tip tap tip tap tip tap

A man looks down at his watch. As cracked and dirty as it is, it still doesn’t fail to do its job. 4:09 AM.

“Ah, Christ. Kid should’ve been back by now…” he groans out to the air. He taps his foot nervously and looks again. 4:10 AM.

tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap

“I swear, if that kid messed something up, I’m gonna-“ he stops himself mid sentence. Even he doesn’t have an ending for that one.

tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap tip tap

The man takes a drag from his cigarette. He figures maybe it’ll calm his nerves, which have gone haywire. What could it be? Annoyance? Anger? Worry? As if on a cue, he looks back at his watch. He’s always been a fan of knowing the time. 4:12 AM.

It doesn’t do him any good, but it’s something.

* * *

With a quick flick of a wrist, the candle is put out, leaving only a thin trail of smoke that lingers behind. And I am engulfed in darkness.

But, darkness isn’t the only thing I see for long. In a little less than 10 minutes, the whole scene has changed. Now, I can see an assortment of reds. The red of stained carpets matted with blood, the red of anger that boils in my heart, and the red of death that leaves its mark like paint. I can hear, too. Or… I did. Shrieks of pain muffled by a hand. My hand. Footsteps as they shuffle about downstairs, lost in the madness of the whole event.

N-no… This wasn’t supposed to happen…

I am frozen in shock, but all I can think to do is look down at my hands. I am lost in a sea of confusion, and suddenly, I wish I’d never agreed to this plan in the first place. My hands tremble, as does the rest of me. Again, I see red. A red so deep that it hurts my eyes.

godiveneverseensomuchredbefore…

The lights are still out. My mind is as blank as ever. I am stuck. I can’t see a way out. For once, I don’t know what to do. But, I have to do something. Anything. I look down at my watch. 3:53 AM. Damn thing’s been busted since I… since I got blood all over me.

I really… need to get out of here…!

There’s only one way out. I can’t see it, but I just have to try. All I can do is walk, using my hands to guide me against these walls, in this darkness that doesn’t seem to end.

“This just isn’t right! It’s not fair! It’s immoral!” he yelled throwing down his tools in utter disgust and disappointment. They struck the ground with a loud clash and dust flew up, sending him into a violent cough.

Agent 76 looked at his comrade coughing up a fit and let out a deep sigh, almost in pity, “Look Agent 94, I know what you feel but we just can’t help it. It’s either this or extreme poverty and quickened death.”

“Don’t call me by my number”, he snapped back, quickly adding, “Who the hell do you think will hear and report us out here in this complete wasteland?!” He dropped to his knees and started to sob uncontrollably. “I hate this. What does he think he’ll find out here? There are no answers. Nothing … absolutely nothing!”

“It may be true that Doctor Marx is a …” he glanced around quickly making sure no one else was there before continuing in a barely audible whisper, “… a complete nutcase but as long as we keep searching for clues, he’ll keep paying us. I don’t know about you but I couldn’t care less about what we’d have to do. As long as I’m getting something to eat, clothes on my back and a roof over my head.”

It was the year 9876 and both agents we’re sent out in the middle of an abandoned city that prospered many centuries ago, in hopes of finding clues for Doctor Marx. Most of mankind had retreated to outer space as the living conditions had become unbearable down on earth. Many believed that it was the will of god that earth had been destroyed, as a punishment for humanity’s sins. Other believed it was simply a freak accident. The rare few insisted that the destruction didn’t happen instantly; rather, mankind was slowly causing its own demise. Whatever the case, the Doctor paid good money to those who offered to venture back down to earth and search for clues. Needless to say, only a few were ever reported to make it back to space alive.

“We’ve been on this floating dump for the past few weeks and we haven’t found anything. Just bones and lots of ‘em. Let’s go back. Even our supplies are running out …” Agent 94 trailed off while looking at his oxygen tank. The other agent nodded in a panic after glancing at his own oxygen tank. They both starting making their way back to their vessel with a sack of bones slung across their chests.

