3. "Only One Hour to Go" - Brent

Only one more hour to go. Sixty more minutes. I never thought I would end up here, that we would end up here.

Sixty more minutes until the end. Until nothingness. Until the final push in a losing battle. The final gasped breathe of a dying revolution to coincide with the final breathe of everything. A beautiful swan song to be remembered by no one.

A once noble cause perverted into a call to arms, a battle cry. The difference between the indifferent and the particular. The meek and the loud. Those who found themselves sick of the ruling obnoxious, find ourselves obnoxiously poor losers. Those who screamed loudest for power, ended by a powerful loudness of their enemies. In just one hour.

Their execution has been near flawless. Their armies commanding. Their people resilient. Their celebrations arrogant. An earned arrogance, detestable by those who oppose them. Their execution has been near flawless. But not flawless.

Their failure lies in their inability to believe that we could be bold. Their belief that because we chose never to be brash, or cruel, or vile, that we couldn’t. Their belief that we could not do anything as devastating, as horrible, and as complete as we intend to. In just sixty minutes.

What started as a difference of opinion, a variance in a choice of lifestyle, in character, will lead to the end of all lifestyles, of all characters who’ve played a role in a now seemingly meaningless fight. A battle over something so unimportant to be the end of everything. A dispute amongst the spoiled over what should be deemed important, irrelevant now. One last push in a losing battle by a side too caught up in the flaws of their opponents to notice the flaws within themselves. Too caught up in degrading our opponent’s relentless pursuit of winning in everything to notice the ridiculousness of our own necessity to not lose. Our necessity for the last push. A beautiful swan song, by an ugly outfit, to be remembered by no one.

The condition of this world driven to despair by a society once reveled in glory and adoration. The condition of its people left wounded by a blind rage from a difference not so different at all. A difference exponentially exaggerated through pettiness, through pride, through boredom. The condition of ourselves driven to indifference through over analysis and egotism. Each of us with our own conditions, varying in terms and the prescribed medicines to combat them. Varying in definitions and described severities yet similar in one underlying condition which creates these symptoms. An underlying condition in vanity, in self-importance. An underlying theme in which we must define our flaws in terms of medical conditions and combat them with chemicals in an attempt to lay blame outside of ourselves.  A condition where we are unable to accept that we are flawed as a species. As a society. A condition in which we must prove our own perfection by fighting and killing those who disagree with us. A condition in which a small disparity in belief of significance is met with such intolerance that we will choose to end everything rather than let the opposition define us. In just one hour.

One hour to go. Sixty more minutes. I don’t know how I ended up here. How we got here. Sixty more minutes until the final push in a losing battle. An awful attempt at a swan song by an inherently flawed people. A great and final representation of a society who’ve arrogantly preferred to overdo things.  A final prescription for our greatest condition. The human condition.

3. "Only One Hour To Go" - Joseph

“Lady in red… is dancing with me… cheek to cheek…”

The music blares from the speakers in front of us.  We are getting the full experience, and the music sounds amazing, as it completely surrounds us.  She looks at me, as we dance closely, her eyes are asking some question, something I can’t read.  It’s like we’re the only people here tonight, though the gym is filled with people.  No one bothering us, no one asking “how did you get to go to prom with her?”  It would have been a little nice, I have to admit.  All the jocks are probably too embarrassed to make fun of me now that I came to prom with Amanda.  No more book dumpings.  No more wedgies.  That all ends tonight.  I came to prom with the head cheerleader.

This might be the greatest night of my life. 

Her perfume smells so great, I never want to stop smelling it.  I borrowed some of my brother’s smelly stuff.  Hopefully she likes it.  If the commercials are any indication, she’ll be all over me tonight.  Those are just commercials, I know.  Still, it would be really cool.

I wonder if we’ll be elected prom king and queen.  It’s not that far-fetched, right?  I mean, she is the most popular girl in school, and I’m her date.  Well, her and Rebecca Dane, but Rebecca is too concerned with popularity.  She’s stuck up.  Amanda is different.  She sees past all that high school hierarchy stuff.  She likes me for me.

I think I might try to kiss her.  Is that too much?  I don’t know.  I’ve never kissed a girl before.  I got time to figure it out, right?

I look up at the clock.  It’s 10:00.  Only one hour to go.  

