Looping – a poem



A poem written by Christian Tanner


For those who feel like they lost their childhood, or it was lost in the mix of being abused. We were so young when we lost the best part of ourselves to the worst things in life. We sat on the curb sometimes and simply wondered why.

Why me?

I saw them there, all the warning signs, stopping me and telling me to turn and run and hide. I tried to listen and, and do the right thing, but my self-fulfilling prophecy tore into me and fought with me and made me always wonder why. I always wondered, am I living my own story that I wrote when I was a kid? Have the stepping stones led me into a pit of lessons learned? Or am I free to fly wherever I may turn?
God, I ask you, please send someone here, here, right in front of me, to stand by side and help me fight off the demons who are grabbing me by my wings so I can’t take off for my flight, to live my life the way I, the way I always wanted to. Regret and shame tore into my soul, unpacked its bags and laid a bed before it, so it could quietly lay and sleep, waiting to wake and tear into me with a blade into my heart, haunting me until the day I die, fighting me until I give up and can’t move on. Regret is the pain that rumbles me before I fall asleep. That pain that keeps me awake in bed while I stare at the ceiling, waiting to fade away, or quietly slip away, and do it all over again tomorrow.

Still, I can feel the wondering why, the unanswered questions are repeated in my mind, “What else could I have done?” Or “Was I really just too young?” Still, I feel the regret, it’s slipping off my tongue while I reach across to pull you even closer to me and whisper that I love you, that you’re perfect and I will always comfort you. I am the man I am created from what was never meant to meet you. The one I fought and defeated so I could be with you. I almost slipped away, but my inner circle couldn’t watch me live another day with distress suppressed by another drink, watching things go down when the bottle went up.

I don’t need it. I’ll always tell myself, I don’t need it anymore.



Emphasis on Anxiety


A short story written by Christian Tanner

Are you a thrill seeker? Are you an adrenaline junkie? Do you like to go to work, come home, and then relax? Who are you? What do you like to do in your free time? If you’re answering these question, then you’ve got it all wrong. Do not let people push you around – you need to get out and start asking other people some fucking question. Sometimes you have to quit being the question and instead be the damn answer. Question others. Question actions. Question government. Question religion. Question humanity. Answer it to yourself, who the fuck are you? I’ll tell you now, you won’t find yourself in here, but you’ll sure as hell be entertained, so listen up.

My name is Jeff, but my girlfriend Samantha, all I can say is fuckin’ A. She looks like the kind of woman you see on the cover of Vogue Magazine, where you assume there’s no way the woman is real. You’ll tell yourself those women don’t exist, but she was walking by my side in Wal-Mart. She doesn’t need to be Photoshopped because she doesn’t have any imperfections. Ass 10. Waist 10. Face 10. Even her long legs. Fucking 10. 10, I tell you. The hardest part about our relationship is walking through the god damn grocery store because everyone whips their heads around to check out my girl, like she’s some replica of Marilyn Monroe; Stop staring guys and girls, she’s just a girl.

Isle 7 was where it had begun. I was shuffling through the milk, 2%, 1%, non-fat, low fat, whatever, I didn’t fucking care, I only wanted a gallon of milk that wasn’t going to expire in two days. For Christ’s sake, it’s almost impossible now-a-days. I shoved a jug of 2% to the left and circled the gallon of milk behind it, trying to find the date.


A guy’s voice came from behind, “Damn, look at that ass.” All I could think was, great, another pig.

He made noises with his mouth like he was heftily chewing on a piece of tough steak, but he was acting like he was eating out her pussy. His hands stationed in front of his mouth while he signaled a diamond with his index fingers and thumbs.

The guy was with two of his friends, that put the total at three people. His friends said in hamony, “Ohhhhhhh,” while he continued acting like a fool, eating her pussy out and what have you.

Samantha spat, “Come on, baby. Don’t worry about those guys.”

I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed for not sticking up for Samantha, let alone myself. I wrote it off though, I put the milk in the cart and pushed the buggy to the next isle.

Isle 6, a completely different isle, yet the guys were not far behind, but they weren’t exactly following us. I could hear them in the other isle. I rustled through a number of thoughts about how to deal with the situation.

1.)    Call the manager, tell him or her they’re harassing us, but I’m not a pussy.

2.)    Politely ask them to shut the fuck up, yet again, I am not a pussy.

3.)    Push down the entire shelf that was dividing the isles and hope that a random bottle breaks and slits their throats.

4.)    Fight them. Yeah, fight them. All three of them. I’m not a pussy, I just have anxiety.

They turned the corner as if they could hear my thoughts that were crying for a fight. All three of them, one next to the other, next to the other. Arm, to arm, to arm. They were walking quickly, they kind of looked like robots. All of them lacked facial expression. Bone dry looks on their faces. I was in for one hell of a fight. As they got closer, they started dividing into 1,2,3, but they stayed close to each other.

The first guy, let’s call him an “Ohhh,” guy and the same goes for the second bitch, he was yelling “Ohhh,” too. That fucker I wanted was pussy footing in the third spot. The diamond pussy guy. The first fucker took a quick swing, going for the one hit knock-out haymaker. Luckily, I ducked out of the way and I landed a jaw-breaking blow while I was on my way up.

With my left hand, I palmed #2’s face and he grabbed my arm. Do you know those pillar things that stores hang stuff on like fire extinguishers and key pads? Yeah, I threw his head into that. The bastard. The bitch. I could not help myself, I let him get away with throwing the first punch, which he did. Yet again, I ducked, but this time I looked back and saw a pool of blood flowing out of #2’s head while he lied on the grocery store floor. It looked a lot different in real life than it did in the movies. Everything happened so quickly that Samantha had no idea how to react. That was until she saw the blood flowing out of #2’s head. The distinct click-click-click of her heels baring the floor echoed throughout the store. She marched to #3, the bitch, the bastard, the eating out my girl’s diamond pussy guy, and she laid him out with one blow. That’s my girl, damn. Blood shot from his nose onto her face, a gruesome image from those with a weak stomach, but she was not fazed by the crimson mess. Again, damn girl.

Samantha wiped her lips clear of blood and turned towards me and said, “We’ve gotta get outta here because I have the photo shoot and now I have blood on me and we’re going to be late because of these pussies. And the cops, too. Fuck.”

Stunned at what I just saw, I agreed. But first, I walked to #3, the bitch, the bastard and I kicked him in the ribs and with the connection of my foot and his bones, blood didn’t hesitate to spew out of the corner of his mouth. I’m guessing it came from his lungs and by the looks of it, he only had a few minutes to live if the ambulance didn’t hurry.

