This is a free ebook I'm offering on this site. I aim to provide fresh stories that tackle social issues, horror, crime, Urban-America, etc. in a new way that hasn’t been done before. Although I hang my hat on the novels that I’ve written or am in the process of writing, I think these stories demonstrate my abilities as a storyteller and a writer. Thank you again for downloading this book! I hope that these stories generate fear, excitement, sadness, happiness, sympathy, empathy and a wide array of other emotions. Which is to say, I hope that you enjoy these stories and find reasons to read more of my work.

1. Short Story Storm
By Benjamin Ryan T.
Copyright © Benjamin Tiller (2014). All rights reserved
Insane Panda Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of
the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

2. Author's Note
First off, thanks for picking up this book. As an author, it means a lot to me every time that I
see that someone has downloaded my work. The following is a collection of short stories that I
post to my website (brtwrites.com) every Thursday. The stories usually come from weekly
prompts from terribleminds.com or other sites that challenge authors to write flash fiction in a
short period of time and share them on our sites.
I aim to provide fresh stories that tackle social issues, horror, crime, Urban-America, etc. in
a new way that hasn’t been done before. Although I hang my hat on the novels that I’ve written
or am in the process of writing, I think these stories demonstrate my abilities as a storyteller and
a writer.
Thank you again for downloading this book! I hope that these stories generate fear,
excitement, sadness, happiness, sympathy, empathy and a wide array of other emotions. Which
is to say, I hope that you enjoy these stories and find reasons to read more of my work.
-Benjamin Ryan T.

3. Crimson Slave
Cassius flinched away from the stinging of the whip. It didn’t matter. The men bound his
hands in ropes so he wouldn’t be able to avoid a single skin ripping slash. His ebony skin peeled
away, resembling warm cheese in a sharp cheese grater, turning his dark skin to the crimson
shade of blood mixed with flesh.
Despite the stinging and ripping pain signals that rushed to his brain, Cassius didn’t as much
as grimace. If he mastered one thing during his twenty-five years of slavery, it was not letting
them get the satisfaction of seeing his agony. Easier said than done, but Cassius managed to
accomplish it just the same.
When the public humiliation ended, they untied Cassius and left him to the mercy of the
scorching sun on the one hundred and five degree day in southern Mississippi. Dasha walked up
to the still bleeding man and put a wet washcloth on his back for comfort.
“You okay, Cassius?”
Cassius got to his feet, brushing the washcloth off of his back as he stood. “It’s time,” he
said.
The beating was good for one thing. It brought all of the slaves together, both figuratively
and literally. He wasn’t only speaking to Dasha, but a crowd as well. “I think we’ve all had it up
to our eyeballs with this bullshit.” They all gathered around the still-bleeding man.
In 2074, his dark skin didn’t make him a slave any more that his white teeth did. The slaves
on the field didn’t know why they were born into slavery. They figured that it might have
something to do with their strength. They seemed bigger, faster, stronger and tougher than their
fat, out of shape owners.
In reality, they’d inherited this lifestyle simply because their families were below the
$95,000/year poverty line when congress set the ‘slave line’ back in 2032. Global climate

4. $95,000/year poverty line when congress set the ‘slave line’ back in 2032. Global climate
change pressures forced the world to phase out the poor from consuming energy—they were
made slaves so the elite could keep up with their luxurious lifestyles while the less fortunate
broke their backs providing it for them.
“But they have stunners,” a man in the crowd said. They all turned and looked at Alex, the
middle aged man with fair skin. “One shot will send us to the ground, convulsing and pissing
our pants.”
“How many charges do you think they have? Surely not one for all of us.” Cassius surveyed
the crowd and estimated seventy-four men and women surrounded him. “Assuming all their
shots are accurate, they’ll get, what, two dozen of us?”
Murmurs of agreement followed his question.
“Then why don’t you go first, Cassius? I’d like to see you lead the way after another
beating.”
Cassius smiled. “My pleasure.” He turned his back to walk away. The others gawked at the
criss-cross scars decorating his back, coupled with the gruesome crimson gashes he had earned
only minutes ago. When you see a man with scars like that, you don’t think, ‘wow, that guy got
his ass kicked!’ Instead, for whatever reason, the logical thing to assume is that the man you’re
looking at got put through the wringer and is ready to destroy anything or anyone in his path. On
that hot August day, Cassius was that man.
He looked over his shoulder and saw the other slaves start to follow him. They had all read
in the history books that, in the nineteenth century, all of the slaves in the United States were of
African descent. What Cassius saw over his shoulder, however, was a hodge podge of races—a
true rainbow coalition all united under one cause. Tentative steps in his direction led to faster
strides. When he turned toward the owner’s house once more, he broke out in an all-out sprint.
The others followed, with random farm equipment in hand. Cassius charged with no weapons
other than his balled up fists.
Cassius, always considered the most fit, met the front door of the house with his right
shoulder. Instead of putting a shoulder shaped dent in the front door as he expected, his shoulder
ripped it off of its hinges. He fell forward through the door with splinters of wood flying all
around him. The crimson stain his back left on the door was both startling, and impressive. The
fact that a man could run as fast as he did while losing so much blood was a medical marvel in

5. fact that a man could run as fast as he did while losing so much blood was a medical marvel in
and of itself.
Once again, Cassius got to his feet. From what he understood, Master Whitfield lived with
his two sons, his wife and a maid (who of course was a slave—an exceedingly attractive slave
with three feet of long blonde hair). He surveyed the room. Whitfield’s two sons sat on the
couch, wide eyed as the slaves came pouring into the large house. His wife dropped the flour
from behind them in the kitchen. The maid, whose name was Raye, smiled at the people pouring
into the building. Cassius only saw one stunner—which was far closer to him than it was the two
men on the couch.
“Where’s your dad?” he asked. “If you let us at him, you both can run free. And I do mean
run—if we ever see you again, we’ll grind you both up and serve you like a burger.”
The two men looked at each other, then ran toward the front door as the slaves parted in
order to let them through. “They didn’t answer my question,” Cassius added, this time, with a
touch of sarcasm. He glanced up at the lady in the kitchen. “Excuse me ma’am, we have no
trouble with you. Where’s your husband? We wanna have a word with him.”
She gestured to Cassius’ right. His eyes followed the motion to a closed door with a light
shining through the crack in the bottom.
“Thank you ma’am.”
Every slave that could pile in the front room turned toward the bathroom. The crimson
backed slave stepped forward and turned the knob.

6. Out in the Cold
Protected from a blanket of falling snow, Dylon’s absent grasp at the wedding ring long
gone, perpetuated the loneliness beneath the underpass. Six long years on the road swam
through his empty, drug riddled mind. Well, eight years of lonely travel, but six since his last
loved one finally wrote him off with firm regret.
Snowfall in the Mile High City covers cars, trees and roads; more importantly waste,
pollution and garbage. The blanket white washes the bad, sending new hope for renewal.
“Sir. Excuse me, sir,” Dylon said to the young man passing by.
Without thinking about it, he reached into his right pocket to confirm the absence of money.
He didn’t have to feel the left; he already lost many dimes through the one inch hole in the left
pocket of his tattered denim.
“Sir, can you spare any change? I’m trying to make it back to Colorado Springs to get home
for Thanksgiving.”
He reached down and picked up the empty gas-can to fuel the illusion.
The passerby surveyed Dylon with one dismissive look. Yes, the gas can seemed believable
enough, but the burn holes through the formerly white hoodie, the unkept beard, and the ratty
afro gave away the rest of the story.
“Nah, man. I don’t carry any cash. Wish I could help you out.”
“I’m a Veteran, man. You can’t spare anything?”
The passerby snorted. He tried to stifle the fit of laughter that followed to no avail. “Veteran
of what? That shit’s tired. If you ain’t a veteran, how you gonna disrespect our troops like that—
but if you are—it’s a damn shame you ended up here.”
Dylon’s shoulders slumped, his eyes turned downcast toward the gas can.
“Either way I got nothing for ya.”

7. Dylon watched the man walk away. Thoughts of his son rushed to his mind. The odds were
the passerby was just another stranger, but he always took a longer look at men that reminded
him of Chris nonetheless. Dylon had to imagine what Chris would have become had he stayed
around long enough to watch the promising student-athlete grow to maturity.
Every rejection singed his heart, but complete dismissals from what could be his son’s avatar
on Thanksgiving eve, made the blow that much harder.
Persistence is key, he thought as he watched the next man in a suit walking in his direction.
“Excuse me, sir. Little gas money so I can get to my family in Colorado Springs?” His eyes
remained steady and engaged on the stranger’s; his upper body still but not shaking. Every drug
that had ever sped through his bloodstream tried to force his hands to shake, but he controlled all
instincts. Years on the street developed his already proficient lying ability.
The man looked up into Dylon’s sad and pleading eyes. One look told him he was looking at
truth.
He wavered when his eyes met back up with Dylon’s, after fetching his wallet from his back
pocket.
Was that a smile? Was that brightness shining from the homeless man’s aura? The man
shook his head to cleanse his mind of the thoughts.
“You know, I do have a little bit,” the man said.
“Thank you, sir. My family thanks you from the Springs.”
The man reached out his hand to Dylon, who grabbed the money without breaking the all-
important grateful eye contact.
“God bless you,” he added for good measure.
While shaking hands, he noticed the stranger’s eyes dim. They didn’t drop or falter, but they
dimmed. It was as if the life force rushed out of the man all at once. Dylon knew it when he saw
it. It was pity; one thing more disheartening than all out rejection. Dylon studied the man’s back
as he disappeared into the foggy, snowy haze.
When he finally looked down at the denomination of dead president resting in his hand, his
heart sped up. It wasn’t a president at all. Benjamin Franklin met his gaze. The light shining off
of the bill reflected in Dylon’s eyes, turning them into a hue of brownish green.
During his journey to Colfax and Quebec, his mind returned to his son.

