Oh, I have one hundred words left? Gee, one hundred words. That seems like a lot. Hm, what should I say? There are so many possibilities! Should I talk to my family? My friends? Maybe I should apologize to that kid I pushed down the stairs that one time in second grade. Nah, I’m sure he’s over it. Maybe I should give a speech. Yes, that’s it! A public speech to inspire the masses! A speech that will motivate those down on their luck to keep going! A speech to save the world! Alright, here I go. Attention, everyone! I-

Stark white snow falling over a beat-up gravel path,

The spirit of winter in the air, the smell of spruce and dampness,

Sun rays shining as bright as a lover's laugh,

The drip of melting water becoming a rhythm bound to impress,

Even the weariest of souls.

Around me it is beautiful.

The leaves on the trees,

delicately coated with droplets

of rain-

are greener than the greenest

emeralds.

And the river

Oh! The river-

it sparkles,

clearer than glass

and brighter than the whitest

smile.

Here there are the loveliest orchids

and hummingbirds hover around them,

feeding joyously.

Here there are creatures incomprehensibly

unique,

creatures that you can find

nowhere else.

Here there is light,

there is beauty,

and there is life.

Late July

and the concrete burns like charcoal embers

We dance and skip across the driveway

like pigeons playing hopscotch

The grass is bright and green and cool

A blanket on which we play

Leaping through the sprinkler

Like tiny madmen on fire

The air smells of earth and sun and joy

Lips stained red and blue

And we stretch and grow as the sun feeds our souls

Time is an abstract concept

Punctuated only by the grumble of a hungry belly

Wrapped in brightly colored towels

We sit and shiver and with hurried bites we eat

And only stop to sip the tinny, ice cold water from the hose

The sun is setting in colors that blaze across the atmosphere

Fiery at first then pinks and blues

A perfect cotton candy sky

Warm breezes that wrap around our bodies like a blanket

The smell of jasmine as it opens to the moon

The night is languid and fills with stars

We catch them in our hands

They blink and fly and disappear

In Late July

Lazy writer:

I slashed at him. He blocked, then he stabbed me in the stomach.

"Ow!" I said. I grabbed his sword and fell backwards. We fell off a cliff and into the sea.

Standard writer:

Crusted blood marred the salmon-orange hues of the sunset mirrored in his blade. I drunk deeply of my last moments: the salt of the ocean breeze, the graveled stones beneath my feet, the thunderous waves carving the cliffs below. His blade descended--I closed my eyes. Calm flushed away adrenaline. The twisting grip on my sword loosened. Dipping against the harsh wind rolling up the sheer drop below, I allowed gravity to direct my fall.

Instinct drove my foot forward and my sword up. Metal clanged against metal. Like the waves, my blade sheared up his own, throwing the tip skyward and exposing his belly. The ocean again crashed against the rocks below; my blade buried deep into his gut.

With a howl akin to a cornered animal, he grasped the blade. painting it wine red as his palms slid down to the hilt.

My strength gave out. As though he could sense the grasp of death upon me, he twisted, plummeting us both to the sea below.

I smiled. I had taught him well.

Fantasy writer:

Salmon-orange hues of the twin suns descending behind the Blackart Mountains mirrored in the Blade of Heavens. Leth'nard drunk deeply of his last moments: the salt of the Crescend Ocean, the graveled stones beneath his feet, the thunderous waves carving the Drecar Cliffs below. The Blade of Heavens fell, flames igniting upon its edge. Leth'nard closed his eyes. Calm flushed away adrenaline. The twisting grip on his old sword, Uthgart, loosened.

The tingle of Spice filled his veins. Movements became a blur. Metal clanged. Uthgart burst in a shower of ice; metal shards struck Blackfaart's exposed belly.

With a howl akin to a Craven Woolf, Blackfaart grasped Uthgart, the blade of ice painting his palms wine red.

The Spice sapped away strength. As though Blackfaart could sense the Spice consuming what little grasp Leth'nard had left on the Almswald, he twisted, plummeting to the Crescend Ocean below.

Leth'nard smiled as he fell with his old friend. The Blade of Heaven commanded death, as the prophecy stated, after all.

Free-verse poet:

Slash

An evening of lush salmon-pinks and deep

orange

hues the blade.

Waves below roar for death;

Skies above watch with their misty breath

purling

between us.

We meet in the middle,

blood

colors our friendship.

We ride the wind into the sea.

Silly rhyme poet:

I slash him;

He slashes me.

