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Click. Click. Click.

With each click of the mouse, the view of trees grew larger on the flat computer screen. The room was dark, as it normally was. Not really a room, a freshly prompted white wall stood where empty space should be in the garage. The hum of the AC ruled from across the room, struggling against the summer heat to keep the man cave cool.

Click. Click. Click.

Again, the click of the mouse kept the movement alive. The faintly gray light created silhouettes upon the room. A messy queen size bed laid on the floor, with no frame to hold it up. The light casted a glare on the glossy Hustler and GameInformer magazine covers on top of the bed; both were reflected by a slender mirror in the corner. Aside from the hum of the air, the sound from the computer speakers, at full volume, washed over the players’ ears. His eyes fixated on the screen, he bites his lower lip. He stops his frantic clicking and hear the eerie soundtrack. The player wipes a strand of hair from his face and leans in, his face just a hand space away from the screen. He squints, looking for the signs of what he doesn’t want.
“Don’t pop up now, Slendy…”
The sound of white noise starts to pick up, and the player franticly starts clicking on the mouse again. His eyes wide, his full attention on the screen, he was unaware his door began opening. The light touched a figure that stood stock still, observing the player.
In the chair, the player clinches his toes and wraps his thick ankles around each other. He stops clicking the mouse, and turns the avatar around to see what the eerie noise is coming from.
“Hey fat ass!”
A shrill squeal filled the room as the large player falls out of his chair. Heavy breathing, on his back with his hands over his face, his head is shifting from the monitor to the door, and back.
“Don’t kill me, Slender Man! I’ll do anything you say!”
Laughter came from the figure in the doorway. Not sinister, but laughter of hilarity. The man stumbles in the dark as he enters the room.
“I got money. I know you don’t use it in your palace. Don’t eat my soul, Slender Man! It’s all I got left!”
The figure’s hand reached up and pulled the light, making the player on the ground wince. Slowly he opens his eyes and standing over him with a large smile was a long haired, slender young man with a soul patch: His best friend. With his heart racing the player shook his head.
“Ryan you asshole, you almost gave me a heart attack.”
Ryan nodded, “I know, Billy. But dude, you were so into your little game I had to bring you into the real world.” Ryan looks at the screen, which is now red with Game Over written. “The fuck you playing, anyways?”
Billy used his bed to help him up. Unlike his best friend, Billy was nowhere near slender. Chunky in every place, the former high school chess champion took a deep breath to calm his rapid heart beating. He dusted off his torn blue jeans and wondered inwardly how his room gets dusty. He looks back up to Ryan, who was lighting a cigarette.
“Slender Man.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow, “I know I’m skinny, but that doesn’t tell me what got your undivided attention.”
“I just told you, Slender Man. The master of disaster, the lord of the unknown,” Billy saluted, “The most awesomeest badass that the universe ever spawned.”
Ryan blinked. “You mean that fucking comic book shit that made those Twilight fucks go nuts in Wisconsin?”
“Fuck Twilight.”
Ryan shook his head, “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
Billy nodded, “Twilight was a movie that almost game me an anus orgasm.”
“A what?”
Billy gave him a droll stare, “A urine ism. You know what I mean. Where your brain just fries and dies!”
“That… You mean an aneurysm, Billy.”
“That’s what I said, a urine ism.”
“It’s aneurysm.”
“I said that”
“You’re going to give me one,” Ryan huffed and grabbed his long, brown hair.
“I was playing Slender Man,” Billy said with a prideful smile.
Ryan went over to the computer, sat on the rotating chair and clicked out the game. He blinked as he tilted his head. “Are you on a website where you actually talk about porn?”
Billy nodded as he sat on his bed, “Yeah dude. Those discussions get heated quick.”
Using the mouse scroll, Ryan scanned the comments. Billy was right, things escalated quickly in the forms. He gave a half shrug and went to Facebook and signed into his. He stops and looks back at Billy who was reading an article about the next Assassin’s Creed. “Why aren’t you on Facebook?”
