Ronald Batzcavich

Cold Sore

I have licked my lips so many times that they are slowly abrading. My once blood-luscious lips have been transformed into a coarse pair of kissers, accompanied by a conspicuous cold sore that lingers on the lop left corner of my mouth. Cold sores or Herpes simplex are most commonly considered remediable, this is true. However, if this common viral infection is not remedied or treated with standard hygiene, it becomes highly invasive and converts its symptoms to those identical to herpetic whitlow, a sickening disease where the virus spreads inter-histogically until it takes up an immense portion of ones epithelial tissue; creating distasteful bumps to sprout up allover. If I want to befriend, kill, and eat Felix, I can't have these despicable sores all over my body. This is why I must go into the city today, to get an antidote for this horrid infection.

Most people are manipulated by advertisements to buy defunct consumer products that claim to alleviate cold sore symptoms quickly. These advertisement claims are only partly true. They do alleviate cold sore symptoms, but not quickly. The most efficient cure for herpes is eicosapentaenoic acid, a common acid found in pretty much any non-tetrapod chordate. This acid is found in fish oils and significantly reduces superficial tissue inflammation. Fish scrap is free at pretty much any fish market whereas typical cold sore remedies are priced anywhere from $6-$30. For parsimonious and intelligent individuals like myself the free choice is far superior. So I have decided to abandon my home temporarily to visit the local market. The one problem with getting fish scrap in this city is that you have to interact with Donald James, the most miserable and bitchy fish sales man ever to touch foot on this God-forsaken earth. But even he is not as annoying as these bloody sirens which have been going off all day, creating a deafening cacophony even I can't ignore. Well off to the market I go.

Jeremiah Taylor

"Hey, wake up."
"Wake up, we are closed yaknow."
I sit bolt upright in my chair and glance around wildly.
"What? Huh? Where am I?" I look up and a once pretty young woman is standing over me.
"Right, right, the Pub." I mutter glancing at my watch, 3:30. "Sorry, I'm really sorry."
I look back up at her and could see she looked a little run down. We suffered from the same thing. This city ran you into the dirt, broke all hope and brightness in your life and left you to wallow in its streets, its gutters.
"I really am sorry," I repeat again, "I've gone and made you stay up late, and after you let me take Kara in here and everything, I really appreciate it." I look down at Kara, dead asleep on my lap, I dread waking her.
The waiter smiled, "Stop apologizing, I was up talking to a friend of mine." She studied me closely. "Do you have a place to stay? If you don't mind my asking that is."
"Kind of," I say, brushing the hair out of Kara's eyes. "Actually, yeah, I think we can go stay with a friend."
"Is there anything else I can do for you two then? Want me to watch her while you call your friend?"
"Yeah, that would be really great, thanks." I slid my legs out from under Kara's head and she sighed in her sleep. "You're really being an angel you know." I said to her as I stood up.
"Its no problem really." She replied looking down at Kara's sleeping form, "I'm happy to help, I don't get out of the pub much so I guess I don't see as much of children as I'd like to..."
She trailed off an I could see she was blushing.
"Kara's a real sweetheart."
I start away and then turn back.
"You know what? I don't know your name."
"It's Tara, and yours?"
"Jeremiah."
"Nice to meet you, Jeremiah."
"You to Tara, and thanks again."
She just smiled and sat down in the booth across from Kara.
The phone at Alex's rang an ungodly number of times before he picked it up.
"Alex?" I said, looking over at Tara.
"Uuh?"
"Is it alright if Me and Kara crash at your place for tonight?"
"Huh? Wait, what?" Alex said, more awake now, "Whats going on."
"I'll tell you when we get up there."
"Okay, yeah sure." He said, "You can come on up."
"Thanks, man. I'll spill once I get up there, I've got alot to tell you, man. I've got a whole lot to tell you."

Thomas Wesley

Im awake i look around; my apartmen; wearing all black?

the television is one the jesus roof man has been arrested and there is a fire downtown; damn arsonists;

i walk to the kitchen to get rootbeer and i stumble over a heavy bag; the money was so plentiful i pinched myself to see if i was dreaming; i went to the beer to get a refrigerator to think more about the money (where did it come from?)