We’re just a few steps from the photographer’s studio. It takes Samantha about two hours to get ready each day, but earlier she got ready quicker than I’d ever seen before. However, even with her makeup on, I could still recognize a faint line on her chin where the blood squirted, dried and then stained. Maybe they’ll use Photoshop for her now. Nobody wants to see blood stains on a woman’s chin.

“Ay, yo, get in here,” Said Jarod, the photographer, “I’ve been waiting all day for yuns. What took the time?”

Jarod looked like his own underwear model, and it made me uncomfortable for Samantha and him to be together. Especially alone. Never alone. Ugh, never alone.

The photographer’s studio, it was an old broken down home and the house came with many uses. I had recently found out that it was also used to film pornos. Nevertheless, it didn’t bother me a bit.  I just paid close attention to what I was leaning on and where I was setting my things because the last thing anyone wants to do is set their phone in a pile of dried semen. At the time, I had no idea they did photo shoots while a porno was being filmed at the same time. Honestly, that was the first time I had ever been to the photo porn house. I was beyond mad when I found out. I was enraged, pissed, fucking ticked.

Nonchalantly, Jarod said, “Don’t worry about the other room,” looking at me he asked, “Has Samantha filled you in or can I do the honors?”  

All I could think was what the fuck is going on and why hasn’t Samantha told me about it. I needed answers and I needed them quick. “Please, Jarod, fill me in.”

At first, I could tell he was taking it easy on me, trying to break the news as delicately as possible, “This house isn’t only used for photo shoots, ya kna’.”

I figured that out by the sound of the couple pounding each other in the other room. At first, I didn’t know if it was a house for prostitutes and what not, or if it was for some sex slavery weird bullshit.

“They film porn here.”

My face was as blank as a piece of white printer paper, my head cocked to the side like a curious dog while I starred at Samantha and said, “Wooow, didn’t know that.”

Samantha immediately changed her face, now showing regret, or maybe a little remorse because she knew I was extremely upset. Although I didn’t show it then, she got it later.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before it’s just that when I found out we had to pay bills and I knew you wouldn’t be okay with it so I thought I could just tell you later but I never knew how to tell you.”

“You didn’t know how to tell me?” I asked. “You didn’t know how to tell me?” A little more emphasis on “me”.

“Me?” A little more. Realizing how aggressive I sounded, I quickly shifted my tone lower, “You could tell me anything but look, just get this over with and we will talk about it later.”

I never realized how much directors talk while filming porn. All I could hear was, “Get under her, man. Fuck her like a dog. Ride it. Ride it. Ride it. Fuck her, man, fuck her.”

I was sitting on a couch, trying not to touch too much, while I kept my mind off the shaking wall behind me. In a moment’s time, something fell off the wall and scared me half to death. That put my sweat pores to works, man, let me tell you. I was already sweating hard, but then I really started getting hot. I had on two T-shirts, one I wore as an under shirt, so I took my shirt off and laid it on the back of the couch. Resting, I paid most of my attention on Samantha while Jarod’s camera went to work.

I bit my lips raw during the entire photo shoot because the sounds of the actor, actress and director were driving me nuts. “Throw her on the bed. Are you okay, honey? Hang in there. Suck his dick. Suck his dick.” I was done.

I stood up and told Samantha and Jarod, “I’ll be outside having a smoke just come get me when you’re done.”

Smile for the camera, baby.

They wrapped up the session quickly after I went out for a smoke. Just as I was putting the butt out on the front porch railing, Samantha was walking out.

“Ready, Honey?” Samantha asked me, but the nickname “Honey” was ruined for me because of the porn director calling the actress “Honey” over and over again. I cringed when she called me “Honey”.

“Yeah, I’m ready to go.” I stated. We plopped into the car, but I forgot my shirt. God damn it, I knew I had to go back in. I was about to ask Samantha to go in and get it for me, but I said fuck it, I’ll get it myself.

“Fuck, I forgot my shirt.”

“I’ll get it for you, baby.” Samantha offered, but I insisted.

“I got it, don’t worry.”

I walked inside the house, nodding my head at Jarod while he was walking out, I looked back and saw him walk to my car window and he started talking to Samantha. I thought nothing of it, for the most part, and I went to the “back room” where they were taking photos.

A guy without a shirt, a long dirty mustache, a hairy stomach that you could get lost in, and his hair cut medium length, combed behind his ears and a big brown cigar hung from his teeth. He looked like his belly button smelled weird. What a fucked up looking guy. He was on the phone and I heard him say, “In the fucking grocery store?” A lot of emphasis on “grocery”. No, really, think about it, “Grocery.”

“That’s fucked up. How bad is he hurt?” A long pause, “Wow, I hope I get a look at the guy. Let me tell ya’, a good fucking look.” Lots of emphasis of “fucking”. He saw me and stopped for a second, not saying a word and I could tell the person on the other line wasn’t saying anything either. Finally, he demanded, “Ay, I gotta go, I’ll call you soon. Just get your asses over here.” And he hung up the phone.

He took a long look at me and said, “Wow.”

We had no idea who each other were, but he acted like he knew me for a lifetime. He said, “Boy, I’ve been waiting for you for a long fucking time,” and he put his cigar out in the ashtray placed on the table next to him. He slammed his hand on the wood, splashing gray and black ash all over the table, repeating, “A long fucking time.”

He walked closer to me saying, “Look, I’m going to fill you in on something, and I’m going to do it quick.”

Just before he continued his speech, he yelled, “Jeffery, get in here, I’ve got something for you to film.”

This guy, his stomach, his mustache, he walked closer to me, “How much was that shirt? 10? 20 dolla’s? Did you have to think about it before you bought it? 10? 20 dolla’s?”

I didn’t say anything because he started talking faster, “Let me show you how to make 10,000 dolla’s right now. Right here. These things don’t happen when you think about the shit, you just think about that 10,000 dolla’s. Take your pants off right now, and think about that 10,000 dolla’s. Think about your car payment and your house payment. 10,000 dolla’s. I can tell by your expression right now, you need it. You need the money. Take your pants off and I’ll show you how to make 10,000 dolla’s in under an hour. Promise. Take ‘em off.”

Fuck no. What the fuckin’ fuck fucker. No. I’m not a pussy, I just have anxiety, and boy did that shit kick in quick. I turned around to grab my shirt but I heard him taking off his pants. Not that taking off your pants makes a distinct sound, but I knew he was taking off his damn pants.

He said, “Don’t think about it, just do it. 15,000 dolla’s, man. That’s 5,000 more.” He almost grabbed me from behind.