We slash each other

into the sea.

Children's author

There are seven ducks in the pond.

Look at the ducks, George, look at the ducks.

George looks at the ducks.

In the fog and mist, as the fetid air hung oppressively upon the waters, in the distant reaches of my hearing, twigs broke under the weight of an overconfident creature. One that obviously did not know how to approach things with care. I opened my eyes, and wiggled a bit, sending ripples that disturbed the gray-brown depths.

The creature took more steps coming closer, treading on more twigs. It was as if it was intentional.

And there it stood before me; an erect, fully-clothed philosopher. Those wandering fools are always a menace, poisonous to eat, yet irksom and disruptive. Better to expose those fools to the elements at birth, i say.

as expected, the philosopher started to talk.

He told me that I existed!

The scoundrel!

Could you believe such impudance?!

Can you believe such cruelty? !

I was perfectly satisfied, content to wallow in my non-being, and suddenly this ruffian with a central nervous system, accuses me of BEING!

It hurts, i tell you.

And for what? What did i do to deserve such vileness?

But, since the philosopher brought up the subject so scandalously, i demanded to know by what right does he offer such slander.

'It is no slander, thou creature. You exist and it is my self-evident right to express this fact publicly. Nay. I state here that you exist not ONLY as a concept but as a material being'

'Why would you say such things?' I demanded angrily.

'I say such things because they are the truth' said he calmly.

'That doesn't make sense. I fail to see the motivation here, you liar. I don't see you declaring such things of the rock behind you or the oxpecker that just flew past. If they exist and it is the truth, which you value so, why are you not calling them out of oblivion!?'

'i could call out rocks or trees, blackflies and newts and have done so in the past. It is unfair that you doubt my sincerity in such a way, knowing not what transpired before.'

'Perhaps i know not what transpired before because i do not exist. Furthermore, do you mean to tell me with honesty, that you concluded your round of stating the existance of all things of extant nature and now got around to declaring my existence? What a busy man you must be! Well, if you haven't finished your survey , don't let me stand in your way, i see a willow in the distance whose being is questionable at best, a dubious mountain-peak must be really grating you over yonder. '

'I shall not waste my time with trifling arguments. You exist and must ...'

'Must me no Musts! ' said i. My spines were already well lathered by that point 'my arguments are valid, I can anticipate that you shall tell me of how your eyes are now watching me, wnd how your ears hear me, and thus I exist, shed light of truth upon, by your senses. But answer me this, you rajah of conceit. Answer this; why occupy yourself with such dangers as defining and observing, if in the end, it brings you in mortal danger?' I said, springing out of the water, ready to make my move.

I stood there with my tentacles flaring, my radula bearing, my ooze dripping and my eyes glaring,

'I am not in danger. ' declared the philosopher calmly. There was even a hint of annoyance in his voice that I would even suggest such a thing.

'Are you not in danger? Do venomous talons not lascarate you? Do electric tentacles not shock you? Do well sharpned radula not scrape you? If I prick you, do you not bleed?'

'There! That last one. Proof! Proof that you exist! Shylock! You can not be non-existant and still know of the merchant of Venice. '

To be honest , he had me there. I knew of the bard, and therefore by implication existed.

The pain of such a realization was great. Not every day, one receives such horrid news.

I twisted and turned in agony. As I was writhing, the wretched watched with glee.

It took much to overcome the pain , and I vowed revenge.

'It is not truth you are after, though sadist. It is gratfication. ' i declared furiously.

'Well then, I shall now find ways to impart upon you just how existant i am!' I hurried and pounced, sending my favored tail ahead, to seize him. My senses reported that nothing was caught under me. I looked within my coils and found no struggling philosopher. No desperate cogitator. Up ahead , though, I could see the academic, sneering in self satisfaction. Slippery and fast , he escaped my next lunge, avouding the rasps and barbs as if they were made of gelatine. He laughed in joy as I writhed in suffering and wrath. Mocking my existance, yet prooving it all the same. This amusent though was his downfall.

'I see you derive pleasure from my existance, though by this, you betray your intent. ' i said.

'It is to tell the truth, and no more. I can not deny my pleasure at being proven correct.'

'I can see that. it is then your pursuit of a pleasing truth that motivates you! Other truths that are not so pallatable, or seem too mundane to you are easily ignored and neglected. If that is the case, then you are no philosopher. You wre a pornographer. Almost the same word but worlds apart. '

'Don't call me a pornographer!' Demanded the philosopher.

