Anyways, this is super, super inappropriate and make sure you’re aware of that before you read on.

“It’s so fucking pointless. Like, by the time you’re old enough to do stuff legally it just gets so fucking boring, you know?”

I did know. I had turned 18 two months ago, a night that I only had snapshots of, and I had already become horribly bored by the scene. There was such a routine to it that I felt claustrophobic. I knew everyone, by name or face, had seen everything, and felt like I was repeating the same week over and over again.

Christian took a long hit on the bong and looked at me with glassy eyes.

“This shit thought… It isn’t half bad.”

I mutter a thanks and take it back from him, ready to pack the cone again.

“Missy wants to fuck me again,” he says suddenly. Missy is some young blonde, she’ll look like shit in a few years from all the alcohol and drugs she does but right now she’s a bombshell with a great rack. Christian has never hesitated before taking advantage of girls, so the fact that he isn’t telling me that he has fucked her again is new. “She wanted me to hold her after last time.”

There it is.

I take a hit off the bong but I fuck it up by breathing in too fast because I end up coughing and Christian laughs meanly at me. Half a minute later I can feel it hit me and I reel back as if I had been punched  in the face. Christian calls me a lightweight and finishes off the cone easily.

We’re listening to music and I can feel the beat vibrate through me. Its really heavy and dull, but sharp at the same time. As if all that matters is the beat and the rest of it is just bullshit, total bullshit that doesn’t really matter and I guess that’s what life is like too. I must have said it out loud because Christian is laughing again, laughing at me because there isn’t anything else to be laughing at. Then says something that I don’t catch but I think it was something about ducks, but why would he say something about ducks? Then I see a shadow and it kind of looks like a duck if I squint and turn my head and I think that’s what he was talking about. And it is kind of funny because it doesn’t look like a duck, but then it does. It kind of has the soul of a duck, when you look at it with eyes that think it will be a duck.

I’m tripping, I realise, in a moment of clarity. Then I also realise that I don’t care. Life is bullshit and tripping on duck-shadows is more fun than sitting here and talking about how life is boring and how people are boring and then it occurs to me, am I boring? Do people find me boring? Do they sit there while I’m talking to them and wonder when I will stop, or if what I’m saying has a point, or do they even listen at all? Do they just sit there and nod and agree, like I sometimes do, with their heads feeling like bobble heads? Then I wonder what it would be like to be a bobble head, sitting on some dashboard. Constantly nodding. Most agreeable bobble head in the world.

Christian is eating almonds and complaining about how they should make almonds moist because almonds are too dry to be eaten. He keeps eating them. I laugh to myself because he’s pulling this face of disgust but he never stops shoving almonds in his mouth by the handful. I wonder how they’d make almonds moist, and what a moist almond farm would look like. It would probably be in the sea. But the sea is really salty. Almonds aren’t that salty, for nuts anyway. I’d really like some olives, they’d be kinda like sea almonds, except a lot softer which I guess would happen if they were grown in the sea.

Christian is on the phone. He’s telling Missy that he wants to fuck her brains out but without the bullshit cuddling afterwards. He’s telling her about how he’s so hard right now because he’s thinking about her mouth and her lips and her tongue. He says he wants to fuck her while they’re both high and he can make her cum five times without cumming himself and then he says something about how mean guys can finish last too.

I finished all the olives. Christian is walking out the door saying something about his hard on and then I am alone in my apartment.

I put on a Tarantino movie and fall asleep during a monologue about honour or something.

“Sir?” Prue raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a sign of respect! I’m respectful. Now I’m falling.”

Prue managed to catch Lea before she overbalanced too far and fell off the arm of the couch. Lea looked up into Prue’s eyes with off-focus ones and she grinned toothily.

“I always wondered what it would be like to have sex with you.”

Prue set her down immediately back onto the couch, this time on the seat where she was actually meant to be, and retreated to her own space. Lea, despite her intoxication, seemed to get the message that this action had and shook her head.

“No, I mean I know you don’t want to have sex with me. I’m aware not every lesbian wants a piece of this, but I mean I do it with every guy as well. Just wonder. How they’d sound, what their cum face would be, what moves they’d use, if they’d be good… You know.”

“Not really.”

“Well obviously you don’t do that with guys, but with girls? You don’t fantasize?”

“Wait, so you’ve ‘fantasized’ about me now? That’s what we’re upgrading it to?” Prue attempted to change the topic smoothly and it actually, surprisingly, seemed to work.

“Fantasized, pictured in detail, are we arguing semantics? Actually,” Lea leaned close, “my favourite’s a threesome with you and Thom.” Thom was their nice, if total sleazebag and misogynistic, friend who most would screw but deigned to have a conversation with.

“That’s nice, but so never gonna happen.”

Lea pouted and when she saw that the answer wasn’t going to change she shrugged her shoulders as if that was what she had expected all along.

“I know, duh, that’s why it’s called a ‘fantasy’.”

