Best of the Brine

The Justified

The island was reserved for the worst criminals on the continent. Everyone knew that once you were sent to the island, it was the last time you were seen by the rest of the world. Its exact location was a secret to everyone but the transporters. Of course some people thought they knew where it was, but the truth was that criminals could have been boated to the middle of the ocean and left to drown and the world would never know of it. For the good people, the island could have just been an idea.


I was one of those people who doubted its existence. But I had always been a conspiracy theorist, wanting to believe in what wasn't because what was didn't seem plausible. Or maybe I was just never satisfied with the way the world worked. You are probably wondering if that's the reason I did it. But you're wrong. So were they.

The shackles around my wrists weigh several pounds and rub against my skin in such a way that leaves them raw and bleeding. My time in prison had not been kind to my body. Every joint ached, my ribs were visible against my pale skin and my short-cropped hair lies in pieces over my eyes.

The transporters haven't bothered blindfolding me to keep the location safe. Since I will never leave the island, it doesn't matter whether I know where it is or not. There is no danger of me telling anyone but the whispers of the wind. Of course I have prepared myself for them to stop suddenly and throw me from the boat, leaving me to drown and be eaten by sea monsters. I awaited my death with the salty air biting at my open wounds.

The simple shift covering my body whipped around in the wind, not leaving much to the imagination of what was underneath. But it didn't bother me anymore, I was going to die.

Oh Snap

We're over due for a new post aren't we?? Well, there hasn't been a new short story recently because we are using all of our juice on a rewrite of Provenance that is sure to knock your socks off...or at least make your feet itch a little.

I keep getting asked the same question: why are you rewriting it, WAIT, you are rewriting the WHOLE thing?!

To which I say: Yes, the whole thing because its a better story now than it was when we wrote it, and it deserves better story telling.

But I'm happy with the rewrite so far, I think we both are. Actually I know we both are.

Can I just say something though? If it was six years ago, I WOULD NOT being doing this rewrite. It amazes me how much I have changed as a writer over the years (note less run on sentences and I try to consider the ellipsis before putting it in use).

Lastly, if it is requested enough, I just might consult my other half on posting parts of the rewrite on the old blog if we wont be doing short stories for a while.

Give me your thoughts, or Karma will find you and take them! (its a Provenance joke...sorry y'all)

I Dunno...

Aaaaaannnnd this is what happens when I am bored and have no creative juices. So sad. I shouldn't post this. You can only read it if you promise to forget it and never speak of it again. lolz.


The bridge rumbled beneath my feet.

Skeletons danced across the street.
Cracks formed in the gray concrete.

A monster wielding rage appeared.
Smelling of all things evil and fear.
I looked for a weapon that could be near.

The ground broke away.
No escape, I had to stay.
Staring down the monster made of rot and decay.

It breathed hastily in and out.
Ugly and forever and deafeningly loud.
Its figure advanced towards me across the empty ground.

Time was of the essence.
How little of it was left in the present.
When the monster had shown you the end.

It grew until it was always and forever.
And my last thought was never, never
Would we again be together.

Inside the monster it was dark and frightening.
No light was present, not even lightening
Your memory was the only thing brightening.

When I lost it.
The monster became lit.
And I knew I fit.

The monster and me.

Best of the Brine

Celebrating our 20th "Best of the Brine"! Wowza! Thanks for reading, hope your eyes haven't bled yet. ;) Also, last month we celebrated one year of blogging (fairly) consistently! Crazy, right?!

Gone

Among those in heaven, it has long been known that their return to their loved ones  on Earth would occur at a distant point in the future. But that is only among the dead, otherwise known as insider information.
So, how is it that I have come upon this knowledge?

It really just dropped on my head the moment my real eyes, those made with flesh and blood and DNA, closed for the last time. I had one more living thought, and then I was somewhere else. The street that I had been smeared across was gone, and I was surrounded by white.

There was no pain, no blood, just my favorite outfit as I stared down at my body. The white slowly drifted away from me and a gate appeared several yards away. It was the single most beautiful structure I had ever seen. A metallic substance unknown to me that shimmered when the light hit it at every angle twisted around itself and skyrocketed upwards. Just to the right of it stood a podium, with a thick book and quill pen resting on top of it.

I approached the podium, beginning to feel strange about the fact that there was no one else within eyesight. In delicate handwriting I saw the list. Thousands, or more like millions, of names were etched into the pages along with a date. I skimmed the list, seeing a few names I recognized from the past few years and days, until I reached the last name.

It wasn't mine.
Silently, I wondered if I was supposed to write my own name in. I dismissed the notion since every other name on the list had been written in the same beautiful cursive. There was no variation at all. No one else had written in their names upon arrival. Someone had been here to greet them. But I stood at an empty podium and an empty gate.

For another moment, I considered putting down my name and came to the conclusion that it was the right thing to do. Whoever was usually at the podium might need to know I had been there. I tried my hardest to make my writing legible with the ethereal pen and then set it back down just the way I had found it.

Turning to the gate, I couldn't imagine it would be easy to get through it without someone opening it for me. But as I approached it, the huge doors swung open, revealing a long road that stretched out for what seemed like forever. So I began my journey down the road, considering the fact that it might take me an eternity.

After only a few moments, I noticed a golden sign floating above me. It read simply: Touch the place in your heart that you wish to be, and it will be so. Love travels the greatest distance. It was rather inspirational to give me any kind of concrete answer, but I decided to try it. There was still no one around, so if it didn't work, at least no one would see me acting a fool.

Hesitantly, I placed my hand over my heart and thought about a place I wanted to go. The first place that came to mind was the smell of cookies and mint and fresh cut flowers. My surroundings shimmered until I recognized where I was.

My grandmother's house came into focus around me. Cookies were cooling on the counter, a small glass bowl of mints sat on the center of the kitchen table and fresh cut flowers were bunched together in vase on the windowsill. It was exactly how I remembered it. Except for one thing that was missing: my grandmother.

"Grandma?" I asked in a small voice.

No response came. So, I searched the house and backyard with no success. She was gone, just as everyone seemed to be. Had there been some big, important meeting called?

My curiosity had been sparked, so I started to visit every place I had ever loved to try and find someone, anyone, who could answer my question.

But with each place, I only found more of the same: nothing and no one. After a dozen places, I finally resorted to visiting anywhere I could think of that would have a large amount of people. Disneyworld. Yankee Stadium. The Eiffel Tower. No one. Everywhere was empty. I began to worry that something was wrong.

Best of the Brine

White as Snow

Stumbling through brush, knees bleeding and nearly blind from tears spilling down my face, I knew I was nowhere safe. The forest had always been a forbidden and frightening place that I had watched from my window for the first seventeen years of my life. But as I run through it now, I long for my window and nice things.

The sun begins to set, and soon all I can see are the images from the terrible morning burning against the backs of my eyes. A handsome young man, known for his hunting skill took me to the edge of the forest at the request of my stepmother. He was to show me his talents, which I was excited for. The young man had always caught my eye, and I often wondered if the feeling was mutual.

When he rose his bow and arrow, I knew it was not.

Just then, my foot catches a stray root protruding from the ground. I land face down in cold mud, wondering how my life has come to this. What had I done to deserve such a punishment? The question remains unanswered as I try to blink away the tears in my eyes. Shivering and alone, I think back to how I ended up here.

Early in the morning, my stepmother had stopped by my room and brushed my hair.

"Like fine black silk, my dear." She had cooed.

My stepmother usually didn't pay much attention to me, so her affection was a nice surprise.

Her cool hand ran down the side of my face, barely brushing the edges of my lips. "Beautiful red lips, as if dipped in blood."

I blushed at her compliments, not used to them coming from her.

"And of course your skin," her hands paused at the base of my neck, "as white and perfect as freshly fallen snow."

Our eyes met in the mirror. I had never heard her speak in such a way about me. "Thank you."

Her gaze turned towards a faraway place, her eyes took on a quality of memories revisited. "I never thought you would be so beautiful, but the mirror doesn't lie."

She left then, her black dress sweeping through the doorway.

I am pushed back to the present and my miserable situation. For the first time, I notice a light through the thick treeline, just stealing through branches and trunks as big as me. It is a flicker, but it burns inside of me like a blazing fire.

Well, I've been trying for a week to come up with a new short story to post, and it seems the wells have dried up for now. Sorry to those who actually read/enjoy our weird little postings. This week has been swallowed by Indy duty, tv shows and actual work.

