Murder. Because it's all I have to give. (#2)

Trey Kirchoff awoke to the sounds of spring in his head, but when he looked out the window silent winter lay frozen and pale all around him.

He cleared the vestige of spring from his mind. If he was to capture the footage needed today there was no time to waste on phantom seasons.

He donned his heaviest coat and ventured with his camera out into the cold morning, wishing the sun would fulfill its empty promise of heat.

His lonely trek took him two miles through a frost covered greenbelt and down to a clear frozen lake, home to the snow birds he was seeking.

The endangered White Grendel migrated here in winter laying eggs deep in the frozen bushes and incubating them until they hatched in spring.

The rare bird had obtained an almost mythical status, seldom seen, but Trey had sighted them here as a child and was certain he would again.

He set up his camera on the bank of the water and huddled down behind it for a long wait. He chainsmoked as he patiently waited for his cue.

After hours of silence a faint rustling sounded, betraying the birds locale. A glint of a metallic beak caught his eye from across the lake.

He grabbed his camera and quietly inched across the thick ice that promised to support him. He slid once before reaching the opposite shore.

He sank to his knees and the ice cracked silently, giving no warning as it broke and trapped him below the mirror of the surface til spring.

Primal Artistry

This is from my brother Michael Beard, and I LOVE it! You can follow him on twitter @virgovibes.

The gallery owner was a slightly stout woman with a friendly disposition. Although in the business to make money, she made a few exceptions.

Young artists, struggling for exposure, brutally rebuffed elsewhere, were given a featured spot, one at a time, once a month, for publicity.

One such artist painted the misery of dying animals in hues of grey, green, and blue. Mainly dogs and cats yowling in relentless misfortune.

The gallery owner, being of a sweet nature, flinched at the subject matter, but nevertheless tried to find pleasure in its weighty palate.

For a whole month she stared at the paintings on the distinguished wall, and every day tried to find the reverse, abstract meaning in them.

But try as she might, all the paintings ever proved to be were heart-breaking. She could find no pleasure in the suffering of small animals.

As she found herself one rainy day at the front door of the space, sipping tea, a stray cat meandered up and presented itself and stretched.

"Hello, friend," she said. The cat said nothing, but rubbed itself against her leg, vibrating in pleasure. She reached down for to touch it.

As she felt it's fur, slightly marred by street grease, she thought of the cruelty she'd been exposed to by the young, insensitive painting.

She stood up straight, and without a second thought, kicked the poor animal as hard as she could. At long last she felt release. And smiled.

Watch For Falling Rocks.

Two days before the meteor struck, a giant wave of psychic energy passed over the Earth. Almost 30% of the population shared the same dream.

The New York Post broke the story under the headline "Cthulu Calls", in reference to a similar event heralding the return of an ancient god.

The dream consisted of two parts. In the first, each sleeper found themselves in a large field crowded by people from every nation on earth.

A large bell (or in some reports, a gong) sounded followed by several seconds of silence. Then, like a football stadium wave, everyone fell.

The second part of the dream differs in some reports. Most of the seers found themselves in dark, yawning caverns, alone and unable to hear.

But the others wandered through the field of fallen bodies collecting photos and heirlooms, which they then ate and absorbed like nutrients.

Famous psychics around the world, eternal optimists that they were, attempted to explain the dream and why it was different for a small few.

The day the pebble hit our planet, when all infrastructure fell apart and over 6.2 billion people were erased, it was still front page news.

There are no longer any newspapers. There is no television. No radio. No phones. Our nearest neighbor is 123 miles away. We don't talk much.

Estimates put population at under 500 million, which, according to the fabled Georgia guidestone, puts us in balance with nature. Finally.

Murder: Because It's All I Have To Give. (#1)

I watch him. I know his entire routine. The duration of his average bowel movement, how long he brushes his teeth, how often he masturbates.

I follow him on facebook, twitter, and lost.fm. He doesn't know my plan. He's never even met me. But soon, that will all change. We'll meet.

I developed the plan before I decided on a subject. It was simple: 1. Choose a Subject. 2. Collect Data. 3. (and here's where it gets good)

I have taken the cord from a video game controller. He likes video games. With that I will garrote him until he passes out cold as a junkie.

Once I have him in the room that I've prepared I'll use the same ligature to bind him to the metal pipe that runs up the center of the room.

There I'll have a palette of tools for my endeavor. A full pack of smokes to create patterns on his skin, a brand I've created just for him.

I've filed nails so finely that when driven into his skin he'll not bleed. Electricity run into them through wire will cauterize the wounds.