Walt Komanski

Walt's second day continued.

Walt opened the door to the coffee shop, and braced himself expecting to be assaulted by that disgusting rap music they played these days and a bunch of stupid goddamn hippies waving pamphlets bitching about their stupid problems. He walked up to the counter and immediately took a step back, The young man, if you could call him that, had a green mohawk, enough metal in his face to look like a fucking robot and eye-shadow around his stupid fucking eyes. "Jesus H Christ" Walt muttered and looked back up at the worthless waste of air who was about to serve him probably the worst coffee of his life. Walt grabbed the cup from the kid's hand and walked over to a window seat and grabbed a paper as well. Walt looked at his cup of coffee with disgust, he raised it to his lips hesitantly and took the smallest sip. He smiled to himself, it was one of the better cups of coffee he had ever had. Walt worked his way though three more cups and finished the entire paper when he realized there was a man staring at him from across the bar. Walt slowly got up and got a good look at the guy as he put the paper back on the rack.

David Borisovich Sokolov-Town House #2

The man crumpled, choking and gasping. The knife's blade protruding out of his neck. The hiss of liquid under pressure swiftly drowned out the sounds of his struggles, his last breath a drawn out sigh as if it were a balloon with a slow leak. David stepped back, his face impassive, and the blood spray settled into a fine red mist atop the refuse of the alleyway.

Once the struggles had stopped, he reached into the man's jacket, snapping the chord that reached up to the thin patch that was almost indistinguishable from his fair skin. Reaching further, he drew out a small patch from an inner pocket. the black bat on the blue globe stared back at him. "GRU," he spat. "You'd think SPETSNAZ would be more subtle." Stooping, he donned the man's blackout gloves, he removed the broken wire, the recording equipment, the minuscule camera, the long knife, the Markov, anything that could implicate Russia. When his search was complete, he pulled the knife blade from the man's artery, the sickly gasp of air that accompanied it shot a spurt of blood onto the stolen gloves. David cursed in disgust. Wiping the blood from the blade with a handkerchief, he reattached the blade to it's hilt.

One last chore to do. With a disheartened sigh, David pulled out several of his own forged documents he had been planning to switch to at a later date, and slipped them into the bloodstained jacket. The man was now Nicholas Ivanovitch, store clerk, 32, nondescript, no family, just bought an apartment on the east-side. Nobody would miss him. A few store coupons and a half empty diet-coke later, and he was just another mugging gone bad. Pocketing the $200, David walked away. Russia, the city authorities, nobody would ever know Nicholas was even born. The KGB would see to that. At least they had standards. Sending a kid, what were they thinking in GRU?

Tara O'Connell

The lights slowly flickered back on to illuminate the empty pub. Upstairs, Tara fought the inertia of her old, sunken sofa. She would have to work after all. After taking a minute to regain herself, she went downstairs to flip the sign back over: OPEN. She called to Ever, who came grumbling down the stairs rubbing his eyes. With the usual, minimal, communication, he went back into the kitchen and began his new routine of cleaning and washing.

Felix was the first to come in that night. Snow dusted off of his many raggedy layers as he walked. He mumbled slightly incoherently and sat beside the heater. Tara acknowledged him kindly. She's familiar with this quietly needy man. She brought him a warm plate of left over cooking from last night and watched him eat hungrily while she went on getting the pub ready for the long night to come. She liked Felix's sporadic visits.

Tara was tired of her routine. She'd once been grateful for its stability, always knowing what to expect. But she had come to realize that she naturally couldn't fit into a routine; it was dull. Mind-numbingly, emotionally absently, dull. Even her hands weren't appreciating the same old wear. And she wasn't all that young, and routine's monotony was making her youth seem to seep away more quickly.

Setting additions #3

Donald gets shot in the calf. It's a random bullet from some passing car. Famous rapper gets arrested at the Jaguar. Road work in manhole in front of Jupiter Apts. Crazy man, who thinks he's Jesus, is ranting on top of the Bank, which is three stories tall. It's Tuesday, and the weekly food market is up and running. Food and other items are for sale. A shady character, who has escaped from the local Police lock-up, is loose in the neighborhood.