I looked behind me and I saw his flaccid penis, the dangle, his scrotum, his bush, his thigh line stretch marks. I think I stopped breathing for a moment. Honestly, I don’t think I ever started breathing again after that. I turned around to grab my shirt before I ran out the door, but for some reason, I couldn’t help myself, I took another look at his dick and like magic, like 5 seconds, the thing was hard as a rock. I jump over the couch – tripping – I stood up and ran out the door, jumped in the car, every muscle in my face flexed, and I drove away as quick as possible. I slammed on the gas pedal and frantically turned at the next stop sign, slamming into a brown Cadillac. I’m not a pussy, I just have anxiety.

I regained my composure, looked up, adjusted my eyes through the thin white smoke rising from the hood of my car, and saw two guys from the grocery store. Lots of emphasis on grocery.

(Please like, follow and comment on this post. It means the world to me when I get an update on my phone showing me someone enjoys these weird short stories. Tell me what you think. Thank you.)



A short story written by Christian Tanner

Traveling along a smooth highway in the passenger’s seat while staring at the Dallas skyline will give you a sense of enlightenment. Take a deep breath – hold it in – this is a ride of your life.

In Dallas, there’s a skyscraper outlined with neon green lights that can be seen from miles across numerous lakes and hills. Imagine a cheerful house around Christmas time, where the family outlines the roof and corners with lights. That’s what this building looks like, but on ecstasy. Not that the lights flash or anything, no, but they were as bright as a green sun. When you drive along I-75, if you’re lucky enough to catch the right angle, you’ll see flickers of a body blocking the green lights from someone falling to their death. I’m Andy, by the way, and reset.

Without looking down, the tips of my short blonde hair would barely blow in the wind. However, when I look down at the tiny moving dots, gusts of heavy winds would try their best to pull me down to the bottom as if the reaper himself were helping. Tempt me, devil, fucking tempt me. I don’t think I am in a position to explain the adrenaline hype to such a normal human being, like yourself, but I don’t give a flying fuck. For example, imagine the adrenaline rush you get from talking shit to a complete stranger in a bar. Walk up to someone, poke their chest, and tell them that their parents died to get away from their child’s shitty life.  Your hands will begin to shake and you may catch yourself saying horrible insults. You debate with yourself, wondering if you’re going to hit the stranger or if you’re going to walk away. To you, it can be an uncomfortable situation, but you’ll usually walk away.

When you’re on the verge of suicide, and you’re on top of a skyscraper, the decision is as easy as a bar fight and I’ve been in plenty of them.

Most people who hold the sharp edge of a knife to their wrist will wait for you to walk through the door before they split their skin. People who are on the edge of buildings will wait for the police to show up. Suicide wannabes who are about to take half a bottle of Xanax will call or text you before they take them. Normally, they’ll only take four or five of them –depending on their strength – and then they will wait for the pills to kick in, call you and lie, saying they took them all. Suiciders will tell you anything because for a moment you’ll finally listen to them. I’m the wanna-be on top of a building and I’m waiting for the cops to get here, so let me tell you how I got here.

One time, at my family reunion, this mother fucker had the audacity to ask me for a loan to start some shitty guacamole company called, “GuacaHolyMoley.” Really, coming from a husband of a second cousin that I haven’t talked to in years. I didn’t even know the guy, he told me that my cousin said I would loan him the money. He barely introduced himself, too.

Anyway, I was at my family reunion, dressed to the nines, while I sat in the corner and observed my family point at me and tell someone who I am. They would tell them about my investments and my clothing line, and then they would introduce them to me. Brag about me, you assholes, you didn’t give a shit about me until I had money, but that’s the way it works in the States. When my family looks at me, they see a big dollar sign. I can’t blame them, though, when I look deep enough into their eyes, I can see my reflection. It’s a big ass mother fucking dollar sign, bitch.

While I hung back in the corner, a man walked through the heavy door of the church building we were in. When the door slammed shut behind him, everyone stopped and stared. He wore a nice heavy blue suit. He looked at me, pointed and winked, and then he left. Everyone went back, doing what they were doing, but I couldn’t help but think about what a strange sight it was. I shook it off, acting like nothing happened, and I went to sit next to my cousin Molly that I used to live next to.

As I sat down, I said to her, “What a shitty reunion. Don’t you think?”

She threw me off, saying, “What? Who are you?”


“Molly, it’s me. Andy. The fuck’s wrong with you.”

“Well, Andy, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are talking to me that way.”

And just like that, I realized I was caught in the middle of some shitty Christmas movie like It’s a Wonderful Life, but I don’t have any bullshit angel to help guide me.

I said, “Molly, quit fuckin’ with me,” while I slapped my face, “You’re being ridiculous, it’s me.” I barely pushed her on the shoulder – ok, maybe it was a little more than a push – she yelled while she raised her hand to slap me. Just before she hit me, my cousin Roger pulled me away.

“Ok, buddy, it might be time for you to go.” He said as he blocked me from Molly. Everyone was watching while Roger kept telling me to leave.

I looked around the room, my arms eagle spread, I said, “Everyone! It’s me, Andy. You people beg me for money. You people ask me for help. Don’t act like you don’t know me. Like you don’t know me! You people want my money.”

Everyone fell silent.

“Fine. I’m fucking out. Don’t think for a second that I’m going to help any of you assholes.” And then I left.

I hopped into my freshly waxed Lexus, and I drove off in a scurry of screeches while my engine roared. I cruised to my bank to check my account. Sometimes when I’m really pissed off, I’ll look at my bank account balance and it will cheer me right up. Who can be pissed off when their bank account reads six figures?

This time was different. No money. Right then, the real problem had begun. I pulled my debit card out of the machine’s slot, and tried again. Nope. Nothing. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I sped off to my house.

I pulled into my normal spot in my driveway, removed the keys from the ignition, and I walked inside my two story home. It’s just me, but I love having a big ass house. I walked inside, heading towards my office. When I walked through my living room, someone said, “Andy!” In a raspy voice, “It’s you.” He nearly scared me to death. I shuffled to my T.V. and pulled out my Dessert Eagle from behind the armoire. I fired three rounds into his chest, watching blood seep through his suit. His nice heavy blue suit.

He lifted his head up and said, “Andy,” he laughed, “You can’t kill me, son. They call me the reaper for a reason, not you.”

“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded to know.

“Ha. . .”

“You were at my family reunion.”

He pointed at me and said, “Bingo.”

“What the fuck are you doing? And what did you do to my bank account?”

“Andy,” Jesus, his raspy voice, “Have you ever heard the term ‘sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me?’”

“Yeah,” I snapped.

“Well, Andy, those words fucking kill you. To an extremist, like yourself, those words mean a lot more to you than the average Joe, but you’re not the average Joe, are you, Andy?”