Where has this night gone?  It flew by.  I’ve been thinking about it since I asked her three months ago at our church.  I’ve rehearsed how this night would go.  What I’d say, what she’d say, what I’d say back.  It hasn’t gone completely to plan.  Honestly, I think it’s probably gone better.

Dinner was great.  I took her to my favorite restaurant.  My dad said to make the date personal, something about me, you know?  Everybody else went to Mycroft’s Bistro.  Not us.  We’re having a special night.  It’s just for her and I.  I think I impressed her.  The chef made a plate just for us, and talked to me on a first name basis.  She seemed really interested in everything I had to say.  I told her things she didn’t know about me, about my interests and hobbies.  Stuff she admitted she had never heard of.  She’s never seen Casablanca.  Maybe for our second date we can make some microwave popcorn and watch it on my dad’s big screen TV.  And if one thing leads to another, so be it. 

I think I really opened her eyes to some amazing stuff. She seemed really interested in Doctor Who.  She was fascinated, just watching me talk. 

This is what I mean. She’s different.  Most girls would be bored or disinterested on principle.

On Monday I think I’m going to ask if she wants to co to WhoCon in June.  It’s nearby this year, only five hours away.  My dad will probably let me borrow the car.

Oh my god.  Are we dating now?  I guess we are.  I mean this is a date.  So currently we are dating.  I am dating the head cheerleader.

Who is going to be my best man?  I mean, this could be love.  I’ve heard weirder stories of how people got together.  My brother met someone on the internet in a Pokemon chatroom.  He told me they dated for six months, even though she lived in Canada. 

She’s looking at me still as we dance closely. She’s daydreaming, far away, her eyes looking across the room.  I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking.

“Lady in red… is dancing with me… cheek to cheek.”

Jesus, where did they get this DJ?  1995?

I swear to God, the smell of Axe Body Spray is never going to leave my nostrils.  It’s permanent. 

And why are we so close to the goddamn speakers?  Sam pulled me up here.  At least I can’t hear his laugh over this noise.  I swear I was going to stab him in the eye if I had to hear that snorty snot laugh again.

I’ve known this kid since we moved here in third grade.  Well, known of him.  We’ve been going to the same church since then, but we’ve never really talked until he cornered me at church in front of my mom.  My mom… ugh.  No help.  He’s all like, “Will you go to prom with me” like he was proposing or something.  And my mom was all like, “No one has asked you yet” right in front of him.  Yeah, no shit mom, prom is like three months from now.  No one has asked where I’m spending my honeymoon either.

I look up at the clock.  It’s 10:00.  Only one hour to go.

He picked me up in his dad’s car, a little beater that doesn’t have a floor, so much as it has a thick layer of Hardees wrappers.  And look, I’m not stuck up like Rebecca Dane.  I don’t care about that stuff.  But would it have killed him to stop by a car wash and just spend the $1.50 for the vacuum?

And dinner was the longest experience of my life.  All my friends went to Mycroft’s Bistro.  Me?  I spent my senior prom dinner at Steak and Shake.  And he spent half the time talking to his brother, who happens to be a cook there, about some British show about aliens or something.  I don’t know.  It was called Cyberman or something.  I couldn’t pay attention, he had a perfect ring of mustard around his lips the whole time that I couldn’t look away from. 

Connor is staring at me now.  I was supposed to be here with him.  Now he’s on the other side of the gym with Rebecca Dane, that bitch. 

Oh my god.  What is he doing?  He’s doing that slow blink stare.  He’s going to try to kiss me.  How can he possibly think this is going well?!  I’ll just look away.  No eye contact from here on out.

“I say my darling… you look wonderful tonight…”

I’m gonna do it.  I’m gonna do it.  This song is perfect.  She’s not looking at me, but this is a sign.  It’s got to be, right?  How do they do this in the movies?  Should I go slow, or just jump in fast, real passionate like?  Maybe she’s nervous.  She looks really tense.

“I say my darling… you look wonderful tonight…”

Fucking Steak and Shake.  I have to fart so bad, it hurts.  Please just let this song end.

“She was a fast machine… she kept her motor clean…”

Man, I blew it.  That was my shot, and now there’s a fast song, and she ran off to the bathroom.  Okay Sam, pull it together.  You still have time.  You just might have to up your game…  Some amazing move to let everyone know how beautiful and wonderful and… got it.