Prue had thought that would be the last of it, especially when Lea woke up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers and a croaky query of what exactly had happened the previous night, but a week later she was approached by Thom in the cafeteria line while trying to decide between a Chocolate Frenzy and a Banana Burst smoothie.

“Chocolate Frenzy, never deny yourself what you crave.” Thom leered at her and she pushed aside her surprise at his knowledge of what she was pondering. Better to not give him the satisfaction. Besides, she knew what that self-satisfied smirk meant, he’d made some stupid joke to himself about how she must secretly want his penis.

“Thomas.” She attempted to use the coldest tone possible and was quite pleased with the result. Even though they were friends of a sort, she didn’t give him any leeway with his grossness. “Why are you in my space?”

“Lea told me.” He continued to leer at her as she waited for the next part of the sentence but when it became clear that it wasn’t coming she rolled her eyes and prompted him.

“Told you that your hair is stupid?”

His hand went to his hair automatically, ensuring that the painstakingly tousled hairdo was still looking as carelessly ruffled as usual. Prue tried not to roll her eyes too hard. He realized she was being sarcastic and tried to regain some composure by adjusting his Ben Sherman polo shirt and puffing out his chest slightly. Total bizarro mating call, Prue thought.

“About your total craving for the Thom-train. Its okay, I know it must have been confusing at first but don’t worry, lots of the women-folk have found themselves drawn to me, regardless of orientation or declarations of distaste. I’ll take it slow, teach you the ropes, don’t worry I’ll be gentle.”

“Um Thom…?” They had moved forward in the line during his monologue and were now second in line so Prue had really lost patience for his tirade.

“Yes?” He gave her a big grin that he usually reserved for girls he knew he was going to sex up later.

“(A), so not happening. And (B) – can I get a Banana Burst please? Thanks – what exactly did Lea tell you?”

“Just that you wanted to have a threesome with her and I.”

“Ri-ight… She may have gotten the details a bit wrong there.”

“Was it actually Toni? Cos I kinda thought that’s who you meant.”

The image of the cute red-head with the pixie haircut getting it on with Lea flashed through her mind. Hm. A second later she shoved it aside and shook her head at Thom.

“No, retard. It was her fantasy. She told me about it when she was really wasted last Friday night.”

“First of all, you were getting your wasted on without me? Not cool, Ferezzi. Secondly, she wants to have sex with me?”

“With us. And yes.” She wasn’t entirely sure why she corrected him, but it the subtle difference slivered under her skin and itched until she did. He didn’t seem to take notice of her correction at all.

“That’s weird.”

“And it wasn’t when it was me?”

“No it was kinda cool and a total bragging point, and probably wouldn’t have happened anyway. With Lea… I dunno.”

“It might actually happen?” Prue offered. She felt a little for the guy, he seemed so confused, as if he were having his first feelings ever and he didn’t really know how to cope with them.

“Does that make me gay?” And just like that the pity was gone.

“No, Thom, sleeping with boys makes you gay. This makes you human.”

He seemed to mull that over in his mind for a few minutes, judging the weight of what that meant and how it would change things.

“Do chicks dig that?”

—

AN: So this is going to be a mini-series (kinda), just cos I feel like not finishing the story all now. No idea how many parts there will be, or even if it will continue beyond this first part because I am a notoriously lazy motherfucker (not literally, I have not done any mothers. Apart from yours).

Also, do you like my punny title? Mwahaha, the punmonster strikes again.

According to the media Valentines was the most important day in a relationship. You had to be generous, humorous, sexy, stylish and super romantic all at once. I’d never been any of those things so the plan was to fake my way through it and hope it worked.

My best friends were a married couple, they’d been together since year 10 and didn’t have to fake their way through anything. Ever. They’d both told me their planned Valentines day surprises and it was as if they were competing for the title of Most Amazing, Romantic, Thoughtful Partner Ever. And it was tied.

When they’d found out I wasn’t going to spend Valentines the same way I usually did (hitting on vulnerable lonely girls) they weren’t exactly subtle with their surprise.

“You have a girlfriend.” Jake stared at me. His name was actually Jacob but since Twilight had burst onto the scene he insisted that we never call him that.

“Yep.”

They sat there, staring. I figured the best approach was to just let them come to terms with it in their own time.

“How long have you been seeing her?” There was a trace of betrayal in Kel’s tone. I knew she’d feel insulted that I hadn’t told her earlier. She expected everyone to do that whole ‘sharing everything’ thing that girls so loved to do. If she felt betrayed now it would sky rocket in the next two seconds.

“Three months.”

“Exclusive?”

“A month ago.”

“Sex?”

“Amazing.”

“Conversation?”

“Funny and deep.”

“Hot?” Jake interjected, which got him a look from Kel.

“Gorgeous.”

Kel studied my closely for a few minutes. Then, quite suddenly, she learnt forward and started punctuating her words with hard punches to my shoulder. “Then why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I didn’t want to jinx it,” I replied as I resisted the urge to rub my throbbing shoulder.