“Fuck you. Where’s my money?”

“There you go again. You’re reason isn’t inside your fucking bank account. Wake up! You’ve been dreaming, Andy. You’ve been dreaming! You’re stuck in a nightmare, and you have no escape. You have nothing. Even with your bank account, you’re nothing.”

I wiped my eyes while my allergies kicked in. I cleared my throat and shouted, “Get the fuck out.”

“Andy, you’ll never learn. I swear to god, you’ll never learn. Remember when your uncle had his way with you? Remember that, Andy? Remember when your dad beat the shit out of you for saying you wanted to be a professional basketball player? You lost yourself.”

My face turned cherry red from embarrassment. I turned the Dessert Eagle to my head and threatened myself to pull the trigger. Sweat quickly broke my pores.

“Andy, you know you won’t do that. You’ll be stuck with me for eternity.”

“Fuck you.” I almost pulled the trigger.

“Do you remember the last time you passed a wreck on the highway? When you saw a Calvary of ambulances and squad cars? You remember seeing wrecks, seeing the cars; rarely do you see the people who were in the wrecks, because sometimes it’s you. You drive by as slow as you can while you try to guess what happened, ‘he must’ve hit the median.’ ‘He was probably drunk,’ you’ll come up with a number of scenarios about what could have happened, but you’ll never know. Sometimes, that’s life giving you a second chance. That’s you driving past your own wreck.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Sometimes, even life gives you second chances.”

I couldn’t take it anymore, I ran out the door and hopped into my Lexus.

I’m driving down I-75 in Dallas. I glance to my left and admire the Dallas skyline. The building with green lights catches my eye. I see flickers of lights running down, and then I take a deep breath and realize how lucky I am to be alive.

Sure-fire Entry Into Heaven


A short story written by Christian Tanner

There are two things that are forbidden in redneck heaven – being black or gay. Unfortunately for me, I’m a bi-sexual black guy.

There were too many men, probably 10 or 11 of them, seriously. I think I should tell you that they were all white, it probably plays a major role in this story. Really, I don’t have anything against white people, it’s just these guys are probably all racist and they were beating me because I’m a black guy who likes guys, too.

Every time one of them would hit me, I think my heart would skip a beat. After a while, they were all hitting me, I started to think I wasn’t going to have a beat to skip. I was only 20 years old, after all, I couldn’t defend myself. I don’t hold it against them anymore, though, and I’ll tell you why. Oh, and before I forget, if you don’t like it when a black man fucks a white girl, you should probably stop reading. I’m not trying to scare you off, but this story gets a little, uh, let’s say – touchy.

What hurt the most was getting kicked in the back of my head. I mean, nothing hurt too badly because my adrenaline was racing faster than a stallion, however, when I got kicked in the back of my head, I saw a flash of white light on the back of my eyelids. The kind of white light that’s described as the pearly gates. Really though, I saw white. Blunt force trauma to the back of my skull. That’s not all they did to me, either, one of the redneck white guys with a Marlboro hanging from his teeth would grab me from the back – grappling my arms so I couldn’t fight back – while another white guy would throw his fists and elbows into my face, neck and jaw. I would cry and then spit blood, then they would have another go on me. They would hold me down and call me names like bitch boy and nigger faggot. First of all, when did they lose their creativity? Black people, we used to be referred to as niggers, and homosexuals were called faggots. All they could do was combined the two? Really? I gave them a lot more credit than they deserved.

Anyway, they were whooping my ass pretty good. What I had begun to ask myself was, why the hell did I decide to take a short cut through the woods to go to the grocery store? If only I wasn’t so greedy with my time, then my face might not have been swollen so badly that my cheeks were reaching off my head further than my nose. My face was rounded, making my head look like a basketball because it was swollen so badly. Then another man, that sick bastards, he really pissed me off. Let me tell you, the 10 or 11 of them were still kicking  me pretty hard, kicking me in the stomach and legs and face and what not, but out of the crease of my swollen eyes, as I was laying on my side, getting beaten, I saw a man running towards me as fast as he could, he was running as if it were for his life, while tripping over sticks and the white cloth he was wearing, he was holding something in his hand. He would run, nearly tripping, he would catch himself with his hands and then start running again. What started out as a faint sight of human hope running after my safety, it was actually a member of the KKK who wielded the Bible in his strong grasp.

“Damn boys, you got one.” The KKK member yelled in his best Mississippian accent while he began to beat me with his Bible. Now, from what I remember – please forgive me if I’m wrong – the Bible didn’t say, “Beat thy nigger with thy Bible.” No, if I remember correctly, the Bible was about love and shit.

“He’s a good’n, too.” The KKK member said, as if I were a buck or a 15 lb. catfish.

Please forgive me for not knowing all of their names, but they didn’t introduce themselves when they decided to beat my ass to near death. The one who was taking a break from beating me, he leaned over with his hands on his knees while he  reached deep into his lungs to catch his breath, he said, “I know, Jim! And this faggot was just walkin’ through the woods, askin’ for it.”

Yep, that was me, asking for it. I waved my floppy gay hand at them to come beat me. Sarcasm intended, I flagged them down, saying, “Over here! I’m black, as you can see. Also, I am gay. Can I please date your daughter? Or son? After all, I am a good man . . . In bed. I’m a giver, sweetheart.” How could they ever turn me away?

Back to the blood flowing out of my mouth, they were still going strong when the man and his Bible showed up. They kind of started hitting me and kicking me a bit harder when he arrived, I think they were trying to show off. In redneck heaven, a man is judged by how hard he can beat a black or gay man, and for their case, I  was a twofer.

I was a slap away from death when the sirens rang. I had never been so happy to hear a cop in my life.  The rednecks ran away faster than a deer at edge of a gunshot. I laid on the ground, staring into the sky through the tops of the trees, thinking about what happened and how it was a reflection of who I am. I understand that it’s not my fault for being born gay and black, but I’m not entirely innocent. My mom raised me in a Christian home so I know the Bible a little bit. I know that we are all born with original sin. I laid there, on the sticks and leaves and thin small patches of grass, while I prayed to God for forgiveness. I mean, if it wasn’t for his son, I wouldn’t be able to go to heaven one day. But I couldn’t help but think, I just got beaten as badly as Jesus Christ himself, doesn’t that make me a little bit closer to the son of God? I mean, now we have something in common, at least. But I have to take this moment for granted, because Jesus Christ didn’t have a chance to get revenge. So, at that moment, I knew God was talking to me. He was telling me to forget forgiveness, that they must suffer. Let that be the word of God, the Holy Ghost himself, revenge is justified under certain circumstances.