“She was a fast machine… she kept her motor clean…”

NO NO NO NO NO NO!  I seriously shit on the back of my white dress.  Fuck you Steak and Shake, fuck you Sam.  This is the worst night of my life. 

Maybe it’s not so bad.  

Oh my god.  Oh my god.  It’s all down the back.  It must have slipped into the toilet.  This bathroom has no window.  Maybe I’ll just stay in this stall until I die. 

My gym bag.  It’s in the locker room on the other side of the dance.  Maybe I can scoot along the wall, grab my other clothes, and bail.  Okay.  Okay.  I can do this.

Here we go.

“You must remember this… a kiss is still a kiss…”

Here we go.

She’s coming out of the bathroom now.  She’s looking around, probably for me.  And now she sees me.  She hears the song.  This is going to make our second date so much more romantic. 

I think I should ask her to dance, but that’s being polite.  I want her to think I have an edge.  Something she’s overlooked since we were kids.  Girls like confidence.  They like the bad boy.  I’m just going to grab her and pull her to the middle where the DJ, who is awesome by the way, has the lights set up just for us.  They’re all going to know I came here with Amanda Crabdresh, head cheerleader.  Pretty soon I’m going to be just as popular as her.

They’ll tell this story at our wedding.

2. "A Cold Wind Blows" - Joseph

Dark.

Freezing.

He doesn't care.  He doesn't notice.

He doesn't know why he's here.

The snow in front of him lies like a blanket to the tree line a quarter mile away.  A dark mass, only made visible by a pale full moon that lights the field in front of him in a pale phantasmagoric glow.  A hundred yards to his right lies the tall grass poking through the white snow like skyscrapers of a city flooded and stilled by time.  By silence.

By death.

it can't be it isn't possible how could

Nothing is moving.  There isn't a sound.  Every time he shifts his weight, the snow groans under his shoe.  His shoe.  His feet are too cold.  He should have grabbed the boots instead.

He doesn't care.  He doesn't notice.

He doesn't know why he's here.

The lack of sound in the still night presses into his ears.  The pressure is immense.

there has to be something i can do someway i can fix it this isn't real this isn't real why

A cold wind blows and his body shivers without his mind's permission.  His mind is a million miles away.  His mind is on last Christmas.  His mind is on next Christmas.  His mind brought him out here for no reason.

"I should call my mom." No, go outside.

"I should go to the hospital." No, go outside.

"I should say goodbye." No, go outside.

And here he stands under a beautiful starry moonlit sky, on a snowy field disturbed only by the footprints left by his wet sneakers.  There is no sound.  There is no movement.  The wind has stopped.  The snow has stopped.

The world has stopped.

And he is alone.

His breath steams before his eyes and dissipates, infuriating in its simplicity.  It's so easy to breathe.  It's so easy.

why can't she just do it why can't she

So many thoughts flying by like cars on the highway.  Here and gone too quickly to focus on.

Here and gone too quickly.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember everything.  There will be nothing new to remember.  It's all happened.  Her laugh.  Her smile.  The look she gave him when he hurt her feelings.  Now it's only alive in his mind.  Nowhere else.

take it back what do i have to do there's got to be something there's got to

come back

Here and gone too quickly.

And somewhere, someone is laughing.  Somewhere someone just had the best day of their lives.  Someone had a child.  Someone fell in love.

Somewhere far away, life is beautiful.

Yesterday he was busy.  Yesterday he didn't think about her once.  She never crossed his mind.

He'll never forget that.  Maybe someday he'll forgive himself.  He'll never forget.

This moment.  This field.  This night.  This silence.  This treeline.  This stillness.  It will be tattooed on his heart for the rest of his life.  It will be a small pebble, completely inadequate to fill the hole where she was.  That spot will starve until he dies.  Until he sees her again.

There is no end to this story.  There is no final piece.  No closing.  No structure.  A beginning with no middle, with no end.

That would be too fair.

He doesn't know why he's here.

