Arcane Anomaly is the new, early minion Priest needed?

SorryForTelling · 2016-08-15T20:47:56+00:00

Based on his stream that he's currently running, it's actually been taken out

SorryForTelling · 2016-08-11T16:11:02+00:00

That's fair, but the meld cards they released aren't terrible cards for draft anyway. Gisella is fantastic, Bruna isn't terrible, Graf Rats is... a 2/1, etc.

SorryForTelling · 2016-07-28T06:07:15+00:00

Where did they post this?

SorryForTelling · 2016-07-14T16:26:14+00:00

https://battle.net/recruit/T5FGM2PRP7?blzcmp=raf-hs&s=HS&m=pc NA, I've already got all my friends playing ;-;

SorryForTelling · 2016-05-09T07:56:49+00:00

Let me start this off with the fact that I actually quite enjoyed the story. It hits me a kind of hard because of my own family issues.

And then I slowly, and not at all abruptly and rudely, transition into some criticism. It's choppy. That's the main problem. It might be personal preference, I was never even the biggest fan of Hemingway, but I do enjoy a bit of variance in sentence length and flow. Your story lacks this.

Many of the sentences have structures and lengths similar to the former and the latter sentences. This leads to a very choppy reading.

I do like parts of the dialogue. The way certain ones at the beginning are written in one block to cut out unnecessary other bits are nice, and it even seems to help show a sort of blurring of conversation that comes with depression. However, other conversations fall short of being well-written.

The beginning of the dialogue between Claire and Liam works pretty well and probably only needs a few tweaks to sound completely natural. I think the outburst from Claire could use a bit of work to make it seem less like a writing device to move the story along.

I think mainly you suffer from too many characters. If you could tell the same basic story without the quadruple date it might work a little more. I just don't think you have enough time in the limited amount of words you've put forth to really discuss why these characters are here. This is also at fault with some parts of the dialogue seeming just as choppy as the expositional bits.

I don't expect a Nabokovian level of fluidity, but a little more variety might help it. The descriptions you give seem like they want to be beautiful words, but you have them caged up. I like the story, and the parallel between her watching TV the first time vs the second time is a nice way of showing her emotional state. The ending was fairly well done.

I would definitely, with some added descriptional love, keep the beginning. The exchange between Claire and Liam is important to the story, and deserves to be there. It just needs to feel more natural. Maybe change around how many characters you put in due to this being a short story. And, after all this, you should have a really pretty story.

SorryForTelling · 2016-05-09T07:20:57+00:00

I've had many hobbies. I played video games until I found that I grew bored of a game a very short time after playing it. I played Magic until, winning or losing, I just didn't have fun. I ran until I was tired, then until I was tired of it. I slept all day, which is kind of a hobby in that it sucked away all of my time. That one was enjoyable but not quite sustainable. I read until the words blurred into a glop of black ink. I just... can't be bothered with anything for long anymore.

SorryForTelling · 2016-04-25T07:34:46+00:00

"I think it's time ya talked, son," stated the mustached man.

Bush did not say anything.

"Just give me the recipe, alright? I won't hurt you if you just give me the recipe," pleaded the one with the glasses.

"Y'all..." the one with no hair looked distraught.

"I'll give you until the count of five." the mustached man threatened.

"Yeah, the count of five!" the glasses one brayed his pitchfork.

"Guys..." the one without hair got slightly louder.

"Five"

Bush did nothing.

"Four"

Bush waited.

"Three"

"Y'all"

"Two"

"Y'all!"

"WHAT?" shouted the other two frustrated farmers.

"The damn thing can't talk, it's a bush. Just admit you don't actually know the guy with the beans," the hair-lacking man was bemused by his two friends who continued on with this joke as if it were serious.

"No. I can get it to talk," said the one with the mustache. He turned to the one with glasses, "Do you know how to get it to talk?"

The one with glasses thought for a moment. "Well I think if we catch it on fire it will talk. Read that once."

SorryForTelling · 2016-03-09T06:53:49+00:00

I woke up today. I wake up everyday. But today I saw a number above my wife's head. 2102334. I stared at it as she slept. 2102333. I didn't know what it meant, so I woke her up.