After having dumped the bones in the storage compartment, they both hopped in and Agent 76 started up the control pad. Instead of the expected flash of lights and colorful display, there was only a dull and melancholic blue screen staring back at them. With a five letter word blinking slowly on the screen …

“ERROR. ”

A near fatal error I made. It is quite humorous, actually. I once shot my best friend in the head with a shotgun. Now, I know, you, dear reader, are probably questioning my sanity with some four letter choice words. Let me start off. I met my friend in the year of 2040. Yes, it was a good year, we got the highly-anticipated 20” screen iPhone, but it was also the start of the Zombie War. No one really knows how it all started, all we know is it did. So, rather than blaming countries for this, the UN decided to unite all armies, to form the E.F.U.- Elimination Force of the Unidentified. People from ages 18-49 were drafted to fight. But, what we didn’t know before we killed the undead was that they weren’t all bad. For example, my best friend, and a terrifying zombie: Al. Al died at 19 in 1996, so I still consider him to be around my age, since I myself am 19. When my unit was driving back to base, from the woods, in the middle of the night, (where no one could here you scream), the worst possible thing happened: we had a flat tire. When we got out to see what happened, a bunch of zombies jumped out of bushes, and attacked us. They killed one of my unit’s members, TJ, which really got me upset. I spotted a lone zombie, just walking around the woods, and immediately shot him. I went over to see what I did, but when I found him, he was sitting up, sobbing, and asked if he could borrow a “hankie”. But that was just some background information.
The real adventure started when I realized, and I quote myself, “Did that zombie just ask for a handkerchief?!”
He glumly replied, “Yes,” as he fell over.

He was too old for playgrounds. The creaking of the town park’s rusted swings reminded Ryan Barns of this reality as he settled into their cracked leather. However, tonight he was indifferent to society’s conviction of what a four year honor roll student, fresh out of high school, should be doing on a Friday night. Gang activity was prominent in this part of town and he reasoned that anyone who saw him there would likely lump him in with the unseemly crowd that hovered around the area every afternoon. This couldn’t have been farther from the truth, but he had more important matters to deal with. The action of driving to the playground had been instinctual for Ryan after getting the call from Angela that could change his life. Angela. They had been dating for two years and he had told her that he loved her on more than one occasion, but now the thought of their relationship made him shudder. Of all the people, why had this happened to him? Of all the opportunities, why was his the one that had to go to waste? Handsome, intelligent, charismatic, athletic; his reputation preceded him. Hell, he would have been leaving for Princeton on a basketball scholarship the next day. How could he have made such a careless mistake? His mind flashed back to the moment. Prom. They were all drunk that night, but the substances they had consumed before arriving at the hotel weren’t what made this night different; it was their sudden intoxication with life. Anyone who knew them would have said their futures were bright, but it was this brightness that clouded their vision, impairing all logic and conscience. The power they gained through the praises which graced them with ease spawned the ego of a god. They were teenagers; likewise, their bodies moved of their own accord. It would be irrational to be mad at her; she had asked if he was ready. He couldn’t blame anyone but himself for focusing solely on the future. He had forgotten the potency of man’s two most powerful drugs: freedom and pride. Ironically, it was this knowledge that kindled his hatred for her now. The madness had become a whirling fire in his mind, fueled by the incessant sensation that he wasn’t the intelligent honor roll student he had worked so hard to become. He knew what Angela expected of him, but what she expected was much more than he would ever offer her. To stay home, to get a minimum wage job working nine to five, to eventually marry her, support her, support their dysfunctional family of three. He wasn’t self centered, he assured himself. He was simply following the dream that he had spent half his life working for. His parents expected no less; god only knows what they had sacrificed to give him this opportunity they never had. Ryan rose from the swing. Stumbling over to the see-saw he had cherished as a child, he stepped up on one end and slowly made his way to the other. How hard it had been to balance out both sides when he was younger. When he was at the park alone, he had gathered rocks from nearby and put them on the other end to balance out the side he was on. But the rocks were never heavy enough. The side he wasn’t on, no matter how he weighed it down, would never be equal. This truth was no different ten years later; rather, it would only be harder, now that he was older, to weigh both sides equally. As he shifted his weight towards the opposite end, the side of the see-saw he was on hit the earth with a thud. He had reached his resolution; there was nothing to consider. He would leave tonight, relying upon the narrow roads of New Jersey to lead him to his salvation. He liked this road. It had no detours or exits, no option of backing down for miles after one had made the decision to travel down it. This was a dangerous road to accidentally wander down, Ryan concluded, but in that moment, he had been sure he’d made the right decision. It wasn’t until he realized the consequences of leaving a child he had never met that the fire within him began to die out. It wasn’t until he considered that two people could balance a see-saw together, could make it work if only the love that weighed on their hearts was strong enough, that he became the accidental wanderer down an unswayed path. It wasn’t until he realized that he could never push a child on the swings again without thinking of the one he left behind in his egotistical climb to the top, that he knew he would have to add another adjective to his long list of defining characteristics. Was his future worth it anymore? For once in his life, Ryan was unsure. However, he knew what he could be sure of. As he immersed himself deeper down the darkened path, a tug at his conscience caused him to wonder whether it was too late to correct this fatal mistake.

