To my oldest friend Justin,

I remember back in fourth grade, when we would go out to recess together. We invented games of our own because the other kids wouldn't let us play. Our top pick was playing Mini-Me's. We would crouch down, pull our shirts over our knees, and hop around yelling in the most irritating high pitch voices.

I remember the first time you invited me to have a sleep-over at your place. How embarassed you were to tell me that secret. The one I'll hold for you even after death. I remember how flabbergasted you were that I didn't seem to care at all. I didn't hold any judgement for you.

I remember playing with Nerf guns in your backyard. The small, cinderblock half-structure behind your dad's workshop. I remember vividly hiding behind it. Controlling my breathing with a Maverick Rev-6 in my right hand, pointed directly at you.

I remember bringing our skateboards together and comparing our terrible tricks. Neither of us ever got any good, but we still encouraged eachother.

I remember Fourth of July at your house every year. The year you accidentally shot me in the face with a roman candle. The year the giant mortar tube fell over and shot at us. Even when your mom convinced me to try potato salad for the first time and I loved it.

I remember playing the oldschool Nintendo NES your parents got you for your birthday, we loved that cowboy game, you know? The one where you had to shoot through the obstacles at eachother.

I remember every time I slept over, your dad would find a new cruel way to wake us up. It got to the point that every single night I was there, we would try to stay up all night just so we could ambush him for once. We never did succeed though.

I remember boxing in your living room, but we only had one pair of gloves. We would each fight one-handed, and when it felt like one of us was losing too badly, we would stop and switch gloves.

I remember when we grew up a little, and parted ways. When I called to talk with you like I usually did but your dad picked up. He said you weren't going to be allowed to talk for a long time. I never did find out what actually happened there.

I remember the few times as adults that you extended a hand, offered for us to do something together. I always said I was willing, but always found myself too lazy or too busy to do it.

I remember when I got the news you had taken your own life. I sat and I cried with my roommates. I told them everything I remember about you. Laughing about the stupid stories through the tears.

I know I turned my back on you. Probably when you needed me most. I hope you know that it was never my intention. I still valued you as a friend. I do hope that wherever you are, you've found the peace that you couldn't find here. If not take peace in this: you always wanted to leave a mark on the world. To solidify your space as someone to be remembered. You will never be forgotten.

~A.B.

There once was a man named Brian. Brian enjoyed Mac n’ Cheese. So Brian took some pasta out of his pantry and placed it on the counter. He then proceeded to pull butter, milk, and cheese out of his refridgerator. After filling a pot from a nearby cupboard with water from his kitchen sink Brian was ready. With a sigh of anticipation, Brian opened up a journal on the counter to a fresh page and dated the top left corner, then without delay he began his process. Salting the boiling water like a pure professional, stirring the pot with the finesse of a renowned home cook, producing beautiful pasta at a perfect al dente. Swiftly he moved to the sink, colander in one hand and pot full of boiling, steaming, bubbling saltwater in the other. Carefully and slowly he poured, losing no more than seven peices. He softly and carefully shook the pasta in the colander to shed any excess water then poured his pasta back into the pot. Carefully and precisely, he sliced into his butter and poured milk into his measuring cup. After pouring the milk and butter into the pot full of thick, luscious pasta, he reached for his cheese. He opened his bag, assessed the contents, and then proceeded to pour the whole bag in with the pasta, butter, and milk. He then placed the pot back on the stove and began to stir. As the cheese and butter began to melt and the milk began to bubble, Brian began to blush, a slight smile crept across his face as he slowly stirred his Mac’ n Cheese. Brian’s eyes went wide. He realized he’d forgotten something. He raced to the pantry full speed, sliding on his linoleum floor straight to the door and swinging it wide open. He swiftly reached inside and grabbed a aluminum tin full of home-made Panko bread crumbs. Bolting back to the stove, sliding to a perfect stop right in front of his pot, he popped off the lid and poured a moderate handful of bread crumbs on top of his Mac n’ Cheese. He paused, a giddy feeling filled his heart and an involuntary grin flashed across his face. He turned off the stove, got a bowl from the nearest cupboard, and poured the golden, cheese drenched pasta into the bowl. Delicately he took a spoon out of a drawer beneath the countertop and placed his bowl next to the notebook. With a flush, pink face and a massive grin, he dug his spoon into his Mac n’ Cheese, scooped out a heaping spoonful, and stuck it in his mouth. Slowly chewing, he closed his eyes, his face expressing pure ecstacy. He chewed and chewed until suddenly, his expression changed. He swallowed quickly with a displeased look on his face. Brian picked up his pen and one line below the date he wrote, “More butter.” He slammed his notebook closed and dumped his Mac’ n Cheese in the garbage can. He placed his bowl in the sink, grabbed a single piece of bread out of the pantry and walked up the stairs back to his room. The End.