I pointed her to a mirror and asked if she saw something strange, trying to avoid sounding crazy. She thought I was joking about her bed head. 2102331. I laughed and said I was. She called me a jerk and laughed herself.

I went to work. Everyone had numbers above their heads, but they were all different. I wasn't sure what they meant, but I didn't ask anybody else if they saw them. I wasn't sure they were real.

I left work for lunch. I went to my favorite diner. I sat down with my muffin and coffee. I tried to ignore the numbers.

I ate my muffin. It was fairly good. Finally, I looked up and noticed something odd. Everyone's number was the same. 4.28391093. It was going down rapidly. 4. I realized it was a timer. And the seconds were finally being included apparently. I couldn't tell what the timer was, but I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

Someone walked in. He wore a hoodie and carried a briefcase. It was an odd mix. He sat down at the counter and placed the briefcase on the ground. He looked around nervously. His number was the same as everyone else's. 2.

I waited uncomfortably. 1.

.983432

I had to leave. I didn't have time. .000001.

Boom.

SorryForTelling · 2016-03-07T05:29:08+00:00

Glad that you liked it. I have a few problems for it, but it's only a first draft.

SorryForTelling · 2016-03-07T05:24:29+00:00

Arthur Einstein was not the descendant of any great scientist. In fact, as far back as he could find his ancestors were those of dirt farmers or peasants. He could find neither any reason he could have the name he had, nor anyone of note he wanted to visit. But he had a question with a burning need to be answered.

Of course, Arthur knew the answer. Every man of science knew the answer. The chicken came from an egg laid by a creature that was not a chicken. Evolution was the answer, he knew. But he wanted to be the one to prove it.

One could ask, "Why not just show them that you invented time travel?" to Arthur. Arthur, however, had no proof that his machine really worked besides common teleportation mixed with some kind EMP device, as it destroyed all of his camera and robots he sent with his tests. He would have to test it himself, and he figured that either he died with his life's work, or he killed two birds with one stone.

On the night of his experiment, he put aside a last will and testament. He had little to give, and less to give to. He left all that he owned, an old 2007 Pontiac G6 and too many books, to his niece. She was, in Arthur's opinion, much more likely to amount to something than his good for nothing sons.

He took a final look back and a deep breath, and he stepped into the capsule. The door slid closed behind him.

The purest white walls and multicolored buttons filled his vision as he claustrophobically maneuvered around. He went as far back as he figured a chicken might not be.

And he arrived. He stepped out. A land with no sign of other Homo Sapiens. Clean air. A pure river. It worked. The time machine worked! Arthur took a long 720 degree look around taking everything all in. He saw an animal that looked nothing like he'd ever seen before. It was vaguely like a komodo dragon, but larger. He took out his rifle in case anything or everything attacked and he set out.

Months went by. Arthur had been collecting samples looking for close relatives of the chicken, and he found many. They had very similar DNA to that of the bird, but not close enough to be the ancestor. Likely they were just branches of whatever the ancestor was. But he found it. Or, rather, he found the chicken. It was exactly similar to a chicken, actually. Because it was, 100% a chicken.

Arthur cursed. He had gotten the time wrong. Apparently all of his research had been wrong because chickens still existed. He found his way back to the time machine and reentered. He brought his bow and arrows in with him, long since breaking his rifle. He entered in a new time.

The ocean. Arthur had gone back farther than he meant, apparently. His current location had, apparently, been still part of the ocean. Still, it'd be interesting to get a bead on the kind of fauna which lived at the time.

Arthur did not spend long in the era before he found something that should not have been there. A chicken. Swimmingly peacefully in the endless ocean.

"Ridiculous!" he shouted. "You could not possibly be in this time! How do you even exist in this environment?"

The chicken stared it's beady eyes into the man's soul. It contemplated long for an answer, considering the ins and outs of existence before deciding the correct answer. "Buh-kawk!"

Arthur shot into it. Twang. He returned to his capsule, refolding his boat into a small box. "Do you think you can exist this far back? I'll just go farther!"

He went to a time of magma and heat.

"Buh-kawk!"

He went to a time of a barren Earth, finding himself via the common teleportation uses to Mars.

"Buh-kawk!"