8. What’s become of Chris? Will he be home for Thanksgiving? Will he forgive my addiction?
It’s a ten dollar cab ride from here to Five Points—would he wanna see me?
The thoughts jumbled his brain—perhaps even more than the twice-cut cocaine that he
consumed to avoid withdrawal.
Withdrawal, he thought, with a sudden terror speeding up his heart once more. He
remembered his destination.
When he arrived at the corner, he walked up to the scary man wearing red from head to toe.
“How you doing brother?” Dylon asked.
“What’s good with you pops? What can I do for you?”
Thoughts of Chris rushed back into his mind.
Don’t do this. Go see your family. Leave now.
He heard a distant, muffled voice mutter something, but his mind continued to race.
What the fuck are you waiting on? Get out of here, Dylon. It’s not worth it.
“Yo pops! What the hell is wrong with you? Get something or get on. Thirty a gram.”
The man in red didn’t think Dylon would answer; he didn’t even think Dylon was there—at
least not mentally.
Dylon’s thousand yard stare looked through the man in front of him. He snapped out of the
vocal paralysis when one word made it into his thought process.
Withdrawal.
“Three please.”
After the transaction, Dylon trudged through the snow once more, withdrawing from the
protective awning the dealer stood under.
The thick white blanket continued to fall on the garbage that plagued The Mile High City.

9. Morphed
“Truth be told, I’m not sure any of them are actually dead,” Shawn said.
He flipped over the cold body that resembled what used to be some sort of dog—a mastiff
perhaps. Its already sharp canine teeth grew into vampire fangs. Their needle-sharp edges had
already punctured both Via and Shawn. Shawn wore his wound just below his left collarbone
while Via bled through the bottom of her pant-leg.
Shawn pulled the dagger out of the beast’s neck. Via cringed at the suction sound the blade
made when slopping out of the deep wound.
“Let’s get out of here before he wakes up,” Shawn said, knocking Via out of the paralysis
brought on by disgust.
“Wakes up?”
“Yeah—I’ve seen it twice already. The last time was yesterday, right before I picked you up.
I saw a dead hawk lose its feathers and morph into some kind of monster. Luckily he couldn’t
keep up with ole’ Betsy.” Shawn tapped on his Mustang convertible that had seen better days.
The hawk tore off ‘Betsy’s’ rag top just before Shawn was able to make his escape.
“Define morph.”
“You know—like transformers or something. You know how their tiny cars morph into
ginormous robots, defying all laws of physics?”
Via nodded.
“Yeah, it’s like that. Animals are turning into bigger, more vicious versions of themselves.”
Shawn saw the panic grow in her eyes and suddenly wished he hadn’t added that last part.
“But their eyes,” she mumbled under her breath. She didn’t expect Shawn to hear the fear in
her voice, but he did nonetheless.
“What—you’ve never seen fiery red eyes before?” He chuckled at his question in hopes Via

10. “What—you’ve never seen fiery red eyes before?” He chuckled at his question in hopes Via
would recognize it as a joke. “It’s not that bad, it takes a whil—” Shawn broke off when he saw
Via covering her mouth with her eyes focused behind him.
Without making any sudden move, Shawn wheeled around to see what he thought would be
a giant bear, resembling Shardik from a story he once read, standing beside him.
Instead, what he saw was much worse.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. He proceeded to jump into the driver’s seat without opening
the door to the convertible, then pretended to be a gentleman and opened the passenger door
from the inside.
She watched the beast approach, then shook her head as if to clear her mind of the danger.
Via hopped in the car, locked her door, and put her seat-belt on as if either would be of any use
against the demon galloping toward them.
Its eyes were the same crimson color as the other beasts. Its mouth foamed in a reddish-
brown discharge that seemed to be a mix of its bowels and its blood. Skin and hair hung off of
the beast’s torso.
The only animal Via thought to compare it to was a horse that seemed to break through the
folds of hell and morph into a creature twice its original size.
Shawn cranked the Mustang into first gear and peeled away from the still-twitching dog-like
beast.
Shawn knew it would rise again in minutes; growing into something even more fierce.
He shook his head to banish the terrifying thoughts as he shifted the car into fourth gear,
pushing the sports car to 55 mph.
Yet the beast still gained on them.
Apparently twice a regular horse’s speed, Via thought, while watching the red eyes close in
on them.
The beast’s red eyes pierced through the darkness. Now that the two sped far away from the
streetlight that was once overhead, they couldn’t see its body—just the eyes. They reminded Via
of the creepy blue horse at Denver International Airport.
“What do we do?” she asked. She knew they wouldn’t be able to outrun the creature—they
both did.
“I have a gun in the glove. Grab it for me, will ya?”

11. She gave him an inquisitive look as if to ask him why he hadn’t used it on the dog-like
creature.
“Hurry!” he yelled.
Via opened the glove and brought out a large silver revolver with a wooden grip. She turned
the weapon over in her hands to examine the artwork inscribed all over the barrel, until he
snatched it from her grip.
“No time for that.”
She recoiled back. For a moment, she thought he meant to shoot her.
“Grab the wheel,” he said.
She obliged, but it didn’t matter. They both found themselves gawking at the approaching
horse with red eyes. Via stole just enough looks toward the road to keep the pair from careening
off into a ditch.
Shawn thumbed the hammer and pulled the trigger of the pistol, releasing a deafening crash
of gunpowder.
The round struck the demon horse in the abdomen. It slowed briefly, then galloped to a
speed that Shawn thought was perhaps faster than it ran before.
The car started to fade to the right. “Hold it steady!” Shawn said.
He pulled the hammer one more time and shot the galloping spawn of Satan in its left eye.
The horse collapsed to the ground all at once, face-planting into the cold cement.
“Did you get him?” Via asked.
Her panicked voice tickled the corner of Shawn’s lips into a smile. “Yep—he’s toast.”
She exhaled when Shawn turned to face the steering wheel again. He smiled at her before
grabbing the wheel.
“I don’t know what you think is so funny,” she said.
He laughed harder at the scowl on her face. “Nothing, sweetheart. I don’t know why you’re
so worried, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve seen the disease. It spreads quick.”
He gestured to her left leg.
She looked down to see that her leg had gotten big enough to trap her in the passenger’s seat.

12. She looked down to see that her leg had gotten big enough to trap her in the passenger’s seat.
She’d be trapped until she gained all of the strength she needed to break out. By then, her eyes
would be red, as well.

13. Special Delivery
Kristen barreled down highway 70 in her cherry red Chevy, in an attempt to outrun her
painful and tortured past.
In the rear-view mirror, she saw failed tests, failed relationships, failed jobs, failed
friendships and failed morals chasing after the car—all with vengeful, pissed-off faces.
What she also saw was the curse that perpetuated all of her recent failures. Its innocent eyes
stared back at her through the rear-view mirror. Kristen sighed as her shoulders slumped in the
driver’s seat. She adjusted the mirror in order to shift her gaze from her most recent failure. As
innocent as it may be, it ruined her life—tearing up her last relationship. The love of her life
walked away, showing his true colors.
But I can make it all right, she thought. I can make it mean something.
Kristen tried to drive away from her dark past. She hoped that tomorrow would show a
brighter future.
***
Barry sat patiently in the cheap plastic chair, staring at his wife while she hyperventilated on
the paper sheet covering the exam room table.
Time and time again, the two of them huddled on the table comforting each other while
trying to get over their most recent failure.
This was the last time—the money finally dried up. The couple could only withstand so
many eight thousand dollar fertility treatments before it became too much.
Dr. Roland pushed his bifocals higher up on his nose as he strode through the exam room
door. “Tabitha, Barry—how’s your afternoon so far.”
“Good,” Tabitha replied in a shaky tone.
Barry answered with a panicked voice of his own. “We’re okay, Doc. Just a little nervous