Kel’s eye roll was practically audible.

“I know, I know, I should have told you earlier. But listen, I need help. I mean… Valentines Day. What the fuck?”

Kel refused to help me, still sore from me not telling her, and Jake was more interested in my sex life under the new found monogamy principle. Whenever I’d ask him for help he’d shrug and ask what she would like to get which defeated the purpose of seeking his advice, but he didn’t seem to realise that.

That was a week ago. So now here I was, completely at a loss in the middle of a department store that had been overrun by the colour red and cartoon hearts. My phone started ringing and Kel’s name popped up along with a photo of her sticking her tongue out at me. Thank God. I’d texted her fifteen minutes ago with a grovelling apology, begging her to help, and a picture of the store’s range and myself looking hopelessly lost. Apparently it worked.

“I love you,” I greeted her.

“The present doesn’t matter Chey.” I still didn’t know how she’d gotten ‘Chey’ from Charles but it was something she’d come up with the first time she met me and it had stuck.

“That’s easy for you to say. You have the most amazing present ever.”

Pause. “Do you love the girl?”

“Yes.” We had only recently said it for the first time and we still used it sparingly, testing the waters, but I’d known I had for a while before that.

“Then nothing else really matters.”

“But you guys-”

“Why do you think we get extravagant, over the top presents for each other?”

“Because you love each other?”

She sighed and it sounded like she was trying to heft a giant weight off her chest.

“Do you remember what we used to get each other?” I did. Back when they were poor students scraping by they used to give each other small, cheap presents that meant little to nothing to anyone else, but to each other meant everything. As they got into careers the money they spent on each other went drastically higher.

“So?”

“We’re trying to simulate something that we don’t have any more.” Before I had a chance to react to that she added, “we sleep in different beds, Chey.”

My Dad died in a car crash when I was two months old so I had no idea what it was like to be told my parents were separating. I think it would have felt like this did. My stomach dropped and there was a whiny buzz in my ears.

“You’re breaking up?” My mouth felt painfully dry as I asked for confirmation.

“No,” she said in a way that really sounded like a ‘yes’.

“No?”

“We’re working through things. Look, that’s not important…”

“Are you kidding me? You react the way you do about me seeing someone and not telling you, but what you and Jake on the rocks is no biggie?”

“We’ve been married for five years Chey, we’ve been together for ten.”

“I don’t need a history lesson Kel,” I snapped. I took a moment to calm myself down, aware that I was attracting attention from similarly clueless people looking for the ‘Perfect Gift’. “What things?”

“What?”

“What things are you ‘working out’?”

“We both need to remember who we are. Individually. And then we’ll figure out if we still fit.”

“‘If’? It sure as hell sounds like you’re breaking up.”

“That’s not what I meant. Its not as if we want to do this. I don’t want to be one of those people who feels like they’ve sleep walked through their marriage because they just stopped trying.” Her voice had taken on the edge o tears, conviction driving her through the vulnerability she was exposing. I said the only thing I could.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she repeated.

“Okay.”

“Do you guys have an inside joke? Something someone mentions a lot, or teases about? Some place you went where something important happened? What’s her favourite food?” The speed of the subject change almost gave me whiplash. She waited while I adjusted and absorbed what she had just rapid-fire-questioned at me.

“Um, yeah.” Eloquent as always.

“Well there’s your present and date. Not that hard.”

I felt a rush of gratitude and renewed concern for my friends’ marriage. They had been the most stable thing in my life for the past ten years. They were my idea of a perfect relationship. If they couldn’t last… That was a pretty bleak outlook. I realised Kel was still waiting for my reaction to her simple yet brilliant advice (that had never occurred to Jake).

“You’re a genius. I love you.”

“So you keep saying. One condition Chey.”

“Anything.”

“You’re bringing her to dinner at ours.”

The word ‘ours’ echoed in my head in a way that it never had before. Ours meant togetherness, ours meant no separation, ours meant that the world as I knew it wasn’t tearing apart at the seams. Ours was good. Or I hoped it was anyway.

“Please be nice,” I pleaded. I’d never had a girl I’d liked this much before, but I knew from past experience that Kel had a habit of terrifying any potentials by sheer force of a stubborn line of questioning.

“I’m always nice.”

“Kelsey.”

“Not that I have any idea what you’re talking about… But I’ll be nice. Besides she’s managed to hold your attention for this long she must be pretty amazing so I’m sure she’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“Bye Kel.”

“Chey.” She paused. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

She scoffed a laugh and I pictured her shrugged smile.

“I don’t really know.”

—

AN: Haven’t written anything in ages, I wrote this at work while the store was completely devoid of customers in the morning. Its inspired by, obviously, Valentines Day. Not the movie. The day. And how relationships are hard and they actually require work even if they’re ‘perfect’. Because in my opinion a healthy relationship is one in which people work on things, rather than one where they ignore things. Enough of my silly random thoughts for now. Its good to be back. I will definitely try to write a lot more.