Unfortunately, the cop wasn’t coming to my rescue. He must have received a different call because the siren came and left like a cool breeze on a hot summer day; however, the cop scared the rednecks away, so it wasn’t not a total loss.

I was sure my legs were broke, they ached every time I tried to moved them. I tried lifting my head up, but I couldn’t do that, either. I was sure my neck was broken, too, but I do tend to over exaggerate things. My eyes wouldn’t do anything but close, so I took it as a sign from God, maybe it was time to go to sleep and let God take care of the rest.

I heard someone say, “Honey, wake up, baby.” I recognized that voice, it was my mom, but I thought to myself, what is she doing out in the woods? My eyes felt as if someone were pinching them shut, they wouldn’t open. I did a little work and with a bit of force, I finally saw light.

I heard my mom saying, “Oh, baby. You’re awake. Thank Jesus. Thank the Lord. Baby, you’re ok, honey, everything is ok.”

I could tell by the smell that I wasn’t locked inside of the woods anymore. I knew I was in the hospital and I looked around for a second, but I fell back to sleep.

“Honey, wake up, baby.” I heard my mom say. “The police are here. They want to ask you a couple questions.”

My tongue felt like it was stuck in the back of my throat, making it hard for me to take a deep breath, but I managed. Talking wasn’t easy, either.

“Son, can you talk to us?” The cop said to me, “I’m officer Brady and this is officer Freeman, we just want to ask you a couple questions about what happened.”

I cleared my throat, I could still taste the dried blood in the back of my mouth, and I finally said, “What do you want to know?”

“Can you tell us what happened?”

Could I? At the moment, everything was rushing back to me and it was giving me the creeps. I could feel my back pulsing while I imagined the rednecks kicking me in the vertebrae. I was practically dead, which meant I had a bit of information that others wanted to know. I told the cop, “I was walking to William’s Grocery to get something for my mom, so I took a short cut through the woods. The next thing I know, I’m in here.”

He wrote on his notepad and then asked, “Do you know who did this to you?”

I told him no, and after that, my answers deflated, becoming shorter and shorter until I fell back to sleep.

Days must have gone by. I was getting better. The swelling on my cheeks and nose were shrinking and I was staying awake longer each day. I could feel my tendons repairing themselves, while my arms and legs had begun to bend again. Everything was getting better.

In Como, Mississippi, where they hang the confederate flag underneath the American flag, there are only about 2,000 people. Everyone knows about everyone, and that’s all I knew about the rednecks. I only knew about them, but I didn’t know who they were; however, I had a gut feeling they were doing something out in the woods near my house.

Two weeks later, when I was home, resting while my mom catered to my every need, I thought of everything I could do to the bastards that beat me. I thought about every torcher in books, from a Columbian Neck Tie to a Chelsea Grin, but I wanted them to suffer. I came up with the best plot of revenge for racist rednecks, and let me tell you, I was highly proud of myself. But I needed a little bit of help.

That night, I did a little bit of shopping on the internet, ordering supplies and what not. Afterwards, I called Emily, my best friend since grade school, and I asked her for a bit of help. Without hesitation, after describing everything they did, she agreed to help me.

One by one, they all went down.

After I got off the phone with Emily, I went back to the woods. The rustling from the leaves and the cracking of branches as I walked haunted me like the ghost of my dead father. Each branch reminded me of a different kick. Forced by the wind, the leaves danced with each other, reminding me of every punch. Every low blow to my scrotum. After roughly five minutes of walking through the woods, I saw a fire. I was drawn to the fire like flies around a bowl of sugar. The closer I got, the clearer the voices became, and I knew it was the KKK the moment I saw fire. I dropped to the ground as soon as I saw a man walking towards me. My nerves fired off like a tommy gun in a 1950’s bank robbery. Tears soaked my eyes from fear, but I wasn’t crying. I heard the leaves being tossed around from the man’s footsteps, coming closer. I heard him crush a beer can with his hand, and then he threw it as far as he could. He then unzipped his pants, and took a piss. I had never been happier to hear a man pee in my entire life. His piss stream neared an end, and then I heard him turn and walk away.

I walked around their camp site and headed towards William’s Grocery, the only store within a mile. Behind the store, all of their trucks were parked side by side along with two squad cars, which I didn’t find surprising. Luckily, I had a pen handy, but I had no paper so I jotted down all of their license plate numbers on my arm.

Later that night, I called Emily, whose father is a cop,  and told her to run the license plate numbers through her dad’s computer system when he goes to sleep.

The next morning, Emily woke me up with papers of information, and most of them had mug shots. I quickly snatched the papers from Emily’s hands and surfed through a collection of information. I recognized 5 of them, but I knew there were more; however, everyone that was in the woods the night before, all of them participated in my little game.  I’m getting to it, don’t worry.

That was a glorious day. God was proud of me, I know it. It was my surefire plan to get into heaven. I knew God wouldn’t deny my entry into paradise. He wouldn’t allow me to go to hell or get stuck in purgatory. My entry into the Kingdom of God was by the capture, torture and death of those who sinned.

My packages came early. While my mom was hard at work, I played with my new toys that seemed to be extracted from the Anarchist’s Cookbook. You bet your ass that my Amazon shopping cart got my name on some list in Washington, and just like that, my plan had begun.

One by one, as each of the KKK members came home from work or the store or wherever, I snuck behind them before they made it to their front doors, and I grabbed them by their faces from behind, and asked them, “Does this rag smell funny?” While their fighting bodies became nothing but dead weight. I didn’t kill them, no, they would wake up eventually. I had a special place prepared for all of them.

I could hear grunts and moans from the doorway. Emily and I had walked into an old dark vacant house that I used to sin in, and I had led here there. I told her prior to our arrival at the old dark vacant house that I had something to show her. It was something so valuable to my soul that we couldn’t waste another second talking, I was in a rush.

Emily was frightened by the moans coming from the darkness, she asked, “What are those sounds? Are those people?”

“Yes, Emily. They’re bad, bad men.” And I flipped on a generator switch laying on the floor, revealing 15 men, all handcuffed by their hands and feet, tied up and their naked asses were super glued to steal chairs that were bolted to the floor. I think I owe it to you to tell you that all of the rednecks were there.

I placed all of the chairs in a circle, about two or three feet away from each other. All the men, finally awake and frantically searching from an escape, they were stuck-literally. With their mouths stuffed with socks that were filled with ghost peppers and duct taped shut. I took Emily into the next room and discussed the next step.