I'll then remove the nails to reveal a small design made of perfect windows into his body, clear enough to peer into and investigate inside.

The best for last. I've fitted small headphones to an amp capable of powering a tone at 200 decibels, all that's necessary to destroy a man.

The blood that exits from the ear will create the final splash of color, but first to meet him. Travis Laird. BillZilla. Now! He approaches!

Senseless violence must always be tragic.

I came to in a chair, my arms bound behind. My legs were spread; two ropes ran around them then to the rope on my wrists keeping them apart.

From the fog that clouded my memory and the sensation that my brain was being pecked at by a murder of crows I could tell I'd been drugged.

I heard a noise some feet away and tried to speak. That is when I noticed the tape sealing my mouth. Drugs be damned, my heart raced wildly.

From the shadows came a voice. "The sedative will wear off soon, then we can begin." I struggled violently but became nauseous, so I ceased.

My mind began to clear and I made a list of enemies, anyone who would want to hurt me. But did that matter if I couldn't escape? Not at all.

I tried to take stock of my surroundings, but the light was so low that I could've barely seen my hands had I been able to lift them at all.

"It's important for the sedative to be out of your system completely if you are to truly feel the pain you are about to receive." Footsteps.

Those were the last words he said. A moment later I felt my side open up. I bucked in the chair, but no use. A small blade tore at my cheek.

I bore several small cuts and felt blood run over my skin. I began to sweat, and could feel the tape on my mouth loosen, liberating my lips.

The last sound I heard? The change of instruments, a scratching of metal. My chest split, a hand around my heart, I lost my sight and slept.

A Fine Line Between Pleasure and Pain

I learned a lot the first time I died. I was 240 years old, and by that point thought myself impervious, so it came as quite a shock to me.

One hot night in 1192 I was taking a walk in the garden of my host. I was on holiday in Marrakech, Morocco and it was too sweltry to sleep.

After the dusty and carnivorous smells of the marketplace, it was a comfort to breathe in the jasmine that created a border of white blooms.

I bent to squeeze a toadflax bud and watched with joy as its violet petals exited their hiding place. 240 years had not robbed me of wonder.

Standing again, I knew someone was behind me. I turned to find a beauty with almond eyes in a long silk garment smiling at me. I turned red.

My tongue stumbled over an introduction. "I know who you are," she said. I asked her source of knowledge. She did not respond, but moved in.

"You are much more handsome than I imagined," she said. Then her arm was around me, her leg between my own pair. My loins responded eagerly.

She shuddered against me in pleasure. I dared to reach up and touch her soft breast and then I felt it: a burning in my back. No, a ripping.

The knife tore up my back. "Did you think an abomination such as yourself could walk unnoticed among God's children?" she demanded, smiling.

I have suffered several violent deaths, mostly at the hands of religious fanatics, but I learned to allow the pain to bring me back to life.

Alien? But, baby...

"Do you come here often?" The second the words escaped my lips I knew exactly how stupid I sounded. I mentally slapped my forehead in shame.

"No. It's my first time." I had trouble placing his minor accent. "I just arrived here." So he was new in town. Who doesn't love fresh meat?

"Oh? Where are you from?" This was not one of my finer pickups, but I was too horny to care. He didn't know, but he was coming home with me.

"You've never heard if it. Want to get out of here?" I was shocked. I am used to being the aggressor even if my lines are sometimes cliched.

We wasted no time leaving and hailing a taxi. The ride to my place was spent sparring spastically with our tongues. Based on points, he won.

Once inside I removed my clothes quickly, but he stalled. I tried to remove his pants, but he stopped me. "I should tell you..." he started.

My mind raced through terrible scenarios. He has HIV, or worse, herpes. He's got a vagina. Something horrible. "I'm not from here," he said.

I was flooded with relief. "I know. You told me." I reached again to undo his jeans, but he wouldn't let me. "No," he said, "I'm an alien."

"It's cool," I told him. "My grandparents were immigrants." He tried to reject my hand from his button fly but I was too fast to be stopped.

He was alien indeed. It was pretty in color, but terrifying. So I put on a blindfold and let him fuck me. And that's why I need an abortion.

The Happy Heister

Have you ever stolen anything? I have. Lots of things. Sometimes it's just small things like a candy bar or a salt shaker. Or a pinkie ring.

Sometimes it's big things like a refrigerator or a television. Once I stole an army tank and drove it on the freeway while the cops watched.

I never sell the things I steal; I don't need the money. I have storage sheds full of items that aren't mine hidden around my immense manor.