I found out that this thing I sent out is getting published in an anthology that a writing site publishes every three months. Fuck yeah. Its not a book or anything, its a magazine, but that’s still awesome. I can now say (okay, when it gets published I can say) that I’ve been published. I am a published author. I should make business cards.

I did cheat a bit, the theme was ‘love’ and I hunted through my old posts and picked something, re-vamped it, and sent it off. But hey, it was accepted so I’m still keen. This kinda gives me courage to start sending out my stuff more regularly.

Only thing is I now have to write something about myself as a writer and about the story. I hate mini-auto-biographies, actually I just hate writing them. I don’t mind the story summary so much, but I haven’t started that one because I’m going to make myself write the writer one first. Okay, I’m gonna give it a shot here first.

Jessica is a uni student who often uses her lectures to write stories that have nothing to do with her subjects. She yearns for a career that involves writing, or that she can secretly write in.

Tissue Box is about a man whose only contact comes from people who want tissues. Except for one woman who, it turns out, is interested in more than just his tissue box.

And that is what I sent off because I’m lazy.

Anyway, I plan on buying a copy when it comes out and then displaying it in my room as (possibly) my only accomplishment in my life. If that turns out to be true… Well, I’ve decided that I’m okay with that.

Inside, the sound of plates, cutlery and glasses created a background for the rapid chatter of numerous conversations overlaying each other. The alcohol flowed freely, part of the reason that the conversation flowed so freely. Most of the conversations were shallow, descriptions of lives without reasons. Actions without intent. This was preferred, it was only a family get-together after all.

From the outside, it was yearned for. From the inside, it was derided. The only balance resided in children, whose innocence had not yet been compromised. Their eyes still regarded the fireplace eagerly, impatient for the appearance of the man who brought them gifts. They didn’t need the help of sparkling wine to see the magic of the holiday. They believed in a way that made adults scoff, hiding their wish that they could still feel the same.

They couldn’t deny that the holiday held a sway over people, though the degree of ‘magic’ behind it was debatable. It was the one time of the year that relatives barely spoken to were invited over without second thought, the one time that animosity was pushed down and turkey and ham was piled on top. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly what the holiday called for, but in some circumstances it was still considered a miracle.

—

AN: So yeah. Happy holidays or whatever. Imma go play Guitar Hero now. Kablammo.

Another car’s headlights swung into her rear view mirror and she squinted against the light. The car pulled up next to her and the door opened. An umbrella stabbed into the sky and snapped open over the doorway and was followed by a large figure. The umbrella, and figure, made their way over to her window. She closed her eyes and remained still. There was a sense of relief as she closed the world off, and the instinctual feeling that in doing so the world shut off entirely. She remembered days when she would hide in the laundry closet and squeeze her eyes shut so that the only thing that existed was her breath in her ears and the smell of bleach. There was a sharp rap on her car window and she jolted against her seatbelt. The world forced itself back into her consciousness with a sudden rush of pressure and she stole a sharp breath through pursed lips. She dutifully wound down her window.

“Get home. Now.” The voice drove into her car and she saw all the droplets freeze.

Another breath, through her nose this time. The droplets started to inch down the glass again.

“No.” Under her breath was all she could handle at the moment.

“What did you say?” The undercurrent of threat was more of a current now, she could feel it collapse onto her will steadily. Fall onto, pull at, draw back, fall onto, pull at, draw back.

“I said-” She turned to the figure and met his eyes. They were as black as a starless night and bore into hers. A large part of her shied away, crawled to the corner of her soul and started humming Für Elise. But that part didn’t hold the reins right now, that part had abandoned her so all she had was an adrenaline high and a rare flare of fury. “No.”

The droplets started to sprint down the windscreen.

—

AN: Ha! You thought there was gonna be an ending? Or explanations for the random references? Nuh uh. This was written to ‘Grenade’ by Bruno Mars, which is where the title’s from (although its meant to be ironic in this context, duh). And for the first time, I didn’t go for the heartless chick/pining dude thing. Yay me, resisting the most obvious option. Also, yay for cryptic metaphors!

He arrived late on the scene thanks to a traffic accident in one of the back street routes he could usually count on. The heavy rain hadn’t helped with everyone’s feeble attempts to manoeuvre around the two cars that had probably hit each other at around 30km/h judging from the damage. The weather wasn’t doing anything positive for his mood either. His eyes skated past the policewoman standing in the doorway to the scene behind her. A woman lay on the lounge room floor, half her head missing. Fantastic. His gut turned, although his face didn’t reveal anything. In the other room a man with red-rimmed eyes was talking to one of his colleagues and every so often he’d shift uncomfortably and glance towards the lounge room. Another murder by a jealous boyfriend, he guessed. Maybe they could wrap this up quickly and he’d be able to go out and get his favourite kebab for lunch and block out the image of the creamy-brown lounge-room carpet with splattered brains and skull.