Not to mention, we have been thinking about retooling one of our stories so the past two days have been spent writing new beginnings...eight to be exact about it. And, after all that, I still can't decide on the perfect way to start the story. I've been trying to be technical about it, but I just want to fall in love with something and frustration is setting in.

Let's break it down.

I love who we now begin the story with, but what is he/she doing? (sorry about being so incredibly ambiguous about this lol) What is THE EVENT that starts it all (and no, I'm not talking about the stupid NBC show)? I guess my problem is I want it to be perfect. I want the hook that makes you go "I gotta read this in the next six hours or I'll die". We are closer to that than ever before, and I know it will come to me as I'm in the shower one day (all the best ideas arrive there, I don't know why...it's a strange phenomenon). But until then, I'm just going to stare at the wall and make myself think.

I can't even come up with a clever way of finishing this post. I need to visit the creative juicer machine in the sky.

The Adventures of Indy the Puppy

Introducing my new puppy, Indy (yes, as in Indiana Jones because I'm that awesome).

Remember those monkeys from "Kingdom of the Crystal Skull"? Well, Indy hates them too!

After the monkey was dead to his liking, he decided to pose for the camera (or rather, I made a funny sound and he looked at me for a split second).

"hello,  my name is Indy and you'll never be as cute as me."

Then, after a long day, he crashed and no amount of poking or prodding would wake him.

what do corgis dream of, when they take a little corgi snooze?

do they dream of chasing squirrels, or killing monkeys if they have to choose?

don't you worry your pretty Indy head, we're gonna get you to your crate and your cozy corgi bed.

then we're gonna take some pictures of you, and pick up everything that you shouldn't chew.

indyyyy indyyyy indyyyy oh indyyyy indy indy indy

and if you decide to make potty in the hoooouuuse

...then we're shit outta luck.



There you have the newest edition to the family. Enjoy random and unscheduled updates!

Best of the Brine

My Dream House

In my dream house, the walls are white and the lights are bright. There is a certain stale feeling that never goes away, no matter how many pictures of flowers I draw and paste to the walls. The rooms are many, so many in fact, I haven't been in all of them. Of course there are some I venture into often. Usually I enjoy visiting those rooms, but some of them are like living nightmares. The paint peels away from the walls, bugs litter the floor, and writing that isn't my own is scratched into the door frame.

But I guess that is the problem with my dream house: sometimes it isn't even mine. They say that isn't possible, which is why they painted my walls white and installed those terrible fluorescent lights.I am given vitamins to keep from entering the scary places, and sometimes they even work. Yet, other times I find myself wondering what is in those dark rooms, the ones I have never been to.

What magic could lie there? What adventures? Why am I not allowed in any rooms but the ones with the lights that they tell me I can enter?

So when they aren't looking, I explore my dream house.

The first few floors look like the one where I live. But eventually, I find the elevator. When I step in, I'm amazed at the numbers I can press. For starters, I chance a trip to floor 2,003. It's a place I have been to before, and that I enjoyed very much. Upon arrival, I discover that the walls are still white. It disappoints me that they were able to touch them without my approval. I feel violated, and it makes me angry.

I march back to the elevator and climb even farther up. Floor 6,000. I don't remember this place very well. My heart sinks when I see cans of stark white paint on the floor, brushes wet and ready to be set on the walls. How could they get so far without my knowing? A split second decision fueled by anger sends me forward and kicking over the paint cans, spilling them over the floors. The bottoms of my feet become sticky with the substance as I trek back to continue my journey up.

Up and up I go, past floors I have never been to. The lights grow dim in my dream house. I can feel dawn approaching, and know that my time exploring will soon come to an end. I have to get to the top, before it is painted over and closed to me forever. The elevator screeches to a halt, and the doors slide open.

In the hallway, the lights flicker as they always did before the vitamins and paint and fluorescents. My knees tremble with excitement as I step off the elevator. Everything is as it should be in my dream house. These walls are painted with murals and bright colors that send my heart into a flutter. But it is too soon when the sun breaks the horizon and I am forced back to my room.

That day, they notice something different about me, even though I try to hide it. The man with the thick glasses and slick gray hair asks me questions.

Did I take my vitamins? How many rooms did I visit last night?

I curse myself and then realize I never wiped off my feet. With terror, I check the bottoms of my socks but find no traces of the white paint I kicked over the previous night.

The man eyes me suspiciously.

He asks me what I am looking for.

I tell him the truth, that I should have paint on my feet.

He knows I have been to a floor that is off limits. He seems upset, but stays composed.

In a quiet voice, that I have to strain to hear, he tells me something I have heard many times before.

I am the only one who can enter my dream house, it was constructed for me years ago to help me. The reason it is so large is because it must house all of them; each and every dream. A person will have close to 10,000 dreams in his or her life time. For each dream, a room is made and the door shut when it is over. The lights go out on the floor when it is full, leaving my house dark, except for the white walls and fluorescent lights.

He says that those are my problems. He says that I live in my dream house.

But I don't see it as a problem. Doesn't everyone want to live in their dream house?

The Best of the Brine

Haunted

Today was a day just like any other. It started and ended the same as the 9,028 days before it. The sun came up, made it’s never changing journey across the azure sky, and dipped quietly behind the pale horizon. There were 24 hours, 1440 minutes, and 86,400 seconds in this day. Babies were brought wailing into the world, people were sent to meet their maker, but most people went about their business with no second thought to this single day. Just one day among thousands.

But for me, this was not a day like any other.

Today was the day I died and I did not go to meet my maker. Going to meet the almighty would be like being born all over again, and that would mean not remembering anything from this too short life of mine. And forgetting is unacceptable.

Forgetting would mean not being able to remember her. And not being able to remember her-her smile, her eyes, the gentle slope of her neck- is the worst kind of blasphemy I can think of.

I’m not stupid. I understand that what I have here is not any real kind of life. It's not even a proper death for that matter. I know can never really have her. I can only watch. Not that my watching will make any difference; no matter what I see, I can never do anything about it.

I’m not stupid. I don’t expect to suddenly take control like some Patrick Swayze wannabe, and be able to commune with those I have left behind. Or rather, those I was supposed to leave behind. Cause I’m still here. And I’m staying. And that is how it will remain, for as long as… well. God knows how long.

And until then, I intend to be a watcher. Her watcher. I am sure I will see things that I don’t want to. Someday in the future she will find someone new. And that will hurt. It will hurt more than dying.

Which, now that I mention it, didn’t hurt much at all. I was driving my car, thinking that I didn’t really want Indian food for dinner, but she managed to persuade me, like always. She had Lady Gaga cranked to full volume, even though I am not what one would call Lady Gaga’s biggest fan. She was laughing. I was laughing.

Then there was the blast of a horn and light exploded across the windshield, and then? Then, I was gone. Just like that. And she is still here. Grieving for a man she thinks is lost. Her hands are clutching a tissue between her knees, and her forehead is resting on the surface of her wooden dining room table. Her shoulders stopped shaking from sobs some time ago, but she is still crying. Leaking. Tears are falling from her eyes, but she is too exhausted to really cry.

“Tom.”

She says my name. Hope does not flutter in my chest because I know she cannot see me. She doesn’t say anything else either, to worn out to do anything but leak, and whisper my name. It’s almost enough to make me regret my decision. Almost.

She would be so pissed if she knew. She would throw a massive fit, outraged that I chose to forsake my afterlife in favor of following her around like a pathetic ghost-stalker. If she knew, she would demand I change my mind. She would banish me from her presence. She would probably try to hurt me, force me to move on.

But she won't get the chance to do any of these things, because she’ll never know.

I walk behind her. I want to put my hand on her shoulder, to comfort her, but I know that is against the rules.

Not that she will be able to feel my hand, or even sense my presence. But I will be touching her while at the same time unable to feel her. And that is enough to undo me. It is my own restriction. If I tell myself I am not allowed to touch her, I will never suffer the heartache of not being able to feel her.

She walked away from the accident untouched. I like to think that I was a buffer, but in reality I know that it was just luck. I know her well enough to guess that it is tearing her up inside-why me instead of her?

She sighs.

“Why.”

I expected this. People do this when they lose someone they love. But I don’t get my hopes up. I know she doesn’t know I’m there. These are rhetorical questions, meant to hang in the air unanswered.

“Why did you do this? It’s so unfair!” Her voice breaks on the last word and she swallows.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” A flood of tears. God, I hate seeing her cry. It’s so wrong for her to cry. She was always so happy, so whole, and it seems unnatural for her to suddenly be so broken. I turn away.

