Molten twilight...

Molten twilight drowns the sky with shades of blue and black
Golden stars swim to the surface to shine down and show the way
To follow leads to unknown paths and destinations
To stay leaves the world mysterious and the mind inquiring

The adventure traverses incorporeal lands and empty oceans
Swimming through mountains and climbing over seas
The stars point the way but one must advance alone
To see the true path through the confusion only you can proceed

Threats lurk off the shimmering path
The darkest safety and radiant danger wait in hiding
Waiting for the slightest misstep to drag you into the ebony blaze
The lure of sinister desires calling out must be heard by the deaf ear

As the terminus of this journey comes to the fore the sea of night begins to dissipate
Grasping, clawing for but a glimpse of the goal you have sought again and again
Leads to naught but disappointment as the vision melts and evaporates to the morning fire
Tears of anger and desperation blind and sear your eyes and the journey ends once more

50937

He slowly came back to consciousness, as he tried to stand up there was a sharp white light in his head and he fell back down. Slowly he counted, 10.....9.....8.....7.....6, he continued to count down to zero. By the end, the hazy feeling of nausea was gone, and was replaced by the hopeless feeling of confusion. What am I doing here? Where is “here”? He looked around at his surroundings and became more and more confused. He was in the middle of a small room with pure white walls.

The walls were shiny and seemed like they were giving off their own light. Thinking about light, he looked at the ceiling and was surprised to find there was no light fixture at all. The ceiling was just as bare and white as the walls. He went up to the walls to try to identify what they were made of and maybe find clues as to where he was. They weren't adobe or painted, they seemed to be a type of plastic. They felt smooth and almost like plastic wrap for foods. Even though the walls seemed to be thin and weak, try as he may, he couldn't even make a smudge on the wall. Even when he spat on them, the spit seemed to just dissipate into the wall.

After his examination of his new home, he figured that it was probably some type of jail cell, but he couldn't remember breaking the law. In fact, he couldn't remember anything about what happened before now. This fact hit him hard, he didn't know who he was! He didn't know anything about his past. He slowly started to sink into fear and anger. This foreign, unearthly white room, seemed to be closing in on him. Even though he was not claustrophobic, he went into the fetal position and whimpered. He fell into the instinctual behavior of hating anything that was foreign to him. He met this fear with hate. Convincing himself that fear was his enemy. After a couple of hours of brooding in self pity and hatred of this room, he realized that he was becoming extremely hungry. As soon as he thought about food his stomach felt more and more empty. Already, he could tell that his death would be from starvation. Just let it come peacefully, he wished. But he knew that it was just that, a wish, because he knew that starvation was an extremely dreadful and painful way to die.

He slowly fell to a fitful sleep. Every time he closed his eyes it seemed that the room got even brighter. Eventually he woke up. He didn't even remember going to sleep. What time is it? he thought. He got up and started to pace around the room. The walls seemed even brighter today. He couldn't even look at then without his eyes watering. He passed time pacing, but that got tiring and boring. So he tried to sleep again, only to find the walls got brighter every time he closed his eyes. He laid there for what seemed like months. He just laid there staring into nothing, not even thinking about anything.

He began to realize that his mind was becoming hazy again. Even if he tried, he couldn't form a coherent thought. If he tried to stand, his legs were extremely wobbly, to the point where he could not stand. He was exhausted. He started to mummer incessantly, “Let me sleep...let me sleep...”. As he was rocking back and forth, he realized that he no longer felt the pang of thirst or hunger. No, it was all drowned out by the unbelievable craving for sleep. That was all he could think about. And then it went pitch dark. He could not see his hand in front of his face. He closed his eyes experimentally, the light stayed off! He abruptly fell to sleep, even though he did not trust the darkness.