“Neighbour reported a gun shot. We arrived on the scene to…” The cop he’d asked must have been pretty green because she could barely bring herself to describe the scene behind her, she just gestured to it vaguely. At least she hadn’t vomited on the scene. He had done that on his first murder scene, although to be fair it was a murder-rape done with a range of nasty-looking utensils. “And the victim’s boyfriend sitting on the couch staring at the body.”

“Boyfriend?” It wasn’t really a question, it was just a repetition while in his head he cheered for another case almost closed within minutes.

“He says she did it to herself.”

He took a closer look at the body and saw the gun hanging limply in her hand. Well placed, probably wiped down his fingerprints as well.

“What do forensics say?” The scepticism was cutting in his tone and he knew it from the way the cop grimaced. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“I don’t-”

He was moving on before she could finish the sentence explaining that she hadn’t been told because she didn’t have to know. And not needing to know meant that her knowledge was mainly based on what she had overheard and guessed herself.

It turned out the forensics backed up the boyfriend’s claim that she had shot herself. However, it didn’t sit right with him. And he’d seen some pretty disgusting stuff over the years, so imagining that the boyfriend had forced her to shoot herself wasn’t much of a stretch to him.

“So the evidence backs your story up.”

The boyfriend – Dave Morgan – lifted his head off the table and for the first time that day there was a glimmer of relief on his face. The detective took notice of that.

“Great. So when can I leave?” the boyfriend asked. The detective did not return the optimistic expression.

“We’re not releasing you yet, David.”

The boyfriend’s mouth set into a scowl. “Why not?” There wasn’t too much surprise and the detective took note of that as well.

“Because, David,” he took a seat opposite the boyfriend. “Its just not adding up. And when things don’t add up the police are entered in the equation and we try and find out what the truth is.” He leaned forward and looked the boyfriend straight in the eyes. “Do you know what doesn’t add up with this story David?” The boyfriend didn’t reply so the detective answered it himself. “Why would your girlfriend – who by everyone’s accounts was a fairly nice, normal, happy young lady – take a gun and blow her head open in front of you? Seems a bit out of character.”

The boyfriend was staring at the table silently and the detective felt the confession starting to bubble under the surface. He could almost see the sudden admittance, the tears, the declarations of purpose, the reassigning of blame. He just needed to press the last button and wait. His mouth watered for the kebab and victory glass of scotch.

“So, David, can you please explain to me why she acted in such a drastic fashion?”

There was silence for a full minute, the tension – and truth – was thick in the air. The taste of kebab hit the back of the detective’s throat. The boyfriend’s eyes slowly rose to meet his.

“You won’t believe me,” his voice was rough. The detective resisted the twitch the corner of his mouth gave as it tried to rise into a smile.

“Try me,” the detective pressed.

The boyfriend looked patronised by this. “Fine. You want to know the truth? I made her cum for the first time in her life. She was so Goddamn happy about it that she wanted it to be the last thing she felt before she died. She wanted to stay that happy forever.”

—

AN: One of the few beginnings of stories that has been stirring around. Its been so long since I’ve finished a story and this is showing that I’m still a bit rusty, but it has the bones of a good story. I may or may not pick this up again later and try and actually make it a good story. For now, I leave it as is and post it up because its been forever and a day since I’ve posted something up. I blame the fact that I’m all holiday-y, but there is no excuse!

It had been two years, three months and fourteen days since people stopped dying. The last person to die was a newborn boy in a hospital outside Oregon. He hadn’t been named, but he was internationally famous. Without death the global population reached 25.7 billion. The public, out of desperation and fear, turned to the UN and within a month everyone on the planet had been sterilised to control the explosion in population. Space was the most sought after commodity. Previously uninhabited areas were filled with skyscraper apartment blocks containing studios with several inhabitants who often had no connection or care for each other.

When news of the absence of death broke, people turned on each other or on themselves. Cults and religions were formed, and the instances of attempted suicide and homicide rose steeply. This unfortunate time in history had been dubbed the Transition and people bore scars of the Transition, not only physically but also mentally. A substantial portion of the population went insane and were deported to Antarctica. Cargo ship routes now avoided the area for fear that a mad person would swim aboard and destroy their cargo or set fire to the vessel just to watch it burn.

Those who were able to acclimatise did so quickly and quietly under the watchful eye of the UN. The Transition came to an official end two months after it started. There were regular shipments of people to Antarctica but there had been a steep decline in number after the first month, a fact that had been well publicised by the UN.

Peter Gunn was born on the 23rd of November 1998, twenty-one years, two months and one day before death ceased to exist. He was starting his first full-time job when a newborn was taking its final breath – the last final breath ever – 12,315 kilometres away. The news about the lack of death spread during the day. By the time he had finished his first day strikes and riots were already spreading over the globe.

The Transition changed everything for Peter, but that had been over two years ago and these days he had a simple daily routine. Today was no different from any other day. He was leaving his job, the same one he had gained during the Transition, to go home to an apartment he shared with a couple and another man who he never saw.