14. Barry answered with a panicked voice of his own. “We’re okay, Doc. Just a little nervous
that’s all. There’s a lot riding on today for our family going forward.”
“Did it take?” Tabitha demanded. “Am I going to have a child?”
As Tabitha spoke, she toyed around with the wedding ring Barry put on her finger eighteen
years before. The couple decided ‘kids could wait’ when they first spoke their vows. They held
the status quo for another eleven years after.
The previous seven years, however, infertility plagued Tabitha, causing a strain on their
relationship and forcing her to question herself as a woman. Seven long years of false
pregnancies, miscarriages, and failed pregnancy tests led the couple to where they were now.
Barry and Tabitha spent the last of their savings in one last attempt at artificial insemination.
Dr. Roland sighed at her question.
Tabitha’s eyes turned downcast toward her feet. She’d heard that answer before. Barry
walked over and put a comforting arm over her shoulder.
“It didn’t take,” Roland finally said. The words came out in a whisper, but he got his point
across just the same.
Barry held on to his last thread of hope. “Are you positive? Could it take more time?” he
asked.
“I’m sure. I’m sorry. If there’s anything I ca—”
Tabitha’s sobs cut him off mid-sentence. It’s not that she cried louder than he could project
his voice, rather it was his realization of the fact that no words could console the grieving,
childless woman.
Roland nodded at Barry, who gave the doctor a passing wave, then left the room so the
couple could handle the news however they saw fit.
On the way home, Tabitha rode shotgun with her head pressed firmly on the cold
passenger’s side window.
“Let’s go to Lowes,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Lowes. We need to buy some paint. I can’t stand to look at the yellow walls anymore.”
“But honey, we can still adop—”
“I said let’s go to Lowes.”
It was that moment Barry knew she had finally given up. His heart sank at the thought

15. It was that moment Barry knew she had finally given up. His heart sank at the thought
because he knew his chances were finished, as well. The couple’s only dream died in the car,
just like that. All of the church meetings where they prayed for a child, all of the adoption
agencies queried, all of the fertility treatments—it all meant nothing.
***
Kristen cross-referenced the scribbled address to the painted numbers on the curb.
3550 Kendall Street, she confirmed in her head.
Kristen’s eyes met the rear view mirror once more. She came face to face with all of her
demons once again. Her dad, who abused her as a child, stood to the left. Her boyfriend who
talked her into an abortion at thirteen stood beside him. Her ex stood on the far right—the love
of her life. The men glared at the contents of Kristen’s back seat.
Tears formed in Kristen’s eyes.
She punched the mirror, in hopes the past would fade with one simple hit.
Kristen stepped out of the driver’s side door and went into the back seat. With only the
slightest moment of hesitation, she grabbed the bane of her existence and headed for the front
door of 3550 Kendall Street.
When she reached the door, Kristen looked over her shoulder and confirmed that her past
still followed close behind.
After one last hesitant motion, she rang the doorbell and ran back to her car.
***
At midnight, Tabitha laid in her would-be child’s room next to the off-white paint she
planned on covering her scarred psyche with. She cried throughout the day, and found herself
weeping once more next to the can of paint that all her instincts told her not to put to use.
The deafening sound of the Stewart’s doorbell reverberated through the house, knocking
Tabitha out of her depression induced paralysis.
Tabitha heard tires screech as she and Barry raced each other to see who would answer it
first.
Barry reached the door while Tabitha sat back a few steps wondering why someone was at
her doorstep at midnight.
He looked through the peephole. Nothing.
“Damn kids. Alwa—”

16. A baby’s cry interrupted his sentence.
Without thinking, Tabitha pushed Barry aside in order to open the door.
The pink baby wrapped in blankets met the couple with a smile.

17. Remorseful Savior
Kevin flipped through the Tuesday Denver Post while waiting on the 35 bus route to take
him four miles down Colfax. A Marlboro light protruded from his index and middle fingers on
his right hand. His left gripped the edge of the sports page as his eyes worked their way down in
hopes of finding out if his Fantasy football team took the weekly crown.
Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw a boy of about eleven years old walking past him.
Kevin paused, setting down the paper onto his quad muscles as he watched the peculiar look
of angst and confusion spreading across the boy’s face.
The kid’s stature put him at around eleven years old, but he had the stare of a much older
person, perhaps even a man. The scowl on the boy’s face doubled his perceived age.
The boy noticed Kevin staring as he walked past the strange man on the bench. He wheeled
to his right and started to cross the street.
Kevin’s cigarette—that had already been dangling from his fingertips—dropped to the
ground all at once. When he saw the kid walk onto the busy street, he bolted from this seated
position on the bench and ran toward the obviously confused child.
He snatched the boy by his black t-shirt, throwing him backward before he had
the opportunity to encroach on the busy street.
“What the hell are you doing, kid? You’re gonna get yourself killed,” he said through loud
wheezes.
Kevin gasped for breath as the young child stood there staring, not at Kevin, but through
him.
Although Kevin didn’t have to run any more than ten yards to hold the kid back from the
street, his lungs thirst for the already thin, Mile High air. Sixteen long years of chain-smoking
suffocated his lungs if he moved in a pace faster than walking for more than a few seconds.

18. When his gaze failed to intimidate the kid into talking, Kevin tried again. “Kid, what’s the
matter with you?”
No answer.
“Where the hell are your parents?”
“Not alive,” the boy said, with zero hesitation.
Kevin found it strange that the boy said, ‘not alive’ instead of ‘dead’. However, he shook off
the idea and persisted with his quasi-parental questioning.
“Well who’s taking care of you, young fellow?”
No answer yet again.
Kevin felt blood rush to his face due to both embarrassment and impatience.
“Look, kid. I don’t have all day to stand around here and play twenty questions with you.
Either you tell me where I can find your guardian or I’ll let the police find out.”
“You can’t save them. Nobody can save them,” the boy replied.
Kevin hesitated, not really wanting to believe what he heard. “Come on kid. Let’s go in here
and grab a soda then you can tell me all about it. Cool?”
“Cool?” The boy questioned as if he’d never heard the expression.
Kevin rocked his head back and looked up toward the sky, “Jesus Christ!” he said aloud–
more to himself than to either the boy or the pedestrians walking by.
He grabbed the boy’s arm. His grip wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but plenty hard to let the kid
know he was in control of the situation. He dragged the young boy into the nearby 7-Eleven and
pulled him to the refrigerated section where the store held all of its soft drinks.
“What kind do you like kid?”
The boy studied the wall of bright labels in utter amazement. His eyes fixated on a large
bottle with a bright red label.
“Coke guy? Good man,” Kevin said. He opened the door and grabbed two colas.
When the pair made it to the counter, the clerk gave Kevin a funny look. He scanned the two
items. “That’s gonna be three thirty-six,” he managed.
Kevin felt in his pocket and only managed to bring out two dollars—not even enough for the
bus he waited on.
“You got any cash on you little man?” he asked the boy.

19. The boy responded with the slightest of nods, then reached into his back pocket to retrieve
his wallet. He took out a single bill that, at first glance, didn’t look right to the clerk.
Kevin snatched it from his hands and studied its artwork. Instead of the usual green tint that
U.S. currency has, this bill had a reddish-pink hue to it.
Is that who I think it is? Kevin thought to himself.
He confirmed this when he looked down at the banner in front of the picture that read
Clinton. Based on the former president’s shit-eating grin, Kevin secretly imagined a certain
intern present under his desk during the snapshot. He glanced to the top-right corner of the bill
and noted it claimed to be worth three-hundred dollars.
“What the hell is this, monopoly money?” Kevin asked.
The boy stared back at him, looking both shocked and confused.
Kevin glanced down at the bill one more time. When he saw the obvious, he dropped it
through his trembling hands.
“If you’re not gonna pay, get the hell out of my store,” the clerk shouted.
Kevin paid him no mind. His eyes fixated on the boy.
Not alive, he remembered. He then understood why the boy said it. He meant that his parents
weren’t alive yet.
“That bill says 2072. Please tell me you’re not from—”
“The future?” the boy finished. Then he nodded.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Kevin asked, not in disbelief, but in genuine curiosity.
“Stop the war.”
Kevin glanced at the clerk, raising an eyebrow to the man.
He turned toward the boy again. “What war? And what the hell are you gonna do about a
war–you’re like ten?”
Kevin reached over to grab the boy’s wrist once again until he was flung back by a force that
didn’t originate from the boy’s physical body.

20. Breaking a Seal
“Are you talking about the Bryant’s place?”
Erik nodded.
“It’s only about three more miles up University, then a left on Pine. It’s the last house on the
street. If you drive off the road, you’ve gone too far,” the clerk said.
Erik looked down at his phone’s Google Maps image. “Are you sure, man? It says it’s right
around here.”
The clerk shook his head. “There’s not but three hundred people in this town. I know where
most of ‘em are. The Bryant’s house is on Pine. If you don’t find it, come back and hit me in the
face.” The clerk grinned at this.
Erik countered the clerk’s sick sense of humor with a grimace. “Whatever you say. I still
want this Coke, though.”
Erik paid the clerk and walked back to his car. His nine-hundred and fifteen mile journey
was coming to a close, yet there was still no relief. The closer the blue triangle indicator got to
New Cannon, Texas, the more his anxiety rose. A first time meeting with a father who
abandoned you would do just that, he figured.
He put the car in drive and started on the last four miles of his journey.
When Erik reached the sign that said Pine, he stopped in the middle of the road. Normally
he’d worry about getting flipped off by a mob of traffic for doing this, but in New Cannon, he
figured he’d have a better chance of coming across an angry coyote.
Staring at the small green sign that said Pine Rd., Erik couldn’t help but think about the past.
His mind went to the memory of his fifth birthday. His mom did her best to set the timer on the
camera in order to get a shot with him as he blew out the candles. Time and time again she
couldn’t get back to the cake in time to catch the magical moment with her child. When the