Ferdinand Fernadino - "Jaguars and Seances"

I numbly walk to the Jaguar, willing my body to handle the cold. I'm underdressed, and it's getting late. It is 12 pm when I arrive at the Jaguar. The building stands in opposition to the church, a darkened rectangle adorned with neon pink and blue lights. The place is hopping, as usual. Sunglasses-wearing bouncers mill about outside. A fight breaks out in the parking lot, where gleaming Maseratis and Lamborghinis are parked conspicuously. I walk in and immediately regret the decision. It's too loud in here. I'm not exactly squeamish, but there's something weird about ritualized ogling of women by large crowds of men. The women don't really want to be there, they're just doing their jobs. I toss a twenty dollar bill to one of the more starved-looking ones and exit out the same way I came in. The door is a portal, linking the cacaphonous heat of the club with the icy silence of the outside. A few people turn their heads as I exit, annoyed at the sudden rush of cold air invading their inebriated dream-worlds. "Sorry," I mutter under my breath, "but that's life."

I find myself in a surprisingly bitter mood as I walk the streets, hands shoved in my pockets. My ears burn uncomfortably, and I'm muttering. That's never a good sign. It's cold, dark, and quiet, save for the wind. Frustration. I look at my options – going back to the apartment, going to Mo' Liquor, going to the bar, or...a walk in the woods, maybe? Beside the church, there's a skimpy a patch of woods. I'd never gone in there before. I walk into the enveloping darkness. For a time, all is dark. And then, the darkness clears. I come to an opening in the woods, illuminated by moonlight. In the center of the opening is a well, and a hushed crowd is gathered around it. My first impulse is to turn and run, but I realize that I am invisible to the people, cloaked in the darkness of the forest. White light reflects from the identical frosty cloaks that each person wears. I can count eleven of them. I hear a voice.

"Someone died and was buried here...her name was...her name was..." Someone looks up with start and says, in a surprised tone:

"Abby."

The man clenches the air with his fist. "Abby! Yes! Her name was Abby! Her parents weren't fond of her, they...they hated her! They threw her in this well and drowned her! Everyone, we must bring Abbey back, together!"

It starts as a gentle moan, then gets louder. "Abby. Aaaa-by. Aaaaa-by. Aaaaaaa-by," like they were calling a dog. The man in the cloak, who seemed to be the leader, threw his palm into the air. The moaning stopped."

"Can you hear her!?" the man says, his eyes wide. "CAN YOU HEAR HER!?" He was kind of annoying, actually. A few members of the crowd give half-assed nods of agreement. I decide to jump-start this seance.

I clear my throat and muster up my best falsetto. "Iiiiiiii AMMMM ABBBBBYYY." The crowd looks around, confused. I can see the leader's train of thought rumble across his face. We wait, on edge, and then, he speaks:

"IT'S HER!" He exclaims, his eyes growing wider. "IT'S ABBY. We must listen."

I smirk and raise my voice again. "MYYYY PARENTS DROWNED ME WHEN I WAS 11 YEARS OLD..."

I think for a second.

"...AND I HAVE HAUNTED THESE WOODS EVER SINCE."

The leader cuts in – "Abby, which one of your parents drowned you?"

"IT WASSSSS MY FATHERRRRRRRRR." I reply.

"Abby," the leader starts again, his voice taking on a tone of utter seriousness, "what was your father's name?"

Uh-oh.

"MY FATHER'S NAME...MY FATHER'S NAME WAS....IT WASSSSSSS–" I say the first name that pops into my head – "LU GARIGAMI!"

"Lu Garigami!" the leader exclaims. "We must find this man, whoever he is, and bring him to justice! The spirits are not to be ignored!"

I laugh to myself, turn around and leave. "Well, that was fun..." As I make my way toward home, an image strikes me – the apartment register in the lobby. It's one of those old-fashioned ones that lists the name of the man or woman who owns the apartment. About halfway up, where it says "Lu Garigami-Apt. 121F."

"So that's where I got that from." I think to myself. "Hmph...Hope nothing bad happens."