Meanwhile, the KKK tried to lift their asses from their seats, pulling and ripping, they would cry. They’re nothing when you take away their flaming cross. They moved their hands in rapid motions – pushing and pulling – trying to release themselves from the grind, but nothing was working. My plan was fool-proof.

After a moment of persuasion, Emily was ok to help me with the next step. I handed her a plastic bag and left the room, entering into the KKK’s new congregation.

“Ok, boys,” I said while standing in the middle of the circle of rednecks KKK members, “Are you ready for a show?”

I was disappointed with their reactions, though. Nobody seemed to be ready for the entertainment. I picked up a tiny sewing needle from the floor and pressed it into the stomach of one of the rednecks who beat me.

“I said,” My tone was rising, “are you boys ready for the show?”

As the redneck yelled through the tape from pain, most of them nodded their heads.

“I thought so. Emily, are you ready?”

Her soft voice trailed from around the corner, “Yes, Richie. I’m ready.”

I said, “Come on in.” I backed up into the corner, behind the rednecks. Emily’s body swept around the doorway, her hair flowing, and the KKK men made mmm sounds as if they were enjoying the show. Emily pranced her sexy body into the center of the circle of rednecks and KKK members while they made noises like they were at a strip club. Emily threw her blonde hair down to the floor and then she quickly rose back up. She shook her ass and moved her body for all the men and they seemed to have forgotten about their situation. That’s when I joined in. I walked into the middle with Emily, and slowly wrapped my arms around her waist. And then I fucked her in front of all of them, knowing it was my sure-fire way through the pearly gates.

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A thank you letter to all my followers.

This post doesn’t come with a “A short story written by Christian Tanner” cutline. I started this blog only four months ago, and all of you have helped me pass 800 followers, nearing 850. We’re nearing the end of the year and I want to thank each and every one of you for visiting my site, commenting and reblogging your favorite short stories. Please continue to do so 2014. Don’t forget to stop and think about those who didn’t make it to 2014, we should all be very grateful for the opportunity to be alive and well. Stay weird, weirdos.

An Ass Raping in Hell


A short story written by Christian Tanner

There was a man masturbating in the alley across the street. I could only tell by his shadow.

I flew in that morning, landing at LAX. I’ve been tracking a church group for over a month now, hoping to find them all in the same place at the same time, but it never happened. They were always in different places. I was hoping to find them all in the same place so I could blow them to shreds. Really, I mean it. I want to grab all the men by their nuts and pull so hard they sing like fairies. I will grab all the women’s boobs and twist so hard they do cartwheels.

Anyone associated with the church has their name written on my shitlist. I will kill every member starting with that bitch who speaks for the church. Any time the church makes a statement, it’s her stupid fucking face on the TV screen or quoted in the newspaper. I want her to die first, then everyone else until I get to the last man standing ― the pastor.

Let me start at the beginning. It was an early Saturday morning when my wife woke me up to tell me my son was on the computer. Some program called Sky or something allowed me to talk to my son face-to-face while we were thousands of miles apart.

“Hank,” my wife said to me, “Jeremy is online and he wants to talk to you.”

My bones were still creaking while I pulled myself out of bed. “Tell ‘em I’ll be there in just a second. Will you brew up a pot of coffee?”

“Of course, dear. Do you want the decaf again or regular?”

“Regular, Shirley. I feel like it’s going to be one of those days.”

Shirley, my wife, was walking out of the room, whispering under her breath, “Oh, dear lord.”

I put on my slippers and moved into the bathroom. I don’t want to say I walked, because I kind of scooted.

I sat in front of the computer and said, “Hey, Jeremy. How’re you doing out there?”

“I’m good. How are you and mom doing?”

I had let out a subtle grunt, “Oh you know, same old ‘you and mom.’”

Shirley was coming in from behind me then she handed me a cup of Joe and a biscotti, “Thanks, honey. I hope you don’t mind, I want a minute alone here with Jeremy.”

She looked down at the carpet, not because I wanted a minute alone with Jeremy, but because she’s getting more depressed every day Jeremy is gone. Shirley did not say a word; she only shuffled out the door.

I turned back to the computer screen and said, “Look, Jeremy, your mother isn’t doing too well. She needs you home.”

“Dad, you know I’m coming home soon.”

“That’s what you said last year.”

“Well you know when the president was elected, he promised to pull us all out within two years. You know everyone’s deployment changed.”

“That’s going to happen no matter what, Jeremy. You have to understand that it’s up to you when you come back. You need to set a date, and end this for the last time. For your mother. She’s worried sick.”

“It’s not like that. I have a job to do here. Dad, I’ll be home as soon as my job is done.”

“You’re a good man, Jeremy. I raised a troop. A man.”

Jeremy smiled and said to me, “Let me talk to mom.”

That was the last thing I said to my son. I will never know what really happened in Iraq, but I know my son died a hero.

I was not keeping up with the news too much at the time. Growing up, I always watched the news, but I was trying my best to keep my mind clear of all the explosions and gunfire. I had never heard of the group until I went to my son’s funeral. Apparently, everyone knew but me. I did not understand how they had gotten away with what they were doing. Everyone sat idling by, letting them do what they do. However, they fucked with the wrong soldier this time.

I walked out of the church after my son’s funeral was over; I was going to head to the cemetery for his burial, but that was the first time I saw them. I saw her stupid mother fucking face. I had never wanted to kill someone so badly in my entire life. I was going to put a bullet in between her eyes right then and there. She held four signs, two in each hand:

“God hates fags.”

“U.S. soldiers burn in hell.”

“Soldiers die for fag nation.”

“Your sons and daughters are in hell.”

There were about fifteen of them. They all held signs saying the same things. I could not believe what I was seeing. My eyes were bursting with shock. Apparently, this was not the first time they had done what they were doing. Cops lined up on the street making sure nothing happened to them. Another group on the other side of the street held signs that read, “Support our troops,” and “Thank you for your service.”

My heart sank below my lungs and buried itself under my ribs. I had never felt so hurt and betrayed in my entire life. I had to find out who they were.

I researched the group for hours. I watched countless documentaries and read too many news articles that night. I could not believe I had never heard of them before. The things these people have done are disgusting and damaging to so many lives. Each passing minute I could feel my heart growing darker. I think it was around hour three or four when I finally went insane. I rushed up stairs to my room and loaded my Smith & Wesson. I opened my gun case, but I couldn’t decide which weapon I would use to blow their brains out. That’s when I realized I didn’t want them to die quickly and painlessly.

They have kids involved, I cannot blow up their church, as I would like to.

I hopped onto the next flight and that is when I landed at LAX, they were protesting another soldier’s funeral in LA. When I arrived, I saw them all holding their signs and singing their disgusting songs. “Praise the lord,” they sang, “Fag nation is in hell.”