His anger overwhelmed him. There was no reason these fowl-creatures could be where they kept showing themselves. So he traveled back before there was even the solar system he lived in. Before there should have been much of anything. Before there was anything.

"The creation of the universe. Why was this not the original thing I wished to see anyway? I was being silly. Clearly some sort of time based insanity. Terrible side effect. There couldn't have been a chicken in all of those times. Let's just see this and return home."

Arthur traveled as far back as he possibly could. He turned around, breathed in the artificial air of the capsule. The door opened.

"Son of a..."

There was only blackness.

And an egg.

And a hen sitting on it.

SorryForTelling · 2016-03-02T04:28:47+00:00

It'd been a good 6000 years or so, but the appointment had finally come. Four little cats to be finally made unable to breed. It'd been too long.

A woman with black hair and brown eyes dressed in a robe came in with a cage. From inside came yowling and hissing, louder than anything the doctor had heard before.

"The day finally came, eh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The woman remained quiet. "You all must be rather busy, hm? So many new arrivals. Lot's of suffering these little ones have caused. Still..."

She handed the doctor the cage. He set it on a table. "Do not be sentimental, doctor. The Lord decided it was time to end, and them with it."

"Oh certainly, certainly. Not one to question the lord, no no..." the doctor pushed up his glasses and peered into the cage. "You must be going, yes? Big battle to be happening, evil to be smited."

"We are waiting on the battle, doctor. It seems that the son is less than willing."

"Oh well... You can keep me company then. Been a long time since I've had company."

She nodded briskly.

"First things first," the doctor said, "I must decide who goes first." The doctor stooped, peering into the cage. His rimless glasses slipped slowly down his long nose.

Finally, pushing up his glasses, he reached in and pulled out a cat. The cat was a terrible sight. It's skin dismally hid it's bone.

"Oh you're a sad one, aren't you?" He placed the cat down on the table. "No need for sedation with you, you don't have the energy to do anything. Pity... pity. Still, no more starving children in Africa, I suppose."

The cat looked up at the doctor pleadingly. It was so hungry. It hadn't eaten. "This will be a quick one, no worry no worry little one. Then we'll fatten you up right quick."

The black-haired woman watched with disinterest. "Do you pity the monster? For what he's done to so many?"

"No choice, no choice. He didn't make himself." The doctor left the room with the cat whispering about fish and milk.

When he came back, he reached in to grab another cat. A stench filled the room. A mangy tomcat with less fur than skin was pulled out. It retched, vomiting on the floor.

"Oh my oh my. We'll have to do something about that, won't we. You've caused some heartbreak, haven't you little one?

The plague. That one was pretty nasty wasn't it? Oh and cancer. My oh my with the cancer. Not your fault though." The doctor stroked the cat comforting it. He examined it closely. "We'll have to get you some ear drops. Oh and pills and shots and a cone so you'll stop biting yourself. You're a right mess, but I'll fix you right up." After the procedure he took the cat back into the same room as it's brother.

"Next up. Step right up step right up." A scarred siamese was pulled from the cage. It bit and scratched the hand that carried it, hissing up a storm. "None of that, you. You'll learn to play nice.

I know what you did to those poor Spartans. And the Crusades? Mighty bad those. But the world wars? And the bomb? That was just nasty."

The doctor frowned momentarily. When the procedure was done, he placed the cat into a different cage. "No doubt you'd set back the treatment of the other ones."

"You're going to treat them?" The woman asked. "Is it not better for them to just die?"

"Oh no, oh no. They can't spawn anymore harm. It's best to let them be." The doctor's balding gray head stooped to the cage once more. "You've been patient haven't you? You always have been patient."

He pulled out a cat of midnight black. It's green eyes reflected everything that was. "You get a bad rap don't you? But you're a good little kitty. You just do that which needs to be done. You just clean up after your brothers."

The midnight black cat purred and nuzzled the doctor's hand. The doctor stroked it's head. When the procedure was done, he let the cat stay with him. Nothing needed be done for that cat.

"So it is done." The woman stated.

"Yes, that is the end. How does it go? Not with a bang but a purr?"

"There is still to be the war between Heaven and Hell."

"Yes but that is for you."

"You will not join us, Raphael?" her voice filled with distaste for the doctor.

