1. Jagged Edge

    Slam.

    The fourteenth time I’ve been slammed against a wall in the past forty-five minutes. This time, however, I feel true physical pain.

    “So, ya wanna answer?” screams the large one, looking down at me like a troll hungry for lunch.

    “Sir,” I mutter, “I’m sorry, but you have the wro—”

    Fifteen.

    “Look, you sonuvabitch,” says the smaller one, looking somewhat more serene compared to the towering monster next to him, but still containing a burning hatred for me. “We know it was you. You’re the last piece of the puzzle.”

    I turn my head down, staring at the ground.

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  2. Ryland’s Exit

    “My, must it always be cold in here? And would it kill you to hurry up the process a tad?”

    An elderly man sat in a large, blank lobby, diagonal to a door. On his face sat two blue eyes, both containing an old soul, and a long, grey beard. He wore what appeared, at first glance, to be a light blue bathrobe; however, upon further inspection, one would find it was a light blue cloak, worn as a garment. Next to his seat was a sizable oak desk, behind which sat a woman of about middle age. The woman’s hair was a dark red, and she wore eyeliner so thick one would think she was some sort of prostitute, not a secretary. She, too, wore a robe, but hers was light red.

    “You’re always in a rush, Mister — Pardon me, sir, but I don’t think I’ve ever learned your name.”

    “Ryland,” the man replied, placing his small satchel off from the ground and onto his lap. “You think, with me coming and going so often, you’d remember my goddamn name.”

    “I apologize,” said the secretary, speaking with no sign of remorse. “Many people walk into this room on a daily basis, not just you, sir. Now, please, be patient.”

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  3. I looked out the window of our minivan for the first time in two hours, since we were going on vacation. We were heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge on a rainy, cold afternoon, when, for the first time in my life, I gasped out of absolute shock. I know, I know. Why gasp at a bridge? I mean, it’s only a bridge; it’s not like it was the first time in my life I’d seen a bridge. And it wasn’t. Instead, it was what was happening on the bridge that shocked me. There was a man, about in his mid-thirties, being held back by two older gentlemen. He was only wearing a white tank-top and jeans, with crazy hair and bloodshot eyes. He was screaming ridiculously, trying to get out of the men’s arms. “Let me do it,” he kept yelling at the guards. “Let me jump, you bastards!” We had been learning in class about California’s history, and the fact that the Golden Gate Bridge was the most popular place to commit suicide in the world had came up. The teacher handled it with ease, except when one girl who sat in the back row asked a simple question: “Why?” The teacher stopped dead in her tracks. She didn’t have an honest answer for the girl. “Well,” she finally began, trying to state of an understandable explanation. “We have structure to our lives. We’re built on the foundation of our family, friends, and others we depend on, much like the bridge itself is. With time, we grow, and develop ourselves, and our “bridge” grows in size, until we hit a monumental moment, until we reach the sky. “Some people, however, aren’t built on a good foundation, or some have something else they come across that weakens their foundation. They can’t handle the pressure being put upon them, on their bridge, and the bridge comes crashing down, comes to an end. We can try prevent the crashes, of course, but sometimes they’ll happen, and they’ll just come crashing down anyway.” I sat there, in the minivan, staring at the man. He was now on his knees, sobbing into his tank-top, with one guard still holding on to him. The other was on the phone, talking to someone. He then put the man on the phone, which caused him to be even more hysterical. The man finally calmed down, hugged the guards, and was escorted back to his car. I thought about what my teacher said about the bridges, and the structure they needed. She had said that the foundation was the problem, and that, sometimes, you couldn’t stop the bridge from coming down. And, though that may be true, you can always rebuild. Photo credit: “Golden Gate Warning” by noesym

    I looked out the window of our minivan for the first time in two hours, since we were going on vacation. We were heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge on a rainy, cold afternoon, when, for the first time in my life, I gasped out of absolute shock. I know, I know. Why gasp at a bridge? I mean, it’s only a bridge; it’s not like it was the first time in my life I’d seen a bridge. And it wasn’t. Instead, it was what was happening on the bridge that shocked me.

