Hey Donna, I'd love to stay and chat, but all of my worst fears have now come true.

You: "My life is like the worst fucking movie I've ever seen."

I knew you in the way that I knew not to speak, but eventually I felt the need to break the silence.

Me: "Maybe the director's turned on us . . . "

I should really go home and wash my face now, it's completely covered in blood.

I'm Totally Not Down with Rob's Alien

I kept a diary while in eighth grade middle school. I couldn't tell you why really, since I've never considered myself the journal-type: they are way too incriminating if (and when) your enemies manage to get their hands on them. Regardless, there was a time when a younger version of myself jotted down random ideas, short-story plots and philisophical musings on middle-school survivalism.

I specifically remember a short story involving doomsday robots and a semi-automatic colony of retro anthropomorphic goldfish. Another narrative explored the concept of zombie dinosaurs building a time machine and teleporting themselves to present-day Los Angeles, wrecking mad tasty havok upon our sleepy modern-day metropolis. Sweet, I know.

It was also during this time period that I began archiving chemical compounds necessary for the development of pipe bombs and other exotic explosives. This bit of extracurricular chronicling would eventually get me into a world of trouble. That, and an incident involving me, Arturo and a locker full of napalm, but more on that later.

Talking To You And The Intake Of Glass (A.K.A. Hell Is For Heroes Part I)

I saw Lydia riding her bike down the hill this morning on her way to school. In that split second I would have given anything to make myself disappear into thin air.

To be honest I don't remember much of our impending conversation outside of how each syllable burst into flames as it left her pretty pink lips. All I can remember thinking was, "We could build a mansion with our million dollar words."

Words aren't even real. They are simply a man-made conception proven worthless.

She led me by the hand to the gates of our old school, and everyone was already waiting. Into the arms of our comrades, the human wreckage we were once proud to know and love as our best friends. A halo of grinning mouths and azure skies, our words barely audible over the laughter and the screams.

(For the sake of anonymity, I shall list no names. In reference to your own reality, however, you will know exactly who these people are.)

The years did pass, and so did we, but this moment . . . it's not quite right.

"You never meet the same person twice," I warned her, once we had broken away from our audience. "It is physically impossible: The only constant is change."

Lydia reached for a notepad and pulled out a pen from her purse. After a moment of scribbles, she slid me the notepad from across the room. I picked the pad up and opened it, curious as to what it might say.

"It would be safer to converse in writing. Everyone is watching"

Something was not right, and it took me a second to pick up on it: The eyes - they were fucking everywhere. Like thieves peeking through windows, or the way a deaf man can hear a sound in darkness.

Something was definitely wrong. I rewrote my previous sentiment and quickly passed the notepad back to her. After several minutes of frantic writing, Lydia passed me the notepad.

"This is the part where the hopes and dreams that once kept us alive begin to slowly tear us apart. We built these dreams out of splinters and a fistful of scars, armed with the intention of them taking us anywhere but here . . . but this isn't a boat, it's a coffin. The end is coming like a flood, and I don't want to be all alone when these oceans begins to rise."

Words are bastards, in every sense of the word. A part of me wanted to stand up and deny everything Lydia had told me thus far: To call her out as a liar, a condescender, in front of this room full of murderers and queens.

But at the very root of me, I knew she was right.

So instead I remained anchored in my seat, upright and motionless, choking on my tongue.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, I calmly wrote her a response:

"In this part of the story we are the ones who die . . . the only ones."

The End Of All Things Will Be Televised

I don't need to watch the video anymore. Roll after roll of security film, edited and spliced for media-friendly consumption. "In other news . . . " the broadcastor's voice began again, barely audible over the faint hum of the transistor. By then my eyes were already bleeding from the grain, like witnessing nuclear fallout without proper precaution. I opened my mouth for air, gasping over a chorus of static and radio snow. More blood trickled into my throat, effectively choking off any attempt of escape. Like using an ax to remove an eyelid from the machine. Like having a seizure in a spacesuit.

I was there when it happened. I saw the scene unfold.

"This is between me and this blade, and my heart." That was the cold logic you gave to us, a sort of justification for future actions. Except . . . it wasn't. Not a single fucking word of it. Your words were a begger, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a temperamental ploy for sympathy - no one else saw the vengence in your eyes. "We see the parts, not the whole, and we're voting yes."

And then everything went straight to hell.

There was no murder weapon to speak of. No "Insert Knife Here," or "Let's Break Out The Shotguns" comraderie. It was unncessary: the situation was clean, and the intent was more than murderous. Bravo, you martyred pagan.

The holy ghost is torturous. Looking back into your panicked eyes, you had failed, and all of us knew it, yourself included. Hell, the whole thing might even have gone according to plan if your conscious hadn't pulled in. The conscious is a wolf. Deception wore its veil, but it was only a matter of time. Attempting to find beauty on a faultline only succeeds in breeding a swarm of chaos.

The centre does not hold. History proves this.

What were you hoping to achieve with his death, Kubrick? Falling out of an airplane and drowning is quite a way to die. A real work of art by any means. Murphy was an optimist to be sure, but Christ. There was a rumour going around that this guy could've been the real deal, the messiah to save us all . . .

Kubrick: "What makes a man start fires?"

Stephen: "Because a man cannot start ice ages."

Kubrick: "We will be the new ice age."

And to hold this secret from the press, from his fucking wife and family? Only to call a press conference weeks later, surrendering your innocence to the highest bidders. What did you expect? The media is an orchestra of wolves: The tongue is a flame, the microphone is the fuse.

Yes, I watched in stunned silence as it all came down.

But Jesus, I could only force my eyes open for so long. There was just so much fucking blood. This was an eviceration, a public execution televised for all to see. "Come one, come all, introduce knife to heart!" By the time it was all over, I didn't even recognize you. My best friend, the person I fell in love with . . . a beautiful angel, pulled apart in front of me. Limbless and helpless, begging for amnesty. And Lord help me, I couldn't even recognize your face.

Oh God / The Aftermath

I have a confession to make . . . I sold you to the state.
The CIA is infiltrating your house as we speak.

I caught a glimpse of the spy satellite as it passed over our heads.
Orbiting every 92 minutes, quietly collecting images for the city's records.

I saw the petrified faces of you and your family on the evening news. Helpless and full of sedatives, shattered in a sea of dialogue and flashbulbs.

I heard about your last words, and I can't say that I'm sorry.
You should've seen my face, I've been so bitter towards you.

Alex was there, as powerless as the rest of them.
(Why now, Alex? I'm less of a man as I depart.)

"Sign my name too, Love. Press hard, there are three copies."

Waiting Room / Flashbacks

We were sitting on a bus full of children.
I was drawing pictures of rocket ships.

I was climbing the powerlines outside your window.
There was a radio playing in the background.

Your father was a fat Southerner with blue overalls and a moustache.
Your mother was a black Georgia soul singer with friends who loved to cook.

I woke up in your house, your mother was whispering to me.
I could just make out your face through the crack in the doorway.

Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose

"Hey dude, did you . . . see that?"

I am half asleep, idling in my thoughts of self-redemption, when the man next to me utters these words. I open my eyes to find this curious individual staring out his window and into the sky.

"Did you see it?" he repeats. Seeing as I am the only other passenger on this bus, I assume his question is meant for my ears.

"Uh, no. What is it?"

"The sky is filled with pearls."

I am awake now, trying to shuffle off the layers of sleep my mind so desperately craves. Pushing him aside, I take a look outside the window.