How long he slept, he did not know. He did know that when he woke he was completely rejuvenated. He wasn't even hungry anymore. As if on cue to him waking, the walls slowly started to emit light. At first it was just a soft glow, then it was like a sunny day inside his cube. He started to thank whatever made the light stop and let him sleep. After a bit he realized he was now wearing pure white clothes and his other clothes were nowhere to be seen. These new clothes were extremely light weight, but heavy enough to keep him warm. They were as smooth as silk, but he couldn't rip it if he tried. He took off the shirt to examine it closer and when he turned it over, at first he was confused and then petrified. On the back of his shirt it said in large black bold letters, “SUBJECT: 50937”.

He stared at this number, his mind racing to find a logical reason for why it said subject and not inmate and why he was numbered like some...lab rat. As he asked this last question he went into a panic. For a long time he couldn't even think straight. He finally came to the realization that he was doomed and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing mattered anymore, only when and how he died. Then he fell into disconsolation and just sat there crying and not even trying to comfort himself.

He didn't know how long he sat there crying and sleeping. It seemed like days, but in here it was impossible for him to tell. He tried to get himself over the fact of his imminent death and try to make the best out of things. But the always nagging question would distract him, What next? What else can they do but kill me?

He felt a slight nibbling on his ear and little feet scampering over his body. He laid there for a couple of seconds until he realized what was going on. Rats! Scores of pitch black, squeaky, vermin were scampering about his home. He screamed and hit the rats off of him and stood up. He kicked any that got near him. He didn't even know why he reacted the way he did. He then slowly remembered that he did have fear of rats, or musophobia, outside of the cube home. He was happy that he had finally remembered something, but the happiness was short lived, for some of the rats started to run at him. As he stood in one corner, panic-stricken and kicking rats, he wondered how they got in. He had examined his room a little while back when he got his clothes, to see if it had changed and he saw no cracks or opening.

He stood there for what seemed to be weeks. He had now perfected the art of sleeping on his feet and sleeping very lightly so that when the rats nibbled him he would wake immediately. The rats were becoming a little bit more intelligent and mostly stayed away from him, but an occasional rat would get near him. He also was confused by the fact that the rats still looked healthy but they had not been eating or drinking.

He didn't think he could stand these rats much longer. Each squeak made him cringe in fear and each time he had to kick one he became more and more hesitant to touch them. Those scaly pale tails almost made him retch when he even looked at them. When they brushed up against him, he would jerk away and give a little scream. And then they were gone. Just like that, gone.

He was so relieved that he could sit and sleep in peace. And then the buzzing started. A low buzz slowly crescendoed into a noise as if huge bees were swarming the room. This buzzing droned on and on. It seemed like it would never stop. He could barely sleep and he couldn't hear himself think. This noise went on forever it seemed. He was slowly going back into the slightly comatose state when the noise slowly went away. His ears still rang, but that dreadful noise was gone! Yet again he was relieved to have the torture end.

He realized that something else bad, even worse than before, horrific, was going to happen. He dreaded what was going to happen next. He waited for the inevitable torture. He sat there waiting. That was all he could think about. What next? What next? This very question was bugging him in the same way that flies bug people. He just wanted to swat it down and squash it. Btu he couldn't. So there he sat, apprehensive. Just waiting and waiting. His body was telling him that it was over, but his mind would not hear of it. Something was going to happen. but nothing did. He just sat and sat. Nothing happened. Slowly his mind started to catch up to what had happened to him and just couldn't take it. The only life he remembered was the life in this cage.

His mind started to shut off, it need to rest, it couldn't take it anymore. And so he sat there, now he couldn't even ask the questions that distressed him before. Suddenly a perceptively small hole appeared in the wall and a thin cloud emerged. This vapor-like cloud slowly dissipated into the air. The hole disappeared and for a while nothing happened and then he stopped breathing. And somewhere, in the dark recesses of his brain a tiny synopsis fired and he smiled. He somehow knew it was finally over. Finally, the feeling of euphoria spread across his body with the poisonous vapor. At last, he is blissful.