Billy looks up, his head tilted, “Because I don’t go to Harvard, duh.”
Ryan’s jaw went slack, “I have my doubts you finished high school but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“You saw the movie about Facebook, it’s for Harvard pricks.” Billy turned the page, “That’s why I chill on MySpace, where the real people are.”
Ryan fully turns in the chair, “Dude, Facebook is for everyone. And I seriously haven’t heard anyone mention Myspace in like eight years.”
Ryan was met with a blank stare.
The sound of a message on Facebook caught Ryan’s attention. “Mark just messaged me.”
“That’s a cat who hasn’t scat as of lat.”
Ryan ignored him as he replied. As he waited for the reply he scanned his timeline. He clicked ‘like’ on a few marijuana legalization memes, tour dates of the Kottonmouth Kings, and his cousin’s new relationship status. A new message flashed, to show Mark has replied.
On the bed Billy looked around his room. On the far corner he noticed a cob web being blown by the airstream of the AC. His eyes shifted back to Ryan and sniffed the air. The smoke reached him and made him grimace and gag. Billy pulled his black Gears of War shirt over his nose and took a deep breath. With a shield against the smoke, Billy continue reading the Assassin’s Creed article.
Ryan gracefully lifts up and puts his cigarette out on Billy’s desk. He looks back, “Get your shoes on.”
“Where we going? Dairy Queen? Hi-5 Frozen Custard? Culver’s? Ben and Jerry’s Scoop Shop?” Billy listed off each ice cream joint with more enthusiasm and hope than the last.
“No, fat ass. Well, we might. First, we are going to Mark. He got some Mountain Dew.”
“Oh! Code Red or Baja Blast?”
Ryan shook his head, “No you idiot. Mountain. Dew,” he emphasis on each word.
Billy blinked and then realization hit. Mountain Dew was their code word for weed. Billy smiled, “Hell yeah. You driving? My license sort of got taken away.”
Billy looked away quickly. “No reason.”
Ryan raised a finger and lowered it, then shook his head. There is no telling the depths of his friends’ stupidity. “Actually, we’re walking. You know I don’t got a car.”
Billy frowned, “We’re walking! But it’s fucking heat stroke weather out there.”
Ryan nods, “You got water. I checked your fridge before I came in.”
“Who let you in the kitchen?”
“Your mom let me in the house, my feet walked me to the kitchen. It’s sort of connected to the house, you know.”
“She’s not my mom, she’s my roommate. Who happened to have given me birth.”
The duo walks out of the dark garage suite and outside the side door. Billy winces and shields his face, letting out a bellow.
“Fuck! I should invest in some sunglasses.”
Ryan half shrugs, “You could, I don’t know, get out of your house for more than five seconds, then your eyes would be used to sunlight.”
Billy lowered his hands but kept the glare he spared for his friend. They began walking to the end of Billy’s drive way, as he pulls to a stop. Ryan stops next and looks at his friend. He almost asked what he was staring at but in the corner of his eye he saw it.
Across the street to the right, in the driveway laid two blonde German sisters sunbathing. Ryan nodded his approval with a sly grin as the older sister went topless and laid back down on the pool chair. Ryan turned slightly to see Billy practically drooling over the sisters.
They have been his neighbors for over five years now, and he stares at them every time they come from their house; yet he has never had the courage to talk to them. Billy knew who they were: His dream girls, the both of them. Any chance he got, he’d steal Old Man Roger’s blind poodle so he can pretend to have a dog to walk and go near their house. He’d hear yelling from the house, but he chalked it up to them being foreign and that’s how foreigner’s talk, according his Billy’s dad. Once he caught Morgen, the older sister, sunbathing topless on her back. Since then his crush escalated, but every time he tried to talk to them he forget how to talk. The best he ever could do was a wave.
Ryan smacked his back, bringing him to reality. “The fuck?”
Ryan gestured, “Go talk to them, lunchbox.”
“And say what?”
“How about Du siehst wunderschön aus?”
Billy blinked, “You know German?”
Ryan huffed, “I wanted American Sign Language. But every time I went to spell my name I ended up flipping off the teacher. So they put me in German.”