She stands, wiping her tears on her sleeve, and I wonder if she has finally exhausted herself enough to go to bed. It’s almost 2:00 am.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” she says again. Her voice shakes, but she doesn’t cry. At least not until, “God, Tom.”

I know she can’t see me, and I know she doesn’t know I’m there. I walk into the kitchen, and she sags back down on her chair.

“Why did you leave?”

I wonder when anger will replace grief. That has to be easier to handle than this. This is torture. Self inflicted, of course. I chose to stay. But torture nonetheless.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!” she says a final time. I turn, looking around the door frame.

“How could you do this? How could you be so selfish?” I sigh. And then:

“You were supposed to go.”

I stare.

“You weren’t supposed to stay, Tom. Why did you stay?”

I look down at myself. She doesn’t know I’m here. I’m not stupid, I’m not some Patrick Swayze wannabe who thinks I’ll suddenly be able to commune with those I’ve left behind.

Impossibly, her eyes find mine. “You needn’t look so surprised.”

But then, I didn’t leave them behind, did I?

Best of the Brine

Can't Have One Without The Other


Your name is David and you are between the ages of 18 and 24 years old.

You watch me.

Today you take your time when you follow me home, being careful not to alert me to your presence. Your shadow falls behind you, eerie and cold on the pavement. Rain, just light enough to lend a chill to the air, settles on your leather jacket. The black material creaks as you walk forward. With great care and anticipation, you slip your gloves over your fingers, squeezing your hands into fists. You know that I do not notice you. Stealth is my only companion tonight on the lonely walk home.

A street light flickers above your head, and for just a moment you consider aborting your plan. But it is such a good plan. You can't resist the urge to keep going. The end will be so very sweet.

Your boot lands in a small puddle, sending droplets of water into the night air like an explosion. They reflect the light like diamonds, throwing miniature rainbows in all directions. You think they are beautiful, but not as beautiful as the way the vein in my neck pulsates with rich, dark blood. You want to see it explode just like the puddle of water underneath your foot. The liquid will coat your fingers, turning your gloves into red velvet.

You bury your excitement in your current task: watching me clumsily unlock my door. With great effort, you let your walls fall down and begin to let yourself fall in love with me. It is in the way some of my hair has fallen from my pony tail, so I tuck it behind my ear. You find yourself fascinated by the smudge of ink that has gone unnoticed all day along my jawline. The love swells in your chest until you are consumed by it. You know that without it, your next actions would have little to no effect. Because you can't hate someone without loving them first.

The door clicks shut behind me, and you know that I won't lock it for another forty-five seconds. When I first arrive home, I always take off my jacket, shoes and turn on lights. Then, I swing my purse over a chair in the living room and place my keys in the pretty little ceramic bowl decorated by whales and seaweed my niece gave to me at Christmas. It is only then that I turn around towards the door to ensure my safety for the rest of the evening.

But the hallway is darkened by your shadow. You lock the door for me and commit to memory the complete shock and terror on my face. Words begin to form on my lips, but you know what I will say. You have heard the pleas, the cries, the accusations dozens of times before. I am no different than any of the others, except that I am now and you still love me.

It's only when you see that I have wiped away the smudge and brushed my hair back into place that your love is lost. You think back to the puddle of water and all that blood pumping through my body. Red velvet comes to mind as you watch me run towards the kitchen. But I will not escape you tonight.

As you tie me down, you introduce yourself. I don't hear you, because my mind has already left this place.

You spill some of my blood and wait for it to pool.

Splash, you think to yourself as you pound your fist into the puddle. But the explosion is not what you wanted; you need more.

You wait, and watch me.

Oh goodie, the new post editor is up and running. I can add video and pictures much easier now! WOOOO

Happy Labor Day Weekend everybody!

Best of the Brine

Carceral

I loved my job. I loved the people I worked with everyday. The window above my desk always had sunlight and a great view of the gardens behind the building. It was a happy place to work, even if it wasn't perfect. Thursdays were cake day, where someone brought in baked goods every week for the office.

It all started on a Thursday.

Now when I think about pink and white frosted cupcakes, it is all I can do to not become violently ill. My life changed on a cake day when scarlet blood spattered onto the perfectly decorated pastries, making them a gory reminder of how living should never been taken for granted.

My first memory of that day was when Jenny bounced in, carrying her platter of community cupcakes. She told us it was a new recipe and that if we didn't like them she wouldn't be offended. I flashed her a reassuring smile and wished her a good morning. That was when I could still give reassurances. When I could still smile and mean it.

The rest of the morning wasn't very memorable until I looked down at the clock on my computer and saw that it was 11:15, time for a short coffee break. I stood, stretching my muscles and walked to the small kitchen, the smell of much needed caffeine driving me forward. It wasn't until I clinked the coffee pot back in place that I realized something wasn't right.

The phones, which usually rang off the hook, were silent. I stared down into the black liquid in my favorite cup. Small waves rippled across the surface, making me want to dive in, head first. Jenny rounded the corner quickly, her eyes bright and excited.

"There is something wrong with the Internet connection. Maybe they'll send us home if we can't get any work done!" She clapped her hands and giggled, taking a step back from the kitchen into the hall. "Have you tried a cupcake yet?" she asked

I eyed the treats on the counter. "No," I reached for one "but I think it's time to-"

A horrified scream that could have only belonged to Beatrice cut me off, but then abruptly ended after a few loud pops. Jenny's eyebrows knitted together in concern. My brain was too slow to process what the noises had been. If I had only reacted sooner, I think Jenny's brains might not have landed on the beautiful pink and white cupcakes. I could have pulled her into the protection of the kitchen. But instead, I was reaching for a cupcake, instead of my friend.

The Best of the Brine

Below are the lyrics to the song "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton. It's a beautiful song, and I decided to write down my take on it. The short story follows the lyrics.

It's late in the evening
She's wondering what clothes to wear
She puts on her make up
And brushes her long blonde hair
And then she asks me
Do I look alright
And I say yes, you look wonderful tonight
We go to party
And everyone turns to see
This beautiful lady
That's walking around with me
And then she asks me
Do you feel alright
And I say yes, I feel wonderful tonight
I feel wonderful
Because I see the love light in your eyes
And the wonder of it all
Is that you just don't realize
How much I love you
It's time to go home now
And I've got an aching head
So I give her the car keys
She helps me to bed
And then I tell her
As I turn out the light
I say my darling, you were wonderful tonight
Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight.

-Eric Clapton


"Tonight"

The last of the light has disappeared from the sky, telling me that we will be late. But that's alright, because I am in no rush to be anywhere that is not with you. I watch from the hallway as you enter and exit the closet, throwing different variations of the same outfit onto the bed. This is one of my favorite things you do. Thank you for doing it tonight.

I settle on the bed and watch you flick on the light to your make up mirror. The light is bright and you blink back a tear. With eyes closed, I imagine catching that tear on my the tip of my finger and wiping it from your cheek. When I open my eyes again, your sleek black brush is combing through your long blonde hair. Its those simple everyday motions I have come to adore about you, and it feels like I could watch you getting ready for hours without being tired of it.

You turn your chin so that I see your profile against the harsh light of the mirror. I watch your lips move gracefully and you ask, "How do I look?"

And you know what I'm going to say, just as you always do.

You giggle, biting your bottom lip. "We should leave now."

Best of the Brine

The Disconnect

I am not like other people, yet I am exactly the same.

From the color of my hair and eyes, to the tone of my skin. We all look similar now, so that it is easier to fit in. Genetic modifications became the thing to do a thousand years ago and have never been reversed. We have hardware as well, installed before birth.

On every world we inhabit, we are connected. The chips in our brains allow us access to each other with only a thought. Technological advances are the veins that connect us and keep us alive. If a person is to disconnect from the Network and every other human soul, then his or her life is forfeit and over. In this world, disconnection is the end.

I have looked through the archives of the time before The Great Connection and I envy those people. They could choose to connect when they wanted. No longer. I am different because I crave that disconnect.

But it is the one thing I cannot have.

So, I have found a way to experience it the only way I can without ending my own life.

I stare into the eyes of my victim. His name does not matter, because once he is disconnected his identity will vanish. I relish in these moments just before I unplug them.

He lies paralyzed on the floor of his apartment and I make the incision to disable his chip. His blood spills onto the plush carpet and I cringe. I have always hated blood, it is just so dirty. With shaking hands I inject the virus into his chip in order to unplug him from the Network.

