Celia Hasmann hasn't gone to church. What's even worse is that she promised her grandmother she would, too, and what's even worse than that is she really could go. Nothing was stopping her: the building wasn't far away, college life wasn't so hectic that she couldn't spare a few hours on a Sunday morning. She wasn't a hedonistic party-girl or a nose-upped intellect or lesbian. In fact, on weekdays when Sunday still seemed so far off, and the effort seemed so do-able, some part of her even wanted to go. Though never badly enough that she ever actually went.

It was Sunday today actually, but you wouldn't find Celia Hasmann in the rows of the devoted. In fact, you wouldn't find her anywhere. Not if you looked in the library, or in restaurants, not in a large group of people and not with a boyfriend. She wouldn't be at a job or volunteering, or reading, or doing homework, or nursing a hangover from the night before or running out of some lonely boy's room at some ungodly hour in the morning. You wouldn't find Celia anywhere you had access to because Celia Hasmann would be in her room, on her computer, doing nothing in particular at all.

That's not to say her life wasn't exciting. In fact, depending on the time of day and how stressed she was or how tired, her room could be found in varying degrees of interesting. You see, if she was very stressed and very tired, there would be an assortment of mugs filled with an assortment of liquids, likely variants of tea, that haven't had a proper wash in at least a week. If she was very pressed for time, or without clean dishes, she would pick the newest looking partically-filled cup and just drink that before running out the door to a class she was already late for. Sometimes, her laundry hamper would be so full it would fall over and all the crumpled clothes would spill on out on the floor, regurgitated and left to fester there. Her bed might be a complete mess, with the blanket more on the floor than the bed itself and the pillow somewhere in the room, tossed away in the middle of the night for reasons beyond the conscious mind. Her shoes could be haphazardly cast about in no discernable order, her phone perpetually almost dead, and her homework assignments lost somewhere in a pile of papers gathering at the base of her desk. On really bad weeks, you might be able to find crumpled up bags of completely eat family-pack kettle popped potato chips, alternatively of the Original and Vinegar and Salt variety.

TBC?

She was born,

She lived,

She died...

...and everyone forgot.

(This needs to be at least 15 words) 

Oh, this is awful, absolutely terrible, almost unspeakable. 

This is cannibalism.

It's the newest creation which People named Candice. 

People won't eat Candice because she's the prettiest.

Her–no, she's no her. Candice is an it–its hands are huge, its teeth are sharp.

Cookie cannibalism: it's proof that wonders never cease. 

It was winter and the winds sang, whistled through shivering trees. Snow danced with the breeze, light and powdery, bright and sweet, along the ground, giggling and hiccuping with joy into the whitened field beyond. Late squirrels, brown and cold, latched onto trees with round stuffed mouths, ran up to their homes and houses and settled down to rest. 

Cold nips at fingers feet, toes nose, freezes my face makes me squint to see winter's beauty. The sky is grey the trees are stark and barren, the ground is pure and ethereal, shining like diamond dust in faint sunlight and geese honk, a desolate sound that makes everything perfect. 

The stream is dead by my side, frozen solid through and through, paralyzed and vulnerable I take my heavy boot and slam it down, feel the ice crack! beneath my weighty feet I pick it up with wooly gloves and marvel at the shape, the intricacies. Air bubbles and holes, spiderweb cracks spanning the entire surface, so clear that when I look through it I can see every fallen twig every green pine every flake of snow, and when I look at it the world distorts so pretty so perfect when I put the ice down the world seems so plain. So 2-D. 

So simple so boring it hurts my heart to think about. Makes my chest ache with want. I wish the world were better. I wish the world stayed pretty and frozen, unmoving unchanging, numb to the pain of change I wish the world could be sweet and snowy forever, silent. Wasn't silence sweet? It swells to tremendous heights, filling up empty spaces and forgotten corners. Silence is the noise of perfection.                     

My breath comes out like dragon smoke in front of me. My eyelids flutter as flurries of snow brush against them. The trees rustle, and somewhere in the distance the geese honk.

Picture perfect. If I close my eyes, I can stretch now into forever.

The day 200,000 people died started off badly. Really badly. Jordan Riley missed his flight and spilled his coffee on his suit, lost his bag and his phone died. In fact, he was just about the leave the airport, mid-curse, when the lights flickered and died, replaced by an eery red light that illuminated everything enough to see, but not enough at all and it made his stomach coil and knot. Things only got worse when everyone went quiet, God it sucked when everyone got quiet, and from the other side of the airport a young lady screamed. Everyone rushed to the doors, but Jordan stayed where he was. His phone. It flickered back to life. He saw a few others check their phones too and he saw them pale, and when he looked down there was only one word written: 

MOVE. 

When Jordan looked up, people were still screaming and shoving and crying, but Jordan didn't notice any of it. MOVE. Where? Move where? Away from what? Towards what? What was safe and what was not and MOVE away from someone? Something? Riley shuddered and looked around, saw others begin to dart away into the depths of halls and empty rooms and dead escalators and he began to walk away too, then jog, then run, then sprint until the only thing he could hear were his own footsteps. The only things he could smell were artificial soaps and cleaners. Taste the remnants of his coffee. Feel the remains of his coffee and a cold sweat on his back and clammy, shaking hands. The only thing he could see was the cavernous empty room ahead of him. Abandoned bags. Spilled food. Something move.

