The Future and Stuff

"Hey, you know how I sometimes go into a trance and have visions of the future and stuff?" On her back on the couch, Martine kept reading. "No."

"It's totally a thing," Donnie said. "And I just had the weirdest vision." He waited, but Martine didn't ask what it was. "Everything else was exactly like it is now, except you were getting me a soda."

"Yeah? What kind?" Her voice was flat.

"Pepsi, with three ice cubes."

"How disturbingly accurate." Martine set down her book.

"I know, right? Well, just let me know when you're getting that soda."

"No, not that bullshit. My vision of you acting like a dick, just like this." Donnie snorted. "Of course, my vision kept going."

"What came next?" Donnie asked.

"Mysterious agents knocking on the door."

"What a load of—" Donnie stopped when someone knocked on the door.

"Which is why I prepped this." Martine reached under the couch and tossed something to Donnie, who looked up at her with wide eyes when he realized he was holding a revolver.

"What the fuck, Martine!"

"You'd rather let them dissect me? Let's go." She rolled off the couch into a crouch. "We're taking the window."

A Final Swipe

Zayla finished off the window with a final swipe of the squeegee. Three storeys above the ground, her gaze lingered on the open space behind her before falling reluctantly on the next window to wash. With a sigh, she pushed the lever that slid her platform over to that window. As her hands worked, her mind wandered. With so much open air around her, it seemed almost obscene that she be trapped within the bounds of this platform. Window half soapy, half wiped clean, Zayla stopped. She wanted out. She wanted freedom.

She pushed the lever, letting the mechanical arm lift her to the roof. Her mind wandered. Once she reached the roof, she would step off the platform, leave the truck for someone else, and disappear into the street.

When she returned from her thoughts, she saw she'd overshot the roof and was still rising. She'd thought the cherry picker topped out at four storeys, but she was still rising. The roof was already three storeys below. Was she even attached to the ground any more?

She didn't know. A grin blossomed on her face, and she kept her hand on the lever. She was going to find out.

A Metaphorical Duel

Azamon drew his blade and smirked. He was larger and faster than his opponent, with far greater reach. His salute was so lazy it could only express contempt. Idien's blade was smaller, shorter, and more apt to bend than her foe's. So was she. "Must we?" Her smile was sad but genuine.

"Make ready," Azamon said. "I am the best swordsman in the land, and soon the only one."

"I don't think it works like that," Idien said, but she saluted just the same. Nervous bystanders watched, quiet.

In the first pass, Azamon's rush knocked her to the ground, and she barely rolled away from his follow-up thrust. She was barely back on her feet when Azamon attacked again. Idien's last-second parry left her sword chipped and her on one knee, her ankle twisted.

Azamon loomed over her. "I deliver books faster and cheaper with greater selection than you could dream. Why should I let you live?"

"You? You shouldn't." Idien nodded at the crowd. "But they will." Azamon stood back as the crowd helped her to her feet and stood beside her.

"Why?" he roared. "I'm cheaper, faster, better! Why?"

She paused in thanking those around her. "I'm nicer."

The Miraginous Mountain

She looked up and saw a mountain that shouldn't have been there. When she looked back, it was gone. A glare in her windshield? But rather than turn into her company parking lot, she circled where the miraginous mountain had been. In that realm of office parks, it wasn't hard to turn time and time again. She saw the mountain again between a printing company and a tree, then it was gone. It appeared again in the reflection of a delivery van's window.

As she circled, the mountain appeared more frequently. Over her shoulder as she glanced to change lanes. For a moment between the cab and cargo of a semi. Rounding a corner before the morning sun made her blink.

Then she was there. It rose up impossibly high, slopes rocky and rich with trees that had fought for every second of tenuous purchase. Above those, snow shone in the sun. Behind her, the office parks looked distant, as though she'd been driving away from them the entire time. She supposed she had.

Would she be able to find her way back? Was there a way back? What about her car? Did she even care?

She started to climb.

Little Ball of Chaos

Antero tidied his son's room. Little Ej was only four, and the process of putting things in order helped Antero be at ease with the impending return of his little ball of chaos. Beneath Ej's pillow, Antero found a rock the size of the boy's fist. This wasn't the first rock he'd found secreted in Ej's room, or even the tenth. Antero found it endearing, so he smiled as he tossed the rock into the yard.

Day after day, Antero returned order to a domain of chaos, always tossing at least one rock out of the house. He wondered what drove Ej to collect them, and where they came them. Wherever it was, he wasn't concerned. The world has many rocks.

So did Ej. While sorting clothes Ej had outgrown, Antero found a veritable hoard behind the sweaters in the bottommost drawer. Surprised, he searched more thoroughly, uncovering hundreds of rocks. With a bucket and several trips, he threw them all outside.

Sweating, Antero sat on his stoop to rest and relax into the correction of disorder. Dozens of small cracking sounds drew his attention behind him, where he saw his house pulling free of its foundations and floating away.

None of the Feels

I'm writing this letter to explain my suicide. I hope that will ease the minds of those who care about me, because I know I'm supposed to care. You who are close to me know what I mean, but I'll explain for the police. Three years ago, mid-February I think, someone somewhere fired a gun in a random direction and the bullet went through my brain. This didn't bother me at the time. At first I figured that was shock, but it was probably the start of the rest of my life. See, I only kind of survived.

A new me walked out of the hospital. Someone who didn't feel anything. I remembered being happy and sad, but not what those felt like. I never felt joy at making someone smile, or guilt at making them upset. It should have freaked me out, but naturally it didn't.

I'm broken. It doesn't bother me. It's a lot of work to keep track of what I should be feeling and pretending to do that. The longer it's been, the harder it is. I can't keep it up. And if the other choice is going full-on sociopath, I figure I'm better off dead.

All the Feels

I, James Kayle Pearce, am saying goodbye. I wish it didn't have to be like this. I think of all the people my death will hurt and it breaks my heart. I feel your pain so clearly. That's why I have to do this. I feel everything, and everything I feel is so strong. It started almost three years ago, just three days after Valentine's Day. Professor Dougherty was lecturing, and I thought how teaching the same class year after year must be boring. Then I felt it the crushing monotony like it was my own. I almost screamed. But as soon as I thought that maybe he enjoyed sharing his love of anthropology with new minds, I felt that instead. It was so strong I almost fell out of my chair.

It's been like that ever since. When someone else is upset, I'm broken. If I see someone happy, I'm elated. All the time, no exceptions. There's no room for my own feelings.

And I can't take any more. I hate hate hate the feeling of what you'll experience when you discover I'm gone... but it's that feeling that I have to escape. I'm sorry.

tearstains mar the note