The effect is immediate. A sense of urgency rises in his eyes. He doesn't realize what I have done at first because he can still sense someone. What he doesn't know is that the person is me. I have left his connection with me alive so that I might experience his disconnection with him, but happily I will not experience the end result.

After an hour, he is able to move and stands up. He lumbers towards me and opens his mouth. It is awkward and strange, for he has never formed a full sentence with this vocal chords. He simply hasn't had the need when every one is inside his head.

Seeing that I will not help him, he heads to the door of his apartment. Just like every other victim, I know he will not be able to get past the lock.

This man has never learned how to unlock his own door. In fact, this man has never learned a single thing that will help him survive the next three days. He will not know how to cook, clean himself properly or how to turn on the faucet for water. Just like every other person I have unplugged, he will go through the routine of his every day schedule, but will not be able to do any of it. And that is where the disconnection becomes deadly.

In a world where the Network tells you how to function, being without it means certain death.

I watch him for days until finally he collapses and struggles to breath. He is afraid and confused.

Then comes my favorite part. The ultimate disconnect.

A shiver goes down my spine and the deed is done.

I have often wondered why I am different than the rest. My answer was found in the archives under the title, Serial Killers Eliminated Under The Great Connection.

They thought we would be gone after everyone was in our heads. They thought they'd be able to weed us out.

They were wrong.

The Best of the Brine

Plan Your Trip Well



I used to love vacations. And the water.

But when I think about them now, sickness overwhelms me.

It started three weeks ago, when my parents dropped Tyler (my boyfriend), Callie (my best friend), Matt (Callie's boyfriend)and I off in Miami for a cruise. At 22 years old, we were going to have the time of our lives. We documented the entire saga of boarding and took reaction shots of each other as we entered the room.

As my camera dies a slow death from lack of batteries, I idly flip through those first days of the cruise. Back when I loved vacations. When life was nothing but one margarita after another. The screen flickers once, twice, and then goes black. The faces of my friends are gone, and I can't get them back.

The glint from the water hurts my eyes, so I shield them. It reminds me that I lost my sunglasses. Callie had them last. But I don't know where she is. I wish I had my sunglasses. But more than that, I wish I could forget everything that has happened.

A Short Fiction!

Hey everyone! Today's post is a short fiction written by us in order to enter us into a contest for awesome stuff. The prompt for the story is the picture below from "The Princess and the Pea". Enjoy!!



The Perishable Pea

This is the tragic tale of how I perished.

It was not a noble death, for no pea dreams of being squashed beneath several hundred pounds of feathers, fabric, and one very finicky female. But the voice of a pea is never heard.

I had dreams, aspirations! To be savored between the molars of royalty! To fancy the tongue of a duke, to tickle the taste buds of a queen! That is the dream of every pea. It was all the gossip in our burlap sack. We pondered what dishes we would be chosen for. Would we make the acquaintance of carrots and celery in a savory stew or garnish the king's fine roast? I myself wanted to be featured in the self-titled Split Pea Soup. But it was not meant to be, not for this poor little pea.

Instead, i was stolen from my glory and whisked away from the kitchen of my dreams to a place most forbidden; eating in bed is a most egregious crime.Forever exiled in shame under a mountain of mattresses so great. Each night more were piled upon me until finally I split, but not in a soup-no, not a soup. Right down the middle, through and through till my insides came out and with all my might, I screamed.

"I implore thee, what was my crime?! What heinous act did I commit to deserve such punishment?"

But none heard the words that rolled from my dieing lips.

In the last few moments before my departure, I pondered a question most distressing. Who would remember me?

In all the world, I was the only perishable pea.

The Best of the Brine

A Gravel Road



The gravel crunched beneath our feet, each sound sending tiny explosions up my shins and into my thighs. It made me feel alive, but at the same time, it frightened the hell out of me. We had to be quiet, but the ground full of white and grey rock made that impossible. I couldn’t see the end, it simply stretched out before us like a snake with no head.

And we couldn’t turn around. No, we couldn’t do that.

A rustling of the leaves created by a thin cold wind made me misstep. I fell forward into the gravel road, catching myself with my hands. The pain of the small rocks digging into my palms was immediate and gut-wrenching. When I sat up on my knees and turned my shaking hands over to inspect the damage, it occurred to me that I could have just killed us both.

Little red splattered rocks were stuck in my skin, like a mosaic of blood and stone. Blood dripped from my palms to the ground, staining the rock below. My eyes hesitantly travelled upwards until they met with Jon’s.

His face was twisted into an expression I had seen only once before. My heart dropped and I mouthed the words, I’m sorry. In some small way, I was relieved. Because our endless journey down the gravel road would be over soon. But perhaps not soon enough.

Best of the Brine

A Sentence Without Words



Words were shackles. It was as if a lifetime’s worth of affectionate remarks and passionate whispers had been made meaningless by the void they created between us. Their syllables and morphemes added links to the chains that held us apart. To love her, and never be able to tell her was a specific kind of torture that I knew would never be bearable.

But I could not stop myself. Much like a salmon jumps upstream even when the odds are against it, I kept on following her. She was the place I needed to be, even if my affections could never be voiced the way I wanted.

~~~

The man with the intoxicating smile was staring at me again. Though I couldn’t see him at that moment, I felt his burning gaze on my back. I knew his eyes were the color of the creek behind my parent’s home, and that the sweat on his skin during the summer months made my heart race. He was always there, somewhere in the background of my day, and his presence never failed to unhinge me.

All my life I had heard stories about the feelings I experienced when around the man at my back. He moved closer. Every muscle in my body tensed, he would have noticed. Perhaps today he would speak to me. I waited.

But of course, it would not be so. Because words were not meant to travel between us. Only longing glances, and lingering smiles.

~~~

Her black hair fell in ringlets down her back. I would have given anything to tangle my fingers through them, to hold her neck to my mouth and taste her beauty. It had been a day similar to this one five years ago when I had first laid my eyes upon her. Nothing had changed since that day, except maybe for the yearning to be close to her. Closer still.

The vision of her was like the sweetest melody I had ever heard. The poems I could have written her flowed through my mind, each one more carefully crafted than the next. But the words could not pass from my lips to her ears. If only we had met in another lifetime. In another place. Perhaps then I could trace the lines of her collar, and shiver underneath her touch.

I had to look away then. My eyes diverted back to the task that needed to be performed. There was always more work, and it was never easy. Nothing was as easy as loving her. Nothing ever could be.

~~~

He moved away, and I relaxed. The day was hardly half over, and I already felt exhausted. He had that effect on me. It took everything I had not to run to him, even if I would have nothing to say once I was in his arms. How I longed to be there. Anywhere but the place I was.

Slowly, I stood to retreat to the cool shade of the veranda. I made sure to walk on the side of the fountain where he was working. We passed like ships in the night. So close, yet unable to see one another because of the veil between us.

I had to keep my eyes on my destination, because looking at him would have been suspicious. I could not afford rumors, or hushed gossip. But as I passed his crouched figure, my breath caught. He was a force my body could not deny.

~~~

Her shoes clicked against the stone as she glided past me. Without looking at her, I knew the exact expression she wore, and how she carried herself across the lawn. I had seen it for years, and had memorized every move she made.

Words bubbled up inside of me when the wind following her smelled of roses and honey. Each one more beautiful than the last, but none as beautiful as her. No, there was no one word that could capture her. And neither could I.

As quick as I could, I finished the work I had been doing at a slower pace than I should have. At a good distance, I followed her up towards the house, where her afternoon tea would be waiting. She loved taking it in the shade where she could watch her garden like a hawk in the sky. I loved working on the trees next to the veranda. It was the hardest work one could do, but I could stay close to her. Somehow, I knew she wanted me to be there.

I climbed into the tree in order to trim the branches at the top. It was dangerous, but that did not matter to me. From the higher branches, I could see her more clearly and she sipped her tea, and let the breeze lift her hair away from her neck.

Once, two summers past, I had been in this tree as I watched her and did my work. I had been so taken with her that my footing had slipped and I had fallen. The hit I had taken was enough to send me to the infirmary for two days. When I returned to the garden, she did something different that day. Her chair was angled in a slightly different way, so that she could watch me in the tree. That was the day I knew.