21. couldn’t get back to the cake in time to catch the magical moment with her child. When the
candles finally burned all of the way down, she gave up and cried. It took Erik twenty years to
figure out that she didn’t shed tears of frustration on that muggy August evening. She cried
because there was nobody else there to hold the camera. She cried because raising a boy by
herself was so damn hard.
For some reason, that image stuck with Erik for years. After thirty seconds or so of staring at
the sign that said Pine Rd., he took a left and decided to face his past.
Sitting in the passenger’s seat was a letter that was near and dear to Erik’s heart; a letter he
wrote his father in college. It was a heartfelt message accompanied with his Senior college
football picture. Erik remembered the joy of sending it USPS priority, knowing he’d finally
open the first lines of communication with the man who forgot he existed. When the letter came
back several weeks later, he was devastated to the point that he couldn’t bear to open it. He
remembered staring at the yellow ‘return to sender’ label that rested just below the lime green
delivery confirmation. He splurged on the confirmation because he just wanted to know that his
father did, in fact, receive it. To Erik, that green label seemed to be the saddest memory of his
absent father.
Well I’m hand delivering it today, he thought.
Sure enough, the mailbox claimed the house belonged to the Bryant’s.
The Bryant’s, he mused. Finally, a place that has my last name on it. I’m home.
Erik walked up the white steps, past a rocking chair with a stuffed animal sitting on it. He
smiled, realizing the stuffed animal likely belonged to one of his nieces or nephews. According
to the ancestry website, he had four brothers and sisters that he had never met. Only for a second
did he stop to wonder why he was the only one that his father abandoned.
He knocked on the door. Within fifteen seconds, he came face to face with the father he’d
never seen.
“Can I help you, son?” Frank Bryant asked.
Did he just call me son? As in his son? he wondered.
When he saw the puzzled look on his father’s face, he thought not.
“I, uh—” Erik broke off. After twenty-nine years and a drive across the country, he had no
idea what to say.
He composed himself. “I found this package. I hear it belongs to you.” He handed Frank the

22. He composed himself. “I found this package. I hear it belongs to you.” He handed Frank the
package face down. For whatever reason, Erik didn’t want to see his reaction when reading who
it was from.
Frank looked down at the package with a dubious grimace on his face. “Where’d you get
this?”
“I found it. It looks old. I’m gonna take off, I have my wife waiting on me at home.” Erik
didn’t know why he was afraid of sticking around for a discussion with his father, but he was.
When Erik came face to face with Frank, his father seemed like less of a mythical figure and
more like an irresponsible asshole. For the first time in his life, he cringed at the idea of getting
to know the man.
“Alright—what’s your name, son.”
“The name is Erik Bradley,” he said, and stuck out his hand to shake with his father.
“Frank Bryant.”
You don’t deserve to have my last name, pops.
“Well, nice to meet you sir—I better get going.”
Erik turned toward his car. More importantly, he turned away from his past for the first time
in his life.

23. Under the Barrow Darkness
“We enter here on point C at 2:00 a.m. on the dot. They’ll never see what hit them,” Alex
said. Point C lay on the south entrance to the Artic Outpost in the northern Alaskan town of
Barrow. “We take out whoever stands in our way. Our primary focus is the generator bay—
which I hear is held in the basement. If we can steal a few solar panels from the roof for the
summer months, that’s great too. Just don’t kill yourself going after panels that will be useless
for the next two months. They say the darkness will last an extra week this year.”
“I don’t know if I can go through with this,” a soft voice called out from behind. The fifteen
men and women armed with assault rifles and small explosives turned around to see who had
second thoughts. All eyes eventually rested on Aimee. “Dad, I’m not sure I can kill,” the sixteen
year old girl said to her father.
“It’s either that or watch your brothers and sisters freeze, honey,” Alex said. He spoke in the
calmest, most soothing voice a father could possibly muster when conspiring to kill the political
elite. “Did our government consult with us when they used up all of the gas and expected us to
live off solar power in the winter months here in Barrow?” Alex gazed around the room, this
time not only addressing his daughter but everyone. “Enough is enough—too many are freezing
to death. Did they let us in their doors? The answer is no. They’ll pay with blood tonight.”
Inarticulate mumbles of agreement filled the room. Soon, the mumbles transformed into loud
shouts, screaming and raving.
Alex raised his right hand to quiet the crowd. “Let’s go get it. Let’s take our heat back.”
More shouts followed, drowning out Aimee’s exclamations of protest and reluctance.
The mob left the covered trench they dug just outside of the outpost the previous summer.
The group ventured out into the bone-chilling cold to take their positions.
The dark winter’s night didn’t produce the blizzards one would expect to see in one of the

24. The dark winter’s night didn’t produce the blizzards one would expect to see in one of the
most northern points of Alaska. The still air felt eerie. Alex’s senses tried to detect the force of
resistance the group would likely face as they approached point C, but he heard nothing. The
only sounds available in the still air were the crunching noises of every footfall. He couldn’t
smell anything—the bitter cold air seemed to wipe out all odor—perhaps freezing the smells
mid-air before they had the chance to make it to the willing nose of a human being.
Before they reached the stone wall of the Artic outpost, Alex raised his right hand in the air,
making a fist to halt his troops. When he again heard nothing, he waved Aimee over. She slung
the backpack from her shoulders and took out the handful of plastic explosives. They knew they
only had one chance at this, so placement was critical.
Alex stuck the explosives into the crack in the wall just outside of what they knew was a
bedroom.
Aimee thought of the sleeping children that could be on the other side of the wall and
grimaced.
When the group was far enough back, Alex detonated the explosive. The makeshift bomb
exploded in what sounded more like a loud cracking noise than a bomb. Aimee later realized it
was the wall crumbling to the ground.
When the dust settled, loud cries of, “Go, go!” echoed throughout the dark winter’s night.
The small militia entered the dark bedroom of ruin.
They flicked their flashlights on, only to see empty beds and even emptier living areas.
Everything seemed to be missing from the room.
One less problem, Alex thought. He motioned his men to advance through to the hallway
and down the stairs.
Aimee hung back in the room because she already had an idea what they’d find in the
basement. Without as much as a warning to the rest of the group, she took off running back into
the winter wilderness outside. She learned at an early age that when her precognitive powers
sent her an image, she should never hesitate. She figured she could make it back to her family’s
place before she froze to death in the sub-zero temperatures.
When the main group made it to the basement, they were met by what looked to be dozens
of generators—surely more than they could reasonably fit on their snowmobiles. Alex strolled
next to the one closest to the stairs to see how much power was left. He pushed the ‘charge’

25. next to the one closest to the stairs to see how much power was left. He pushed the ‘charge’
button on the side and watched the LED screen on the generator’s front side light up.
The twelve inch white screen had three things flashing on it. The first was the phrase
“Danger: Unauthorized User.” The second was a picture of a skull and crossbones. The third—
and most terrifying—was a small video of the emperor, elected fifteen years before in 2213,
laughing at them. It was then that Alex realized it was another trap.
Aimee looked back while running through the snow only to see what looked like a nuclear
explosion go off behind her. Her feeling was correct—another trap. This one ended the lives of
her father and a few cousins.
A tear froze halfway down her face as the flames turned night into day. Back to the drawing
board, she thought. Despite the deaths of loved ones—her mind went back to the question of
how she would stay warm through yet another winter in Barrow.

26. Living a Nightmare
When all your dreams are nightmares, insomnia is the only rational solution, even more so if
all of your dreams come true.
Justice sat up in bed. The sheets stuck to his cold and sweaty body like a wet raincoat.
Despite the warm bedroom, Justice shivered uncontrollably. Except his shuddering didn’t come
from being cold—it came from fear.
He glanced to his right and saw Michelle. Or is it Miranda? he thought. Maggie? Or
Melissa? Great!
Waking up to someone different wasn’t a new thing for Justice. Besides, he made a habit of
sneaking out well before they woke up, so remembering a name was a bonus if he was able to
manage it. He knew all of the tricks to the trade. Justice left his clothes by the bedroom door and
drank plenty of water just before lying down with someone new. That way, he’d wake up around
four to use the bathroom, and have everything laid out for him on his way out. Sleeping with
new women seemed to be the only thing that calmed him down outside of his good friend Mary
Jane. But neither cure worked that night. As vivid of a dream as ever haunted him when he sat
up in the strange room.
When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a room infinitely more messy than his—granted
he did keep a pretty clean home. Michelle (or whatever the hell her name was) had clothes
littering the room, papers and trash everywhere, cups and plates next to her bed, and random
debris that he couldn’t even identify. She seemed to break the stereotype of women being the
cleaner of the two sexes.
He stepped out of bed, being careful to avoid stepping on the water glasses lying on the
ground next to the box spring. With the careful and silent steps of a veteran hunter, Justice made
his way to the bedroom door. He paused at the door only long enough to pick up his clothes and