I hate when errors occur in life. Some easy to take care of and simple to forget, others are dreadfully painful. Sometimes assumptions lead to errors like one that happened to me recently. It was something I regret. Starting this exact writing prompt the day it was due. Although I wasn't sure how well I would do, I was determined. My lazy self didn't help at all though. A few things happened to me. My mind going crazy, wondering what would happen if I didn't turn this in, and finally what others would think. This is my biggest error since the beginning of Summer.

Wil stared helplessly at the chessboard before him. Thirty-two people stood upon it: sixteen in black, sixteen in white. Wil, also clothed in white, stared horrorstruck at the white “pieces,” for all where his friends. And worse, all carried weapons of some sort. His pawns were people with whom he associated at times, but not often, he realized. His back rank was comprised of people integral to his closest social circles.
His back rank was full of his good friends; the ones with whom he’d eat lunch or go shopping. The role of queen was cast to his best friend since childhood, Al, with whom he shared many memories. Wil relaxed briefly, thinking that they had overlooked the most important person in his life. Suddenly, his stomach plummeted, and his mouth grew dry; he looked at the king. Long, caramel hair fell down the king’s back. Only then did he realize that whoever had created this demented game had relegated the role of “king” to his girlfriend.
His opponent walked out to a platform directly opposite his own. Dressed in a black suit, his opponent looked despicably dapper. He wore a mask, though, similar to a costume from a masquerade ball. With his upper face covered, the only things visible were his clean-shaven jaw and his combed, jet-black hair.
“Let me explain how this game works,” explained the masquerader. “We both take people from our own lives, and put them into combat against one another. If a piece is taken, the embodiment of that token is killed. The taker of the space is to kill the current inhabitant. None may fight back against another; the only exception is the king. If the king is able to stave off the attack, he or she may remain in the game. Oh, did I introduce myself? How boorish of me. They call me Why. As in, ‘why are you forcing me to play this game?’” Why laughed; a sadistic, satanic cackle that made Wil’s hair stand on end.
Disgusted, but seeing no means of escape for him or his friends, Wil agreed to play the game, on the condition that he and all of his living friends would be allowed to leave if he won. Still laughing, Why agreed to Wil’s condition. And so, play began. Wil understood the rudiments of chess, and was a strategic thinker, and so was able to make some early gains. However, neither he nor his pieces were able to stomach the vicious slaughters that were necessary in the game. Why’s tokens, on the other hand, stabbed and sliced at Wil’s friends without a second thought. They appeared to be machines, although as they died, they allowed cries of agony and tears of fear and pain to escape. All of Wil’s friends became sick to the stomach, and several vomited from fear, exhaustion, and disgust.
Throughout it all, Al remained unfazed, and mastered the art of killing his opponents quickly. When Wil faltered, and as Wil’s confidence broke due to deaths of his friends, Al stepped in, cold and calculating; he would tell Wil where to move his remaining companions, and kept a level head. But, as blood began to slicken the tile over which the pieces moved, Al also began to make several small mistakes. Suddenly, Why moved his knight into Al’s space. Neither Al nor Wil saw the move coming; both were taken aback. The knight rammed his blade into Al, the blade slashing across his body many times. Al screamed in agony, but the black knight silenced him soon enough. Al lay still, and Wil wept.
From there, the game became a downward spiral. Wil could do nothing as Why maneuvered his pieces, ruthlessly cutting down the last of Wil’s friends. Eventually, Wil could no longer protect his king, and watched through tear-filled eyes as she was cut down before him. Wil fell to his knees, engulfed in a torrent of emotions. As Why approached him, Wil realized that to Why, the whole game had been a Comedy of Fatal Errors.