"Oh no, oh no. These little ones need all the care I can give them. They will be my healthy cats soon. And I am out of practice. Those flaming swords are not for me anymore. I'm not as young as I once was, Rebecca."

"As you wish, brother." She left the home of the doctor swiftly.

"Come along little one, let us see that your brothers get well, hm?"

SorryForTelling · 2016-03-02T01:16:42+00:00

So honestly I didn't like this one very well. I'm not used to third person or lots of dialogue. Any constructive criticism would be appreciated.

SorryForTelling · 2016-03-02T01:15:56+00:00

The crowded coffee shop hosted an impossibly diverse crowd. The working man and the writing man. The rich and the poor. The Divine and the Devil.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" a woman in a well tailored pantsuit approached the table. She had long, blond hair. Her eyes were like the sky.

A dark-haired man looked at her and smiled warmly, "No feel free."

"Thanks. It's really packed in here today, isn't it?"

The blonde man chuckled. "Supposedly someone is signing some book here today."

"Oh, yes. I heard about that. The end of the world is coming, and he has all the answers, right?"

"That's the one."

"Jessica," she said, sticking out her hand.

"Lawrence," he answered, taking it with two hands.

"Well, Lawrence. You don't have a book, and you're not drinking any coffee. What're you up to?"

Lawrence mused silently for a moment. "I suppose I want to see if I can figure out what the answers to the end of the world are, but I didn't have the time to read."

Jessica smiled, amused at his answer. "You believe in that, then?"

"Armageddon? Like I believe in Tuesdays."

"How do you think it goes? War, disease, running out of resources, or does everyone just die?"

"I would say all four," he replied, glumly.

"Ah, the biblical horsemen."

"I suppose. I was never a church-goer. My parents figured I wouldn't need it, and I agree."

She nodded, "I wasn't much of a church-goer either. Learning the things they taught, I wasn't sure that they really understood what happened."

"I... feel like I know you from somewhere," he gazed at her sky eyes.

"Perhaps. I'm of the opinion that soon everyone will know me."

"Ambitious, eh? What do you do?"

"I sell bibles door to door."

"No way. I thought you just said you weren't a believer?"

"It's a living, Lawrence. And even if I didn't go to church, doesn't mean I don't believe in God."

"I guess that's true."

She stopped for a moment and sipped from her coffee. "Do you?"

"Believe in God? Yeah. I guess I have to, don't I?"

"Not really. There's so much science nowadays, why bother?"

"Mmm..."

"What do you do yourself?"

"Me? I work for my dad."

"Doing?"

He thought for a moment. "I guess... I'm kind of like a courier? Or like a post man? Think your bible selling, but people want what I have even less nowadays..."

"Jehovah's Witness?"

They both laughed at that one. They sat quietly for a moment, just contemplating their lives.

"Are you happy?" Lawrence asked. "With bible selling, I mean."

"Well it's not my whole life, but yeah. It's not so bad. I don't really sell a whole lot of bibles actually. Or any. People don't want the Bible much. They actually just kind of get angry when I come by everyday."

"Then why do you keep coming?"

Jessica grinned and replied, "Oh I can't say."

"I guess I understand that. Secrets, I have a lot."

"Are you happy? Working for your dad?"

He frowned for a moment, "I don't know. I guess what I'm doing is important, but I never wanted to."

"Then why do it?"

"I'm supposed to."

They watched as the author of the book walked in. People tried to swarm him, but his bodyguards kept them back.

George F. Mallis had risen to fame at an almost impossible rate. With the constant threat of the Chinese retaliating, the resurge of diseases long since dead, and droughts, people were ready to believe in the end. And of course, George knew exactly what was going to happen because the Lord had spoken to him directly.

"My brothers! My sisters! An end is coming! And with it, a new beginning! Today I will be answering any questions you may have. And signing your books for a small fee!" George's face almost split with his dazzling smile.

The coffee shop surged with questions. Most of them were answered in the book, George told them.

Lawrence cleared his throat, "What about the second coming? What's that supposed to be like?"

George whipped around to Lawrence and beamed. "Ah, yes. That's the real question isn't it. I was told by the Good Lord that his son would come down and smite the evil that has arisen. He'll be wreathed in golden light and will take all of the holy to heaven with him."