27. his way to the bedroom door. He paused at the door only long enough to pick up his clothes and
check to make sure she still slept, then he made his way into the bathroom.
Justice flipped on the light and waited for the fluorescent above the mirror to flicker on. It
took it a few seconds. For a moment, Justice thought he’d have to change in the dark—then it
came on, illuminating him with a bluish glow. He surveyed the bathroom and grimaced at the
woman’s uncleanliness once again. The shower lacked a curtain. Rust built up on the drain in the
tub. And what looked to be a spider web—or a webbing of shed hair—attached itself on the
rings that once held a curtain. Justice shook his head at the thought of taking a bath in that filthy
yellowish tub. He gathered himself, stepped up to the toilet, whipped out his ‘member’, and
handled his business.
After seventy-one seconds of bliss, he shook off, then stepped up to the sink.
At first glance in the mirror, Justice saw Charlton Cook staring back at him. Charlton’s head
twisted in an unnatural way just above his jawline. Blood ran down his pale face and onto his
shoulders.
Justice shivered once more; this time working himself in all-out convulsions. His legs first
weakened, then gave out altogether. He dropped his dusty jeans and collared shirt onto the tile
floor as his back slid down the wall. His eyes closed as he moved toward unconsciousness.
Before blacking out, his butt slammed down onto the cold tile floor, jolting him alert.
Justice opened his eyes and tried to stand up. His legs obliged. He gave one hurried glance at
the mirror, expecting to see Charlton’s mangled head once again. He flinched away, crouching
until his mind processed what he actually did see in the mirror this time. Slowly, he extended his
legs to a full standing position. This time, it was a clean cut, young, African American male
looking at him through the mirror. Justice exhaled.
Thank you, Jesus, he thought. Before he could make it past the word Jesus, his thoughts
returned to his nightmare.
He started shaking once more. Charlton Cook. Twenty-seven. Father of two—run over by a
dumb chick texting while driving. What a shame. He started convulsing again, feeling his knees
weaken under him. However, this time he controlled it. Justice steadied himself in the strange
woman’s bathroom. He knew the dream would continue to replay in his head until the deed was
finally done. Or until I get too high to care anymore, he thought.
Justice dressed himself in a hurry, and exited the ladies small apartment before she had a

28. Justice dressed himself in a hurry, and exited the ladies small apartment before she had a
chance to wake up and discover him missing. Did he leave a note? No. He never did. Justice
didn’t think that he owed any of them his respect—especially after saving their lives. All he
cared about was the money that they always offered them for his trouble, and of course the
panties that they basically threw at him. You can’t leave that part out of it.
In the stairwell, Justice lit up the permanent marker-sized blunt and smoked his dreams
away.

29. The Presidential Cockblock
Who knew that my lasting impact on the world would be cockblocking the President of The
United States. Yes, it’s perhaps not the most admirable choice one could make in life, but not
many people can say that they’ve made a profound impact on the world.
Of course, nobody would ever know I accomplished said task. When you’re sent back in
time forty- five years to stop something from happening, nobody would ever know if you
succeeded or not, except you. If you do decide to tell someone, you would just be another drunk,
crazy asshole telling tall tales. I digress.
I met Monica at Three Oaks bar in downtown D.C. in hopes of starting a relationship that
could deter yet another embarrassing act from one of our so-called leaders. I saw her glancing at
me through the bright barroom mirror, and I didn’t hesitate to take advantage of my opportunity.
I approached her at once.
“Hey pretty lady, whatcha drinking?”
She smiled at me, and in an instant I saw why the President would be attracted to her—or
her mouth that is. She had what my friends liked to call DSL. The SL stands for ‘sucking lips’,
so I believe you can draw your own conclusions from there.
“Long Islands. You’re mighty handsome yourself…umm…”
“The name is William—my friends just call me Will. What’s your name beautiful?” Of
course I knew her name, but flattery is always the best policy when first meeting someone.
“Monica—my friends call me Monica,” she said with a wink and a smile.
I knew I had her from the jump. Picking up women has never been a problem for a guy like
me. But keeping one, well, that’s a whole other ballgame. I agreed to this mission mostly
because I had nothing tying me down in 2044. I didn’t feel like fighting in the Civil War, so why
not stop it entirely? My objective: get into this woman’s pants and stay there until Bush gets into

30. not stop it entirely? My objective: get into this woman’s pants and stay there until Bush gets into
office.
IF Bush gets into office, I thought. They say the following election was the 2nd closest in
history behind the Hillary-Carter race in 2020 where the former Rap mogul beat out the political
titan. Perhaps I’d change the entire tide of the 2000 election.
“Monica it is,” I said at last. “So, do you come here often?”
“That’s the best you got?” she said. “Handsome man like yourself, I figured you’d have
better lines than that.”
“Perhaps being handsome and having a large bank statement renders charm the slightest bit
unnecessary,” I said. I put my head down and let my shoulders slump. “I’m usually not so good
with words when I find myself around attractive women.”
Although, in reality, my confidence reeked through every pore in my body, I’d gotten pretty
good at playing the, ‘I’m bashful around pretty women’ routine. It had won me countless nights
in bed in the late 30’s—or would win me countless nights in bed—time is a funny thing when
you travel to the past. I knew all too well what worked in the future might not work too well
here in the 20th century, but I thought I had a pretty good shot.
“Oh, is that right? At work, I’m used to dealing with men who may not look the best, but are
great with words. Maybe you have more work to do than you think.” She winked at this and
once again, I was certain that I had her under my control.
I did feel it necessary to dig a little deeper into her thoughts on the President. “So who do
you work with? If you don’t mind me asking, that is. Where do you work?”
“I actually work at the white house with the President.”
“No way. So?” I said while raising my eyebrows in an attempt to make my fake surprise
seem somewhat legitimate. “Have you met him—the President that is?”
She nodded again.
“Well I’m no political figure, but I can keep you atop the poll.” I added a wink of my own to
go along with the inappropriate pun. She smiled, so I decided to keep it going. “So do you have
a boyfriend or what? Pretty girl like you, I assume the answer is a resounding yes. But please
tell me I’m wrong in this assumption.”
“Well, you know what they say happens when you make an assumption.”
“No, what?” Apparently that was a common phrase in her day and age, but I had no idea

31. “No, what?” Apparently that was a common phrase in her day and age, but I had no idea
what she was going to follow it up with.
“You make an ass out of you and me,” she said.
I felt my brow grow wrinkles and my eyes curl into a squint. “I’m not following you.”
She laughed. “Are you serious? What planet are you from?”
I thought fast. “I don’t know. I’m just not used to making an ass out of myself, I guess.”
“Good save,” she said.
“So, what’s your relationship status? Are you ‘in a relationship’?” I made air quotes with the
latter question, then realized that Facebook didn’t take over the world until the end of the
following decade.
She proceeded to mock my air quotes. “Not really,” she said.
“Do you wanna go have drinks at my hotel then? I’m staying at the Hilton near the airport—
I could use some company.”
“And for what purpose?”
So I can lay some pipe and make you fall in love with me; thus nipping the political polarity
in the bud before it grows large enough to tear this country apart, I thought. “Perhaps I can give
a lady like you the presidential treatment.” I followed with a wink.
She thought about her ‘desk meetings’ with the President. They’d gone on for months, but
nobody had found out to that point. She believed there was a possibility that nobody
ever would find out, but she knew she ran the risk of public embarrassment for not only herself,
but the President, as well.
“Yeah, I think I’ll be able to join you.”
Without hesitation, I took her hand and guided her toward the front door. Timidity is for
cowards. Whether living in the past, present or future, women tend flock to the most confident
guys.
We didn’t go within fifty feet of the Hilton’s bar—we went directly up to my room, and I did
as I was told.
***
The deal wasn’t done, however. Whether I’m in 2044 or 1998, a one night stand is a one
night stand. I sent her flowers the next day and prepared for what we on the mission team liked
to call D-Day.

32. I embarrassed myself when I asked her for her cellphone number after the night of play that
we had the week before. Her exact response was, “Only real estate agents, and people who think
they’re better than they really are have cellphones.” Apparently my team didn’t do their research
on that one. They assured me cellphones were around in 1998, and I took it for face value. I
ended up getting her direct number she used in the White House instead.
“White House, this is Monica, how can I help you?”
“Hey pretty lady this is Will. Are you busy today?”
“Umm—” she said into the receiver. By the awkwardness in her voice, I knew this would be
the critical moment. “I have a meeting around 2:00 p.m., what’s up?”
“I’m scheduled for a tour at one thirty. I was hoping to see you—I have a surprise for you.”
The time for my tour was complete bullshit, of course, but I knew I’d be able to work my way
into the 1:00 p.m. one if need be.
She gasped. “Yes, I’ll meet up. What is it?”
“A surprise—I’ll see you at one thirty.”
When I arrived, I handed Monica the teddy bear after spotting her through a crowd of
people. I knew I’d have to get something big enough for the President to notice.
If he was a good man, perhaps he’d stand down. Only time will tell, I thought. I knew that
she was attracted to me, but did I make her fall in love with me?
Only time would tell.