And Jordan took off. Sprinted like he hadn't in the longest time because something moved and it had eyes. Big eyes, eyes redder than the warning lights eyes that glowed, had bright red eyes that pierced the darkness of the room and teeth that shined for a moment in a grotesque smile before it moved, darted into the shadows. Someone screamed. Closer this time. Close to him. Jordan ran and he sprinted and he kept on keeping on before his phone flashed again and he stopped.

MOVE.

MOVEMOVEMOVEMOVEMOVEMOVEMOVE

And from the corner of his eye, Jordan saw the shadows smile.

In the mind of a sociopath, everything is okay. Everything they do is justified, and the world revolves around them. So when I walk into Sammy's house that Saturday night, because the kid's an idiot and he's playing his music too damn loud, I walk in with a mask and a knife and with the intent to kill, and with no conscious of any kind to hold me back. I knock on his door and I wait till he opens it, and when nothing happens I kick the damned thing before crushing my fist into the doorbell. How none of the other neighbors are awake still baffles me. Actually, it just pissed me off even more, and I throw my plan to stab him at the door through the window and follow suit. The window's kinda small, but I'm a very persistent man, and when I get through, I stomp all the way to his fucking room and kick the fucking door down. 

The damn kid's pretending to be asleep. 

I mean, sure, he's probably scared as shit; I'm mad as hell wearing a fucking mask holding a fucking knife stomping my way through his fucking house after breaking in through the damn window. But Sammy, stupid fucking Sammy, was playing his music too damn loud and now look where I am at fucking 2 am in the goddamn morning. 

It's not like I want to be here. It's not like I wanted to pick only one of my knifes and wear my freshly-cleaned mask; pull on my damn combat boots and tuck my Glock-35 into the waistband of my pants. It's not like I wanted to wake up at 2 am in the goddamn morning to the sound of shitty music blasting at fucking 115 decibels from the house next door. It's not like I enjoy standing in Sammy's shit room, watching the kid pretend to sleep while his shit friends are probably hiding somewhere. I didn't want to do all these things. Except for the machete. I distinctly remember grabbing my machete, and I remember the shiver of excitement when my hands grasped the worn hilt. I really wanted the machete. 

But I was actually planning on letting Sammy go. He was a decent kid, really, and he was scared shitless of me and that was beyond 110% okay. I didn't think he actually had any friends at all but oh well. Sociopaths aren't always perfect. 

Sammy's room is shit. There's crap all over the floor like shirts and dirt and shoes and boxers, and crappy comics because who the hell reads fucking Marvel comics? You gotta watch the Marvel movies, dickhead. You read the DC comics. But the point is I can't tell my ass from my face it's such a fucking shithole in here, so when I do find the damn speakers, I'm almost ready to fall to my knees and thank whatever deity it is zealots believe in this time. The speakers aren't bad either, and I'm tempted to just walk right outta here with it but then I remember how loud they were, and how 2 am in the morning it is, and how tired I am and how much I love using my damn machete. So I set it quietly on the floor, cause if Sammy woke up I'd have to kill him and really I just wasn't in the mood, and slide my machete out real smooth from my belt and do a couple practice swings. I stretch my arms high above my head and with all the force of gravity and my own strength I slam the damn thing hard and the speakers fucking break with a satisfying CRACK. 

Except something musta been a bit too loud, cause next thing I know there's Sammy sitting up in his bed looking terrified as fuck, and God-fucking dammit Sammy can't you do anything right? I walk over to his bed and he's about to scream, but I cover his tiny face with one of my hands and debate. There are several ways I could do this. I could just leave. Just walk out, mission accomplished, speakers destroyed and Sammy scarred for life. But I said earlier if Sammy woke up I'd have to kill him, so I can't just leave now. I could use my knife, sheathed and currently unused, and just stab him, over and over and over until Sammy needs to learn to breathe blood or drown. That could be mildly enjoyable, but I really don't feel like washing blood from my gloves today. I guess I could use my machete? But once again, blood spurting everywhere on my clothes sounds less than enjoyable, so no. I still have my Glock-35. I fiddle with it with my free hand for a bit. It's kinda loud. It'll definitely draw attention. If I don't want to get blood splattered I'll have to let go of Sammy's face and shoot him while he's moving. It'll definitely get the police actively involved, and raises the chance that I'll get caught. But blood stains. All over my shirt and mask and gloves and boots. No. I take my hand off his face and the brat darts off, out the door and down the stairs, a little bit faster than I expected but still too fucking slow. 

The first bullet rings and misses, fuck it all, but it's scared Sammy so bad he tripped and now he's rolling down the last few steps. I stand still and fire again, fucking missed his stomach but I got his leg, and it must really fucking suck to be Sammy right now. I walk down to where he's bawling and cradling his lame leg, and I think of how much his life would suck being lame. In a moment of weakness, of pity, I take off my mask and point my gun to his head, look him straight in his terrified teenage eyes and fire. 

BANG.

In Forgotten Times,

Everything was Old,

but Nothing was Broken.

When Nothing Broke and Shattered,

Everything Broke too,

and Nothing Died.

What Next?

We Forgot.  

I will die–

Will I? 

HA.

Won't I–

I will die alone,

like everybody,

every soulless body,

buried, cold, alone.

Left in the ground to rot through and through,

thorough and

forgotten and–

Cold.

It'll always come down to that.

By bullet or by bat,

by drifting off into sleep, then slipping into eternal sleep,

by disease, or by cancer, or by heartache,

By God, you could be 

so freaking high and so damn happy that your heart gives out

and you'll still be

All. 

Alone.

When it comes down to it, 

and it always will,

we all die the same way.

And none of us are special.