The Talk

The Talk


     He wiggles his toes anxiously; he knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. His hazel eyes scan the foreign hotel room; an American in France, how typical. The sun had already faded and the night life of Paris was abuzz. Richard sat up on the bed, taking a deep breath. In the mirror of the bathroom he could see his silhouette: His lean frame, even some beads of sweat that traced his body. He knew there would not be any air conditioning, yet he still hasn’t adjusted. He moved his head to peer at the open window, the curtains move slightly from the breeze.

A sigh left his lips, as his hand moved to the nightstand; he didn’t reach for the lamp, or his glasses. Instead he grabbed his cell phone, the single device that has been torturing him his entire trip. He closed his eyes, but his fingers already knew the way to the text, the text that broke his heart. He opened his eyes, and like a recurring night terror, he read the lines of the text message from Wendy, his best friend of ten years, and first love.
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Word of the week: Memories

What does an old computer, a stuffed dinosaur and my New Years Eve party have in common? No memories.

Clowns on Parade

Circus lights enkindle these clowns,
a pie to the face, and pants pulled down.
All fun and games to giggling, juggaling clowns.

Kids run, kids laugh, kids jump on the security staff.
Leaping, sneezing, wheezing, jumping, thumping;
Rowdy kids love the giggling, juggaling clowns.

Their baloon animals go POP!
But the fun can’t and won’t stop.
It’s always fun with the giggling, juggaling clowns.

As I close my eyes, the circus goes on.
It’s like a smiling, white faced marathon.
In my mind it’s just the giggling, juggaling clowns.

I beg for sleep but I hear the laughter.
They play with my brain, their pool of pleasure.
These are the giggling, juggaling clowns.

I wonder of the consquences of this,
To think of only clowns, it is not all bliss.
These are the fake, self-aware clowns.

The Rose

Tribute to Beauty and The Beast

The Rose

That rose. How I hate that rose.

I hate the blemished rose; with an unsightly mark.

All my might, I wish that vase would enternally close.

This rose, holds magic that is midnight dark.

With April showers, its petals birth new flowers.

I gaze up at the graying sky,

I wait, with minutes that seem like hours.

Will this rose ever wither and die?

It can’t. We’re connected by an unseen pulse.

We share eternity, endless stagnation stage.

I hate this rose, it holds no age!

It has secrets, memories that it never discloses.

I hate this rose. But it’s the last of the magic roses.

Just Another Victim

Years spent in cognito,
walking this Earth with a lesser soul.
Wasted years in this insitution of lies,
They build a new palace of false acceptance,
Countless flock like indoctered flies.
Promises of knowledge become defiled.
Using unsolitary confinement they teach,
Hate the individual, conformity they preach!

Wil I be just another victim?
Victims they play you to be.
Hiding the truth before you even see,
Clipping your wings so you won’t fly free.
Just Another Victim.

Empty promises are made, but no attention is paid.
Knowledge is a war, a war of infinite casulties.
Most never know of these atrocities.
Keep the masses guessing,
Intellectual Vietnam is the only blessing.
Am I just another victim?

Arrogant Through Talent

With grace I breathe in the air,
As if I’m a royal heir.
I look stunning, hope you will stare.
Though I’m arrogant, I still hope you care.

I’m arrogant through talent,
No reason I should be humble and silent.
Let my voice range like a bell tower,
I’m sweet a tad sour,
God has given me gifts with each shower.

Words expel from me like beads of sweat
Confidence galore, my ship nowhere near shore.
My heads are in the clouds, it’s the only place
That it can fit in peace.
In the clouds so long I had to get a lease.
I’m arrogant through talent.

 Sorry, who are you again?


As I walk home, my eyes begin to roam.

Right ahead, my eyes said.

Oh what a day, to watch such an ass sway.

Round, possibly soft. My lust reached a loft.

I did nothing, as I was honor bound.

Her eyes look back, her mind calling me a hound.

My eyes were right to watch her ass sway,

It was after such a long day.

The perfect formula is eighty,

Without touching I would never know.

My eyes look up, gray storm clouds gather.

A warning from a Heavenly, watchful Father.

The sounds of thunder shook,

She kept looking back, afraid of who she might look upon.

I kept my pace home, my eyes switching from lust to the raining dome,

That was the sky.

The formula to the perfect ass is eighty,

Without touching she was there plenty.

She ran across the street, she seemed sweet.

I got home with a smile today,

How I loved watching that ass sway.

Wings and Pills

The bus stalked and stopped right beside me.

I subconsciously got on; my mind on academic things,

My stomach filled with buffalo wings.

My mouth still felt the heated zing.

Hers must have been filled with pills,

For fun and thrills or purpose to kill,

The effect was the same; a small panic.

Her lifeless body torqued with the movement of the bus,

A word wasn’t spoken by any of us.

Her friend quiet in concentration,

I wonder if he wished she’d hurry to her final destination.

A perfect stranger, kind and forgettable

She was the only one who would ask.

Was she okay, what was her task?

Jokes about her illness with the booze came about,

Laughter from humans who should have a snout.

Pigs, the lot of them, uncaring about a strangers fate.