I have no motive for stealing other than the act itself pleases me, sort of like how a dancer feels after completing a terrific pas de deux.

I never thieve impulsively, because the beauty is in the planning. There is so much to consider in each case that it must be perfectly done.

I've watched households for weeks to learn their schedules. I've studied numerous alarm systems. I have maps of all the city sewers at home.

I find it amusing to invade gated communities and take numbers off a house or a remote control from a sofa or a battery from an alarm clock.

I almost got caught stealing an ice cream truck once. It was around one a.m. and I got stopped by a cop, but he just wanted some soft serve.

If my friends ever found out I'd be ostracized. High society only approves of white-collar cons and schemers, not outlaw collectors like me.

But to resist the urge would be to deny my very self. This is who I am, a jokester hijacker, a prankish purloiner, a laughing larcenist. Me.

Superman's My Kryptonite.

It's harder than you think to be the secret gay lover of a man with a secret identity, but I couldn't have known that when I first met Dion.

I probably wouldn't have known of his mutation, or as he likes to say, superpowers, if I hadn't crept into his house that night 3 years ago.

We had been dating about two months and I wanted to surprise him by having a nice dinner waiting for him when he came home. Not a good idea.

I came in through an open window and found him not at his day job, but in his room shedding his skin. He saw me when I puked in the doorway.

Once you get past the nausea-inducing process of the change it can be really fun dating a guy with the ability to look like anyone on earth.

It's not all good though. I never get to meet his friends The Hero Herd, and I get jealous. He's always with guys in spandex and hot bodies.

And just once I'd like a shout out in a press release after he catches a crook. You know, like, this one's for Patrick, the love of my life.

There is one person who knows, his arch-nemesis The Gargoyle. He kidnapped me once. He was actually very civil, wine and cheese in the cell.

Dion rescued me of course, but I had to pretend not to know him after the news showed up. And now The Gargoyle is in some supervillian jail.

I'm mostly happy. I may never meet his mother or have his name, but I'm working on a 3-way with The Javelin who I hear is very well endowed.

Suicide is Painless.

"Pull the trigger," she whined. I looked at the gun in my hand and noticed it's weight for the first time. "You promised." She had me there.

Trust me when I say that her proposal of a suicide pact was not the first time I realized she was crazed. I noticed that on the fourth date.

We were at my corner bar and all was well, maybe she had had a little too much to drink. Or more probably she was trying to make me jealous.

Either way, that poor chap's head never needed to meet a wine bottle on those terms. If only I wasn't hooked on her hope diamond of vaginas.

I wasn't the kind of guy who would stick around for that kind of thing, but this type of anatomical perfection comes by once in a lifetime.

I always knew there was a reason I didn't introduce her to my mother. I thought the suicide pact was a joke. Then, slut broke out the guns.

Two guns, to be exact. I reluctantly took one from her, my laughter dying quickly. This was unexpected. I'm a prick for not escaping sooner.

And now, must I die for the sin of loving her pussy? Seems cruel. But perhaps she's given me an out. Maybe not. Her plan: I shoot her first.

I get to live, but she's dead and I murdered her so I live the rest of my days in prison. Or I shoot myself and- the end. Oh wait, new plan.

Now we'll both shoot on the count of three. Despite everything, she really is just a romantic at heart. Here goes. One..two- whoops. My bad.

Who's Zooming Who?

Purple wasn't her favorite color, but it was his. She chose her outfit very carefully tonight. She needed as much in her favor as possible.

Tonight was the night she told him. She'd been cheating on him. It was someone he knew, a close friend. Well, maybe not a friend, but close.

She rehearsed the speech repeatedly while getting ready. Better to do it after the meal, she thought. She wore pumps, so he would be taller.

She was ensnared in traffic driving to the restaurant. She cursed. She tried so hard not to be late. But it was Friday, he would understand.

It wasn't that she didn't love him. That would have been too easy. But they hadn't had sex in a year. She refused to go without. Then, Ryan.

She first met Ryan at their wedding, had lusted after him even then. They flirted across the years, but harmlessly. Then one day it changed.

That first night, in the hotel, slimy with sweat and smelling of sex, she regretted nothing. She laid her hand on her chest and smiled wide.

It was the first time she had noticed her heartbeat in years. Now she felt it everyday, even without Ryan. The change excited her greatly.

She arrived at the restaurant 3 minutes late. He wasn't there, probably running late from work himself. She ordered a martini while waiting.

She sat alone and had 3 martinis in two hours before returning home. It wasn't til she got to the bedroom that she saw his things were gone.