The Contradictite

[Author's Note: This story, originally published in October of 2001 to my LiveJournal literary community, indiefiction, is loosely inspired by things like The Running Man  and the Roman Colosseum: in which criminals are set to battle to the death for the entertainment of crowds.] Wallace killed three people. With a tire iron. It was their tire iron. He was a sick man. Wallace then robbed a bank, giving the world a few more widows and orphans. Wallace eventually got caught after detonating a bus bomb. He was a small time terrorist, sure, but tell that to the suffering parties. You can tell them that you're sorry, but are you really? Could you possibly understand loss when everything is at your disposal? Can you honestly tell them that you can feel for them when really you're just thinking, "At least it didn't happen to me." I apologize for the outburst, I'm just angry, I guess. My parents were two of the three people killed with the tire iron. The thi

[Author's Note: When I was younger, I had created a fantasy setting called Yolun. I dabbled with a sort of continuing story about its creation and history and the different adventures that happened upon it. Maybe one day, I'll revive that notion. However, for now, here is a metafictional short story set in that world. Originally published in my LiveJournal literary community, indieficiton, in October of 2001. It intentionally breaks off in the middle of a sentence.] On the planet Yolun, men worked feverishly in a laboratory. They were attempting to hone not only their skills of science, but also of magic. Their current project was the design of a new species. This was the first time that Science was given the job normally taken by Chance or Nature (depending on the other's mood that day). The project's benefactor was anonymous, but there really weren't all too many people on Yolun who could fund the design of a new species. Even fewer in the land of Mor, since e

[Author's Note: This story was originally published in October of 2001 on my LiveJournal literary community, indiefiction. It plays with the idea of suburbia and faulty assumptions.] I walked into my front door. There before me, a strange man stood in my kitchen. Apparently one of my brother's friends. My brother did have the weirdest friends. I figured, what the hell, might as well be friendly. "Hi, my name's Sam." I told him. He looked at me and smiled, "Short for 'Samantha'?" I nodded. He helped himself to a drink. He was kinda cute. We stared at each other for a while. The electricity built in our gaze. Our eyes said words more poetic than those our lips could have formed . . . unless they were pressed together to his . . . No! I mustn't think like that. I mean, who is he, anyway. Some friend of my brother, or something. A complete stranger to me, and already I'm picking out the wallpaper on our dream house. Finally,

[Author's Note: This story was originally published in September of 2001 in my literary LiveJournal community, indiefiction. It plays with the notion of the "main character."] Gun shots fired all around me. I was cowering in a foxhole. I crouched next to James Corker. He was my reason for doing anything. "Joe," James said. "I'm going over." We had made it this far, I figured he couldn't die. Actually, I convinced myself to the point that I actually believed that he couldn't die. My life had been plagued by stereotype war movies. Every one had some buff major character that could run through a barrage of fire without getting shot. Then there was his buddy who would follow, and get hit by stray fire. That was how I felt most of the time after I met James. We were paired together, after the war broke out, and the propaganda distributed. We were stationed in the same area, and were placed in the same group, and finally paired up due

[Author's Note: This is a strange story. I originally published it in my LiveJournal literary community, indiefiction. I was trying to present a sort of time loop, but it kind of comes of creepy if you read too much into it. It's presented here for completion's sake.] I'm here. I turn around suddenly, looking to see who said that. I see no one. Looking up, I see the illumination of a fading street lamp. In the distance, I hear a faint drip, drip of what I hope are just rain gutters, and no other "gutters," thank you very much. A shudder runs down my spine. I wonder who originated the voice. Shaken, I continue on my trek homeward. The next day, I'm walking down the very same street, and I accidentally bump into an attractive woman. We get to talking, and find out that we have a lot in common. We even lived on the same road. As the days went on, I saw her more and more, until I was sure that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. Somehow,

[Author's Note: This is a story I wrote in August of 2001 and published in my literary LiveJournal community, indiefiction. It addresses a lack of identity, and plays with the idea literally. All the same, I was a dumb kid when I wrote this.] "Who are you?" I looked up at the grimy man behind the bar. My hand was holding a pistol, shakily pointed at him. Quickly, my mind raced back as far as I could remember. No one had ever asked me that before. No one had ever cared enough who I was. Worse yet, no one had even told me the answer to that question. Then it hit me, I didn't know who I was. "I," I stammered, "I don't know." All 23 years of my life, no one had ever directly addressed me. No one had ever used my name in conversation. I had no identity. I guess I'm really no one. "I guess I'm really no one." The man just stared at me. "So, as I said earlier," pointing the gun at him with a bit more confi

[Author's Note: This story was originally published on my LiveJournal literary blog, indiefiction in August of 2001. It addresses the nature of self-destructive friends.] I looked down on him. He was dangling off the side of a steep cliff. "Help," he pleaded. I leaned over closer to the edge so he could see my face better. "You got yourself there, you know. I wasn't the one who kept inching closer and closer to the edge. Remember: you removed me from your life. I'm surprised you're even listening to me now. To be totally honest, I never really liked you." I paused, for effect. He still clung. "C'mon, man, just help me out." "How do I know that you won't pull me down there with you? Why should I even bother helping you? You're self-destructive. It's time you learned your lesson. I won't teach you, though. You'll have to teach yourself." Though I didn't smoke, I lit one of his cigarettes and