The suspended state of halfness is, perhaps, best excentuated by the golden bask of sunlight filtering through the mid-lowered blinds. On the half-ruffled bed and generally uncleaned room. A smaller portion of the apartment permenantly lacking its second occupant, lost to the days of greater adulthood, leaving the man-boy amongst his broken dreams and unrealized potential. Though, in the state of things, it is closer to half-realized.

A hundred and eighty-five pages have been read of the novel's three hundred and forty page figure. Of the three bottles, one and a half have been drunk. His dinner from last night in the fridge, a steak burrito from an ill-ran taco truck, now only left with its lunch portion, evenly separated from breakfast. Its nearly comical, how this all aligns. The near lonliness is almost funny, just a breasth's width from social humanity. The laugh is caught in his throat.

Though evening, six more hours last of his day, where the stars will come out and cast their dim brightness through the veil of night, illuminating the sky and little else. It'll be the moon and the streetlights doing the rest. The night shift wears on his body and he fights fatigue, alone, in the darkness. Six hours in. Six hours more.

He remembers a man now, lying on the tracks. He was torn along his median line, right across the belly botton. It was nearly comical then, too, the halfness. He was pale white, drained of blood, covered in dirt and grime. The train still hunkered over its kill, shielding it from the responders who had come to take its prey.

Two truths and a lie is not evenly divisible, as everything in this ever-present-now must be, yet it is perhaps more true than half. I lied about the water bottles. There's only half of one left. And I lied about the time. There are eight more hours, not six.

The narrator is faulty, in his half-kind of way. But it's hard to be full as the stains of this life corrode at the edges, leaves stains on the soul, and burns into the heart. But it's of no value, worse, it's of negative value, to be empty.

Trust as I might in the world as it goes

Ever more stuck in time as it flows

There's more at the cusp, of these poor prose

Yet here we are stuck, in this half-way pose...

"What does it feel like to be responsible for people's lives?" He had asked, just a child then.

"Like a waterfall."

"Like a waterfall?" He got a solemn head nod in reply.

"What does a waterfall feel like?" His innocence was light in his voice, a child's wonder.

"Relentless," his grandfather replied gruffly, looking off into space. The thunderous roar of cascading water envelops him in deafening thunder.

The child imagines a waterfall.

Imagines the sun shining down on the water; the warmth of the heat rays and the cool of the water. The cold droplets as they land on his soft skin in the warm sun. The way the trees on either side of the river sway, their green leaves letting little pockets of light through. He hears the crashing of the water, going and going and going, splashes of white exploding in noisy bursts, endlessly. Then lazily rushing away in quiet solitude from its thunderous arrival. He can see an individual drop fall away from all the others. He reaches out and catches it. Feels its cool explosion in his palm.

"But you can stand at the edge, and catch the little droplets," the child responds, opening his eyes and looking at his grandfather hopefully. The memory of the cool water droplet still fresh. His grandfather's weathered face looks down at him with a sad smile.

"No, son," the booming all around him drowns out his words even to his own ears, "You wade in the water until you're waist deep," he feels his boots sink into the soft mud beneath the rippling-water's surface. The water begins soaking his toes, his feet, up his ankles and to his knees. His legs grow heavy and his boots fill with sand and mud. He ducks as he steps into the waterfall, the falling water growing in intensity. Everything drips with the slippery liquid. His chest is cold and his hair is matted from the falling downpour, "-then you get beneath the torrent. And you bear it all on your shoulders-" and it starts to sting. It starts to burn. It rubs your skin raw and splashes over your head. Trickles of water flow down your forehead into your eyes, into your mouth. It tries to drown you. It deafens you and leaves you blind. You get tired and hungry and cold. But it comes and comes and comes and-

The boy catches another droplet, imagining his grandfather beneath the waterfall. The boy, in his imagination, stands at the edge of the lake, just close enough to catch the little droplets, watching the ocean envelop his papa.