In my minds eye, it was too late.

I saw her into convulsion, her lungs led to corrosion

Why did she take the pills? Were they even real?

Or just an excuse of a different drug of choice,

A needle that sings to them like angels voice.

A pulse was felt, barely there. If her eyes were open,

How those green eyes would stare.

But to where?

What drug knocked her so close to the reaper?

Death never takes a holiday.

“The paramedics are on their way,” I heard the driver say.

I walked home. Will she make it to hers?

Death missed the bus today,

But tonight where will her head lay?

Her own bed, a cell or perhaps a grave?

Will she be on her way home,

Or to the city of woe, by way of Charon?

For thrills, she could have been killed.

For trying to get killed, she merely was thrilled.

I wonder what made her ill

As I stare outside my window sill.

Death missed the bus today.

The Princess

 Cinderella sat in her throne, with her gown of gold. The large throne room was empty, it was just her. And me if you count the rafters part of the throne room. It has been ten years since Cinderella married the prince and became the princess of this small kingdom. I still don’t have the slightest idea how I lived this long; I mean the average lifespan of us pigeons are only a couple of years. Now I’m sitting on the perch of 15 years! I think the only possible explanation is that lovely singing voice of hers is a curse.

 “Oh Merrick, my winged friend. Fly to me and sing the news of this world with no end.”

 She’s singing again. It’s like sweet venom; my body is rejuvenated but my mind aches with knowledge no bird should know. As I swooped down to her I suddenly got a craving for autumn turkey. I rarely leave the towers of the castle, but yet my mind is filled with images and my beak with words of news. Yes, I am cursed.

 “Wait,” Cinderella interrupted. “What was that last part you said?”

“Uh…” I hesitated. “I don’t know you spoiled princess. I don’t listen to even half news I spew.” Oops, did I say that out loud? Oh bird seed I did. Looks like I’ll be the secret ingredient to the mince meat pie tonight.

 “You said Tabitha is expecting,” Cinderella ignored my outburst.

 “Oh right. The princess’ step sister is expecting her 5th child. This father is—“ I stopped myself. I should fact-check this before I bother the princess. Else I being baked in a pie is the least of my concern!

 “Who’s the father?”

 I feel a song coming on. “Tweet tweet, he did cheat. Tweet tweet he did cheat.”

 “Who did?”

 Funny, never knew how light her hair was until now. “The Prince.”


 That was louder than expected. Following my instincts I flew to the rafters for safety. We pigeons are closely related to the chicken, you know.

 “Merrick, get down here!”

 “Tweet tweet no way.”

 “Then you lie! The prince loves me!”

 “He loves your feet.”

 “What do you know? You’re just some bird!”

 I muttered, “Just some bird who stole three cute dresses to hip the fact you have no hips.”

 So Tabitha went and seduced the prince? It’s about time, if you ask me. She had the most radiant green eyes I ever seen—before I plucked them out of course. Her sister Annabelle wasn’t that bad either. Of course she is dead now. Fell down the staircase when Cinderella was giving them a grand tour of the castle. I wasn’t there but I’m sure she tripped her.

 “Oh sweet prince, tell me the rumors are not so. Did you really cheat on me with my step sister, as smart as a garden hoe? Let the bird retract what it said. For I am as good as my mother dead.”

 She just call me ‘it’? I’m all male, baby! It looks like she finally ran out of rhymes. Maybe now I can finally see my old girlfriend, Charlotte, again. You see we pigeons aren’t as stupid as you humans, we don’t get married. Instead we—wait, who am I talking to? Stupid humans, making me talk to myself.

 She’s openly weeping now. I hate to see her cry, we all did. It’s why we stole those dresses so she can meet the Prince. We didn’t know she was child-barren. At least we aren’t in France. My cousin Renee told me about his king—WHO AM I TALKING TO!?

I flew down to the throne. Her gown was wet with tears. Or maybe it was a leaky roof.

 “Afternoon report, princess.”

 “I wish no news today.”

 “Tabitha is not expecting.”

 Cinderella beamed with happiness. Her eyes filled with hope, “Really?”

Time to lie. Well to an extent not so much, “That’s right. Turns out she’s only fat.”

 Cinderella leaped with joy and danced around the throne. “She’s still fat and lazy after all these years. And I am—“


“Merrick, one more outburst from you and I’ll feed you to the hounds.”

 I blinked. “We have hounds now?”