I knew that she loved me.

~~~

The Best of the Brine

The below is probably the first chapter to something I thought up, we'll see if any sense of commitment overwhelms me as I sleep tonight. I do have some character names and a partial plot in mind, we'll see what it becomes. It could just be a series of shorts that get posted...


No title yet....no, seriously, this isn't the title lol.


Hecht could feel their eyes on him in the small dark space. Each pair was different and special, somehow he knew that. What he couldn’t figure, was why he had been put in a transport ship with five children. To his knowledge, most of the children had been killed in the beginning. Either the five huddled against the cold metal of the ship were lucky, or extremely important. He weighed the information available in his mind, taking care to consider everything before making his decision.

The older girl blinked coldly at him. She sat slightly apart from the rest of the group, as if she would catch something lest she be too near. It was odd, seeing a person single herself out in such a way. Most humans grouped together now, it was safer that way. But there she sat, straight backed and defiant. Hecht couldn’t decide if he was envious of her prideful youth, or if he should take pity on her ignorance.

A boy about her age cradled two younger children in each of his arms. He looked strong, but less confident than the girl. It appeared that he had an idea of what would happen to them. Though he wasn’t shielding the younger children, he was trying to make an attempt at compassion, for he would surely share their fate. His eyes lingered on Hecht, he knew better than to trust anyone new.

The last boy seemed to be in the middle of all their ages, most likely fifteen or sixteen years old. His eyes were downcast and shoulders slumped. It looked as if the weight of the world had been laid upon him, and would smother him within moments. He didn’t look much different than the majority of the people Hecht had seen over the last year, except for one thing. One incredibly important thing. Hecht glanced down at the boy’s hands and noted that they were not shaking. None of the children’s hands were.

He looked down at his own steady hands. Until that moment, he had not met anyone else with his condition since the invasion. Hecht had never been a big believer of fate or destiny, but all of them in the same ship had to mean something. He just wasn’t sure how much longer he would have to figure it out.

Hecht was a smart man. He had been quite the professor before all hell had broken loose on the planet. Since then, he had taken to using his mind on other things than books and theories. Instead of writing papers, Hecht had started to formulate plans. Just like the one he intended on using in the next few moments.

He took a deep breath, steadying his voice so that he would not sound too imposing or authoritative. He had to remember how to speak to children in order to get them to do what you wanted them to do without them knowing it. “If you little chicken shits want to get out of this dump, I suggest you follow me quickly.”

The surprise on their faces was enough to tell him that they would at least consider his plan.

He pointed to the older boy. “I will need your help with the latch. The rest of you, get ready to jump.”

The boy was hesitant, but moved slightly towards Hecht. “How do we know we can trust you?”

Hecht leaned forward, grinding his teeth together and scowled at the boy. “Because I am human, and I don’t want to die,” he watched their unease, “and because we have something in common.”

He held out his hands. They were still, and the children stared. Realization passed over their faces.

Hecht winked at the older boy, who moved forwards to help him. “Smart boy.”
Their fingers bled as they pried open the latch. Once it was open, they kicked out the small container door, revealing the scenery whizzing by at an awesome speed. He looked back at the ragged group of children. “Make it a good jump, you need to get past the railings.”

They nodded, gazing out at the electrified railways that hummed and glowed with a blue aura. Almost everything on the planet looked like that after the invasion. It was a constant reminder of what had been taken from them.

With grace that he could only attribute to their condition, Hecht watched as each child jumped from the train without fear or hesitation. He followed them out, knowing he had found something that was never meant to leave the invaders’ sight. He had found something that was not supposed to live, because it was dangerous. Because, these children were different.

They could save everyone.

The Best of the Brine

The Tree


There had always been something odd about the tree. It was in the way its leaves moved in a breeze, how its wood was darker than it should have been, and how when I sat at its base all alone on a summer afternoon, I didn’t feel as if I was.

No other trees grew beside it, even if a forest surrounded it. It sat at the center of a living, breathing, healthy forest, but nothing lived within fifty feet of the tree. There were many theories as to why, because people liked to talk. Some said it was the soil, while others rumored that it was a prank by local kids who would dig up anything that took root near the tree just to scare people.

I had another theory.

I would go to the tree whenever I could, I was just drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. After many years, it became an old friend, something I could tell all my secrets to. So we sat, the tree and I, hour after hour, enjoying each other’s company. Even after all that time, I never could quite put a name to the tree, as one should to a friend. Perhaps that was because it was so much more.

It could act as shelter in a storm, shade from the sun, and provide quiet in a chaotic world. Often I would stare up into its branches and watch them sway back and forth. They danced for me in the wind, but it didn’t take me long to figure out why it moved differently than all the other trees. It wasn’t the wind that moved the branches and the delicate scarlet leaves, it wasn’t anything at all. The tree just moved.

Once, I fell asleep underneath it. When I woke, I found a branch lying beside me. The arm of the tree had not fallen, but simply drooped until it was on the ground next to where I slept. I ran my hand down its bark, until my finger caught on something sharp. Drops of my blood fell onto the leaves, but disappeared instantly, as if they had been absorbed. It could have been my imagination, but I swear the leaves shimmered that day in the fading sunlight.

My parents tried to tell me to stay away from the tree. Mostly because children often went missing in the forest, any trace of them ending at the edges of the clearing surrounding the tree. They were afraid of it, but I was not.

After many years, the forest was sold to a lumber company. All of the trees were cut down. Even the tree at its center, though it was rather a hardship. I was told that it had taken several machines and double the amount of workers to take it down. They had said it just didn’t want to leave. I believed them…I didn’t want it to leave either.

I mourned the loss of my tree for some time, and would return to the place it had once been on occasion. But it wasn’t the same. I determined that it had not been the spot, but the actually tree that had provided me with that feeling of belonging.

But a funny thing happened one day.

One afternoon in the middle of spring, three years after the forest and the tree had been cut down, I walked into a bookstore. I was immediately drawn to a section that I would have otherwise avoided entirely. Slowly, I ran my hand along the bindings of the books on the shelves. They were beautiful colors, with lettering in gold and silver. I walked along the aisle until my finger caught on something sharp, pricking it so that it bled. I plucked out the book that had cut my finger, and looked down at its face. It was scarlet, and where the blood stain should have been from my finger, there was nothing.

I smiled down at the book, no longer feeling alone in the empty store. When I opened it, I expected to see familiar words that would have been printed on the pages. Where the first lines of Genesis should have been written, instead, I found other things. There were names, faces, and dates. Flipping through, I began to see the secrets I had told to no one, but that didn’t surprise me. Narrowing my eyes, so that I could see the details of each page, I noticed that the script was written in that familiar scarlet I had come to know so well.

Of course I had to bring the book home with me.

I placed it on the window sill and opened the window. The cover would open, and the pages would dance in the breeze. But I knew better. It was not the air that made them dance, they just did.

Sometimes I had to lose the book in order to get it back. I would leave it under a seat at the train station, or next to a chair at the local library. When I found it again, there was always more writing, and more names. For the first few days after finding it again, it would shimmer, just like it had the day it first tasted my blood.

Before I passed away, I had to make sure some instruction was left with the book in my will. I stated simply, “There had always been something odd about the book.”

The Best of the Brine

Her Box


Her eyes opened.

She saw, but was still in the dark. Her breathing was short, rapid and desperate. With shaking fingers, she clawed into the pitch black. A cry escaped her throat as she felt a fingernail break against something hard. In horror, she tried to sit up, but found she could only move several inches before her head hit against something cold and rough.

Hot tears began to roll down her cheeks, pooling next to her face. She sobbed for help, for anyone to help her. But there was no response. So she pounded her fists against the sides of her prison, her box.

What had she done to deserve such a fate? Her mind reeled as she coughed up warm liquid. It had a metallic taste, and she couldn’t recognize it at first. But after another moment, she realized it was blood. It flowed out of her mouth, down her chin, and welled against her shoulders, mixing with her salty tears.

She wondered how she had gotten in the box, and why she wasn’t in pain if she was indeed coughing up blood.

Memories, fast and piercing, punched a hole through her panic.

He had been beautiful, unlike anyone she had ever seen before. His eyes drew her in, captured her with their intensity. She tried to remember anything else but his eyes, but found she could not. But she remembered the moon. It had been bright and full, guiding her way back home. Her mind lingered there. Home was supposed to be safe, but safe it was no longer.