"I think I'd just stand by the edge, and catch the little droplets." His grandfather smiles and reaches down from his recliner and places his large hand on his grandson's shoulder. He wears the uniform of The King's Personal Guard. The insignia hovers a fraction of an inch over the cloth from mini-projectors denoting his rank and expertise. He commands an entire combat flotilla of the finest ships in The King's Solar Fleet. He got there from successfully leading hundreds of thousands of soldiers to their deaths; missions completed. He can still hear the booming.

"Good, son. You do that," he lets his voice rumble, a rumble that matches the powerful waterfall pouring over his shoulders and soaking his very bones, "Someone needs to catch the little droplets." The boy beams at him. This time he catches two instead of one and imagines showing them to his grandfather. He did his part. His grandfather, up to his waist and beneath the waves, spittling water, smiles.

He was just a child then. Just a boy. Now, his time is coming. Soon, he will wade.

"She's beautiful," he says with obvious admiration.

"Mhmm," I grumble in agreement.

The ship before us is gleaming in endless construction lights, bathing it in cool blues and sharp yellows. Construction bots circle it in sporadic movements, cutting and welding.

"It'll be quite the honor to ride her," he says, I can hear the smile in his voice. The wistfulness.

The ship is the newest addition to The King's personal fleet. It's built with eloquence and drama. Every angle designed to be captured by camera, to get the shimmer just right under any sun. Or, if caught in the depths of cosmos, the lights to emit their own radiance that'll strike pride in any viewers.

"Beautiful and fierce. Dedicated and unflinching. She's perfect in every way," he continues on.

I would sure prefer her guns weren't designed for a dramatic opening, in the case of a surprise attack they would take nearly a minute to bear as opposed to the standard fleets' twenty four seconds. In a surprise attack it'll take ages. And they packed it with so many defenses it's practically a mobile fortress, excellent for self defense and storing troops. In theory, The King could board her as a flag ship without having to do any extensive prep-work associated with the arrival of The King.

There's enough comm equipment onboard it puts carriers to shame, in the case it does become a flagship. It's also a mechanical nightmare, that kind of equipment is always breaking down. The ship was built to do a little bit of everything. More guns than the average Battleship, more shielding than a Destroyer, more comms than a Carrier, more flashy lights and designs than a Cruiser, and more engines than a Corvette. In all? A massive liability in every regard. Being acceptable at everything makes it useless at anything. If the war were to make it back to our solar system then these ships would be the first to go. And The King is making two dozen more, cresting five scores of the beasts. They're pretty though.

"If I got the chance, I'd bang her." This statement draws me out of my thoughts.

"Uh, what?" I look at him. He's astroid-born thin and tall; he's also closely shaven, like everyone else. His eyes are light green with extra wide pupils. His uniform is the standard blue but his insignia hover a fraction of an inch over the fabric from a low-energy projector. The King's personal Fleet personnel are provided only the priciest of uniforms. Though he's ungainly, being astroid-born, he's handsome. All of The King's personal soldiers are handsome.

"Oh don't pretend you wouldn't," he gives me a toothy grin, his eyes alight.

"What're you going to bang her into, the station?" I ask. He'd be dead before he was able to adjust course. Though The King's ships are useless, his space stations are not. They could shoot a nuclear warhead into a pin needle in the dead of space with pinpoint accuracy at thirty thousand miles. They are much less the walking advertisements The King's ships are. However, I suspect he's not been talking about the ship this whole time.

"I'd bang her into the station just fine, then the ship, the bridge, you know, pretty much anywhere would do." I open my mouth then close it. His eyes are searching my face as he realizes I wasn't tracking.

"The Captain," he nods his head down to the catwalk two levels below us. I follow his eyes to the Captain of the ship. "She's The King's Staple," he says in awe. While his statement may not be true, I can agree with his sentiment. She is very beautiful.

"Who did you think I was talking about?" He asks with a laugh, watching the captain.

I turn my eyes back to the ship. To The King's crest they're welding onto the front of it. A golden shield stands at its heart with naked angels holding it up on either side, hawks posed in violent-flight over their heads. At their feet the majestic Coslim is hammered out in gold as the bottom of the crest, carrying the shield and angels. The Coslim's inherent space-faring capabilities are the cause of humanity's reach into the stars. Supposedly, The King is direct lineage of those who first domesticated the Coslim. If such a creature could be claimed as domesticated.