There once was a man named Brian. Brian enjoyed Mac n’ Cheese. So Brian took some pasta out of his pantry and placed it on the counter. He then proceeded to pull butter, milk, and cheese out of his refridgerator. After filling a pot from a nearby cupboard with water from his kitchen sink Brian was ready. With a sigh of anticipation, Brian opened up a journal on the counter to a fresh page and dated the top left corner, then without delay he began his process. Salting the boiling water like a pure professional, stirring the pot with the finesse of a renowned home cook, producing beautiful pasta at a perfect al dente. Swiftly he moved to the sink, colander in one hand and pot full of boiling, steaming, bubbling saltwater in the other. Carefully and slowly he poured, losing no more than seven peices. He softly and carefully shook the pasta in the colander to shed any excess water then poured his pasta back into the pot. Carefully and precisely, he sliced into his butter and poured milk into his measuring cup. After pouring the milk and butter into the pot full of thick, luscious pasta, he reached for his cheese. He opened his bag, assessed the contents, and then proceeded to pour the whole bag in with the pasta, butter, and milk. He then placed the pot back on the stove and began to stir. As the cheese and butter began to melt and the milk began to bubble, Brian began to blush, a slight smile crept across his face as he slowly stirred his Mac' n Cheese. Brian's eyes went wide. He realized he'd forgotten something. He raced to the pantry full speed, sliding on his linoleum floor straight to the door and swinging it wide open. He swiftly reached inside and grabbed a aluminum tin full of home-made Panko bread crumbs. Bolting back to the stove, sliding to a perfect stop right in front of his pot, he popped off the lid and poured a moderate handful of bread crumbs on top of his Mac n' Cheese. He paused, a giddy feeling filled his heart and an involuntary grin flashed across his face. He turned off the stove, got a bowl from the nearest cupboard, and poured the golden, cheese drenched pasta into the bowl. Delicately he took a spoon out of a drawer beneath the countertop and placed his bowl next to the notebook. With a flush, pink face and a massive grin, he dug his spoon into his Mac n' Cheese, scooped out a heaping spoonful, and stuck it in his mouth. Slowly chewing, he closed his eyes, his face expressing pure ecstacy. He chewed and chewed until suddenly, his expression changed. He swallowed quickly with a displeased look on his face. Brian picked up his pen and one line below the date he wrote, "More butter." He slammed his notebook closed and dumped his Mac' n Cheese in the garbage can. He placed his bowl in the sink, grabbed a single piece of bread out of the pantry and walked up the stairs back to his room. The End.

Oh to be alone, a sweet sadness,

sugar to thine mind but let's the heart rot in madness

thine eyes will glaze with drab, matte, blackness

and thou shalt be consumed by the dark void's vastness.

But oh what will thou unblock?

What walls will decay, fade, crumble like chalk?

What demons hide in deep dark corners waiting to be stopped?

What secret of thine will the lone key unlock?

And to thou who fear the word "alone,"

Fear not to turn thine heart to stone,

for all the pain thou hast ever known

can be ripped from it's living, breathing throne.

The lone wolf is alone for a reason,

it's because he's still trying to kill all his demons.

I can close my eyes and see an array of lights, sequencing beautifully. I can sit in silence and hear myself conduct a symphony. I can watch a movie, written by me, starring my favorite actors in my favorite genre. All in my head. If only I knew how to write a symphony on paper. How to create a beautiful light show. How to direct a movie. Unfortunately, the only people who can teach me to express my imagination will also teach me to kill it. I can let the restraints, editing, publishing, critiquing, and the element of failure destroy my imagination, or I can keep that imagination. Pure, unadulterated, unedited by the public and allow myself to fully enjoy the artwork of my mind. To me, the choice is simple. I can't live off imaginary checks.

Nobody can quiet them. They don’t cease they just scratch, scream, laugh, and whatever other terrible noises they decide to make. I try to fight them, to get them to shut the hell up. Every time I do, I’m reminded that I’m only fighting myself, then I always lose. Doc says I need some pills. Then a few more pills and maybe a couple more at bed time. Dad says I need to pray. Only words mom says to me are in my head, since she died, but nothing she says is helpful. She usually tells me to kill myself. I think she only says that because that’s what she did, though.

Schizo. Great. New nickname from the friends. I’m impressed with their creativity, normally they simply wouldn’t give a shit and keep calling me by my name. But then again all the friends are just me as well, so I guess I’m just calling it like I see it. There’s voices that are better than others. I’ve come to know a couple of them, Ryan, my best friend. He’s a cool guy, but he never stops talking. Eventually all his tones become white noise, and the longer you listen the harder it is to pay attention. There’s Kate, I guess she’s my schizophrenic-brain-created Waifu, because I evidently have a huge crush on her despite her being a figment of my hyperactive brain’s imagination. She’s only around when I feel lonely though, she talks me through it. As soon as I feel better, the others threaten her and then she gets quiet. Sometimes I worry they’ll hurt her. Then I remember they’re not real. She’s not real.