There was another counter-protesting group, much like the one at my son’s funeral, but there were about 30 or 40 of them. I stood in the back of the crowd with my arms crossed while I stared at the enemy. I watched her face. I watched her hands wave. I watched her. I watched her sing. I could not take my eyes off her. I wanted her dead. I put my hand on my gun, ready to pull it out and fire the entire clip into the crowd of churchgoers. I slowly walked through the crowd of counter-protesters, trying to get as close as I can to make sure I shot all of them before the cops fired at me. I unclipped my gun’s holster and prepared my gun to fire. Then, a child walked out from behind one of the churches members.

I got on the next flight home. Back in Nebraska, I took my time doing research of the church. I researched their security and anything else that would get in the way of me completing the task at hand. I took my time. I really did, but it did not take me long before I decide to head to their church in Kansas, where I would join their Sunday morning service.

I drove through the snow as I peered through patches of ice on my windshield to get to the airport as quickly as possible. I got on flight 3030 headed for Kansas. It was Saturday.

I landed in Kansas City and rented a mid-size Toyota from a rental agency located inside the airport. I drove from Kansas City to Topeka, which only takes about an hour down highway 70. I arrived at the church and parked on the street, staring at the church for about ten minutes. My teeth grinded and my head became hot ― I could not contain my anger.

When I drove away, I saw a car pulling into the parking lot, but I did not want to think anything of it because I was afraid I would do something that I would later regret. I drove to a cheap motel and tried my best to sleep.

Sunday morning came quicker than a woman having sex with George Clooney. I hoped in the car and took off toward the church. I parked as far away from the church as I could, as long as I could see the church. I watched cars pull into the parking lot for about a half hour. I knew their service had started because activity outside the church diminished. I waited another good half hour before I made a move.

I drove to the side of the church, got out and walked to the glass doors. I thought the doors would be locked, but I did not know for sure until I tried to open them myself. To my best luck, they were open. I was standing inside the church. The air was heavy. It felt as if the air had punched me in the gut as I walked inside. My stomach began turning on me. I felt sick. I saw big wooden doors to my left and I assumed that was where they were having their service. I only had a knife with me, but that’s all I needed. They would all scatter like rats when they saw me and I was going to kill as many as I could. However, when I opened one of the big heavy wooden doors, I saw more than I asked for.

Everyone was wearing black silk cloaks and they were humming in harmony. It was loud. There had to have been 200 candles lit all over the sanctuary. Most everyone bent down on one knee, while one man stood at the podium. They were huddled around someone lying on the floor. It only took a second before one of them turned around, getting a good look at me. When they turned around, I could see there was a child lying on the floor with tape around her mouth. I could tell she had been crying for hours. I had no choice but to pull out my cell phone and take pictures as quickly as I could. The man at the podium nonchalantly said, “Get ‘em.”

I dialed 9-1-1 as quickly as the men and women in black cloaks raced after me. Apparently, there is always a squad car near the church.  Before I got to my rental car, a cop raced in to witness 9 or 10 men and women in black cloaks chasing after me. The woman, the same woman who was at my son’s funeral, was holding a dagger to a little girl’s throat, threatening to kill her if the cop did not leave the church. All the men and women in black cloaks fell to the ground. The officer held his gun aimed at the woman.

“Drop your gun!” the woman yelled again, “You’re on the Lord’s property and you’re interfering with the Lord’s work. If you do not leave within the next 3o seconds, I will do what God wants me to do and I will kill this girl right in front of you.”

“Don’t!” The officer yelled back, “Let the girl go and we can end this right now.”

The woman laughed and said, “Oh, we’re going to end this right now all right.”

“Look, if you kill that girl, I will be forced to shoot you. I don’t want to do that, but I will.”

“God won’t allow for your materialistic bullets to penetrate through the flesh of his servants.”

“Like hell he would! Put down your weapon!”

I watched from behind the rental car. A member of the church in a black cloak slowly lifted himself from the black tar parking lot.

The officer yelled, “Get on the ground,” but he did not listen. The officer pumped two rounds into him. I watched the dagger go in one side of the little girl’s neck and poke out of the other. The little girl must have died instantly. Three more cars raced into the parking lot as the cop fired five rounds into the woman.

Local journalists were on the scene as quickly as the police were. I am sure they listen to police scanners all day, hoping for an opportunity to exploit the church. They filmed each member being arrested and put in the back of squad cars. Each one of them came out of the church in handcuffs and with their heads down. Nevertheless, the pastor was last but he held his head high, ranting and raving about how they were innocent. What a glorious sight. I hope every homophobic churchgoer gets an opportunity to understand what homophobic really means. Nothing puts me at ease more than knowing their going to be ass raped every way until judgment day ― then they are going to hell.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters or locations are entirely coincidental.

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Damned Romance


A short story written by Christian Tanner

“The spirits, they’ll teach ya. You learn some things you wanna learn, and you’ll learn some things you don’t wanna to learn. And believe me, they are unforgettable. The main thing, child, is making sure you don’t re-teach ‘em. Because some things just cannot be taught, they can only be learned. Maybe you can save yourself before you make the journey. I was 22 when I first went, and I’d take it back if I could. I could have lived my entire life like everyone else, not knowing the truth that lies inside of Africa. When you travel away from Louisiana to Africa, you’ll learn what you need to learn. They won’t teach you anything you don’t need to know, and they won’t miss anything, eitha. Lemme tell ya, you’re in for a hellava ride. If I were you, I’d stay away and live a normal life because once you get there, you’re not considered human anymore.”

That’s the last thing Old Miss Willis ever told me. Some people will tell you they wish to have taken her advice. I’ll be the one to tell you that I was destined to do what I did. When you come face-to-face with your greatest fear, you’ll test your soul to see how strong you really are. Strength comes from your heart and soul, not your arms and legs. There’s a spiritual battle going on above everyone. You have angels and you have demons, they’re fighting all around you. Do you ever feel them?

I had been told that I am beautiful my whole life, but no one ever called me smart or intelligent. I tried to learn every day, but the only thing I hear is that I’m pretty. I accept their compliments, sure, but I’m not your average ditzy bitch who only wants to be called beautiful her entire life. I’m more than that, much more than that.

There was a voice calling my name from all directions. I heard the voice before and I’ve done my research, especially with Old Miss Willis. It was the spirit of a woman whose voice was soft and she was lost. She was leading me in the direction I needed to travel. For a while, she would only call my name. I’d answer, saying, “Yes?” or “What?” or “Talk to me.” But she’d never reply. For years, I spent every day waiting for the moment she would tell me something. Anything. Just whisper what you need and I’ll hear it. I’m a good listener, I promise, I’m not the type of person who simply waits for their opportunity to speak. I listen to what people have to say. Whether I take their advice, well, that’s a different story.