Lieutenant Penrose follows my eyes to the ship.

"He also ramped up our production of Standards. He's gearing for war closer to home," Penrose says with a lowered voice.

"No shot. With fifty of these Kingships he's going to be making a show of deploying us. There's more going on." Penrose frowns and watches the captain some more. His eyes follow her curves as she starts walking.

"There are bigger problems than her," I growl with annoyance.

Watching the ship get built fills me with fear and anticipation. We're getting deployed and I can feel it. The King has never deployed Kingships before but he's never had this many either. With the grandiose of space war means pinpoint offensives and, if you're the defender, hoping you spot their exact location before it's too late. Harder than finding a needle in a million haystacks.

"I dunno," I hear the grin grow in his voice, "She's plenty big. I wouldn't mind her being my prob-" I shoot him a glare and he cuts off but doesn't stop grinning. Annoyance flowers in my chest. I need to be able to focus. Get my head in the game before it starts. The stew of war is about to boil over.

The captain dissappears amidst the flow of construction, ending Penrose's show.

"There's work to be done," I growl, wishing I hadn't stole myself a glance as well.

He slides the hang-up button.

Text: >:( *mad face*

Reply: hold on i'm writing

Text: is it good?

Reply: no

Text: >>>>>:(

He stares at the darkness consuming him, embodied by the empty page on the bright screen. The cursor blinks back at his shadowy face, shadowy in persona not physicality. His hair stands on end.

Thoughts overwhelm him, dragging him back to his day life of bright lights and ear-screeching noises. The constant shudder of machinery and howls of horns. The everbeating engine, its steady thud of heavy hammering.

Now it's dark. The room is quiet. The night is young.

He already turned the AC up to max, to induce chills. The light of his screen is maxed out and it hurts his eyes. He considers blasting some music. He's under stimulated and only finds peace in the constant chaos of work. The painful world he inhabits of loud noises, bright lights, and adrenaline. Now, he sits in the darkness trying to recreate it. *Oversaturate, desensitize* he tells himself.

Is it good? No. Is it good? Is it good? No.

Is he safe? She asked.

Safe? He asked incredulously, letting out a chuckle.

Of course he's not safe, he replies, he's a lion.

Chronicles of Narnia.

Is it good?

Is it good?

No.

*Mad face*

But He is good. The beaver said.

Chronicles of Narnia.

He turns the music on. He likes to listen to it at "15", whatever that means.

He turns it to 37.

It hurts his ears.

He leans back, watching the cursor bounce in and out of existence.

The darkness consumes him.

The screen blinds his face.

The air shivers his skin. It cuts to his bones.

Is it good? No. How can it be good? How can it ever be good?

No.

It's the corpse. Pale and drained of life. Skin stale and cold.

It's the beauty of your girlfriend, eyes pure joy in their turquoise hue.

It's the screams of them dying. Echoing through the truck as your medic works to "fix" them.

It's the quiet in your car as you sit outside your driveway.

It's the blinding blinking lights, casting everything in an alarming color of red, blue, and white. Your truck. The firetruck. The police cars. It's a scramble of vibrancy Picasso would prize.

It's the dark of the empty home. The moonlight casts the shadows of the blinds ruthlessly on the carpet floor.

It's the smell of the blood. Yes, his. And especially his. Hers too. Each of them different. Each as unique as the lives that once held it.

It's the smell of the soap, hand sanitizer, lotion, that masks it. The overtly strong cherry blossom that reminds you of your childhood.

It's the feeling as their ribs break. Their chest caving in beneath your weight. The crackle. The pop. The air is forced out of their lungs with each push and you force it back down. The smell of their incontinence a constant.

It's burying your face against her shoulder. Smelling her hair. Feeling her smooth skin. The strong muscles. Counting her ribs with soft fingers. Ear against her chest, listening to the strong heart and soft breathing.

It's driving home and realizing you're driving too fast because you miss the adrenaline.