    There was a man, about in his mid-thirties, being held back by two older gentlemen. He was only wearing a white tank-top and jeans, with crazy hair and bloodshot eyes. He was screaming ridiculously, trying to get out of the men’s arms.

    “Let me do it,” he kept yelling at the guards. “Let me jump, you bastards!”

    We had been learning in class about California’s history, and the fact that the Golden Gate Bridge was the most popular place to commit suicide in the world had came up. The teacher handled it with ease, except when one girl who sat in the back row asked a simple question:

    “Why?”

    The teacher stopped dead in her tracks. She didn’t have an honest answer for the girl.

    “Well,” she finally began, trying to state of an understandable explanation. “We have structure to our lives. We’re built on the foundation of our family, friends, and others we depend on, much like the bridge itself is. With time, we grow, and develop ourselves, and our “bridge” grows in size, until we hit a monumental moment, until we reach the sky.

    “Some people, however, aren’t built on a good foundation, or some have something else they come across that weakens their foundation. They can’t handle the pressure being put upon them, on their bridge, and the bridge comes crashing down, comes to an end. We can try prevent the crashes, of course, but sometimes they’ll happen, and they’ll just come crashing down anyway.”

    I sat there, in the minivan, staring at the man. He was now on his knees, sobbing into his tank-top, with one guard still holding on to him. The other was on the phone, talking to someone. He then put the man on the phone, which caused him to be even more hysterical. The man finally calmed down, hugged the guards, and was escorted back to his car.

    I thought about what my teacher said about the bridges, and the structure they needed. She had said that the foundation was the problem, and that, sometimes, you couldn’t stop the bridge from coming down. And, though that may be true, you can always rebuild.

    Photo credit: “Golden Gate Warning” by noesym

  4. I sat there, in that same seat in the back of the bus, listening to the raindrops slamming against the window. It was melodic, and mesmerized me. I had always been one to recognize patterns, whether they were worth noticing or not. It was a habit I had, for better or for worse, and it couldn’t be stopped. Some would find it obnoxious, to always hear music out of such trivial things, but I considered it a treat. Outside the window was a scene of pure chaos; rain flew everywhere, with large winds blowing green grass all about. There were farm animals, too, dazed and confused while grazing in fields, wondering how they ended up in this storm, and wanting nothing more than to exit it. I tried to take my mind off of the weather and began to look around the bus. It was nearly packed with people trying to weather the storm: a young mother with two boys was sitting in the very back, trying to deal with her crying offspring; an elderly man and his wife sat in the front row, holding hands as their wet, thin hair dried; a dog walker brought along his entire troop, including two poodles, a bulldog, and a Rottweiler, which scared a young girl sitting next to the dog walker, who was sobbing into her mother’s dress. There were skaters, and businessmen, and readers, and dreamers, and everyone under the Sun, all in this small bus. At that very moment, a thought popped into my head: we were all here for the same reason. We all had different upbringings, different backgrounds, different wants, different needs, different professions, different family, different friends, and different lives. But, at that very moment in time, we all wanted to do the same thing: we all wanted to weather the storm. We all wanted to try and lessen our problems, one of our many, many problems, by hopping aboard a bus, and staying dry for a few minutes. We all wanted to make our lives just a bit easier, just a bit more manageable, in that moment. I turned around and looked out the window one last time before exiting the bus, filled with strangers who I felt close to, and saw a rainbow coming from behind a large tree. I smiled, and walked out, silently wishing the other passengers good luck in life, and passing on the melody of the raindrops. Photo credit: “Rainy bus ride.” by Michelle R.

    I sat there, in that same seat in the back of the bus, listening to the raindrops slamming against the window. It was melodic, and mesmerized me. I had always been one to recognize patterns, whether they were worth noticing or not. It was a habit I had, for better or for worse, and it couldn’t be stopped. Some would find it obnoxious, to always hear music out of such trivial things, but I considered it a treat.

    Outside the window was a scene of pure chaos; rain flew everywhere, with large winds blowing green grass all about. There were farm animals, too, dazed and confused while grazing in fields, wondering how they ended up in this storm, and wanting nothing more than to exit it.

