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,