'You stick lables and distinctions analyse and compare, construct and deconstruct, but only if it brings you pleasure. And a very cheap pleasure at that. The anguish and humiliation of another being. You called me existant only to strip me down of any comfort and wholsomeness that come along with being non-existant. Oblivious i was, before I was an I. Now that you shoved that sharp pain into being, you pride yourself and jubilate, relish your intellectual superiority. What is it more, than smut and degradadion. Pornographer you are, though you may have advanced titles of learning, they are given to you, no doubt by fellow slippery pornographer. I hope you wash your hands well after shaking all those hands. Don't know where those palms have been. Probably occupied as you do, with pornography. '

'Stop it! stop it stop it!!' said the wretch, and raised his hands to bar my rebuke any more.

He did not notice, that as i was berating him thusly, one of my longer tentacles moved and slithered up the bank. Patiance is a virtue that beings that Recently came to exist have in abundance. In the hurry that follows they lose it, and spend the rest of their life looking for it again. I had overcome his derison, but still held on to some patiance, and made use of it now, desperately.

'You suck the goodness that you find, and escape, through the chaos that you sow. But some day , someone will not be so moved, and then..'

Snap!

I reeled in that long tentacle, not with the intention of coiling and grasping, but with the intention of striking!

The massive , whiplike motion slamned against his back and legs, driving into his khaki knickerbockers the spikes of my venom. He fell to his knees, the eyes open in confusion and terror, as the muscles of his legs and lower back betrayed him. I pounced on him with all my tentacles, throwing aside his binoculars, and notepad, his pith helmet and his empirical instrumention case. (God knows what he planned to do with that). As i rasped his skin with my radula, I knew at once the monstrous nature of existance, which he was so confident he could avoid. I felt pity for him at that moment, and despite my earlier desire for inflicting on him a torment of existential proportions, i merely swallowed him whole, extinguishing his loathsome philosophical perspective. I've since had many regrets and devoured many organisms. But never again sought to draw pleasure from the suffering of others.

Well.. except for writing...

It was a long day at work. The endless corridor under Cott Arena seems to get further from the parking garage every day. And so far, the undercover mission has yielded nothing. My superiors at the FBI are going to pull the plug any day. While my employee badge says Janice Snow, my real name is Carla Johnston. I'm an FBI special agent.

How did a rookie fresh from the academy get assigned to this op? I look young. Nobody in the Cott cartel suspects that the high school girl running the concession stand is with the FBI.

A sudden noise makes me stop in my tracks: a woman's scream echoes down the hallway. I dump my backpack and grab my Beretta from the hidden pocket. I chamber a round and clip the tactical headset to my ear. With gun low and ready, I advance up the hall.

Focus, deep breaths. Pick your target. Remember your training. I reach a door with light under it. My heart starts to race. No time to call anyone, this one is all you.

But as I reach for the knob, a figure bolts from the darkness. In an instant I'm face to face with a giant. He goes to tackle me, but I twist free and fire twice, hitting him once, but he doesn't go down. He slams me to the wall as I pull the trigger twice more but hits the barrel before I can line up a third shot. Two more point blank to the chest. He keeps coming. He connects with a left, but I pivot right and land a roundhouse kick to his head. He doesn't even blink.

I break free and run, hitting the panic button on the radio and reloading a magazine. But he's faster. I pivot to fire but he tackles me. The gun falls from my hand.

A bee sting burns my neck where the needle goes in. My knees give out as I go for the gun, but it's out of reach. It's too late, I'm finished.

He withdraws the syringe and smiles, revealing a mouthful of broken teeth.

Everything fades to black.

The ability to freeze time, on its surface, seems to be one of the greatest abilities with which a person could be bestowed. With it, you could save lives, travel the world and learn new skills in seconds, and shape the arc of society in your image. In fact, the opportunities granted to you by such an ability must surely be limited only by the bounds of your own imagination.

However, I would argue that the best thing you could do with such a gift is nothing at all. Time is the currency that gives our lives value, and by making it limitless, even for just one individual, you risk fundamentally corrupting the meaning of life for the entire human race. Yes, tragedy is, by definition terrible, but in bearing witness to it we develop the empathy and community that makes us our humanity. Yes, lost moments or missed opportunities are unfortunate, but it is the risk inherent to such events that inspires us to take chances and roll the dice in the hope that our lives may be made better for it. And yes, struggling and losing are never fun, but they are the very experiences that make us fight so hard to succeed and win.