    I tried to take my mind off of the weather and began to look around the bus. It was nearly packed with people trying to weather the storm: a young mother with two boys was sitting in the very back, trying to deal with her crying offspring; an elderly man and his wife sat in the front row, holding hands as their wet, thin hair dried; a dog walker brought along his entire troop, including two poodles, a bulldog, and a Rottweiler, which scared a young girl sitting next to the dog walker, who was sobbing into her mother’s dress. There were skaters, and businessmen, and readers, and dreamers, and everyone under the Sun, all in this small bus.

    At that very moment, a thought popped into my head: we were all here for the same reason. We all had different upbringings, different backgrounds, different wants, different needs, different professions, different family, different friends, and different lives. But, at that very moment in time, we all wanted to do the same thing: we all wanted to weather the storm. We all wanted to try and lessen our problems, one of our many, many problems, by hopping aboard a bus, and staying dry for a few minutes. We all wanted to make our lives just a bit easier, just a bit more manageable, in that moment.

    I turned around and looked out the window one last time before exiting the bus, filled with strangers who I felt close to, and saw a rainbow coming from behind a large tree. I smiled, and walked out, silently wishing the other passengers good luck in life, and passing on the melody of the raindrops.

    Photo credit: “Rainy bus ride.” by Michelle R.

  5. Midnight

    A man sat on a train station bench, facing the tracks. It was extremely dark, to the point where nothing beyond two feet of one’s person could be seen, yet the only lit light within this train station shown on him, like a floodlight from the heavens. The train station he was residing in was located in Nethala, Kansas, which normally wouldn’t have made a difference, except for the fact that he was dressed in extremely fancy clothing. The man wore a jacket made of the purest cotton, dyed in the darkest navy blue known to man. Atop one eye sat a monocle, made of the finest silver and fashioned in a perfect circle, while the other contained a wooden sphere, used in place of an actual eye. But perhaps his oddest attribute was a puff of red hair sprouting from the middle of his cranium, like a plant rising from the cold, dead earth. It was fashioned stylishly, however, and smothered by a dense top hat, though the hairstyle remained quite obvious.

    Within the man’s arms was a box. The box, on the surface, looked quite normal: a light brown cube with a light brown lid, labeled “FRAGILE”. The only unique thing about the container was a bright orange ribbon, tied across the box very sweetly, as if the objects contained within were to be given as a gift. Whatever was contained within the box must have been of grave importance to the man, as well, for he looked nervous, sweat beginning to drop from his large puff of hair. The look on his face screamed for a train ride immediately, an escape from his current situation.

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  6. Him

    I walked into a typical history class, eight-fifteen on a Monday morning. The classroom was half-asleep, wishing the weekend was still upon them. However, despite any of their fantasies, their dream would never come true.

    “Class,” He began, sitting at the front of the room. His large mustache looked like a monkey’s tail, and, when compared with His bulky, brown glasses, He looked like He walked out of an eighties teen movie.

    “I hope you’re wide-awake, for, today of all days, we can’t stop,” He continued, staring down his students with a maddening glare. It was these times when I was glad to be smack dab in the middle, where, no matter how hard He tried, I was out of sight, surrounded by imbeciles who droned on and on about women or wrestling.

    “So, let’s begin by going over this weekend’s reading.”

    Simultaneously, nineteen desks opened, grabbed a rather heavy textbook, and paged through until they found the pages that they were supposed to read over the weekend. None of them did, including myself, but it wouldn’t matter that much. While He reviewed the pages, the class normally slept, or texted below the view of the teachers.

    “Please, if you could,” He started, “put away your textbooks.”

    Confused, and somewhat frightened, the students closed their books, and placed them back in their desks.

    “I’ve been noticing a lack of participation throughout this class,” He said. “I want to find a solution to this problem. So, I thought, why not see what you can remember?”

    The room grew extremely silent. We all knew what was about to happen, and we all would have wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and disappear off the face of the planet.

    He knew we were catching on, and smiled evilly.

    “Why don’t we start with you, Tim?”

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