He waited patiently as the platform guards used plastic shields that closely resembled the old riot police shields to manoeuvre the commuters onto the train. He was pushed against a woman who had a 15cm scar across her left eye and gave her an apologetic smile. She diverted her eyes quickly and pulled her fringe back down to cover the left side of her face. Those with scars from the Transition were often looked down upon in society. This was due to the fact that it marked the people who belonged to lower socio-economic classes that had been unable to afford suitable security during the Transition.

He felt a surge of pity for the woman. He wanted to show her the 50cm long scar that traced down his spine. The incident had occurred at 11:36pm on the 6th of February 2020 according to UnitedAuthority report. He had been found on a street, bleeding to death while his younger sister attempted to lick his wound clean. She was still playing with the assault weapon when the UA arrived. The rain had washed away most of the evidence but she had confessed to ‘making pretty patterns on Petey’ to the UA agents who arrived on scene. She was sent to Antarctica Section B-21 the next day while he was unconscious in hospital. Their parents were sent to Antarctica, Sections C-32 and D-08 respectively, two days later.

He made his way up the train station stairs to the ground level trying to keep out of other commuters’ way although that was almost impossible. News of yet another tsunami hitting the already battered Thailand coast was announced over the UnitedNews system. Natural disasters were a weekly occurrence, most people didn’t bat an eyelid about them these days. Without a death toll the footage of screaming children with various injuries didn’t land as strongly. There were no weeping parents mourning the loss of their children, just parents trying to quieten their children as they were having their broken bones re-set. Adults sat quietly as their injuries were tended to, aware that if they reacted inappropriately the UN would investigate them for insanity.

He watched the elevator floors light up over the shoulder of a neighbour that he’d never seen before. That wasn’t odd. 2,148 people lived in the apartment block of 25 floors with 20 rooms to each floor.

15…. 16…. 17….

The elevator jolted to a stop at his floor and he edged his way out, joined by three others from the group of twenty-one. They didn’t acknowledge each other as they went to their respective apartments. Peter reached his apartment door – 1818 – and pressed the pad of his thumb to the panel. The door clicked open and the lights turned on automatically as he entered the room. He took off his jacket and folded it along the ironed-on creases and placed it in the clothes box under his bed. The room was a dormitory set up. A small refrigerator containing ‘protein shakes’ – an artificial replacement for food that kept gauntness and exhaustion at bay – was next to the door, a sink, toilet and shower next to that, and the three beds took up the rest of the room.

He undid his tie and placed it next to his jacket in the box before taking off his shirt. The scar that snaked its way down his spine gave its usual twang as he shrugged the shirt off. He ignored it and folded his shirt, running his fingers along the artificially smooth material. He was about to remove his undershirt when the apartment door gave a beep.

The door opened and the married couple – Julie Altman and Tyler Cho – hurried inside. They were younger than him by two years and had gotten married after the Transition. After the official end of the Transition there had been a record number of marriages.

“Do you think they saw?” Julie’s eyes were fixed on Tyler, her forehead worried into a frown. Peter felt like he was intruding on a very personal, crucial moment. Both of them looked stressed, Tyler paced back and forth in front of the apartment door while Julie sat on their bed with her hand covering her lower abdomen.

“I don’t know.” Tyler tugged his fingers through his thick hair.

Julie bit her lip as her fingers splayed over her gut and rubbed small circles, as if to comfort herself. “Tyler?”

Tyler noticed her distress and put his own aside for a moment, going over to her and gathering her into his arms.

Peter shifted. He was standing next to the bed in the same spot he had when they had come in. He wasn’t sure if he could inconspicuously leave, or if he should just wait until they realised he was there. Over time they had shared many utterly personal moments but this felt different. It was something about how Tyler was cradling Julie so carefully, how Julie was shielding her slightly distended stomach (which was odd, because Julie had never been prone to weight change before). It rang warning bells in the very deep recesses of Peter’s mind from a time when he’d tickle his little sister, help his mother cook, and argue about reality TV show contestants with his father. Tyler put his hand over Julie’s and suddenly-

His father put his hand over his mother’s which was resting on her stomach and they shared a smile.

“I’m pregnant Pete.”

- he knew.

“How?” Before he was aware of it, the question was out of his mouth. It was a valid question. The UN had undertaken a global sterilisation plan using the UA, every single person in the planet had been accounted for.

But, he supposed, there were exceptions to every rule.

Tyler and Julie had reacted to his question the same way wild animals would have reacted to an unexpected intrusion. Tyler placed himself between Julie and Peter in an echo of an ancient protective instinct and was now staring at Peter suspiciously. They must have stayed frozen like that for a few minutes, all too scared to even breathe too loudly.

“Pete?” Julie was the first to speak. She stood slowly, never looking away from him.

“Jules,” Tyler warned but Julie ignored him. She slowly made her way to Peter. “Pete look at me.” He dragged his gaze from her stomach to meet her eyes. She seemed momentarily comforted by this but she didn’t waver from looking at him. “You can’t tell anyone.”