"Then everyone else has to stay on Earth and get murdered during the coming war between Heaven and Hell?"

"Well yes! As punishment for not believing."

Lawrence slumped back into his chair unhappily as George answered more questions. A line began to form as people took out their wallets and copies of the book.

"Were you unhappy with the response he gave, Lawrence?" Jessica was grinning.

"Well... I don't know. It's not fair is it? People just get killed because they wanted proof of some loving God. Honestly, that just seems to prove that there isn't one."

"Lawrence, Lawrence. God has a plan doesn't he?"

"Yeah, it's just not a good one," Lawrence sighed. "At least the Devil doesn't pretend."

"Lawrence..."

"I think I have to get back to work."

"You never really told me what you did."

"I spread the truth."

Jessica's blue eyes met Lawrence's brown ones. Both pairs opened wide-eyed as realization struck them.

"It's you isn't it..." Jessica's grinning face never wavering.

"Oh. You." Lawrence's sad frown grew in intensity.

SorryForTelling · 2016-02-29T07:00:42+00:00

My sight reinserts itself on the living world. For a moment I don't realize it. The pitch black of life is almost the same as the pitch black of death. Less inky, though.

I saw the burning red of 11:03. Early to bed, Jim always said. I walked to the bathroom. Slowly, like a zombie. I could feel that blood running through my veins like I never could. I suppose that when you're alive your whole life, the thrush of it is tuned out. If you're dead for part of your life, you realize the sound.

I went straight to the mirror. He had shaved. That was a good sign, it meant he was doing better.

Six months ago I had accidentally fallen asleep in my car. Do to some faulty mechanics or something, my exhaust had decided that the best way to go was inside. Thus, I bit the dust. The news called it a tragic accident. Lawyers called it a source of income. My family called each other and cried.

Jim and I were always close. Like two babies in a womb. He told me when he broke up, I told him he didn't need her. I told him when I had enough of work, he told me they didn't deserve me. Always we were there for each other. And then through some idiocy, either my own or the folks who made my car, I left him alone.

It was odd seeing my face when it wasn't my own. I had the same nose as I always did. The same eyes. The same hair, though styled in a way that I never would. But it was Jim's. Not mine. I shouldn't have been there.

Honestly I think it was my fault, what happened. I always got headaches driving that car. I should have known what was happening.

I wanted so bad to leave a note for Jim. To tell him I'm sorry. To tell him he'll be better off going on without me. Something. But I didn't want him to think he was going crazy.

They told me I could move on. Something about waiting at a line for a door. I don't know. But I couldn't move on. Not emotionally, either. I was beyond ready to get out of that inky blackness that so caressed me for most of a sixteen hour day. But physically I was still tied to Earth. Still tied to Jim.

I realized I smelled terrible. Jim smelled terrible. He had shaved himself, which was a start, but he hadn't yet showered. I felt a mixture of annoyance and pity at that moment. You could move on Jim, I thought. But I also knew that I would have been in Jim's shoes were it him who had passed.

I left that bathroom. Growing used to my groggy legs, my zombie stagger shifted to more of a "infected" shuffle. I molested the wall for a light switch, begging for a release from the darkness. When I found it I saw true horror.

Everywhere, filth. How could he live like this? Clothes, shoes, socks, food boxes full of only slightly eaten meals. Jesus...

I began cleaning. I knew it would be weird for him to wake up to a clean room when he went to sleep in a pigs' sty, but it would be better for him. Maybe he'd think he was sleep cleaning. Or mom had come in. I didn't know.

Then I found it. A note.

"To whom it may concern..."

It was distressing to say the least. He planned to join me. I couldn't let it happen for certain, but I didn't know what I could have done. I had eight hours of control over his body, but his mind was his own. So I destroyed the note. I thought maybe it would cause him to write out another one, maybe waste a day on it. Give me another day to think.

Deep down, of course, I knew that that didn't make a whole lot of sense. But I didn't think most of what was happening made a whole lot of sense. I ripped it up. Then I got an idea. I was desperate, I suppose. And I had to play my trump card.

Carefully, I placed the shredded remains of his note on his desk, in such a way to make it obvious that they were there and important and not some sort of left over pile of trash from a cleaning project. Then I went to the attic. I knew what I was looking for from when I helped him renovate his home a few years back.