One morning while I was brushing my teeth, I heard her call for me. She told me, “You.” I practically killed myself trying to decode her speech. Toothpaste painted my mirror like Van Gogh trying to summon a new creative bone in his body by splatting paint onto a dry canvas. I yelled, “What?” And then, “Me?” While the toothpaste took the best of my speech, it didn’t matter, she couldn’t say anything else.

That morning left me peering over my shoulder for the next few days while researching how to contact the living dead. It took me a while to understand that I don’t contact the living dead, the living dead contacts the living future dead. And sure enough, she did. I walked from my living room to my kitchen when she said, “Attached.” That time the room stood still, I didn’t feel anything. I yelled to her, “Attached? Me? What do you mean?” What happened next I’ll never forget. It’s been years since it happened, but I still hear it in my dreams and it gives me chills even thinking about it. I yelled, “Are you attached to me?” When I said those words, the loudest ear piercing, gut wrenching, scream with the highest pitch chilled throughout my house and the energy practically killed me. It was like being strapped into an electric chair. I thought my heart was going to burst. The scream was like a little girl’s cry for help from being held captive for days. It was the loudest scream I had ever heard. Unintentionally, I yelled with the scream while I fell to the floor and bundled my legs in my arms. I cried almost all night. I cried myself to sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, the light from the sun shined on me through my living room window. It felt like the sun was shining a bit brighter that morning. I finally rose while I remembered what had happened the night before.

Paper and I didn’t get along very well for a couple of days while I wrote jargon and junk on paper for seven or eight hours a day. I was wrapping up, getting ready to throw some papers away and also store the necessary files in their appropriate folders. Before so, I had to pee. When I came back from the potty, there lied a piece of paper I had worked on only an hour before, however, it had been lit on fire. I was writing silly fan-fiction about Pulp Fiction and what happened to the briefcase after Vincent and Jules delivered it to Marsellus Wallace. It was titled, “My Love, My Life.” When I looked at the burnt sheet of paper, there was nothing but the title left and I took that as a word from the dead.

I rushed the burnt piece of paper to Old Miss Willis to see if she could do a little decoding. She told me she had the same issue when she was young, but she couldn’t solve it. Old Miss Willis knew this was going on but she’d hoped that I didn’t search for answers. She didn’t want to tell me because she was afraid I’d make the same mistakes she did. She was both right and wrong at the same time.

Old Miss Willis told me the spirit wanted to stop a demon in Africa who was terrorizing villages and killing innocent people for pure entertainment. Somewhere along the dead’s lifeline, they had become separated. She wanted to stop the mayhem. Old Miss Willis thought she could help, but when she got to a village in Central Africa, the whole village was on fire. The cries and pleas of people being burned alive haunted her until her last dying breath. She continued to search for the demon for two years, but she was always one-step behind. She never found the demon, but I came face-to-face with him.

Old Miss Willis led to her basement to show me a few things. We walked down the old creaking steps and into her crypt. She had maps and charts posted along the walls. She told me that she found a pattern. The demon was moving in circles throughout Africa causing destruction to every village that called its name. She showed me that the demon was moving to a village in Central Africa. If someone in the village heard of the demon, then someone would call upon him. And let me tell you, they did.

I left on a flight to Africa with a backpack and a dirt bike. Old Miss Willis told me I would have to travel by foot, but I thought I could make it with a bike. I studied the map during the entire flight. Finally, the plane landed at a small landing strip with a single building for plane repairs and fueling. Nobody was there, though. The pilot released the back so I could get my bike. I walked into the plane from the back then rode the bike down the hatch and I drove to the pilot. I took my helmet off and my dark hair flew in the breeze.

The pilot told me, “Good luck out there. You must be a special person for Darlene to call for such a flight. I flew Darlene for years, every time I saw her, her hair was a little bit greyer.”

Darlene was Old Miss Willis. Darlene Willis. I thanked the pilot and then I drove away on my bike. It wasn’t long before I hit the trees. I had to dodge bushes and bumps and rocks. It took a little while, but I could tell why Old Miss Willis told me to travel on foot.

I didn’t see the dip. When I hit it I fell off the side of my bike and almost broke my arm, but I shook it off. I finally stood up once I caught my breath and tried starting my bike, but I had no luck. I had to travel by foot. I walked through the night and into morning. The dusk sun was just peaking over the trees when I finally saw fire through all the limbs. The smell of smoke  made it real. I ran as fast as I could toward the flaming village. I knew where I was, I knew I had made it. I only hoped that I wasn’t too late. When I took my eyes off the ground and away from the branches that were nearly hitting my face, I finally looked up. I found myself standing outside of the forest and staring at the village. It’s hard to explain what I saw, but there were shocking orange trails flying at top speed throughout the village. They flew into the wooden houses through one side, and then out of another, it was unreal. If you take a pencil and make a figure 8 or an infinity sign with the eraser as quickly as you can, you can see the trails of the pencil run together. That’s what the orange trails looked like. Villagers ran from their homes, searching for safety. During that moment, I could see the future. My arms rose to a V. I looked up at the blue and orange sky and I screamed at the top of my lungs. It was the same scream I heard in my own house. The orange trails began to fly towards the sky – combining as one –  and like a roller coaster, the single trail turned and flew straight down and then flew towards me. Out of fear for my life, I ducked and covered my face, but nothing happened. I looked up and a man was standing over me, causing me to jump back while my heart sunk into my stomach. I grabbed for grass and dirt and scooted backwards, trying to escape the man’s evil stare. His face was pale and his eyes were dark with a deep purple and a crimson red. I stood up, shook off the fear and came face-to-face with him.

In a savior’s action, a blueish, white trail flew from behind me, grabbing the man, ripping him away like how Superman would rescue a woman from a man with terrible intentions. I watched the demon turn into the orange trail once again, and then both trails circled each other, becoming intertwined like two twisted pieces of cherry Twizzler’s. There was a bright explosion of light above the village. The light shined as bright as the flame from a welder’s torch, I had to cover my eyes. When I looked up and adjusted my sight, the light had become fainter. I could barely see, but I saw a man and a woman, they were walking into the distance. The woman wore a wedding dress and the man a tuxedo. All the light, plus the man and woman disappeared. If you love someone, especially if you both die on your wedding day, you’ll stop at nothing to find each other.

Some things cannot be taught, they can only be learned. You can’t teach a demon how to love, but they can learn. Even a demon can learn to love something. Even evil can have compassion.