Their fear was logical. The trial-system for Antarctica was anything but fair. His scar gave a spasm and for a moment he tasted the metallic tang of rain and blood. He wasn’t aware that he was frowning until Tyler took a step forward with a dark expression. “I won’t. My…” His history, and his reason, stuck in his throat. “I won’t.” He must have seemed sincere because they both relaxed.

“How?” he asked again. It seemed far more likely that they’d actually answer this time. They shared a look.

“We don’t know,” Julie replied for both of them. Tyler stepped towards her and put an arm around her waist.

Peter looked at both of them and then his eyes dropped back down to Julie’s stomach. He held out one of his hands tentatively.

“Can I?”

She burst into a bright smile.

Two months and twelve days later he came home, just like every other day. He rode the elevator to the 18^th floor, didn’t acknowledge anyone else, walked to his apartment – 1818 – and pressed his thumb to the plate.

He smelled it before he saw it. Death.

Julie looked up at him while dark red seeped into the bed sheet underneath her. Her hands were cupped around her crotch as if she was trying to hold it in. There was a streak of maroon red across her cheek where she had brushed aside her fringe. He tasted metal and rain in the air.

Julie Altman was taken to Antarctica Section K-11 three days later after being discovered during her fourth suicide attempt. Tyler Cho was sent to Antarctica Section L-01 a week later. Peter Gunn was the only one who knew why they had been sent.

—

AN: So this is the final submitted version of my final assignment for ENGL304. I’ve slaved and toiled and so on and so forth on it, and now here it is. It took a while to figure it out, usually I can bang out a story from beginning to end pretty easily but this one was a bit more complicated. First I wrote the intro, then the middle part about Peter, and then I struggled over the ending a whole bunch. Now I am tired and I’m gonna go collapse in bed cos its late and I have work in the morning. Later gators.

Her momma had always told her that being a farmer’s wife was a hard job. ‘Yer got to take care of yer husband. And the rest of the animals,’ she’d say and then cackle so loudly the blacks of her back teeth were visible.

Her momma had died when she was seven years old, before she’d gotten the chance to really explain what ‘taking care’ of a husband meant. She wondered if her daddy had ever made her momma get on her hands and knees while he ripped into her from behind. Cos her Goddamned husband wasn’t too shy to do it.

His hand was rough on the back of her neck, gripping her in place as he thrust into her roughly. She kept her eyes on the headboard in front of her, willing her arms to hold her up until her husband was finished. His hand, his gloved hand, gripped her hip and dug into her skin as he began to convulse behind her.  He throbbed inside her and she bit her lip to stop from crying out in disgust.

He pulled out and rolled over, his back to her as he started to snore a few minutes later. She ignored the tears that rolled down her face as she let her arms give way.

***

She knew how the farm hands talked about her. She didn’t care. No one would dare say anything, not to Curley’s wife. Definitely not to Curley. That man had a mean streak as long as his ego and she had the bruises to show for it.

She’d heard about the arrival of the new farm hands while she was washing Curley’s sweat-stained clothes. The men were gossiping about it like schoolgirls near the barns. She wondered if they were aware that they were exactly like the kind of people they spat all over the ground about.

She figured it was only polite to introduce herself to the new farmhands. It wasn’t like the rest of them would ever talk to her, maybe she could get to the new boys earlier than the men could. She knew from the way that the slender one could barely keep her gaze that she was too late for that. But the way the huge one stared at her open-mouthed made her feel real good about herself. And yeah, she may have played it up a little. She couldn’t be blamed for that. She died of boredom when Curley wasn’t flinging her around like a ragdoll. Sometimes she even preferred it, it broke up the tedium.

Slim was different. Slim reeked of sexual energy. He moved with a grace that she had never seen in a man before. Slim paid her little mind, as if she was some young girl with a crush, but she didn’t let his mind stray far from her.

“Hey Slim.”

“Hey Good-lookin’.” He always greeted her like that whenever Curley wasn’t around. She took pains to ensure that Curley was never around. He was the only farm hand who would meet her eyes. She felt his stare penetrate her in a way that Curley had never managed in all his sweaty, grunting attempts. Slim chewed slowly on a length of grass. “You lookin’ for Curley?” His eyes smirked at her.

“Yeah,” she lied. “You seen him ‘round?”

“Can’t say I have. I bet he’s looking fer you too.”

“Maybe. We always seem to… miss each other.” She took a step forward, her hips rocking to the side.

“Funny how that works out.” He kept his eyes fixed on hers, his mouth still working on the grass.

She hummed in the back of her throat. “Funny.” She was close to him now, so close she could reach out and run her hand over his jaw. He didn’t seem to notice the proximity, because he just grinned at her and moved the grass to the other side of his mouth.

“If I were you, I’d try the house ‘gain.” Then he walked off, his thumbs hooked on his belt and her breath faltered in her throat.

“Right. Thanks Slim.” He didn’t reply.