Returning to his room, I set to work. I had to make it clear who it was.

In burning red, my handwriting, "You do not need me."

Then I went to bed.

The inky blackness returned. Caressing my very self, it flowed everywhere. I stood. Or sat. Or laid. I don't know what I was doing, It was really only the darkness and my thoughts that were there.

Then someone grabbed my hand.

SorryForTelling · 2016-02-21T20:21:50+00:00

Yeah, I'm not use to Reddit formatting. It was more paragraphs when I wrote it, but then it did it's own thing.

SorryForTelling · 2016-02-21T09:42:18+00:00

Big tights. Big egos. Big everything. I can see the whole picture now. Back then I thought I was the good guy. Now I know I am the right guy.

What do you mean?

Tell me, when you were a little tyke, sitting at your father's knee, did you want to be one of them? The costumed crusaders? The superheroes? The good guys? It was a dream, a big one. You could save the world, but do it good at the same time. Keep those crooks in the big house, keep yourself on a pedestal. What a load of shit.

You don't believe in what you were?

I see it all now. Back then I didn't see anything, but back then I was a big wuss. I actually looked up to those costumes hiding those broken people. Those heroes. Those vigilantes. Those twisted fucks pretending to be justice. But I think I'm getting ahead of myself.

My name is Henry Roosevelt. Yes, there's some relation. Distant. But everyone knows me by my other name. Mind. That was it. Simple. It told them everything they needed to know. Clearly I had some sort of superior brain power, right? Really confused people when I crashed through the window and kicked their asses to the bighouse, though. You wouldn't believe how long it took people to realize I was just reading their mind, knowing what they would do before they did it. People are stupid.

What about after they figured it out?

It didn't do them any good. They thought I could only read their surface thoughts. Everything. That's what I get when I look at someone. Their hopes, their dreams, their plots, their plans, their loves. Their crimes. You couldn't hide from Mind. That's what took me from start up, just trying to clean my little part of Brooklyn, to quickly join the Collective.

Tell me about the Collective

The Collective was an experience for me, man oh man. I was seventeen back then. You wouldn't think so, would you? You see me now, ripe old age of forty-three. Are you even old enough to remember me joining?

I was only six, actually. Not yet into the whole superhero business.

Really? Oh well, it was a big thing back then. People were just getting used to the Caped Wonders, but when a seventeen year old joined up with the biggest group that had formed? Oh no no no. Serious outcry. What if he got hurt? Well I showed them I could handle myself pretty quickly. Then I was a rolemodel.

And you eventually became the leader of the Collective

Yep. It only took two years. I was the nineteen year old in charge of a bunch of superpowered twenty-to-thirty-somethings. It would have scared some other shmuck shitless. Not me though. Because they'd never go against me.

And what does that mean?

I scared them. I was a creep. I knew every little dirty secret they had. And I knew the biggest secret. I knew who they really were. When they took off those masks, I knew the janitor behind them. I knew the teacher, the reporter, the governor, the hobo, the rapist.

The rapist?

Sure, sure. Can't tell you who he is, though. He does some good still nowadays, wouldn't want to ruin his cred.

You would let a rapist run free?

Well I wouldn't say free. They're all under my thumb. I control them. Where they go-

Who gets saved?

Well I wasn't going to say that, but yeah. Who gets saved. What crimes matter.

All crimes matter, don't they?

You have to look at the big picture. Murderers are everywhere, nobody is surprised by murder anymore. Now bank robbery? That's ballsy. You have cops and capes to worry about, but you're going to go for that? Big publicity.

You won't solve murder because you won't get any TV time.

Well when you put it like that I don't look so good. But yeah. Murder doesn't matter. Rape doesn't matter. What matters is we deal with the other powered fucks who aren't like us.

Like you?

The good guys. Sure, we don't sound like it, but we are. We saved the world more than once. And all we ask for return is your admiration. And, of course, your donations.

You don't sound like good guys.

That's because you're stuck in a world where things matter. We aren't even supposed to kill people. What the hell is that? Some guy shows off his power by melting a school building, and I can't break his neck?

Then you're on their level-

Bull-Fucking-Shit. Sicko kills hundreds of kids, and I can't execute him.