Slowly, her hand crept along her abdomen, up towards her chest. Then, her fingers found something that should not have been there.

It had to have been a nightmare, because it could not be real. The things that were happening to her were only in stories. None of it could be happening. It just couldn’t be.

Her fingers wrapped around the cold wood stake protruding from her chest. She tightened her grip, and then pulled. But there was no use, it would not come out. She was trapped like an animal in the box, in her box.

She gave one last pull, but the wood refused to budge, and that was when she noticed her chest no longer moved. She had stopped breathing, but for how long? Her lungs did not burn for air as they once had, but were indifferent at its absence. Her mind sluggishly tried to piece together what was happening, what any of it meant.

A scratching noise came from above, followed by shouts. If her heart could have hammered inside of her chest, it would have. But she was as hollow as a dead tree.

The top of her box was flung open, light shown down upon her.

“You missed the heart!” Yelled an angry man standing above her.

Another man knelt down next to her, he held a lantern to her face. “Who did this to you?”

Her eyes darted around, recognizing the faces, but feeling nothing for them. She clutched at the stake in her chest. “You did!” she shrieked.

The man with the lantern shook his head, as if he would regret his next move. “Finish her,” he ordered coldly.

Her vision became red, anger welling up inside her empty shell. She pointed at the man with the lantern as her fingers dripped blood onto the ground. “You did this!”

The first man leaned down as the man with the lantern stepped into the shadows, only his eyes visible as they glinted in the moonlight. The angry man took hold of the stake, his face twisting in frustration as he tried to move it. “We really put this in there good, didn’t we?”

As the stake was ripped from her chest, and just before it plunged back in, she watched the man in the shadows. Once again, she was captured by his eyes. They drew her in and made her forget what came next.

Her eyes opened.

The Best of the Brine

A short (and silly) story. For real this time.

The Ice Cream Girl

Every summer, since I was 14, from three o'clock in the afternoon to eight o'clock in the evening, five days a week, I am the Ice Cream Girl. Cupid’s Ice Cream has many employees; Toppings Boy, Shakes Girl, Floats Boy- I scoop the ice cream, each of the 36 flavors, and that makes me The Ice Cream Girl.

The Ice Cream Girl has the most difficult task, because ice cream is required for everything; toppings, shakes, and floats. Toppings Boy is second busiest, but his work is doesn't require him to be precise-just throw a spoonful of peanuts on some ice cream and you're set. This fits his personality well. He is frantic and chaotic, a tiny tornado that regularly destroys the toppings counter. By the end of the day, there is usually a gummy worm or two stuck in his chocolate hair.

Shake Girl, our valedictorian, has the most complicated job, but 1 in every 7 costumers wants a shake, so it evens, out time wise. Plus, she has the whole thing down to an exact science. Of course, if something goes even slightly awry she crumbles like a cookie, but what can you do?

Float Boy is just that: a floater. He got the job at Cupid’s because he wanted to flirt with pretty girls who stop in on the way home from the beach. Because, lets face it, like, one out of every 20 people wants a float. And what does it even entail, anyway? I scoop the ice cream, and then he... what? Pours coke all over it? Yeah, that sounds really taxing. And, as a result, he has lots of time to hang over the counter and smile at the girls with caramel skin and strawberry bikini’s, and do nothing that even remotely resembles work. This is especially common on days when we are slow.

Like today.

Not that I care.

I don’t care! We have nothing to do. Toppings Boy has wiped off the counter fourteen times already, Shake Girl is singing "The States Song" out of sheer boredom, and I’m standing here, useless, watching as Floater gazes at some smitten girl with hair like cherries. Our first costumer in an hour, and-of course- it’s another girl for Floater to hit on. We are always so cursedly slow on rainy days. People don’t venture towards the beach on rainy days.

There is a crack of thunder. I realize that I am compulsively scooping at vanilla bean. I stop, midscoop, and look at the massive crater I created. I glance up. Toppings Boy is staring. So is Shake Girl, and I notice that she has stopped her singing. I glare at them, and flick the vanilla ice cream off my vanilla skin.

“What?” I gesture at them with my ice cream scooper in what I think appears to be a nonchalant fashion.

Toppings Boy looks immediately fascinated with the non-existent dirt on the floor (he has mopped twice in the last hour), but Shake Girl shakes her head at me sadly and goes back to singing. I ignore her, and my attention falls back on Floater, who since my last glance has removed his apron and somehow vaulted over the counter. He is standing next to Cherries Girl, and they are both grinning like idiots. He is looking at me, blueberry eyes meeting my mint ones.

“Hey Almond, cover for me.” He whips his apron at me, and I snatch it out of the air reflexively. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had let it fall to the floor. My eyes are on him as he leaves with Cherries Girl, arm slung around her shoulder.

I look down at my ice cream scooper, and cannot fathom why suddenly, I feel as if I have been scooping out my insides, rather than the ice cream I so dutifully serve. I consider telling Mr. Boss about Floater’s truancy, but dismiss the idea almost immediately.

After all, today was the first day he had called me by name.

The Best of the Brine

An attempt at a short story- which, of course, I am cheating at, because this is actually the beginning of a loooong story that I have been cooking in my brain for some time. But whatever.

Our world had been dark for a long time.

It had been months since our small supply of back up generators had died, and longer still since any power line anywhere buzzed with life. Now, the only source of light came from small, cramped fires that were always a risk because with fire came smoke, and with smoke came the Others. So fire was something we only used when we needed; when we had to send off our dead.

Daylight was too dangerous. In the daylight, the chance of being seen was to great. So during the day we slept and we planned. Only when we were protected by darkness would we move; darkness was our friend and ally. I was used to darkness. Comfortable with it. It was my constant companion during this long trek through hell.

So when I say I was plunged into the the most absolute darkness I had ever known, you will understand my full meaning.

I wasn't afraid. No. In that moment I was simply thankful to be breathing. No one ever knew what happened if you are taken, because no one ever returned if they were.

I tried to absorb my surroundings. So far, I knew that you are manhandled through a maze of corridors, while blindfolded, and then deposited in a very dark cell. It also seemed to be very small; my breath was echoing off the walls.

Feeling around with my hands, I discovered the ground was concrete, and there was a blanket folded up along the side of one brick wall. I couldn't tell how tall the room was, the height of the walls extended beyond my reach. The door was steel and cold beneath my skin. It felt heavy and was very likely impenetrable. I couldn't even feel the space where the door ended and the floor began.

My wandering fingers followed the crease in the floor, and stopped when they reached the final wall. At first I couldn't tell what it was- I just knew that it was certainly not brick. It was cool and perfectly smooth, devoid of any imperfection. Like glass.

I sat back down, staring at where I knew the wall was, event though I couldn't see it. I could barely find it within myself to be curious as to why I would be in a room with one glass wall. It seemed nonsensical to me, but then, these were Others we were talking about. What they did rarely, if ever, made sense. This is one of the reasons fighting them was so difficult, and why I had been caught in the first place.

It had been some time since it had started, the fighting. The fighting back. I vaguely wondered if the experience desensitized me to feeling anything other than the fierce need to protect my kind and the mad desire to kill those who I needed to protect my kind from. Curiosity simply wasn't in my emotional repertoire anymore. I couldn't even feel sadness. I knew I should. I was captured by the enemy which, in all likelihood would lead to my eventual death. I would never see my remaining friends again.

The corners of my lips twitched bitterly. Not even the thought of my rag tag group of comrades could shake the emotional barricade that I had built long ago. Something as small and insignificant as sadness wouldn't harm it.

Sad. Such a small, inadequate word to describe the demise of the human race. It had all been so sudden, one hardly had time to feel anything besides shock, if one had time to feel anything at all. One night, I went to sleep, a graduate student finishing her final semester of school, and the next day I woke to find the world was nearly in ruin.

They had come that night and methodically eliminated each and every governmental official and building with such ease and precision that I'm sure the president himself didn't know the world itself was falling down around his ears- until it did.

I haven't seen it myself, but I have heard that DC is the new Chernobyl.

I used to watch movies about what used to be called alien invasions. I thought it would be exciting and romantic to fight the good fight and help humanity prevail against whatever extraterrestrial was threatening our species. I thought it would be fun, exciting. I thought I would leap at the chance to join a resistance group, be the Kate Brewster to another man's John Conner, and help save the world.

At least I had some tiny shred of self awareness. I lept at the chance to hurt these Others, what were once called aliens, but now that sounds to mild to be in any way accurate. But I did not do so for adventure. I did so to survive.