33. The White Fire
“Yeah I’ve seen those all around, what the hell are they?” Jack asked.
“That’s what I’m saying. I’ve tried them–it’s some good shit,” Brian answered. To Jack, it
appeared Brian couldn’t keep his hands steady; they either shook uncontrollably or they were
busy scratching at his arms and neck.
“What the hell do you mean, tried them? They look like little spider webs shaped to
resemble crowns. They’re all over the place under 93rd Avenue,” Jack said.
Brian’s eyes widened as he considered this. “They are! We’re going to make a fortune, man.
We should go into business together and sell this shit. Let’s go gather it right now.”
“Slow down, Speed Racer. What the hell are you talking about? Tell me exactly what you
mean by tried it.”
“Have you ever heard of the Blue Blazes?”
Jack nodded.
“Well, I saw this stuff in the subway tunnels, and I thought of the blazes. They say that shit
is guarded by gremlins or something, so I don’t even think about that stuff—but I thought these
white crowns might be something similar, you know?”
Jack didn’t exactly know what Brian meant by ‘guarded by gremlins,’ but he didn’t press the
issue. You can’t take everything a sociopath says at face value, after all. “No, I don’t know.
What exactly did you do with it?” Jack asked. His face started to grimace with frustration
because he wasn’t getting the information that he needed from Brian, but he held himself
together enough to allow Brian to continue without feeling pressured.
“First, I tried to rub it on my temples like they do with the blue.”
“And?”
“And, nothing happened. I did notice it crumbled in my hands like powder, so I took the

34. “And, nothing happened. I did notice it crumbled in my hands like powder, so I took the
next logical step.” Brian’s feet shifted while his gaze turned downcast. It was clear to Jack that
Brian didn’t want to tell him the truth, but he knew he’d get it out of his friend eventually. They
told each other everything after all.
Jack twirled his fingers in a ‘go ahead’ gesture.
“So I snorted it. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.” Brian shrugged as if he really didn’t
have a rational choice beyond treating the object like a controlled substance.
“Hold tight…you did what?”
“I snorted it. What else would make it kick in?”
I don’t know, eating it. Or just leaving it the fuck alone, Jack thought. It’s probably a
dangerous fungus or something, dumbass. Jack didn’t say this out loud to Brian, however.
Instead, he settled for, “Sooo, how do you feel.”
After the question, all the tension in Brian’s body released. He tried to hold it together, but
he couldn’t do it any longer. “I’m fucking wired, man. I’ve never seen the world so clearly—it’s
like I see individual molecules float by in front of me. It’s insane. I feel like I could knock out
an ultra marathon, no problem. My brain is going nuts. Have you ever seen that movie
Limitless?” Brian’s words all seemed to come out in one breath. He expelled the paragraph of
information in the span of six seconds.
Despite the auctioneer pace, Jack’s comprehension didn’t fall below every other word or so.
He smiled and nodded at Brian’s last question, although it didn’t matter. Brian started back up
before he could have possibly registered Jack’s nod as an affirmation.
“I feel like that. My brain is gonna explode with an influx of information, ya know? Hell, I
don’t even use the word influx, but it came out without me even trying to sound smart. My boss
is gonna love me tomorrow—gonna get so much shit done,” Brian said. Once again, the words
came out as an onslaught of information between breaths.
While Brian panted in order for his lungs to keep up with his overworked mouth, Jack went
over all of the information available. Bloodshot eyes. Can’t stand still. Scratching himself
compulsively. Hyper. Feels invincible. “Are you sure you didn’t do a few too many bumps of
cocaine?”
Brian’s palatine uvula stared at Jack while his jaw slacked toward the pavement. The look on
his face expressed both confusion and hurt. “No, it’s not cocaine! What the fuck is wrong with

35. his face expressed both confusion and hurt. “No, it’s not cocaine! What the fuck is wrong with
you—I’m no coke head? It’s natural. I saw it growing in the subway tunnel. It’s like some sort
of unique spider web or something.”
Jack wanted to point out that the fact that it was in a subway tunnel suggests that there’s a
good possibility that it wasn’t natural. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a single plant in the
tunnels. He didn’t bring this up, though. Sure he didn’t want to hurt Brian’s feelings, but more
than that, he wanted to hear his friend’s rationalization of the alleged controlled substance.
“I feel good; like all my neurons are working for the first time since birth. I’m jacked up on
life, my man—don’t try to downplay what I’m feeling.”
Instead of responding, Jack stared at his friend with a blank stare that seemed to look beyond
Brian.
“Okay, so it may or may not be cocaine,” Brian admitted. His shoulders slumped in his
admission of defeat.
“How much did you say is down there?”
“Tons of it,” Brian replied. This time his voice wasn’t quickened by the drug. Ironically, the
admission of his possible ingestion of a controlled substance seemed to sober him up.
Jack shrugged. “Well, that sounds like a lot of money. We’ve done worse things than sling
drugs.”
The two ventured off toward the fortunes in the subway tunnels.

36. Octavia's Book
Along the path, I saw a man sitting on a log. He was a strange old man with a worn,
weathered face. His white locks frayed off his scalp like torn cotton. His clothes were old but
charming in a way. He looked like a man who stepped out of the 1950s into the present day.
“Excuse me. Do you know where I can find Delmar road?” I asked.
His slow acknowledgment of my question forced me to believe he was either deaf or didn’t
care to speak with strangers. Based on the cold look he gave me as he turned his head, I would
have put money on the latter.
His eyes shifted from a gold color to blue, all at once. It must have been the foggy night
combined with how the light hit them.
The deepening of the crow’s feet near the corners of his eyes told me he was expressing an
honest smile. As a detective, I’m well versed on determining whether or not there’s honesty in a
man’s face.
“You’re telling me you want to go to Octavia’s?” I saw him glance at the pistols resting in
my shoulder holsters. “You’re crazy man, but I like your style.”
“Octavia?”
“Yes, Octavia. The witch…on Delmar. The only person on Delmar, in fact. Well, I guess
person isn’t wholly accurate.” He cackled a few feet from my face, but I still got an awful whiff
of his horrendous breath. It smelled like a mix-between dead fish and coffee grounds.
Fantastic. The only man I meet in a dark and foggy stretch of the forest is bat-shit crazy, I
thought.
“Huh? You lost me at witch. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Without thinking about it, I took a step back from the strange man.
“What part of witch don’t you understand? ‘I’ll get you my pretty!’ That kind—what else is

37. “What part of witch don’t you understand? ‘I’ll get you my pretty!’ That kind—what else is
there?” The man cackled once more at this. His eyes remained kind, but his tone of voice
suggested otherwise.
“Look, man. Do you know where I can find the house or not? Reports from a few children
from just outside the city say one of their friends went in a house and didn’t come out. Can you
help me find this kid?”
His voice changed to match his caring eyes. “I wish you would have led with that, Mr…”
“Whitlock. Detective Whitlock.”
I reached out to shake the stranger’s cold and cracked right hand.
“Eugene.”
“Nice to meet you, Eugene.”
“I’ll walk you over to Octavia’s house. I don’t know if I’ll be able to follow you inside,
though.”
He looked worried. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought he was going to lead
me to my imminent doom.
We walked along the dark and foggy path. Of course, I procrastinated until 5:30 to leave the
city for this godforsaken part of town. Dallas rush hour held me up in traffic—one thing lead to
another—and now I’m walking through the woods in the dark with a recent escapee of the
asylum.
We turned the corner when we reached a rotted wood sign that read, No Outlet, written in
red spray paint that looked suspiciously like blood. Call me a coward, but that place spooked me
a little.
“This is it?” I asked.
I tried to portray a tone of disappointment, but Eugene didn’t seem to notice.
“Yep—Octavia’s humble abode. Getting a little nervous?”
As if on cue, I heard shutter doors slam on the side of the black, decrepit house. I shivered
despite the warm and muggy night.
“Nah. I don’t believe in witches, man. I think I’ll take it from here.”
I started to walk away, then felt a firm, strong jerk of my right arm. It caused me to turn
around and meet Eugene face to face.
His eyes bulged and shined with the cat-like gold color once more. “Don’t forget the book.

38. His eyes bulged and shined with the cat-like gold color once more. “Don’t forget the book.
She feeds.”
I tried to jerk my arm away, but couldn’t manage to get free.
“Huh?”
“Spells. Her power.”
I jerked my arm back. This time Eugene let go, and his eyes turned blue again. “Look man.
Thanks for your help and all, but don’t touch me again.”
I backed away in a slow and deliberate motion, then turned back to the house.
Before my fist could connect with the black, splintered door, it creaked open. I turned
around to wave to Eugene, but he was no longer standing in front of the house.
Perfect, I thought.
Cold sweat streamed down my forehead when I walked into the dark corridor. I flicked on
my flashlight and drew my gun.
An eerie cackling by what sounded like an older lady made the hair on my arms stand up.
Out of instinct, I returned my gun to its holster and grabbed the taser instead. For whatever
reason, I thought it’d be more effective.
“Hello—who’s there?”
No answer.
I walked across the creaky boards toward the only lit room in the house. The loud cackling
returned; that time it sounded like it was directly behind me.
I wheeled around and saw orange eyes staring into mine. I pulled the trigger on the taser,
releasing thousands of volts into the direction of the eyes. I could tell it hit its desired target by
the sound of it crashing onto the wooden floor.
I dropped the weapon, then drew my gun and ran into the lit room.
There were signs written in the kitchen in red paint—or was it blood? They all said ‘get out’,
with pictures of arrows pointed at the front door.
My heart played its drum solo a few inches under my sternum. Out of the corner of my eye,
I saw what looked like an ancient book.
Spell Book? I wondered.
Without thinking further, I grabbed the book and ran to the door. On my way out, cold hands
latched on to my right foot and jerked me down.

