Anxiety seemed the theme in Jaren's life. Halfhearted love letters written into online dating bios, sparking the frantic search for the 'Delete Account' button. The cafe barista longed for love, but with every advance, he found twice the obstacles.

One day, the most beautiful customer Jaren ever served walked in the shop as he walked out. He’d regret never approaching her; so he said with his heart in his throat;

"Would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me?" Coffee, of all things, he thought, kicking himself.

Her face twisting into a smile, replying;

“I have a girlfriend."

I am finally alone. 

Do you know what it feels like to want so badly to have five minutes to yourself? The frustration that boils because it just doesn’t happen. I just want five minutes to process my own thoughts, deal with my feelings, or even pick my goddamn nose in peace. 

It has taken thirty years of crowded rooms, buddies offering to do my chores, and nonstop doting females to push me over the edge. The sad part, and I mean regretful part, is I had to lose my wife to get it. 

Schizophrenia fuckin' took her from me. 

The first time I laid eyes on it, my gaze was glued tightly to it, and I couldn't tear myself away. It kept roping me in, until it was all I thought about when I was awake and all I dreamed about while sleeping. It would glitter prettily in the light of my mind, never ceasing to amaze or surprise me.

Some would say that I had a problem... Actually many would say that I had a problem. 

To me though, I just thought it was a sign of passion.

Turns out, I was wrong... But so was everyone else.

The spray of the ocean peppered his tired face. The wind whipped at his hair and carried with it the thick fishy scent of the old pier pylons. He used to come her as a young boy and walk along the deck of that pier. He often looked through the cracks and watched as the cool blue ocean flowed gently beneath him. Now fierce and grey, that same ocean was trying to swallow the old pier with every great wave it sent. He watched as the mighty pier held fast against its fickle opponent, calmly enduring, patiently waiting for peace.

'Rrrrr Rrrr' .The lollipop stick elasticated to the forks bounced of the spokes to be the base note of speed down the hill. Until.

Incline bites thigh muscles and breath was taken from smooth clutch changes to painful squeals of absent syncro-mesh . The 'dong dong' of wood on wire ; in a slowing metronome . The illusion gone the number 7 had lost it's (Barry) Sheen. At the brow the boys and girls looking back, waiting .

Press:

“DNF in Tipton leg of the British GP was a consequence of Baz's fall when a stick jammed in his wheel”

If you value your life at all, stick to three hard fast rules of survival. Number one: always look over your shoulder. Two: never trust anybody. And three: look out for numero uno. Nearly two years have passed since civilization first collapsed. Who would have thought our ever advancing technologies would be humanity's downfall? Chaos ensued. I was about twelve when the technopocalypse began. Suddenly orphaned, in this lawless world, I stuck by my Uncle Lyle for a time. Then he tried to pimp me out for cash, so I stabbed him in the gut with a rusty box cutter.

Three weeks studying. Tyler had spent the past three weeks studying, Monday through Sunday, 10 hours a day, just taking small breaks in between to eat and freshen up, and to do a bit of cleaning. He completely locked himself up (at least socially, because he did go out every now and then to do groceries). After all, he had what was probably the most important exam of his life coming.

 So, the day of the exam came. He was well rested, satiated, and prepared. But when he was just arriving to school, he was fatally hit by a car. 

Rain was thundering down on our old tin roof. I couldn't sleep. It wasn't because the rain was loud, or because the wind was howling against my window. Even the thunder wasn't enough to keep me awake. It wasn't because I thought our old shed house was going to cave in at any moment. 

I couldn't sleep because tomorrow was the most important day of my life, and I hadn't told anyone about it. My dad had asked, only just tonight at dinner, if I'd had anything big planned the next day. 

I wanted it to be my little secret.

There was a girl, once.

I didn't know her.

But some nights I would see a flame flicker in her room before three candles on the windowsill were lit, and some nights I would see her lug the window open and stick her face into the cold air outside. Some nights I would open my curtains just as she did, and we would look across at each other and pretend that we were as alone as we felt.

There was a girl, once.

I didn't know her.

But one night, standing at an open window, she waved.

I waved back.

A surge of hot electricity rose within his bosom. His fingers tingled with fury. The flame seethed in his veins through his arms. It crawled up his spine and into his eyes. Cool down, boy, he said. He looked down on his hand. It was glowing. Sparks of flame flickered from the tips of his fingers. He looked back at the boy kneeling at the whipping pole. Rage filled his eyes. He shut them tight. Concentrate. He felt the fire collect in the center of his bosom. His heart pounded. Steadily. More steadily. He opened his eyes. And released it.