over.

It's over. She repeated to herself.

Suddenly, a rush of emotions overcame her, as she realized she would never see him again. He was gone.


Her knees trembled and she fell, as tears began streaming down her porcelain cheeks. She would have cried out, but the tightness in her chest prevented her from making a sound.

Through her misery, she heard someone approach. Still kneeling, she looked up. Someone was coming towards her from the opposite end of the field. She reached for the small pistol and pointed it at the man. At least, she thought it was a man. She wiped tears from her eyes with her free hand. She dropped her derringer.

He was limping. One hand on his ribs.

JACK! she screamed in her mind, to surprised to bring words forth.

She started running towards him. As she gained ground she saw blood where his hand was. Lots of blood.

Oh, god...

He collapsed into her arms as she reached him, and they fell to the ground together. The tall grass of the field concealing them from view.

"I have to stop the ble..." She started to say, but he put a finger to her lips.

They lay there, staring into each others eyes. The seconds felt like days. Minutes went by and a lifetime passed between them.

Using the last of his strength, he pressed his lips to hers, and let his eyelids close forever.

It's over... forever.
The storm was normal for the city. It had been years since anyone on the ground could see past the first twenty or so stories of the sky scrapers that lined the streets.
Sheets of rain beat against the right side of his black greatcoat, and he used his arm to shield his face and hold his hat on.

Only two more blocks, he repeated in his mind.

As he grew closer he noticed the 24 hour library was the only place he had seen in his walk that had any noticeable lights. The lit up sign was old. The letter B had broken off and was hanging by a cable, swinging back and forth violently.

He smiled, thinking, At least she thought to leave the lights on for me...

He finally arrived at his destination. He pushed through the revolving doors. The library, if you could call it that anymore, was a complete disaster. Most of the books were lying about on tables and hand rails. Nothing had been put in order in decades. However, all of these things did not register to him. All he saw was her.

Sitting atop a pile of books, directly in front of him, was Vivian. She deftly twirled an obsidian object in her left hand.

Their eyes met, and she grinned. "Hello, Trent."

Live and let die

Her soft grey curly hair fell over her shoulders gently, almost giving her the look of a much younger woman. She caressed the photograph. Her eyes watered.

"Where did you find it?" She asked Vivian.

Vivian nervously fidgeted with the object in her jacket pocket. "Don't worry about it, Meema. I gotta go now..." her voice trailed off a bit.

"Go? Go where?" Asked her grandmother.
Her eyes darted about. On a normal occasion a place such as this would occupy her entire afternoon, but time was of the essence. Quickly she identified the object. It was inches from her fingertips.

Her experienced hands reached out, grabbed it, and she was gone.