39. The orange eyes crept closer to me.

40. Embrace the Martian
Xavier sat up in bed with a level grogginess that rivaled waking up after only four hours of
sleep, on a lumpy mattress, while hung over. The thought of having the most extreme workout
of his life in only a few hours seemed laughable. He rubbed at his eyes aboard the USS Maturin
in the spring of 2043.
Stepping out of the chamber, he looked to his left. “Hey Kim. Kim—you still with me?”
Xavier only received a gargling response in return. Of course Kim’s still with me…where else is
she going to go? he thought. Satisfied, he focused on the daunting task of stepping out of bed
and taking his first steps in five months. When his right foot hit the floor, he couldn’t feel it
under him. It felt as numb as a foot that’s been sat on for an hour; however, it didn’t have the
typical, uncomfortable tingly feeling.
“Yep, the first steps are always the hardest.”
Kim’s voice from behind him made Xavier jump to his unprepared feet. The numb limbs
under him gave way, and he collapsed onto the floor. Kim smiled at this.
“Oh yeah—laugh at the guy who can’t feel his legs,” he said. “You must love going to
nursing homes and laughing at the people in wheelchairs.” This only caused her to laugh harder.
Xavier turned to see her standing in the small doorway with her toothbrush clutched in her right
hand.
“Stop crying. It wears off in a few hours.”
Xavier squinted at her. “How long have you been up?”
“About twelve hours.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why I woke up before you, but oh well.
We’re going to be there in about six hours, so you better be ready to help me land.”
“Ahhh the red planet,” Xavier mused. “I wish my first trip into space wasn’t to save some
crazy asshole. Assuming he’s still alive to save that is.”

41. “If you were on Mars for two years, by yourself, you’d be crazy too,” Kim said. Her voice
was cold, but that didn’t bother her.
“I bet he’s up there having a naked tea party with three rocks. There’s a reason he’s not
answering any of our attempts at contact—he’s gone bat-shit crazy. Don’t you remember the last
radio transmission?”
Kim did remember the last transmission. Walkins offered a riddle over the radio from
millions of miles away. “What is tiny but big, has no hair but wears no wig, likes to crawl but
doesn’t walk, clicks its mouth, but doesn’t talk? Embrace the Martian!” Kim had no idea what
the answer of the riddle was, but its memory still made the hair on her arms stand up. The best
answer that she could think of was a baby. She had many thoughts about Luke Walkins during
their trip, and not many of them were good. She dreamed of her hero trapped on the red planet
with his foot stuck beneath a rock. In her dreams, he screamed as if anyone would ever be able
to hear him. She shook off the idea of her longtime hero’s death and turned her attention back to
Xavier. “Get ready to go. I can’t land this thing by myself. From the looks of you, we’re going
to be cutting it close, time wise.”
Xavier found a way to be ready in time for the landing. In fact, he was up and walking
within the hour. The two of them landed the USS Maturin no problem. They touched down
within two city blocks of the first Mars settlement named Plymouth. The two of them geared up
with the latest NASA gear. Xavier always used to laugh at the old videos of the first astronauts
in space, with their giant, globe-looking helmets. His helmet fit over his head with only an inch
of space in front of his face. The atmosphere fed through a self-filtering system that turned the
harsh, Martian air into nitrogen and oxygen rich air. The suit itself was a somewhat tight fitting
black garment. He didn’t know what the material was called, but it was lighter than anything
that he wore on earth.
Xavier gestured toward the bubble of inhabitable land. “Well, if we’re going to find the man,
we better get moving.”
Kim nodded. “Be ready for anything. If he really is crazy, he may try to attack us. I expect
to find him—” she trailed off. Kim didn’t like the thought of her dead hero—a man that she
admired since being a teenager. Instead of finishing her sentence, she simply picked up her pace

42. admired since being a teenager. Instead of finishing her sentence, she simply picked up her pace
and walked ahead of Xavier.
Kim pushed the button to the door that opened the passage into the bubble. All in all, they
had to walk through three sets of doors just be get into the inhabitable land.
Both Kim and Xavier stood in slack-jawed awe when they made it inside of the bubble. The
air was warm and oxygenated. Trees poked out of the small grassland. The two of them took
their helmets off and basked in the first stretch of nature that they’d seen in months.
“Now where to?”
Kim thought it over. “Well, if I were him, I’d proba—wait, what the hell was that? Did you
see that?”
Xavier nodded, but couldn’t produce any audible sound that would get confused as an
answer. The dark shape ran up a tree, thirty yards in front of them. It was brown, ran on four
legs, and looked like a dog in a lot of ways. Except it didn’t have hair, Xavier thought. And those
eyes—they’re human.
“Walkins—you around?” Xavier asked.
The dog-like figure jumped down from the tree. It smiled at them while it stood up on its
hind legs. “Embrace the Martian,” the creature squeaked.
Kim and Xavier looked at each other, then drew their weapons.

43. Wrong Sample
“What the hell do you mean, ‘Do I do it?’ Of course I do,” Curtis said. He shot Henry a
strange look. “Hell, we all do. You can’t take a beating week after week and not have something
that gets you ready to play when the time comes. I know you’re a fan of the game, so don’t let it
surprise you. I came to you because I hear you’re the best—that’s all.”
Henry nodded. “Okay, we can get you fixed up. Your test is today, right? If it’s tomorrow,
new urine now won’t help.”
“Two hours away. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Satisfied, Henry took the needle and jabbed it into the place where he thought the bladder
was. He didn’t have any formal medical experience, however, he was Cedar Ridge’s expert in
urine transfer.
Curtis winced. For a split second, Henry thought he had messed up and stuck him in the
wrong place. But when the almost clear urine came out of the tube, he relaxed. “That’s the
tainted stuff. We’ll flush it all out of your system, then replace it with clean stuff that won’t test
positive.”
“Is it—”
Yours? Curtis was going to finish with, but broke off his sentence instead. He didn’t want to
know.
Henry raised his eyebrow, in an effort to get the question out of his ‘patient’, but Curtis
wasn’t having it—he remained silent. This made Henry uncomfortable, so he made an attempt at
small talk. “So what are you taking anyway?”
Curtis sighed. “I don’t know, to be completely honest with you. Obviously some P.E.D. that
my trainer gives me for my shoulder, but I don’t know the specifics—something hydrate, I
think.”

44. “You don’t know? Have you thought about any side effects?”
“I make five million a year for running at eleven guys that wanna take my head off. Do you
really think I give a shit about side effects?”
Henry smiled. “You don’t exactly run at them. You run around the for the most part. That’s
why you get paid five million to do it.”
With that, Curtis snorted laughter. “I guess, man.”
“It’s true. You’re my favorite player, and the Mammoths are my favorite team. That game
you rushed for 250 and four touchdowns was insane! Have you on my fantasy team too. You’re
a beast.”
“That’s not what Trey Schwartz thinks. Trey wants to take my job—with my shoulder acting
up on me, he just might. Just need a bridge till the off-season. You’re the bridge. I hope you’re
as good as they say.”
“That guy is a fucking scrub. He’s neve—”
“He’s a professional football player, man. Do you know how hard it is to be the last player
on the fifty-four man roster? Do you know how good you gotta be to ride the bench the whole
season? The man’s got skills. If I don’t stay healthy, he’s gonna be the guy you try to get on
your fantasy team next year, believe me.”
“I’m just saying, he’s not you—nobody’s Curtis Gardner.”
Curtis shook his head. “Well, Curtis Gardner is sitting in some slap-dick wannabe clinic,
getting his urine replaced so he won’t lose his job. Curtis Gardner is thirty years old—old man
for a running back. Just trying to hold on another year or so.”
Henry took the needle out of his torso.
“We done here?” Curtis asked.
“Yep.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“No charge for my favorite player. Maybe seats at will call if you can manage.”
“Done,” Curtis said. Henry couldn’t tell if it was a serious voice or not, but he chose not to
ask.
***
Curtis stood in the middle of the bathroom in nothing but his towel.

45. “Drop ‘em,” the doctor said. His team doctor forced the players to stand it front of him, stark
naked, in order to ensure an honest test. Although he claimed it was league rules, Curtis doubted
it for some reason.
Curtis obliged, anyway, and relieved himself into the small cup.
Henry instructed him to hold his urine until the test. His bladder remained swollen for a full
two hours until he was finally able to release the pressure during the test. Usually he had trouble
peeing if someone was standing next to him in a stall, but now, with a man squatted in front of
him like an umpire in baseball; he had no issue with stage fright.
After the test, the team doctor set him outside in the lobby. Curtis grabbed an issue of Sports
Illustrated with his own picture on the cover and thumbed through its contents. He didn’t read
the magazine, but merely flipped through all its pages so that he would be able to see all of the
pictures the colorful magazine had to offer. Before he even got all of the way through the
magazine, the doctor called him back into the office.
Shit! He usually just walks in here and says clean, then sends me on my way, Curtis thought.
He looked around the room with dubious eyes, then followed the doctor.
“Did I test positive for something, or what? I’ve been taking this new protein shake lately, so
I hope it’s all good.”
The doctor waved off his explanation. “Nope, nothing like that,” he said, then smiled. Curtis
didn’t like the smile on his face, but he grinned along with the man just the same. “Trey told me
to look at your sample veeerry closely, so I did.”
That fucking guy, Curtis thought. He didn’t let his frustration show externally, however.
“So if it’s not positive, then what’s the deal?”
“I just want to say congratulations,” the doctor said.
Curtis raised his eyebrows.
“You’re pregnant. Coach Winters asked me to tell you to clean out your locker, and turn in
your playbook.”