The dark sufferings of an orphan alone on the streets of Manhattan, are compared to that of torture. My stomach ached from the lack of food, and my throat was barren and dry. I lifted myself up, and decided to take a walk to take my mind off the pains of hunger. I began brushing the layers of dirt from my torn jeans, and let free an enormous yawn, and discovered the setting of the sun. I've noticed that there's one thing that goes along with the mysterious dark nights of Manhattan, is trouble.
I walked a few blocks, and was suddenly overwhelmed with by an intense aroma, the B-Cafe. The smell of breadsticks, soup, steak, and wine filled the streets. I peered down the alleyway behind the restraunt, there was a large green trashcan. Perfect! Maybe, it wasn't a very appetizing meal, but its good enough for me. I lifted the lid, and a large gray rat, leaped out of the trashcan.
"Aaaghh!" I yelled.
I fell on my butt, and the rat scampered through a hole in the fence.
"Who's there!"
Mr. Wong, a grouchy a grouchy old Japanese man that manages the B-Cafe, his eyes were locked on me, he drew his long wooden ladle, from his pristine white chef's apron, and proceeded to throw it towards my direction. I sprang up and bolted towards the fence. I continued running till I reached the warf.
"My least favorite place in Manhattan." I whispered to myself.
I rubbed my freezing arms, and sighed, I had no idea where I was, so I sat down on the dock and perred over the edge, the twinkling stars shone brightly brightly in the water. I continued staring at the water, when a large hooded man was visible in the reflection. I quickly sprang up and turned around.
"Don't move," he whispered.
I heard the sound of the hammer carp back. My heart was pounding so fast. What should I do? Run, dive in to the water, or attack him?
"So here's the deal, me any my boys are going up town for a jewelry heist, so were down a man, and I'll agree not to kill you, of you help."
"So you in?"
I guess this is kind of a no brainer, but how should I know he won't kille me?
"I need an answer,"
I finally came to a decision.
"Deal."

A Fatal Error

Wednesday, August 11, 2010, 3:53 AM:

“Good Morning Ladies and Gentleman, welcome aboard Oceania flight 622, bound for England, we are sorry for the delay in our departure, please fasten your belts, and enjoy the 9 hour ride!” announced the Flight attendant. “Seriously Dad, it’s going to take 9 hours? What am I supposed to do for 9 whole hours?” asked Damien. “Sleep. You should sleep Damien.” replied Damien’s father. “Ugh, fine.” said Damien. There was a silent pause. “Dad…ever since Mom died, you’ve been acting very strange. You barely talk anymore.” exclaimed Damien. His father stood there, glaring at him, then slowly turning away in anger. “Okay then, why are we even on this plane?” questioned Damien. “We are part of an exploration initiative group; we study different types of lands, and report back to our head chief. We’re heading to England today to examine the soil quality” he replied. “So why did you drag me into this?” Damien replied back. “Because…who else is going to take care of you?” “Huh, true. I guess I’ll just keep my mouth shut then, huh?” said Damien. “Yes, you should do that” replied Damien’s father.

9:33 AM:
“Please re-fasten your seatbelts everyone, we are going to experience heavy turbulence, so please be ready” said the Flight Attendant. “I hear we’re lost” yelled one man. “We’re lost?” shouted another woman. “Please stay calm everyone, wait, what? THE ENGINE OF THE PLANE HAS JUST BROKE, WE ARE GOING DOWN!” All havoc broke loose from then. There was a sudden boom and thump from the tail of the plane. The plane was losing control! It was diving down from the air straight into the ground! Face masks plopped down onto everyone’s seat, and people were crying, and shouting! People who didn’t have their seat belts on were flying out into the open air and into the unknown from 20,000 feet in the air! They were bound to be dead. Damien and his father held on to each other and prayed while dozens of people were dying, and falling straight out of the plane. The lights turned off, no one could see! Everyone waited and cried, as there time to die was near. Then, suddenly, there was a huge BOOM. And everything went quite.