-

The two men watched as 50937 slowly died. They could see through the walls and had been watching and recording 50937s life in his cage. They turned to each other and nodded. One of them picked up a notepad and finished writing, the other went to a console and ordered 50937s room to be disposed of. When the room slowly slid away, the one who had ordered its destruction turned and left the room. Subject 50937 didn't do anything to deserve what happened. He just happened to be what they were looking for at that time. 50937 had no family; he wasn't too strong or too weak in mind or body.

The other one finished recording the sad life of 50937 and put the file in a large filing cabinet against one wall. He went to the door but turned and looked at the picture of 50937 once more. He went to it, took it off the wall, and slowly put it through a shredder. All with no emotion. Then he left the room. He went to the next room to continue to observe and record. His next subject had been in the room for fifteen years to the day. 50937 had only been in the room for eleven months and two weeks.

Loss- by Think Tank correspondant David Franks

It was autumn, and the wind swam through the trees, rustling the leaves’ golden pageantry into a chorus of whispers, telling their secrets before dying. There was an old tree on the lawn before the old, looming house, between bow of the gravel drive and the forest’s edge. It was a grandfather tree, an ancient pine towering amidst a sea of broadleaves, grown sickly and rotten with the passage of years, its old pride as the lone sight of green in winter’s heart slowly dwindling as its branches grew brown and dropped their needles, forgot their old suppleness, and one by one were broken by wind and the weight of snow.
Horace gazed out from his chair on the house’s porch, and thought about the tree, how it had been strong and verdant in his youth, how its decay had struck him when he had returned from his long absence to the home where he had been raised, amidst the comforting closeness of the wooded hills and hollows, away from cities and flat country. He had returned, not so long ago, to care for the grandfather who had raised him, now that he had entered the autumn years.
He looked across the porch at his grandfather now, dozing in a cushioned rocking chair, a shaggy dog snoring contentedly at his feet. It seemed that there was less of him these days, and indeed his face had grown gaunt and pale, his skin wrinkled were his once-firm muscles - hardened by a lifetime’s work - had receded, leaving his limbs narrow and stick-like with only the soft remnants of muscle separating brittle bones from pale skin.
He was so different from the man Horace remembered from his childhood, who had carried him in strong arms, always sporting a contented, knowing grin, always joking and humming and laughing. He had been such a joyful, lighthearted parent, sometimes pausing mid-action to chuckle at some private joke, or breaking out into song for a half a verse, before catching himself.
But now it seemed his spindly frame was weighted down by melancholy, a deep sadness which he bore with a discomforting familiarity. There had been times, when Horace was still a boy, where his grandfather had shed his joyfulness, rare guarded moments when a shadow passed over his face, his eyes darkened, his grin vanished, and the merry clamor which he carried with him everywhere was silenced. A quiet pause, as if remembering some old sorrow, some burden from a time before Horace could recall.
These days that shadow seemed to hang over him more and more, for the old man frequently snapped at Horace, making cruel remarks and issuing loud demands, or spent long hours blankly staring, lost in some memory. It was rare for him to smile and he no longer laughed. Horace had come to suspect that old man was weeping in his private moments. It was as if a lifetime’s sorrows, long delayed, had come to trouble him in his old age.
Horace had questioned his grandfather about his changed mood but the old man had always deflected the questions with a curt “It’s nothing” or, if he was in a better mood, “just old memories, Horace”. His grandfather had always been a private man, for all his open cheer, and Horace had grown up respecting that privacy, and so did not press the matter.
Dusk began to fall, and fingers of night began to spread through the forest. Horace rose from his chair and stirred his grandfather. “Grandpa?” The old man looked up at his grandson from under heavy eyelids. “I’m going to make dinner now; I’ll come get you when it’s ready.” Then Horace placed a quick kiss on his grandfather’s forehead and did just that.

