Jump

 Rupert was a rich man, a dying man, and an old man. But a Fortune 500 rich man nonetheless.

He looked down at the river. The sound of the rolling water echoed in the canyon, filling the silence within his mind. His heart raced, and his legs began to shake. Heights was one of his fears. Today he was to conquer it.

"Are you ready Mr. Gold?" said the bungee instructor behind him.

Rupert didn't turn around. His eyes were fixed on a single rock protruding in the middle of the river. It was alone, and there were no other rocks like it.

Pancakes for Breakfast

Fag. Homo. Queer.

The words were heavy; they dragged Quincy's soul deep into depression. He struggled against them, but they were too painful and too hateful to shake off.

Mud and blood speckled his shirt. Blood had crusted beneath his nostrils, and a bruise shaded the pale of his cheek.

Tears fell from his eyes like a storm, forming beads on his chin, then falling to his shirt. The sniffs and sobs, vibrating within the dry air, echoed off the bathroom tiles.

Quincy sat on top of the toilet with the lid closed. The light, which hung loose from the ceiling, threw a sallow hue against the pallid room. A bottle of vodka stood nearby, looming by the edge of the sink. He turned to it and found his reflection warped, skewed and broken.

Quincy, who was too young to drink, grabbed the bottle and took a careful shot. It tasted like fire, burning down his throat and engulfing his stomach in a swirl of heat. Yet the taste was liberating, soothing. And disgusting. The uncontrollable sobs and the flow of tears slowed down – probably the reason why adults drank such nasty stuff.

Quincy turned to his right hand, holding a bottle of pills, unlabeled. It contained the answer to his pain and to the hate he had endured all his life. The fag, the queer and the homo would finally be silenced.

Rapture for Apples

I sat there, peering through the gap. My brothers and sisters were stacked on top of me, raving about how great it was to be harvested by the "giants." Some cried with joy, some brimmed with ecstasy. And once they were picked up by the giant hand, they would yell and scream in a frenzy -- they were finally becoming part of the "giants."

I was in the bottom of the heap, glad that I was last in line. While everyone else were in thrall of being eaten, I was repulsed by the idea of it. It was wrong. I didn't want "to become part of the giants."

"I've been chosen. I've been chosen!" cried one of my brethren, nestled by the great hand, washed from a shiny branch, then bitten with a loud crunch.

Cursed

Chloe sat alone inside the train cabin. She was calmed by the stillness of the night and the silence in the air. She looked outside the window. The station platform was empty and was free of rubbish. She looked up at sky and found it empty: free of clouds, free of stars and without a moon to lend its light. Nothing caught her eye outside. She focused at her faint reflection, outlined by the window.

She was young, no older than nineteen. She had blond hair that was unwashed for three days. Her skin was dry, and her lips were chapped. She had no intention to look pretty. It wouldn't matter. It didn’t matter anymore.

She bit her right knuckle, suppressing the grief that began to swell within her. She closed her eyes, but found herself in a flood of memories. She wanted nothing from it. She strained her eyelids and tightened her lips. She tried her hardest not to see him, not to see Richard anymore. Within the sea of her mind, Richard surfaced. He was smiling and winking at her.

Mister Winters

“And how many years did the doctors give you Mister Winters?” said the man with a red business suit, a red necktie, a red fedora hat and a spotless, white dress shirt. Coincidentally, this man's name was Red. He wore sunglasses inside the office, sitting by the edge of Mister Winters' desk with his legs crossed.

“Six,” said Mister Winters.

“Six Years?”

“Six Months.”

“Oh, my kind of number,” said Red (he liked numbers that were divisible by three).

This Constant In Life

Andrew and Sarah were inside a metallic pod. The pod hummed with an ominous groan: the solid walls trembled, the grated floor sizzled and the hollow ceiling crumpled in. The computer console nearby screamed for attention, beeping incessantly while flashing a dire message to its passengers. On its screen, the console showed the current temperature. It had broken through the threshold of 1,000 Kelvin – it was 1,500 K inside.

Andrew and Sarah held each other closely, affirming their love for one another. They wanted to lock lips, but the helmet they wore prevented them to do so. The helmets looked like fishbowls, but they were far from being fragile – the helmets were made with Polyphelexine and Maorgian material, five times stronger than First Earth Adamantium and Eighth Earth Ndukwium.

Andrew and Sarah donned the same space suits which were made of thin, elastic Polyphelexine material. It had a built-in life-support system and an internal cooling system. The helmet and the suit were designed to prevent any damage from solar flares and were built to withstand 1,500 K.

Family Business

There it was: in the middle of Frankie's forehead was a bullet wound, the size of a dime. The wound was sealed by the burnt brain matter, cauterized by the gunpowder. Frankie stared at it from the mirror inside the bathroom. The lights were off, but it was already bright. The moon was in full radiance. He wanted to turn on the lights, but something told him that it was a bad idea.

The bullet must have been a dud. Frankie reckoned that it had a scant amount of gunpowder: it had enough force to pierce through his skull without breaking it, but not enough to create a fatal exit wound on the back of his skull. His brain was very well intact. The bullet swam between his left hemisphere and right hemisphere.

He turned the "C" knob on the sink which spewed ice-cold rusting water. He reached out and cupped his hands but didn't feel the chilling sensation he expected. He didn't feel anything. His lips were drooping on one side, and he didn't feel the spit which hung from his lip. Nevertheless, he splashed water on his face which disappointed him – he didn't feel the jolt he had hoped for.