10:11 AM:
“I NEED A MEDIC” yelled an old man. “Dad…Dad…are you there? I can’t hear anything!” cried Damien. No one replied. “WHERE AM I? SOMEBODY HELP ME!” shouted Eric. He glanced at his right arm. There was a deep cut. About 12 Inches long, and 3 Inches deep. It was bloody and he could see his right arm’s bone, and it was shattered completely. He cried, until a man with a name tag on him that read “Jesse”, picked up Damien and threw him on his back, and carried him to somewhere safe. “Are you alright, little boy?” “I can’t…I can’t hear you, I think my left ear is deaf”. Damien watched as Jesse’s lips moved, but couldn’t understand a word he was saying.” “Well, alright then, I’m going to go help more people who may still be alive from the crash, stay here. Please.” said Jesse.

10:45 AM:
“Dad…is that you?” he saw his father, and he cried of joy, he couldn’t believe his father was alive. His father gave him a huge hug and cried as well. Damien looked around at where he was. There was a sea dozens of dead body’s everywhere. Damien looked up at his father, and they glanced together to see where they were. They were in the middle of an unknown island. Damien’s injury was unbearable, and so he looked up at his father and softly whispered “I love you.” And all of a sudden, Damien’s father blacked out and never lived to see a day of light ever again. Damien burst into tears and held his father’s hand, he closed his Dads eyes, and he let him rest in the soft and moist soil. He looked up and realized that there was nothing else Damien had left to live for. He slowly let his body drift away into the beautiful and mushy soil, and rested there, until something or someone, could save him from his misery.

Ah, economics. The very thing to make the world spin. That infallible (usually) aspect of reality that makes us all strive to be useful. Rather, the reward for sound economics is. It seems that one tends to ignore what goes into making those big corporations worthwhile, and who keeps them afloat. Who makes them viable, famous, in essence... Who makes these corporations big? That would be me. Or, people like me. Investors. Traders. Stock traders. Well... Assholes, if you asked the general public.

Back to what I said about making the world spin. We truly are the backbone of the world's “Wall Streets.” Without us, your big bank would be no different than your mom and pop store. They'd only have their profits and what the government gives them. Which, these days, isn't a lot. Why? Because we do all the damn dirty work! Rather, all the mental dirty work. We give these companies more money than the consumers do! So why do it? There's a fortune to be made. Rather, that's my reason. I'm not greedy. I'm no terrible person. It's just that my job is horribly misunderstood.

But of course, it is difficult to keep your low profile when someone figures out that you're raking in more money in the markets than anyone in your area. Not by actual dollar count, though. Nobody in the Fifth Economic Sector has multiplied their starting investments as quickly as I have. I'm not sure if that's not luck, though... Plus, the Fifth isn't known for good investing...

I spend much of my time avoiding police and watching the television. Oh, did that startle you? Running from the cops. Oh, yeah. I'm kinda doing this illegally. Not necessarily an offense people care about, but if I am caught red-handed, I'd be sent back home. And since I set up my income accounts with no name, I can't be traced. It's not like the government will freeze my assets because some seventeen year-old kid is monitoring their precious economy well, right? It's not like they can, anyway.

As far as the rest of the world is concerned, I am Hal Burke. Not a great name, but a fair alias. My actual name is Alfons Woltermann. My parents were born and raised in Germany before moving to the Fifth Sector, a pure economic sector built for education of youth and to cultivate the planets beyond the Moon. Of course, humans haven't gotten TOO far. It's only 2054, after all. The Moon seems the be the limit of our reach. (Though it seems like the Neufellner Group has the means and research to a Martian sector.) Let's just say the Fifth didn't live up to its billing.

Speaking of Neufellner... One of their affiliates, Plati-Corp isn't doing so well today. They're a prominent tech corporation, but their stock prices are free-falling. Rather, that's what it seems like. The prices are falling, it seems, because someone overreacted and started an idiotic chain reaction. I could buy all the stocks I can find and become majority owner, but that's be a mistake. What if there really IS reason? It'd be a waste. I do buy stocks of Plati-Corp en masse, though... This could be a huge break for me! It cost less than twelve hundred pines, but it's fine. (Pines are the universal currency amongst off-Earth economic sectors.) Converted to US dollars, I spent about a thousand bucks on a whim. Not even a decent fraction of my savings, but I don't really like losing money.

Ugh... Why do I have to hide down here, though...? It's depressing down in this dump of an inn. The only redeeming quality is a good connection to the Net. Hell, had it not been for that, I'd have never come here.