Because having your whole world-literally here, whole world, not a metaphor- be destroyed? It was incomprehensible. I still can't wrap my head around it. Sometimes I still feel my pocket, thinking there will be a cell phone there to check. Thinking maybe my mom or dad called to say hi, or my boyfriend , Alex, had sent a text of love and encouragement. Maybe a fellow classmate sent me a link to help study for the next big exam; I should thank her.

No. There is no phone. And there are definitely no calls.

Because all of those people are dead.

The Best of the Brine

This one is much shorter than usual, I guess it should be read as an entry into a dying man's journal....

The Depths

Into the depths we sailors went. Broken and hopeless, staring into the never ending dark that would soon become our tomb. It was fitting for our lot, yet still burdensome.

The waters which had taken us to that place were rough and jarring. Almost every man had been lost, even the navigator. So we stared with empty eyes and forsaken hearts into the cold beyond which would swallow us whole.

"Every man for himself!" shouted a bloke from atop the rigging.

The chaos began as the ripples in the calm ocean laughed and lapped at the hull of the ship.

Words did not seem like enough to describe the sounds the bottomless monster made as it swept us away. Yet, words were all we had.

"Run!" screamed the captain.

"May God have mercy on our souls," breathed another.

It came for us as it always would, relentless and savage. No amount of words would stop it, because it did not know our words. It was much older than words. It had seen the beginning, and it would be our end.

The horizon had sunk beyond comprehension and sight. If this was what they had meant by the end of the world, than it was now believed by the entire crew of the ship. We had seen what only a few had set their eyes upon. To know that the world had an end, and that beyond it, there was only the depths was too much for our minds to bear.

But above the fear, we were there for the adventure. The ship would not turn around. Even if it would, could we go? We had seen where everything ends, and there was no going back from that.

"Look lads!" a booming voice lifted amongst the chaos.

We stopped and watched the waves fall over the plane, into...nothing.

"Grab hold!" the captain's broken voice ordered.

And we did.

But we had reached the end, and it was empty. So we did the only thing that sailors could do when the wind dies and the elements take the wheel.

We held on, and reveled in the ride.

Road Trip-i-ness

We are back from the road trip, and it was amazing. If you ever have the time (or don't), we HIGHLY suggest you do this. Just.Awesome.

I don't have the time at this very moment to divulge all the tales of the trip, but I can share a few highlights via pictures (more to come as well) to give you a sense of what went on...

First, there was a lot of this... Nebraska and Iowa are very, very boring and flat. It's actually incredible, but I don't think I'll ever need to revisit those places...

Then, mountains!! Lots of mountains!! You must go through the Rocky mountains, they were beautiful. Also, you get to drive through tunnels in the mountains (:: squeals::)

Coming up next was Utah. The place of Mormons. Naturally, there was a copy of The Book of Mormon in our hotel room in Cedar City where it snowed (lol). This was what Jared (we brought along several of his likenesses) thought about the development.

Then we almost had a Banana Cake day. We bought what we thought were delicious peach rings, but instead (as you can see on the label) they were strawberry BANANA! Thank GOD the label was read before we put them in our mouths...ewww!! Obviously, Jared was very disturbed by this particular event.

VEGAS! We stayed at the Mirage on the Strip. It was beautiful, exciting and way too much fun. We suggest a minimum of three days if you ever go. The buffets were awesome, and shenanigans were had by all.

More of pretty pretty Utah, were we stopped at Zion National Park.

After Vegas we stopped in Arizona for two days, then drove through New Mexico, Texas (best burger ever), Oklahoma, and Missouri. Obviously, we have pictures from those states as well, but I figured we could do this in parts.

Lastly, we discovered a new sign off phrase while in Denver.

Epic on pen,

Sam Hawkins

In Which More Free Time Is To Be Had

That's right, folks. Blog updates all over the place. Plus, entire novels written!

It's a new day!

Turn those frowns upside down, there's always a positive!


aha!

The Best of the Brine

"In a Field"

There was nothing between us but the night and the dulcet song of the cicadas.

It was like magic. The grass moved as the wind raked its invisible fingers through it. It swayed from side to side, creating a dark ocean of glinting waves for miles around. The stars were like pin pricks of light in the darkest sheet across the sky. It was as it had always been, a thousand times before. And as it always will be, a thousand times after.

Whoever said that romance was dead? They were wrong. We could prove them wrong.

I pulled my gaze away from the stars. Though they were seductive, they couldn't hold a candle to his eyes. Dark, mysteriously empty, yet full of something I could never identify. That must have been why I always came back to him. Even when we were so close, I could never tell what he was thinking.

The breeze picked up, sending a chill across my skin. I wondered if he was cold as well. His shirt had been lost on the way to the field, and his shoes were somewhere in the distant pond.

"Would you like a blanket?" I asked softly, reluctant to disturb his peace.

His expression remained unchanged, as if my words had been lost somewhere between my mouth and his ears.

The grass tickled at the back of my neck, and I longed for his kisses that had lingered in the same spot, spreading warmth throughout my body. I studied his mouth and admired how white his teeth were and how straight they would always be. Slowly, I slid my tongue along my own teeth, feeling the jagged edge of one that needed repairing. The chip had been his fault, and the memory still brought pain to the nerve endings in my mouth. He had been in the grass, hiding from me. I had tripped over his foot, because I had forgotten my flash light and couldn't see a thing. It had taken forever to find that little bit of chipped tooth; it couldn't stay in the field.

"What are you thinking?" I wondered out loud.

His only response was to remain silent, which perhaps was exactly where his mind was.

My eyes traced the outline of his profile. His cheekbones were so high, his jaw had always been so strong. I propped myself up, so that I could stare down into his inky black eyes. At the angle above him, it always seemed as if he was smiling at me. I liked that best.

Unblinking, he looked deep into my soul. He had always known me like no one else had. At that moment, I wished I could have stayed with him.

"I have to go soon," I cooed into his neck.

The coldness of him tingled against my skin, it sent a thrill to every limb.

Breathlessly, I leaned in, doing my best to keep my fingers away from his body. "You're so lucky that you can stay here."

His face was a brilliant white, like a beacon in the forest of night. I stood up, wrapping my arms around myself to shield me from the pain of leaving him. "You'll be here when I come back?"

Still smiling, he didn't move. I nodded. "I know. Of course you will be. They never look for you at night, do they?"

I walked a few paces away from him, then glanced back. I wondered how many times they had passed by this very spot over these past months and never noticed him there. It was only at night that you could see him. Even then, it was tricky...I had the chipped tooth to prove it.

Some day I would go look for his shoes, so that his feet weren't cold. But to disturb the place where he rested was something I just couldn't do. It was special, it was like magic.

I hated to leave, but the search for his lost shirt called to me. I had to be the one to find it, or the magic would cease to exist. I retraced my steps to the old dirt road until I found my car. Climbing in, I stole one more look in the direction where I knew he was, and always would be.

With him in the field of our dreams forever, nothing but the night and the dulcet song of cicadas could ever come between us again.

Whoever said that romance was dead? I had found a way to make it last forever.



aha!

The Best of the Brine

"The Malice In You"

His soul burned blood red, the color of his true intentions. And he would pay for it.

He sat across from me, but did not see me. I could see him perfectly well. Actually, I saw into him, which was how he had gotten here. All around him, the air sparked and flamed in deep reds, bleeding to the floor. It was frightening to look at him, even after I had seen so many others. Of course, no one else in the room could see his soul like I did. Because I was gifted with the sight.

At an early age it had been discovered that I possessed the ability to read a person's soul. I was always right, because the soul does not lie. When I was asked to judge someone, that was usually the end of the line. No more exits, only the empty room with a pane of glass and the chair.

The man with the sickening soul had been measured and had been sent to his end.

At first, people had assumed that when I read a soul I knew what the person had done. They asked me what the man had done to deserve such a punishment. I had simply told them that they did not want to know. It was the truth. No one should know, and no one ever will.

When they brought me to him, I had known without a doubt that he would die. It only took one nod, and he had been dragged away. He did not scream. But I knew what he was inside, and that was all the people needed to know.

I stared at him through the glass as he sat upon his chair. Wires had been connected to his body, his chest rose up and down in a panicked way. His dark eyes darted around the empty room while sweat rolled down the contours of his face.

Some of the others in the room seemed uncomfortable as they shifted in their seats, waiting for his end. I sat stone-still, anticipating the jerk of the lever. What waited inside the man needed to be snuffed out. His soul needed to stop burning with such an intensity.

I watched his mouth move, forming words that no one could hear. The glass that separated us was sound proofed, for good reason. In the first years, the men used to scream things that only made the spectacle more difficult. Then the silence had been installed, and we could be peaceful in our moment of finality.

But after watching so many of them scream, I had come to learn the words their lips formed. It was better that no one could hear him, it was better they had not known what he had done.