***

Curley walked into the house, holding his bandaged hand to his chest and looking as mad as a cut snake. His eyes darted around, never settling on anything, he was completely on edge.

“What happened to yer hand?”

“That’s none of yer Goddamn business!” he yelled, but his eyes never reached hers.

She expected to be hit across the face, but it never came. Instead, he retreated to the other room scowling like a wounded animal. She recovered quickly. “Well that’s a damn fine way to speak to yer wife!” The door slammed so loudly that she felt like someone had belted her across the ears.

***

She didn’t know what she hated more. The fact that her husband went to have himself serviced or that Slim went. Her husband, that Godforsaken pig, had defiled her as often and as violently as he liked but he was still so damn unsatisfied. And Slim… Well, she wouldn’t have minded him defiling her, no not at all.

So she went to taunt those who hadn’t gone. It passed the time, and God knew she jumped at any chance to do that around here. That was when she had actually noticed him, the new farm hand. He had hands as big as wagon wheels and she was sure that it was this giant oaf of a man was the reason Curley had suddenly become afraid of striking out at anyone. Suddenly the farm hand’s slowness, his complete lack of thought, the way he stared at everything with ignorance, didn’t annoy her so badly. In fact, she didn’t mind it one bit. She kind of liked it.

The slow man and his giant, powerful hands. She kind of liked it a whole lot.

—

AN: So this was one of the English exercises I did, basically had to rewrite a story from the perspective of a character which was ‘looked over’, or give a voice to a character which previously didn’t have one. In ‘Of Mice and Men’ by Steinbeck, Curley’s wife is this pretty hated character and no one gives a crap about her and it doesn’t end too well for her. This story is quite difficult to understand unless you’ve read ‘Of Mice and Men’ which if you haven’t you should do so right away! Because then you’ll actually understand this story and get the very healthy helping of dramatic irony that is the ending. Also, its an awesome story and takes no time to read because its brief.

Her necklace glints in the light and he feels dazed for a moment. It passes but he can still see patterns dancing across his eyelids.  Her breath reeks of vodka and something fruity that he can’t quite place.

fag fag faggy faggot fag fag you’re such a faggy fag disgusting wrong unnatural creepy fucking fag fuck off filthy faggoty fucker

He shouldn’t be able to place.

Faggot
fag·got [ˈfægət]
1. a bundle of sticks or twigs, esp when bound together and used as fuel
2. a ball of chopped meat, usually pork liver, bound with herbs and bread and eaten fried
3. (slang) a disparaging term for a homosexual man

She smiles vaguely, her eyes swimming and her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. She collapses against his chest and laughs loudly. He grasps her by her slim arms and closes his eyes.

love love no love for you no one would love you who would love you no love for you

She laughs against his neck. Her hand has crept around and grips the back of his neck. His hair stands on end. Her press-on nails dig into his skin. He can feel the half-crescent marks they’ve left.

“You’re so lovely. I love you.” A wave of vodka hits his face. It punches through to the back of his throat.  He swallows down the urge to gag,

She reels back and frowns at him. She struggles to focus both of her eyes on his face. “Don’t you love me, dickhead?”

He nods. She is sated. She returns to clutching his neck and pressing messy open-mouthed kisses to his skin.

man must be a man must be masculine and manly must be a fucking man for once don’t be useless be a man

Gamma hydroxybutyrate (GHB) is a depressant drug. Depressants slow down the activity of the brain and other parts of the central nervous system. Due to its appearance, GHB is easy to slip into a drink and it can cause drowsiness, sleep and short-term memory loss. This means that victims may not be able to resist or recall a sexual assault.

Her hand is on his crotch and she gives it a clumsy rub. He resists the urge to shove her off.

“Take me back to yours.” She drags her tongue up the side of his neck.

His palms are slick with sweat as he pays the taxi driver the fare. He leads her to his apartment. He has to hold her up at this point. When they get inside she sheds her dress immediately.

His head spins as she dances around in her underwear and stilettos. The necklace swings in between her breasts loosely. She laughs again as she falls down and drags him with her. He falls on top of her and she starts trying to undo his shirt buttons.

He closes his eyes.

—

AN: So I haven’t posted on here for a while cos my life’s been a bit helter-skelter (God I love weird words that are weird but still make it into the dictionary). But I do have my portfolio due for Creative Writing (3rd year, this time) in a few weeks or so, so I’m sure a bunch more stuff will find its way onto here because I’ll be writing shiznit for that.

This was slightly inspired by a recent suspected drink-spiking that I encountered last weekend. (Is it weird that after possibly attempt-date-rape happens to me I then write a story from a date-raper’s POV?) Obviously the title is super, super sarcastic. This is a horrible situation had by all and so on. Its meant to be a post-modern collage-y piece hence the definitions and random italics sections.  And the (rare) use of present tense is meant to separate that a bit from the rest of it and try and have it be more unbiased, I guess?

Mmmm anyways. Off to do some dishes and maybe have some more soup. God I freaking love soup.