“I have a feeling that you're mentally bashing my establishment...” A sorry-looking person glares at me from behind a counter. He's one of the people who lost life's gamble, but still didn't do too bad. Felix Bergeron, owner of the Bergeron Net Inn. He once was a trader, but lost his entire investment in two days. Thus, he quit before things got worse. (There's nothing worse than a net-debt in these cutthroat days...) I respect him, though. He's made a fairly decent living. He can't afford the Third Sector or anything, but he could have left the Fifth whenever he pleased. His family is here, so he won't. Which is unfortunate. He's an earnest, smart man. If not a tad slow when it came to stocks...

“It's no Second Sector establishment.” This is our usual banter. He lets me stay here every now and again, I pay him a part of my earnings. Of course, he loses out on slow days. But I rarely have those anymore. In fact, I usually hit big. I do my research quite well. Even if I'm no good at mathematically predicting swings of property values. I never buy mortgages, though. I also avoid banking stocks. Requires too much math. “But it's good enough for the Fifth. Hell, this place would be damn good in the Fourth Sector.”

“Geez... Why don't you tell your parents where you are, again? I'm sure they're worried.”

“I doubt it.” I yawn and shut my laptop. I'll wait for tomorrow to see how Plati-Corp plays out. It's getting late, though... “Anyway, you get sixteen hundred pines today.” A really large sum. The great thing about being good at this stuff. I managed to rake in twelve thousand from yesterday's investments. (The two days before that, I broke even because I really did nothing. I lost seven thousand the day before. A bad bet on a liquor company two months ago forced me to firesell. That one looked promising, too.)

“Where are you gonna sleep? Here?”

“Nah. I'll find something.” If there's something to be said about the Fifth Sector, it's that we're a safe bunch of broke people. I've slept in alleys with no protection and my laptop out in the open. Someone plugged it in while I slept so I wouldn't lose work. We understand how hard it is to get out of this place, so nobody'd get in another person's way. That'd be idiotic.

The Moon is broken up into six Sectors. The first two are the wealthiest. There is no looking any other way. It's where everyone wants to go. You work, and maybe get into the First. If you can afford it. The Third is for the upper-middle class. Usually these people came from Earth with money, but never had the luck to get farther. The fourth is the true middle class. The Fourth is made up of a lot of Mood-bred people. It's the pinnacle for a lot of unlucky people. If you work hard, the Fourth is the bare minimum reward. But nothing else is guaranteed.

The last two... The Fifth is where I live. Lower-middle class people live here. We can afford some things, but nothing luxurious. Lots of run-down cars and the streets look crappy. The buildings are old, and the insides can never look too clean. I don't think it's possible. But the place is safe, like the other Sectors ahead of it. We genuinely like each other, regardless of our predicaments.

God, the Sixth is bad. High crime rates. Messed-up housing. No jobs. And worst of all, no Net. That would seem really petty, but think about it. With so few jobs, people turn to the market. The economy. But without the Net, you can't access the best info, and all of your purchases are late. And manual. Meaning you get scraps. You'd be lucky to break even. Nobody's ever made the leap from Sixth to even Third. Everyone runs out of luck at the Fourth, gets a job, and settles down. Before getting arrested. Once a Sixth, always a Sixth. That sounds bad, but it's true.

I was born in the Fifth. My parents are on the verge of going to the Fourth. It should be weeks from now. I'm happy for them. But I left because I'm not cut out for that slow process. No, I want to be in control. He who owns the economy owns the world, I say. I want to be that man. But few investors work alone. Usually, investors find a partner. More often than not, of the opposite gender. It's not that uncommon for partnerships to turn into marriages. (Women tend to be really good hagglers here. I wonder if it was the same on Earth...)

A lot of Sixth people blame the government for their woes. I think not. The citizens destroyed their own Net towers in riots ten years back. Why would they fix them? That's stupid. Don't break things that you need. That simple. A seventeen year-old knows THAT.

I sigh and pick up my laptop, shoving it into the black bag I carry it in, but not before checking the last news piece of the trading day. “Plati-Corp to be shut down, all stocks to become worthless...” Well, carp! That was the money I planned on finding a place to sleep with! Great. Now I'm homeless, hungry, AND without a place to sleep. Just my luck...