They ate silently; Horace glancing at his grandfather between bites, eating distractedly, while the old man was totally focused on his food, eating slowly, carefully, and thoroughly. This had been the pattern of their meals together since Horace returned, though in Horace’s childhood the old man was always asking Horace about his something or another: his schoolwork, his friends, what he had done that day, things of that nature. Horace missed that dinner conversation, missed the daily reminder that someone cared for him.
After they had finished eating, Horace cleared the dishes (he would wash them after his grandfather was in bed), reminded him to take his pills, and helped the old man up the stairs. They proceeded cautiously, for the stairs had become increasing difficult for his grandfather to traverse, with Horace going before him, holding his grandfather’s hand, lifting him a little bit with each step, alternating his gaze between the stairs and his grandfather’s face.
On the fifth step, he heard a gurgling noise behind him. He turned, asking “Grandpa?” and saw the old man’s face go slack, and slowly, - so slowly it seemed – he saw his grandfather’s left leg collapse, saw his left hand fly from the handrail, felt his grandfather’s bony fingers slide from his hand, saw him fall down to the floor, striking it with an ominous, jarring crack! and saw the only face he could remember ever smiling on him with unconditional love and boundless affection, distort with pain, before its eyes closed.
Now Horace flew, quickly, quickly; down the stairs to check his grandfather’s pulse, then to telephone to call an ambulance. Minutes dragged by with heavy shackles of worry before Horace heard the sirens and rushed outside. He hustled the paramedics to his grandfather; they lifted him onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, then sped off, sirens wailing.

Tense hours passed before Horace received news from the doctors. His grandfather had suffered a stroke and broken his hip in the fall. He would need surgery, and he would need to stay in the hospital for several weeks before they could release him to Horace’s care. Horace signed off on the paperwork, still half in shock over what happened. And when the shock faded, there would only remain the weight, the weight of responsibility which would hang over him so long his grandfather breathed.

That weight was still with him two and a half months later, as he sat in a comfortable reading chair in his grandfather’s bedroom, opposite the old man’s withered, sleeping figure. Watching over him, protecting him, comforting him when his secret sorrows (yes, even now Horace did not pry, he loved the old man far too much for that) came to him and threatened to overwhelm all thought and desire, to seize and occupy the whole of his mind in their vengeful, icy grip, and to torment him in his last days.
Horace could sense his grandfather’s end drawing near, could see it in the way he moved, the way he breathed, the way he spoke, his manner in all actions. Slow. Deliberate. Purposeful. It seemed as if he was very tired and only remaining awake by sheer force of will to finish some vital task before its deadline.
Ever since the night of the stroke the old man had faded; his mind was always elsewhere and every day he seemed to withdraw further into himself, into the past, into the familiar mists of memory. And as those bonds which held his mind and body together loosened, and his grip on reality weakened, Horace saw, with horrible clarity, all the ways in which his grandfather had been diminished.
Just then, the old man stirred. “Horace”, he croaked weakly, “come here”. Horace crossed the room and bent over to look his grandfather in the eye, his mouth smiling comfortingly while his eyes radiated anxiety. “Yes, grandpa”, he murmured. The old man looked at him with heavy, concerned eyes, whose gaze had never been so sharp or focused.
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you, grandpa.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For secrets, for not being there, for going away.”
“I forgive you for everything, grandpa.”
“Good.”, he said, then his eyes went wide and he stared at the room for a moment before saying, “I see them.”
“Who?”
“They’re all here, smiling. Your mother, your grandmother, Charles, your uncle Richard, and many more you don’t know, all my old friends.” Throughout all this his voice had seemed to grow weaker and fainter. He half-smiled, took a deep breath, and died.

"If there is a hell I think I'm in it" A Short Story.