I gave a quick nod to the man shaded in shadow in the corner who tightened his grip on the lever. The lights flickered as the sentence was carried out. Some people chose to look away, but I watched. As I always did.

As the life left his body, and his soul dissipated into nothing I couldn't help but momentarily wish I had heard his last words. "Please," he had whispered "help me."

But there couldn't be any help for a man such as him. He hadn't screamed when they had taken him away, but cried. He had never admitted to the things I knew were inside of him, because he had not known they were there.

It didn't matter that he had never laid a hand on a single person. I had seen his soul and it burned blood red, the color of his true intentions.

As they hauled his body away I watched each person get up and leave. They felt as if they had seen justice carried out. Only I knew the truth.

When I was alone in the room, sitting at its center, I stared at my reflection in the pane of glass. The air around me sizzled with black fire. It was like a void that couldn't be filled, hissing and snarling at the emptiness of the chair behind the glass.

Slowly, I opened my appointment book. My schedule was full for the day. I decided then that each one would be guilty. I was always right, because a soul never lies.

I do.



aha!

The Best of the Brine

From this point on, each time a short story is posted, it will be labeled as such using the segment title above...


"The Letter Keeper"

I found a letter on my doorstep fifty-three minutes ago. I only opened my door because there was a draft coming from the hallway, and I wanted to make sure the building door leading up to the apartments had been closed properly. Sometimes, if one didn't use the correct finesse, the door would stick. Thereby, letting in unsavory people and, of course, the cold weather.

I did not recognize the handwriting. The words were small and cramped on the page, as if the person who wrote it felt as if it was the last sheet of paper on the planet. At first, I felt odd reading the letter, because it was not addressed to me, and going through someone else's mail is definitely some kind of offense. I didn't like breaking the rules, and I didn't like impeding on another person's business. But there was just something so desperate about the first few words which I couldn't help but read.

In my defense, it was left on my doorstep. So, theoretically, it was meant for me. So why shouldn't I have read it? But still, I had to ask the question, if I had accidentally left this note on the wrong doorstep would I want the unintended person to read it? After all, handwritten letters seem so private. Nobody takes the time to write like that anymore. Just type an email and it's delivered instantaneously. No post office, no waiting. Gratification at a moment's notice. But does that mean we also say less in those little notes?

I pondered that question as I fingered the crumpled paper. I tried to remember the last time I had received a real letter in the mail or otherwise. Not a bill, not a bank statement, but an honest-to-goodness letter. Nothing came to mind.

I knew the letter could not have been for me. No one I knew would have ever left it at my door, especially when I was home. It must have been for one of my neighbors. Of which, there were three to pick from. An elderly widow, a young Chinese couple, and a lonely man whose fondness for playing piano kept me up most nights.

Since the letter was in English, one could assume it had not been intended for the couple. I was fairly certain they only spoke a few words of English. The letter was much too complex for a non fluent speaker. That left the man and the widow. I had never seen another soul enter or leave the man's apartment. Which led me to believe he could not have been the recipient. He simply knew no one except Mozart, Beethoven and Bach. And they were dead.

So, it had to be for the widow. An odd letter for such a person, but my skills in deduction left me with no other options. Yes, I would give it to her. Because it could not have been for me.

Besides, there was no return address. No name written at the bottom. I had no way of finding the person who had left the letter. I could only deliver it.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It ticked along as it always did. The widow would be asleep at such a time of the night. I could always give it to her in the morning.

But the letter had been specific. It needed to be read by a certain time of a certain day by a certain person. And, as I had previously concluded, that person was not me. The requirements had not yet been met.

A New Trend?

Lately I have been spending some time over at this website, http://community.livejournal.com/merry_fates . It's a group of authors (one of them is Maggie Stiefvater, author if "Shiver"), and they have contests, write small blogs, and best of all contribute their short stories. I was never really a big fan of short stories. Why? Because I always want more, and I can't write them. Because my imagination cannot be tamed (unless I'm dreaming, but that's for another blog and another day), and my stories always grow and grow and grow until their bursting with 88,000 words. :sigh: It's actually exhausting just thinking about it. But, let's get back to the point.

After reading, and surprisingly liking, a few of these short stories, I decided to take a stab at my own. What did I have to lose? (besides my self confidence) At first, I couldn't think of a topic. Because, let's face it, when I want to write a story it's not because of something I thought of, it's because something dropped on my head. After some tortured minutes of staring at Baby Shut Up (also another blog for another day), I remembered that there was something I could write about. For the past few months I have been working on a project titled Remains, and there was a portion in my head that I knew would never make it into the manuscript, because it wouldn't fit and would make absolutely no sense (can you believe I edited myself? Perhaps the world is going to end). So, I decided upon making it my first short story ever (we're ignoring those short stories I authored before the age of fifteen which I found in a box while moving last weekend. Though, posting the workings of my seven year old mind might be hilarious one day).

So, without further ado, please enjoy. Oh, and don't laugh at me. Remember, this is my first try and I am absolutely NOT a master, nor will I ever become one.

"Skeletons In The Sand"

At first, all I saw were the fingers.

They were white. Not because they were bone, but because of the gloves that covered them. Ten fingers, interlacing and locked for eternity. Or at least until their bones turned to dust. Even then, the dust would mix with the ocean of sand surrounding it, resting in the arms of the wind forever.

Then, I saw the outline of the bodies. Their skeletons lay side by side, as if they had fallen asleep there. It was odd, seeing the dead so peaceful. I had heard about burials and coffins and tombs. But I had never seen them. No one was put to rest anymore. People were killed. They died. End of story.

There was something different about these two. It was to lie down and never get back up. To pass on while holding the hand of someone else. Impossible. Death couldn't be planned. It was sudden. It was violent. It was always unexpected, yet inexplicably assumed.

The traces of their lives had long been erased by the harsh environment. Their clothes, and skin, and belongings had all been taken. Stolen by time, the most greedy of all things.

Yet, something was still there. Their story had not ended. No. It was not over. Something remained. It was a feeling. To identify it was beyond what I was capable of. Because I had never felt it, only longed for it. A four letter word that had once gripped the world with its mystery and beauty. Most of us thought it was extinct. I had never questioned that theory.

I was so dreadfully alone and empty, that sometimes I felt as they looked. A vacant skeleton with no past and a future just as bleak. I was no one and I was going no where. My story would never be heard, because I had not a single soul to tell. I kept staring at the bones, for some reason they captivated me more than any others I had seen. And I had seen a lot in my life.

The gloves on their hands indicated fear, but these two had not been afraid. Only sad. What they had been was something else as well. There was another factor at work here, in this place. In the decades that had gone by since their deaths, something still lingered here. It was strong, yet comforting. Mutual, yet separate. Unconditional, yet restrained. It was everywhere. It held me to that spot as if I was trapped. I could feel it entering me, seeping into my soul. The empty places were no longer so empty.

I had heard many stories about the world-that-was since I was young. They told me of buildings that reached the sky, boxes of metal with wheels that flew over the ground, and of times when the sickly could take medicine to cure their diseases instead of making them into vicious creatures. I had a feeling that out of all the stories passed down, the one laying deathly still in front of me was different.

Because for some, the end of the world holds the beginning of their story.

A flitting from a few feet away made me jump. I walked to it and brushed the sand to the side, uncovering a small rectangular object. Picking it up, I realized what it was. Although it was weather worn and at least seventy years older than me, I could still see the letters, the pictures and blood. The feeling grew stronger, pulsating in my hands as I clutched the small book to my chest.

It was the most precious thing I had ever found. I would take it with me and never let it go. Somehow, I knew that inside of this thing -this journal- answers to a thousand questions would be revealed.

Because if I knew their story, then I might also know love.

I ran my hand along their fragile fingers. Then I spoke to them softly, trying my best to emulate the voice of a pregnant woman I had once heard as she caressed her swollen belly. "I don't know you yet. But I will soon. One day soon."

Then I had to leave, because I couldn't stay in one place too long. The ones who had made the world the way it was were still out there, still hunting. Their red eyes were always on my back. Regretfully, I lifted my feet and started towards the horizon.

Each step took me farther away from their skeletons, but closer to their story. Tonight, I would begin to read by the firelight. At the end, I would know them and they would be a part of me. Living, breathing, being. Whole once again.

I could fill in their remains, just as they had filled in mine.

..aha?