As such, I believe that, should you be able to freeze and unfreeze time at will, you should never do so. Life is not meant to be lived in installments, but as a whole, and life's most precious qualities, from love to community to freedom, cannot be properly appreciated without the unceasing march of time to spur them on. The one exception to this rule, I believe, is that you could, in moments of real importance, pause time to simply cherish what you have been given, but even this should be done sparingly and with an understanding that even these moments must, one day, come to an end.

Somewhere, near a quiet town reminiscent of decades past, under broad, clear skies, and amidst oaks and aspens shedding their leaves once again, a woman named Melanie arrived at the lake. There was nothing particularly striking about her: middle-aged with thinning hair and sallow skin, who had no ambition nor strive in her youth, and now reported to an office as a secretary for a large insurance company that cared neither for its clients nor its employees. Her life was dull: unremarkable, planned out, methodical, predictable.

She had never felt any significant desire to be daring or spontaneous, instead choosing to settle down into a mundane but sufficient life. However, something changed yesterday. Melanie had seen a picture of the lake the day before in a discarded travel catalog on the sidewalk close to her home, now hundreds of miles away from where she stood. On a whim, as if it was almost calling to her, she had booked a flight to Vermont and immediately set out to see the lake.

The drive through the forest to get to an open area of lakefront in her old, rented Ford had Melanie grasping the steering wheel with wet palms, her nerves fringed with anticipation for a reason she could not quite place. Thoughts raced through her mind as she reflected on the past twenty-four hours. Hastily booking a flight and departing with only her purse and a coat, she now realized, was something absurdly out of character for her, something that she would never have imagined herself doing. “Why?” she wondered to herself. Why did her heart pound so rapidly within her chest? Why did she desire so strongly to see this lake? As she drove through the forest with her empty stomach and stale clothes, she found that despite her rash choices, she didn’t seem to care.

Finally, after reaching a secluded part of the shoreline, she abandoned her car and hiked up a short way till she stood on a small, cliff-like ledge. The strong blue currents lapping against the rocky shores of the lake entranced Melanie as she stared at the rhythmic movement, almost unable to take her eyes away from them. “How beautiful!” she gasped aloud to no one. From where she was standing, she could see the expanse of water spread out far and wide under the cloudless sky with the occasional cluster of oak trees scattered along the shore. A thought quickly flitted across Melanie’s mind. She remembered that the travel catalog had depicted many groups of families and friends laughing and traversing the water in boats, but where were they now? No cheers of laughter, no creatures swimming beneath the surface, and not even the songs of birds were present. The water was beautiful yet barren. A heavy, leaden feeling settled in her chest before her mind suddenly cleared and she remembered why she was there. “To see the water, of course,” she exhaled with a grin.

She stood on that small ledge for hours. The sky grew darker and the temperature cooler as night approached, yet Melanie had no urge to leave. Everything in that moment felt completely right- her underlying hatred of herself and her unexceptional life soothed and disappeared as she listened to the waves crashing against the rocks below her.

Suddenly, in the dimming light, a flash of movement in the water caught her eye. “What was that, there, in the distance?” she thought to herself, her pulse quickening with concern. “A hand? A child’s hand? Oh god, was someone stuck here all this time?” Without hesitation, she suddenly began making her way down the steep ledge, tripping and stumbling over rocks in the dark. Loose stones seemed to evade her feet as she sought stable ground, cutting her calves and causing her to wince in pain as her ankles twisted and bent at unnatural angles. She didn’t care. She needed to know what she saw. Finally, she stepped into the lake. One foot at a time, she trudged into the cold, inky water, gasping from the pain in her wounded legs and seeing her blood create red swirls in the water she left behind her. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. Further and further she went, as if in a daze, unable to stop as she felt the frigid water rapidly rushing up her body.

Whatever she saw in the water, she could see no longer. There was no hand, no child, no one on the verge of drowning in the dark. There was only Melanie, now struggling to keep her head above the water, coughing and sputtering as the lake water seemed to tug her further out. Her heart felt like it could nearly explode with panic, yet Melanie could feel her fear being placated by a strange, muddled state of mind. Something wanted her to go deeper, yes, deeper into the water below. She could feel her body protesting with all its might. Somewhere deep in her mind, she could hear cries of “No! No! Please, no!”, yet the urge to comply with that inviting feeling overpowered that small voice of consciousness, so far off lost in the sea of her thoughts now.

At last, with an unnatural sense of calmness, Melanie allowed the desire of the water to slowly sink her to the bottom of that frigid, dark lake.