Sometimes I wonder about strange hypotheticals, trying to justify my disability. Maybe, a detailed analysis would show that my brain waves and ears are tuned to an alternate universe? What if I just happen to be tuned in to the wrong place? Every time I do that, Ryan rationalizes, tells me I was just dealt a crappy hand. My brain was made broken, and that’s all there is too it. He’s probably right, I can’t help but wonder though. Maybe I’m some horrible government expiriment and that’s why they want me taking the pills. The voices have told me that before. I’m always a little hesitant to trust them but then I remember I am them. They aren’t real. It becomes really difficult to discern reality from brain-fabrications when the majority of what I hear are the latter. I don’t think the voices want me to keep writing anymore. I know how it’ll be if I don’t stop so... Goodbye. For now.

~A.B.

You hear the faint trickling of a stream a few meters away, deep somewhere in the forest. The trees block the light of the nearly full moon, leaving you shrouded in darkness. Each stone, each tree another obstacle to dodge as you sprint by with ease. “Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!” But they’re still closing on you. Weaving between trees in the forest, you can hear the arrows smacking into trees behind you and whistling by your head. Any false move could leave you dead. But it’s too late. You’re already free. The ground leaves your feet as you fly over a sudden edge, leaping forward with all your might and plunging into the sloshing, foamy, white and blue depths below. The impact sucks the air from your lungs, the cold instantly numbs your hands and feet. Now is the hard part. You clench your body into a ball the best you can, pulling your bound hands from behind your back to under your legs and in front of your body, while carefully holding your breath. After tearing your cloth bindings on a sharp rock, you finally rise to the surface of the tossing ocean. Where is it? Scanning your surroundings, you see smoke rising from a small rock about a half kilometer southeast. It must be. You summon your strength, take a deep breath, and begin to tear through the water, swimming like your life depended on it. Because it did, of course. As you swim you continue to hear distinct noises behind you, little splashes and plunks, once covered by the violent waves crashing against the Cliffside, are now quite clear. You stop to turn and investigate, only to be struck in the shoulder with a serrated arrow from an archer atop the cliff. You gasp out in pain as blood begins to rush from your wound, replaced by the stinging of salt water. You do the only thing you could do. You dive. Still headed in the direction of the rock, you hope. Seeing the occasional arrow stream through the water within a few meters and only coming up for air when absolutely necessary, you finally reach your destination. You’re out of the archer’s range now. A rope hangs from the top of the rock, fresh and unfrayed, the back end of a grappling hook just barely visible against the moonlight above. You grip the rope and begin to climb. Your palms rip and tear on the rope, you slip and cut your feet on the rocks, but you finally reach the top. One chance. As you reach the top of the rock you look across at the coast nearest to you. Atop the cliff sits a castle. Even from this far, you can still hear the faint screams of the tortured prisoners, those being burned alive, or drowned slowly, or stretched on a rack. Just the noises are enough to haunt a man, but You? It fills you with rage, it reminds you why you’re here, why you’ve done this, why you have an arrow sticking from your arm and scars all over your body. You approach the flame. One bow. One arrow. Wrapped in cloth and soaked in oil. You take a deep breath, and take up your arms. Knocking and lighting your arrow, you recall exactly where in the courtyard the barrels of pitch sit in preparation for the battle that’s supposed to take place tomorrow. You draw. Inhale. Exhale. “Thwick!” A bright light streams through the air, and a few seconds after it leaves your sight, you see the castle go up in flames. With a smile, you lay down on the rock. It’s over. You get to go home.

~A.B.

Oh how we try. We try so hard, controlling our surroundings, adapting to the situation, a constant flow of energy being pulled from us into the world around us, swirling higher and higher, up a chain of folded green papers that rises ever so high into the sky. All who dare to climb this beanstalk of numbers and presidential faces are prone to meet a giant, and down the beanstalk they tumble, either dying on impact or living out the rest of their days dragging behind the herd, constantly stuck on what could've been.

You see we try because we have no idea how beyond our control this really is when we play by the rules. Imagine a revolution. If we put down our phones and picket signs, opted for what needed to happen, would we all die? Probably. So what rules do we fight and how do we fight them? Who knows? Oh right, nobody. Because the same giants who grew the beanstalk underpaid for our education and took away our right to know how to host a revolution. Ah, but we can still take up arms, right? No, because those who actually want change have been manipulated into a category, a subculture of anti-violence, so we protest the only right that could save us. Free speech, but nobody listens because every voice is different, and nobody can hear us all at once. Deflected and scattered, everyone who wants change is speaking over eachother and leaving us about as effective as a fan in the window to help the giants sleep at night. And the beanstalk grows higher and higher into the sky, the giants continue to have more and more to take from while what we have remains the same. Constantly distracted by a new way you're supposed to feel, a new thing you're supposed to say, and spending more time editing your feelings than editing the destruction all around you. Brush past the smoke, read between the lines, and when the time comes to defeat the giants, I'll be there. Will you?

A scar was left behind.

It's not by this that I'm defined,

but through the pain you caused me,

I am now refined.

Perfected, I can go completely undetected,

socially inept, but consider myself blessed

because there's something I can see,

and it's the people I detest.

Isolated, exterior completely jaded,

My heart has faded,

because I know what I can be

and with a soul my skills are wasted.

This is how I tell you: there is no "we,"

There is only me.

~A.B.