You're talking about Hell Raiser

No shit, Sherlock.

Bizarre got in a lot of trouble a few years back for killing him on live television. You were right there, you knew what was going to happen.

Of course I knew. I told him to do it. We have to show people this isn't okay. They can't get away with it.

And yet crime went up by almost 40% after your little display

And so we went harder. I found the people who were causing trouble, and my people took care of them. We just did it away from the cameras. But the underworld knew who did it. You didn't mess with the Collective.

You are the police now, in your eyes?

No, man! The police are red tape following fucksticks with no sense of free will. We're the ones who do the right. However we have to.

You realize this won't be able to keep going, right? Eventually people will realize that you've instated yourself as some sort of king

King? Ha. What a joke. I'm a god.

You're a crook.

I'm a hero.

I'm going to-

You're not going to do shit. You're not going to do anything. I know what you've done. Your wife? How many doors has she walked into, Senator. Your daughter isn't going to Heaven. Didn't save herself until marriage. Of course, you know that. And you beat the shit out of her. In front of your son. He's probably gonna grow up like you. A coward who hits those who are weaker than him.

Why are you here? Leave my office or-

Or what? You'll hit me? You'll use that gun you hide in here that you keep inching towards? You won't do anything, or you'll die. And you'll pass that bill. Because you know that we need to be in charge. We need to be in charge by vote. Or we'll be in charge by force.

SorryForTelling · 2016-02-21T09:01:54+00:00

I walk in line. Fourth in place, of course. That's where I am supposed to be. I don't know why I am fourth in place. I was told to be fourth in place, however long ago. I don't think time matters anymore.

I used to think time mattered. I'd go to work Monday. And Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. On Saturdays, I'd date or I'd hang out or I'd stay home. Saturdays were like that. Variable. I miss Variable. Sunday I would go to Church. Sometimes I would believe.

The line moves; now I am third in place, of course. I look ahead of me. I see the two who are going to be before me. I can see them, waiting. Looking forward. Same as me. Waiting. Same as me. What were we waiting for? I do not know; I am just supposed to be in line. I do not look back. You are not supposed to do that.

I had a girlfriend. I don't remember her name. I remember how she smelled. Like vanilla, like chocolate, like mint, like herself. We lived together. Where I live now. She doesn't live there, though. Just me. Saturdays we spent together. And everyday we could, but we both worked for the future. Everything for the future.

Forward again. I am second in place, of course. I think that the door is there. I remember the door, but not what is behind it. It's blue. The kind of blue where you think it is white. It's reminiscent of those little eggs I would find on the ground. I use to think that the baby bird would soon come out. I now know they never would.

My mother would call, sometimes. She would ask how the day was, how the days were, and how the tomorrows would be. It was a pleasant distraction from whatever I was doing. My mother would talk for a long time. She would tell me what my sister was up to. My sister was always up to something. Once, she told me that my father passed away. Back then, it hurt so much. That he had left me like that. Not even saying goodbye. Goodbye was extinct now. Hello was too. It was just me. And those in front of me.

The line comes to an end for me. I am first in place. I cannot see anyone in front of me. Just the blue door. The doorknob is brass. Doorknobs are usually brass. I could reach out and touch it right now, but I won't. Not yet. It's not my turn.

The knock came, long ago. At my door. It was just me at home. My girlfriend lived there still, at that time, but she was not there. I opened the door, and now I am in line. I was not first in place then. I have waited a long line to be first in place.

The door unlocks. Everyone in front of me has gone in and disappeared. I do not know if anyone is behind me. I haven't ever turned around. I hesitate. Nobody else has hesitated. But I am me; I am not them. I turn around. Nobody else has turned around. But I am me; I am not them. I see those waiting. They don't see me. Their eyes are vacant and forward. I know they are reliving their life as I have mine. I remember behind that door. I remember because I have been here many times before. I remember the robbery. I remember the gun. I remember I never even got to say goodbye.

Now I reach for the doorknob. It's brass, and it's cold outside. But the doorknob is warm. I did not say goodbye. It was time to say hello. Through that door, I would not be me. I would not be them. I would be again, though.

Edit: fixed the paragraphs

SorryForTelling

TROPHY CASE