It's calling your family because in their pictures you see the corpses of the past. Present. Future.

It's trying to giggle to get the pressure off your diaphragm.

It's the hopelessness because you can't save them.

It's the boredom because, well, you can't save them. You drive a little faster. You work the horn a little harder.

They're going to die. So many of them are going to die. And you're going to do everything right. And they're going to die. And one day it's just another body.

It's knowing that that's not always true.

"How many dead people does it take to make a living one?" He asks half, though only crazed-way. The man by his side looks at him funny. They're strangers, after all.

"Are you alive sir?" He asks in his sane kind of way.

"Why, of course I am!" The man exclaims in his normal-Joe kind of way.

"Of course sir of course," he responds then turns away from the living normal-Joe, "Are you alive, ma'am?" He asks a woman. She's pretty in some traditional sense, if not the western tradition. Maybe a southern tradition? Or perhaps a northern-southern east sense.

"What kind of a question is that? You can see me walking can't you?" Responds the northern-southern easterly woman.

"Oh yesss ma'am! I can! I'm so sorry to bother you!" He skips a couple feet to the north-right, about 51 and a third degrees, past the living normal-Joe to yet another man, in a top hat and t-shirt. A bear with a heavy beard, spectacles, and similar top hat resides in blue print on his t-shirt.

"You sir!" The sane-crazed half man calls, pointing, "Are you alive sir?" The bear looks at him with peculiarity that the top hat man doesn't share.

"Well who's asking?" The top hat's resident asks.

"Why sir, I'm asking," the half man responds with delight.

"To which why do you ask?"

"The why that wishes to know how many dead people make a living one?"

"That's a peculiar question sir," Mr. Top-hat man states, bringing his hand to his face in thought, "I suppose it only took one for me."

"Just one!"

"Yes I suppose just one."

"Well that's delightful!"

"It sure is, what about you?" The top-hat man is curious.

"Why, I can't say for sure I'm living," The crazed half-man responds in jolly.

"You sure do ask a lot of questions for a dead man," says the top-hat man.

"Dead men do ask no questions, no real questions anyhow," perhaps he is less a crazed half-man more a sane half-crazed living man? Anyhow, he agrees. The man with the elegant bear continues on:

"The dead folk ask no questions. They pulse and breathe and live dead. But you, sir, you pulse and breathe and question life! You're as alive as I've seen!"

"I am?" The sane half-crazed living man asks in blissful amazement.

"Aren't you?"

"I've definitely met a lot of dead people. Maybe it did bring me to life."

"A lot, a little, the difference is only a number."

"I like that quite a lot sir. Quite a lot."

"Well thank you, I crinkled it myself sir."

"You crinkled well sir."

And with that the bear, quite dead, meandered back into the mall to find a counterpart. And the tophat hugged greasy hair a few hours longer. And the sane-crazed, half-maybe, living-man skipped on past the corpses of the living to meet more dead people and, hopefully, another living soul.

Ever. after happily

The small room is aglow from the cigarette in my face, eerily lighting my ragged hair and unwashed face. My dark brown eyes are black with death. A slim ray of heat grazes the tip of my nose and radiates against the skin of my fingers.

The house is large and empty of value, the front of it having been blown off in some long-forgotten battle. The only body within is the one I made. I take another drag.

Bodies litter the world now. Far too many than make sense. I remember seeing the mushroom clouds. The two fat pillars rising far into the sky; their tops flowering to grapple the clouds in their deathly clasp. Those sure didn't leave the bodies.

The following radiation had its place but it's still no explanation for so many buildings with corpses littering their floors while my small group lives. By now the bodies are nothing more than piles of tattered clothes and grey mush, but in the beginning...

Mr. Bain supposed biological warfare. I suppose he was right. It makes as much sense as anything else in this dead world.

You can't do this. I pull the cigarette away and look at its pitiful yellow light. The edges are a deep red and dying. Just lay down and die. I watch the embers snuff out. I shift my weight. The pistol at my hip digs into my skin and my belt chafes my skin. They're both painful. I like the pain. Just be a pile of grey mush. The group will move and leave you alone in this little room, confiding in only your misery. Just die. The cigarette has the faintest of faint cherry in its grey center. I can't see anything in the dark except the single point of burning poison.