I woke up face down on the sidewalk. There was a car alarm going off in the distance, begging someone to turn it off. Reluctant to leave the ground, I turned over, wiping the drool from my face. The sky was blue with little clouds to smile back at me. I stumbled to my feet, wondering how I got on that sidewalk. All I could remember was a fire and then something hitting me. I was laying just outside of a Radio Shack. The glass was smashed next to me. Interested, I got up to check it out, wincing from a bad headache. There was a lump on the back of my head ad I gingerly touched it as I looked around. In front of me was the Radio shack, I was on a New York type street. Businesses on either side of the road. About a block away I could see an intersection. There seemed to be a pileup in the middle of it, with thick black smoke coming out of a brown sedan. There was also a Swifty Gas on the far left corner of the intersection. Its sign said "cheapest gas in the city" next to it the unleaded read 8.67. I turned left back to the Radio Shack. Next to it, on the right, there was some kind of pharmacy. It was broken into with glass shattered like the Radio shack. I walked over. It was one of those new type pharmacies, you know, one that was built on borrowed money. I stepped in through the broken window. Saw some candy, and ate breakfast. I checked the prescription section, all of the pain pills were taken, so I settled on three aspirin to get rid of my headache.
I looked around for a little while. Nibbling on my fifth Payday. Then I saw him. There was a man laying on the floor in a pool of blood. I checked his pulse. Nothing. Turning him over I saw that he had been gutted. His eyes were wide open. Face twisted into a terrified grimace. I'll put it this way, I freaked. Dropped my payday. Ran outside and lost breakfast.
It took me nearly an hour before I could move from Where I threw up. I was hunched over, leaning on the wall in between the Radio shack and Pharmacy. When I finally found my strength returning I told myself that I was strong. I had seen worse.
I had stayed behind. When everyone sensible left I stayed with my father. He was sick from cancer and I told him that no matter how bad it gets outside, I wouldn't leave his side. We still had about two weeks left of food piled up in the living room.
For everyone else, the food had run out. People were scared. It was hell. The police were shooting people who had food to feed their own families. Rioting went unchallenged. I guess I never really thought about it, How cities don't really have a source of food to feed everyone. When the government ran out of money to give to the truckers, they stopped moving food see. Cities suddenly found themselves without any way to import their food, and things just went downhill from there.
Sure, plenty of people stood outside demanding that I fed their baby, I knew it was a matter of time before they really got desperate. From there it was fuzzy, but I remember a shotgun in my hands, people in police uniform and a lit of blood. I don't want to talk about it now.
Anyway I decided I needed some water. I started moving down the street. Buildings were all either broken into, on fire or both. I reached the intersection about a block away. The one with the pileup. The smell of tar, gasoline, and burning flesh filled my lungs. Coughing, I hurried towards the Swifty Gas. As I approached the door to the little shelter, I noticed twelve-gauge shotgun shells in the doorway. I knew this wasn't going to be pretty. But having already lost my breakfast, I figured I could take a look. They don't sell twelve-gauge shotguns in the city. The shooter had to be either a policeman, or one of them Mad Max types, stockpiling guns and ammunition for just this occasion. Right then I wished I was one of those guys, I would be safer now if I was.
The first thing I saw when I walked in was a man laying across the cashier counter. His blood was everywhere. I could feel the adrenaline rush and the blood pumping in my ears. My hands were suddenly sweaty and I was nervous. I could tell without investigating that he was shot in the chest. That was a no brainer. Scanning the rest of the room I saw seven other people shot. I didn't want to investigate. I just held my head up and avoided the areas where I stepped on something soft. The place was stripped bare of food, so I looked around more tentatively. Laying in the corner there was a lady. She would have been gorgeous if it hadn't been for the crusted blood all over her shirt and hair. The shooter got her in the arm. Clutched in the other one (the one still attached) There was a large bag of Cheetos. That caught my attention. Working with my adrenaline rush I grabbed it. I took a Pepsi on the ground next to her and was out of there. Once outside I felt my heart pounding and tried to calm myself. "If there is a hell I think I'm in it" I said aloud. I found myself suddenly regretting staying with my dying father.