46. The Kitchen Pantry
Someone once told me bourbon was great for removing blood stains. After much experience,
I have to say that I respectfully disagree. Cola does the best work in my opinion.
I looked to my left to ensure the two liter still sat next to me on the pantry shelf. Of course, I
knew it was there, but everyone has things they’re OCD about, and that happens to be mine.
Kelly informed me that James would make his Wednesday pit stop any time. I looked at my
watch and saw 1:02pm—two minutes later that his ETA. Kelly also told me that his assistant
Blair would be with him, as always.
Typically, when a suspicious wife hires me, she wants the mistress dispatched, as well. Yes,
it’s better for business—I charge ten thousand extra, but it complicates things too. I always
inform them that killing the mistress puts her as a number one suspect right away, and they
usually back down. However, Kelly wanted something more. I want her to see it, she said when
we met the week before. I want it to scar her memory forever. That’s what happens when you
mess with a married man.
James strolled through the front door at exactly 1:04. I couldn’t see him—unfortunately, the
kitchen pantry didn’t open toward the front door, but the two voices were unmistakable.
I checked again for the red two liter bottle, and for the tenth time, found it in the same spot I
left it two hours before. I looked to my weapon and saw the ever-so-comforting red eye staring
me in the face, indicating that the safety was off.
The two stumbled into the kitchen, clasped in each other’s arms. When I popped out of the
pantry, I saw James hard at work, trying to pull the buttons on her shirt apart without ripping it
to shreds.
Neither heard the squeak of the door’s hinges. Neither heard my footfalls as I made my way
closer to the two. Blair did, however, notice the shine of my chrome .40 caliber Beretta. Her

47. closer to the two. Blair did, however, notice the shine of my chrome .40 caliber Beretta. Her
scream did nothing to break my concentration. The bullet entered James’ temple as he turned to
face what the woman screamed at. Blair fell to the floor, still screaming with a hand over her
mouth.
I brought my index finger to my mouth. “Shhhh,” I said, then put one more hole in the man’s
head. Blair quieted at the sound of the second bullet.
I turned to Blair. She stared back with wide-eyed terror written across her face. “Phone
please,” I said.
“Ye—yes ma’am.” Her voice shook as if she was shivering, but I didn’t acknowledge her
fear. I grabbed the black iPhone out of her hand and smashed it under my boots.
“Look. You can’t go around tramping it up with another woman’s man—got it. Hell hath no
fury like a woman’s scorn. As a female, I’d say that James deserves what he got, agreed?”
Although I could tell Blair didn’t want to, she nodded.
“Get the hell out of here.”
Blair did as I asked. When she closed the front door, I walked into the pantry once more. I
used the Coke to get the blood splatter off of my new jacket.

48. The Black Chess Board
Noel’s eyes opened on the blue-black color that a full moon reveals in a midnight sky. The
dazed feeling that twenty five years of waking up prepared her for was nonexistent for whatever
reason. She shook her head to clear the disorientation only to realize that she was never asleep.
The angle of the all-black horizon that seemed to stretch on for miles suggested that she was
standing up.
“NOEL…ARE YOU HERE AGAIN?” The booming female voice that sounded as if it
came out of an NFL stadium intercom made her jump.
“Uh, am I where?” she answered. Her voice sounded normal to her, but she felt the
tightening of her throat caused by the fear rushing to her heart.
“THE ARENA. THE ONE YOU MUST ESCAPE FROM. FIND THE WALL AND
CLIMB. REMEMBER—DON’T STEP ON A CRACK OR YOU’LL BREAK YOUR
MOTHER’S BACK, OR WORSE.”
What the fuck, she thought. I don’t know where the he—
“FOUL LANGUAGE WON’T HELP YOU, NOEL. AS ALWAYS, YOU NEED TO
HURRY,” the voice interrupted.
Noel’s bladder released warm liquid down her jeans when the voice spoke up the second
time. This lady is in my head, she mused.
“STANDING AROUND WON’T HELP YOU EITHER—YOU HAVE TO MOVE.”
Noel didn’t need to be told a third time.
Step on a crack, she remembered. I’ll break my mother’s back…or worse. She looked down
to see that her feet were on top of tiles. Like she initially realized, they were tiles the color of
midnight when the moon shines bright. Outlining the tiles were white lines. Not just any white,
not off-white, not even the perfect looking white on a new pair of shoes, but the lines were the

49. not off-white, not even the perfect looking white on a new pair of shoes, but the lines were the
brightest white she had ever seen. If someone had the ability to rip it from the ground and hold
next to the sun, the sun would hurt their eyes more, but the tile would give it a run for its money
on a partly cloudy day.
Don’t step on a crack, or it might burn me alive, she thought. The idea alone weakened her
knees. She took her first step.
The first step seemed shaky when her foot hung mid-way in the air, but it made its home
squarely in the center of the 1.5 x 1.5 foot square of blue-black tile.
“GOOD,” the voice spoke up again. “VERY GOOD. HOWEVER, YOU HAVE A LONG
WAY TO GO…YOU BETTER GET MOVING.”
Noel did as she was told. Her first few steps were slow and calculated, but after she felt
comfortable, she broke out into a fast jog. As far as the eye could see, she saw nothing but blue-
black tiles all around her with white light protruding out of the cracks. The horizon was solid
and unchanging.
Sweat beaded on her forehead after a few minutes of running. Based on her half-marathon
experience, Noel estimated that she’d traveled around a half a mile. A loud crashing sound that
wasn’t a voice this time broke Noel out of her rhythm. She slowed to a stop and watched the
dark tiles rocket above the black horizon about a football field’s distance in front of her. Bright
red handholds shined on the dark blue surface.
The wall, she thought. She broke out into a sprint toward what she hoped would be salvation.
Not focusing on the ‘step on a crack’ rule, Noel’s third step landed squarely on one of the
cracks filled with white light. At once, all of the light went out of the cracks in the tiles.
“YOUR MOTHER’S BACK HAS BEEN BROKEN, NOEL,” the booming voice added
as if she didn’t already know. “THERE’S NOT MUCH TIME. YOU BETTER GET
MOVING, NOW!”
Before following the voice’s command, she ventured another look back. In what she
assumed was the exact spot her foot hit the light, the white substance flowed out like lava. It was
then she realized that it, in fact, wasn’t light. Whatever the substance was, she didn’t want to
stick around to find out. She took off sprinting toward the wall of tile with the red handholds. It
was the only direction she could go in—the red was the only light left in the dark maze.
She climbed up the steep wall. A few times she looked back to see what the loud crashing

50. She climbed up the steep wall. A few times she looked back to see what the loud crashing
was behind her. Not behind me, underneath me, she thought. The white lava-like substance
crashed into the wall like waves of light. Every successive crash was louder and closer to her.
She climbed like the devil was chasing her—for all she knew, he was.
When her hand first tried to grip the top of the wall, it slipped off as if its surface was coated
with oil. She thought she’d fall into the abyss until a green handhold sprung up in front of her
before she lost her balance. She grabbed the glowing green handhold and pulled her way to the
top.
“THERE SWEETHEART. AGAIN, I HAD TO HELP YOU. TEAMWORK MAKES
THE DREAM WORK, LOVE.” Loud cackles of laughter followed the thunderous voice.
Noel took inventory of the land in front of her. Again, she saw the blue-black tiles with
white light coming from the cracks.
She felt disoriented, having no clue where she was.
“FIND THE WALL AND CLIMB. REMEMBER—DON’T STEP ON A CRACK OR
YOU’LL BREAK YOUR MOTHER’S BACK.”
***
“So what’s wrong with this one?” the Doctor asked. He leaned in closer to the window on
the white door. He peered in on the woman sitting on her bed, the only object in the room, with a
straight jacket wrapped around her.
“She seems to be in her own world—stuck there for ten years now. About once every ten
minutes or so, she screams, ‘don’t step on a crack or you’ll break your mother’s back,’ and,
‘teamwork makes the dream work’.”
“Jesus,” the doctor said. He scribbled into his notebook and continued down the hallway.

51. About the Author
Benjamin Ryan T. grew up in Fort Worth Texas, but now calls Denver, Colorado his home.
He's found a passion for writing and plans to put out books for the foreseeable future. He lives
with his dog Yoshi, and likes to write, run, hike, play sports, mentor teens in the Denver
community, and anything that will get he and Yoshi out of the house for a little while. If you'd
like to read his short stories and stay up-to-date on new book releases, visit: brtwrites.com and
sign up to follow his blog.
Well, you finished this book—I’d like to say thank you. What kind of horrible human being
would ask for anything more? Me, of course.
As a new author, reviews are paramount to my success. If you enjoyed this book of short
stories, please write an honest review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Also, check out the full
length novel Deadly Colors, and look for the sequel One Step Closer to Hell in March 2014.