His body hadn't responded to the shots as they went through him. He just opened his mouth and reached for his weapon at his side but his muscles failed him. I took a step forward and made a futile attempt to catch him as he face-planted. His left arm went out to find support but found none, merely a limp arm crushed by his body. I stood there with my ears ringing and arm outstretched to his prone body, my gun lowered. My heart hammered in my throat so bad I couldn't breathe or swallow, pain flashed through my mouth with every heartbeat.

He had just been leaning against a wall there. I saw the surprise in his eyes. His mouth slightly agape. Nostrils flared. His eyes were brown and his forehead a little too big. His body skinny and hands large. Like everything else on this planet, he only wore grey. Then there were three holes in his chest and two over his shoulder. I was down on my left knee and my hand outstretched in the impossible task of catching the gravity-bound corpse I had created. He made a muffled thud through my ringing ears.

There were more muffled footsteps behind me. I spun around and stood quickly. Too quickly. I fell flat on my ass as Rippy turned the corner, wild shots flying over his head into the ceiling. I laid back onto my elbows as he brought his rifle to bear, scanning the room. My heart hammered in my chest and my elbows flowered with pain. My butt hurt. I let out a shaky breath but the weight in my chest didn't go away. Anxiety clung to me like a wet rag. Rippy said something and I said something and things happened in a blur and then I lit a cigarette and stared at the body. I made that body. We stuck him in the closet downstairs.

I still feel the weight in my chest. The cigarette didn't take away the edge. Doesn't release the pressure. Doesn't do much of anything except make my throat itchy. I snuff it out. Burning poison deserves to die.

Megan glances at the spot. There's still blood smears on the hardwood floor I couldn't mop up. Chunks and droplets I missed. She looks at the holes in the wall where the bullets landed. They went straight through him.

"He was alone?" She asks, her voice an octave too high as she forces too much air through her throat. The thought is making her giddy.

"I did a perimeter check and sent the drone up, we've not seen anybody," Rippy replies with a shrug, "Kevin is supposed to be on guard." They both look at me.

"I brought Megan in," I reply dumbly. My hands are still shaking.

"Yes, and thank you. Now you should get back to guard duty," She replies softly. She's been accepted as de facto leader as long as she keeps Rippy in check.

Rippy looks at me too, I can't read him. I always just assume disappointment and anger.

If Megan is the chisel, Rippy is the hammer. Megan leads with humanity and Rippy effeciency. We follow Megan because she cares. We follow Rippy because he's right.

I give a curt nod and turn on my heels, my face is heating up. I'm flustered. I just killed a man and they dismissed me like a child.

I freeze. My muscles are tight, my entire body tense and ready for a fight. Anger boils up inside me as I become dangerously aware of the heavy rifle slung over my shoulder.

"What about the others?" My voice sounds far away, from the far side of a long and narrow tunnel. Someone else's voice falling on my ears. The words are devoid of any emotion, completely empty. I can hear the decisiveness in her reply.

"I'll bring them in."

"I need time to myself."

"You're getting time to yourself."

"No, I'm getting a job. I need to breathe."

"I'll send someone to relieve you once we're settled."

"Kevin," Rippy interjects, ice cold, "Not now."

I'm still not facing them. They can't see the murder in my eyes. The burning, murderous fury of someone who just blew holes through a man and chucked him into a closet.

Then the battle clarity comes. My hands stop shaking and my muscles relax. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I watch, in my mind's eye, small chunks of flesh scatter from the man's back and litter the hardwood floor. It's what had to be done then and this is what has to be done now.

I don't suppose I ever actually woke up. The world is harsh, and growing harsher.

I let out a shaky breath, feeling the smoke trace along the roof of my mouth and imagine it rolling over my teeth and into the cold air. For a moment, only a moment, my hands stop shaking.

We left after Felicia shot herself. Her mark is probably still all over the wall in the attic.