2. "A Cold Wind Blows" - Brent

A cold wind blows along the desolate shore way. Ice creeps on the banks of the river, bringing its frosty touch further and further upon the land. The frigid breeze echoes through the empty streets, whistling as it passes through the pathways of old. Decrepit buildings line the roadways, crumbling at the feet of time and neglect. Skeletons of what they once were, they now embody the life of the once beautiful city. Some would say its death. There is a deafening silence lining the streets, a powerful reminder of its overwhelming fall from grace. A city once defined by the strength of its steel, the might of its muscle now resembles a ghost town. Nightmarish. The Paris of the West now the Temple of Ozymandius. Starved by exodus and strangled by corruption.Wrapped in negative perception, cloaked in desperation. A cold wind blows through the dark, decaying town. Deafening silence echoes through the empty streets. Doubt surrounds its city walls. But it does not reside within them.

1. "Another Drunken Episode" - Brent

It seems, falling asleep wasn’t the tough part. Staying asleep is not proving so easy. It’s four in the morning and all I can think about is the ten pounds of cotton that seems to have grown in my mouth overnight. I need water.

Staring at the white stucco ceiling above my head I begin to realize that I’m in unfamiliar territory. The couch I’m sleeping on is also unfamiliar, an old, worn corduroy feel, the color undistinguishable in the dark. I’m covered in an itchy blanket that smells like wet dog, or vomit, or both. Covered is a loose term. It seems that someone threw an old stinky blanket from across the room and it happened to land on my left leg and a part of my ass.   There’s a sharp pain in my hand, specifically in my middle finger. It’s disappointingly familiar. It’s a deep throbbing that sends shocks from just below my finger nail through the center of my hand and halfway to my elbow. It throbs deeper and deeper as I gain greater consciousness. I wonder how I broke it.

Across the room I hear strange sounds that encompass the night. A combination of a clock in the distance, a furnace churning, and whatever other unknown sounds go bump in the night in this stranger’s home.

Lifting the disgusting blanket off my legs I begin to sit up, struggling to bend at the waist, and forcing myself with every ounce of energy I have. There’s a burning sensation in my side that temporarily takes my mind off of my finger. Unfortunately, it’s only temporary. Placing my hand on the ground to gain balance as I lift myself from the couch I am immediately reminded of the pain in my finger, though its cause remains a mystery. I bite my lip, trying desperately to muffle the bizarre noises that are forced from my lips by the excruciating pain. As a peculiar sounds escapes my lips I hear another peculiar sound from below me. It’s a person, or some inebriated version of a person. A pain filled, sharp squeal pierces the obnoxious humming noises that apparently pass for silence in this unknown home. From the depths of a deeply intoxicated slumber this person is ripped back into a reality. A hung over, thirsty, quizzical reality. I’m stepping on her hair.

This person is unfamiliar, yet familiar in some ways. Nobody knew who she was when she showed up or how anyone could be so drunk. Nobody knew who would be so bold as to rifle through a strangers refrigerator without asking or make macaroni and cheese without hesitation, or permission. But in a party with seven guys and no girls, nobody was in a rush to kick her out. I remember her barging into our house, and the confusion that ensued, but that doesn’t explain why I am here, or why she is here, wherever this is.

Gazing across the room I notice she is not the only person sprawled out on the floor, in a drunken stupor. This place looks like a war zone, pitting mostly young twenty something’s in a battle with uncertainty, youthful angst and alcohol. Apparently nobody won. Especially not me.

I plan a path to what looks like the bathroom, fixating on the thirst that is continues to grow. Focusing on the cotton field that is encompassing my mouth and throat.  There is a yellow glow from behind the door and a leg sticking out of the crack where it is open. Stumbling over the battlefield of bodies, beer cans and bottles I reach the bathroom door and open it. The leg is attached to a familiar person. It is my roommate. I quickly assess my surroundings to find the nearest source of water. My roommate stirring, he opens his eyes and looks directly at me. I step over him towards the sink, throw the silver faucet handle upward, and cup my hands in a bowl to catch the water. As I lift my hands to my mouth there is immediate relief as the water quenches my thirst partially. I replenish my hand bowl, my source of revitalization and continue to try and drown out my cottonmouth. There is a chuckle from below me, as my roommate is watching me frantically try to cure my condition. I turn to him and ask, “What happened last night?” I am hoping that he will have the answer to the question that has plagued me since I regained some sense of consciousness this morning. He looks up, and smiles with an expression of confident confusion, a look of uncertain assuredness. “Another drunken episode” he says.