It's funny how quickly you adjust to things. I never did. I don't suppose any of us did. But we're still here, so something must have happened. Several of us, anyway.

We lost Mr. Bain some months ago in a shoot-out. Olivia. We left Mrs. Bain behind because she couldn't keep up.

This new world is a harsh and cold one. Always clean up. That's what he told us. Mr. Bain did, after our first fight. Never let the women see them. As if they didn't know. As if they wouldn't see the remnants when they came in behind us. He was an old worlder, where women are sheltered and protected by chivalry and honor. I suspect that world died with him.

"We need to clean up," Rippy states. His voice is devoid of any emotion, as piercing as his killing eyes and the cutting wind. I let out my breath and enjoy feeling it roll out of my mouth. Rippy is of the new world. Women are slower, smaller, and bear just as much of the anvil of life as anyone else. Anything less means death. Apparently, though, he remember's Mr. Bain's words.

I snuff and slip the cigarrete into the tupperware case I store them within and look at the body.

"I suppose we do." Rippy had already dragged anything useful away and takes this moment to cover it in a ragged towel. Blood starts soaking through the thin material immediately.

The body is dead weight between us, limp and jiggly when we drop it in the closet. When we close the door behind us I leave a torn page peeking out from under the door. The women know that means not to enter. Because they know. They see the remnants when they come in behind us. The bottom of the page reads 4.

Victoria got sick about two weeks ago and we all avoided her. At first we hoped it was the radiation but when Jiavanni fell sick as well... They took care of each other as we watched. We didn't have medicine. We barely have food. We brought them what we could but stayed our distance. Yesterday they fell too weak to cry for food; hunger certainly gnawing at their gut. We left them in the night, too.

I go back and switch the page under the door for one that reads 6.

"I was prostituted"

"I know, I'm sorry. The police will want to hear that."

"It was my roommate. She did it to me."

"I'm sorry."

"They did it on purpose. The homeless shelter. They knew."

"I see."

"I want an abortion pill."

"You'll have to wait for the doctor and talk to them about that."

"Oh.

Can I have something to drink?"

"I'm sorry I can't give you anything to eat or drink. In case surgery is required."

"Oh."

"I can't give you anything to eat but I'm not going to stop you from eating those. That's the doctor's problem."

"The homeless shelter gave me a tent. A tent."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"They don't care about you unless you have children."

"That's why they put me with my roommate. That's why she prostituted me."

"When you have children they give you food. And instead of a tent you get a house. And warm clothes."

"My mother never left me."

"That's good."

"I lived with my sister but her boyfriend was a pimp."

"I see."

"He prostituted me and she abandoned me."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"My mother never left me though. I never lose."

"What do you mean?"

"I never lose. I NEVER lose. My mother never left me. But my aunt took me from her and she wouldn't tell her where I was at and so I was alone but I never lose. Never. I'll find my mother."

"I'm sorry."

"My aunt raises my cousins. But I don't trust her with them. She uses them for EBT money."

"That's terrible, I'm sorry."

"She used me for EBT money. And my sister. She feeds them McDonalds while she eats well. McDonalds. She doesn't care about them."

"That's frustrating, I'm sorry to hear that."

"She raised my sister until she moved out with her pimp boyfriend."

"I see."

"I lived with them until he started prostituting me. I left. And the shelter gave me a tent. A tent."

"I'm sorry."

"But now I'm pregnant. And I don't care about it. I'll have it on the streets and kill both of us."

"That's something you'll want to tell the SANe nurse and doctor."

"It's about the babies. That's why they give us houses."

"If we aren't pregnant we get tents. If we are pregnant we get houses. They're farming us."

"They're farming homeless people for babies. They're prostituting them for the children."

"That's why they put me with my roommate. That's what my sister's pimp boyfriend did to me."

"California owns me. They own me. But the homeless shelter owns the children."

"See these crackers? They're made from the baby fetuses."

"After I have mine I'm going to kill us both before its turned into crackers."

"Before my aunt gets it and raises it for EBT money."

"I'm going to go get some water."