And I know all that I need to, or ever will.

1. "Another Drunken Episode." - Joseph

"Another drunken episode," he said to me, wearing that same shit eating grin I've seen plastered to the face of so many other trust fund kids. The smile they think is bullet-proof... the eyes though are a mix of shame and... something else. Something I've yet to accurately define. I'd say indifference, but it's deeper, like a light has gone out inside and he doesn't care. He prefers the dark.

I take another long drag of the cigarette I promised myself I wouldn't bum off the maintenance man on my way upstairs. I took the elevator anyway, so I wouldn't be reminded of why I was trying to quit. I feel the smoke hit my lungs and think to myself that I wish it would do it's worst. Anything had to be better than cleaning up another born into wealth sociopath's mess. If I am quiet, and listen really hard, I think I can hear my lungs dying. 

If only.

He sits there silent, as if he's waiting for me to yell at him, punish him the way his daddy never did because he was too busy taking a conference call from Asia or banging the gardener's wife while the poor bastard was being made to trim the rose bushes yet again. Mom never disciplined the brat either. Hell, this little shit never met his mother. Just a poor shell of what was left of her after a vodka and Vicodin breakfast. 

I know why he does it. His actions have never mattered to anyone. No one has ever thought he was important. He's never gotten a rise out of anybody.

He's not going to start now. Not after what he's done. I won't give him the satisfaction. 

The cigarette burns between my two yellowed fingers on a hand that looks much older than I recall it ever looking before. I pretend in my mind it's a trick of the light, some weird shadow that you make an excuse for in a photograph. It isn't. I'm old. And as the cigarette burns down, closer and closer to the filter, I take another breath, this time of clean air. Or whatever passes for clean air in this rank building. The cigarette will eventually burn out. It's inevitable. It's short and pointless life will be extinguished, and it will have served it's purpose in doing nothing but damage to someone it had no personal grudge against. It will leave behind nothing but a stink and a stain on the already disgusting ceiling tiles of this cramped and crumbling office. It will be unremarkable, indistinguishable, and forgotten as one of a million cigarettes smoked by a million people that day. Unimportant.

Goddamn, my hands look old.

"So what do we do?" he says. We. The word makes my stomach turn. To share a pronoun with this little bastard when it's all I can do to not jump across my desk and strangle him. Then again, who am I kidding? Killing this kid is one of those things you think about on your way home after the fight. The thing you tell yourself you should have done, when deep in your mind you know you never would have. I pretend it's out of some moral high ground that he's not lying in a puddle of his own face right now. That if I killed him, I would be like him. He should be thanking my conscience and my great upbringing. The truth is my upbringing wasn't anything to write home about. And I wouldn't mind being like him. I'll bet he can sleep at night.

The truth is, I'm a chicken shit coward.

Without a word, I look at the manilla envelope in his hand. It's thick, folded over. It's supposed to have $30,000 in it, but of course I'll count it, and of course it'll be short. He passes it over, along with the keys to his daddy's car. I tell him to report it stolen when he gets home.

The next four words he says make me hate myself more than I thought possible. Not because of what they mean, not because of what I'll have to do. But because it's just another day at the office. The shitty, broken down, cramped and crumbling office. Because of the word "We."

"She's in the trunk."

He checks his text messages on his way out the door and laughs, maybe at some stupid joke a friend made, maybe some racist picture on Facebook. Who cares. The little shit. The door closes, but it doesn't latch. The maintenance man said he'd fix that last week. And the month before that. 

The cash sits on my desk. The cigarette is still stubbornly burning in the ashtray, refusing to go out. In my mind I beg it, 

"Please..." 

but I can't even finish the thought. What's the point? There's no mercy. Not for me. Not for the girl in that trunk. Whoever will be missing her will be begging "Please" too. They deserve it. I haven't for a long time.

His eyes. His soul is gone. It died behind them somewhere along the way. Maybe it was seeing his mother passed out topless on the front lawn. Maybe it was his father letting her slip away in favor of whatever woman he could force himself on. I'll bet the $27,000 on my desk the rich little bastard doesn't even remember when it happened.

We have that in common.