Time is a question, tick tock, tick tock. Each hand of the clock moving, thump, steel clanging, moving, every second, moving in a pattern. The question is where does it all go? To what avail do the hands tick? They end up in the same place. Every sixty clicks of the longer hands, every twenty four of the small one. Locked in an eternal cycle of repetition. Never ending, ceaseless. Eyes following the tireless hands. Every hand an indifferent tick. Rust pervading the air, time having made the clocks oxidize. A sense of mortality hanging over the air aged every hundred milliseconds. The air was rough.

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The moon was sleeping up ahead, the forest lit by her glow. The lush forest was asleep. It was as if Hypno had spread his magic around the world, and Morpheus had come to give them dreams. It heaved a collective breath, harmonized, as all things in nature must be to survive. In, out. In, out. It smelt of pre-dew, dawn was coming, and so many other things. The forest may have been silent, but the smells were having a concert. Beginnings of moisture, heady carbon dioxide. Fecal matter dancing with the sweat of the furry creatures in the moonlight. The sensation of being there, of being alive, taking it all in can best be described by the rush you get from inhaling pure petroleum. If you looked closely enough, you could almost see the trees breathing in, out, leaves were swaying gentling, hanging upside down, grass heaving and sighing. It was not windy on this summer night. The grass felt soft, and yet the blades were sharp enough to cut. The forest tasted of sunlight green and earthy brown.

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The light shone bright, streaming down, lines on a piano, black, white, shadow, light. Motes of air danced in the dust, in symphony with one another. He sat slumped on the sofa. His chest was heaving, that was the only sign he was alive. He was prone, smelled of decay. His eyes were closed, even when they were open, the pupils were unmoving. Chest went up and down slowly, slightly. You could barely tell.

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A haze, a cloud thickening over him, stifling thought, stiflying ideas, drawing out the yawning, the exhaustion, sucking up all energy. Damn, he was exhausted. He stifled a yawn, but soon, it too, came out. Out like it was supposed to, slow, steady, one measured whoosh in, it would not stop. He breathed out. He could smell the lentils in the air, garlic wafting through the room. His fingers were numb, and buzzing. The exhaustion was coming in full force. The light was flickering, not because the lights in reality were flickering but because the signals to his brain were not operating at full capacity. He was exhausted. His head slammed down on the table.

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The weather poured down, thunder raging, clouds weeping. Cars honks, birds, animals, humans, chattering. Take all of that away, and beneath the surface, proverbial, of course, not the actual crust of the earth, take all of that away, and beneath the surface was a sound: weeping. Soft, in pain. An immense being was in pain. Monolithic, ancient. It was causing the rain. The smell of flood was the sadness emanating from it. The blurry vision, tears flowing from your eyes was the empathy you felt from it.

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This was one of the few places they could be real. Could break loose and have fun. One of the few places it was okay to be them. Yes, some people werent having fun, and it seemed like others were here for different reasons, but she wasnt. Her best friend wasnt.

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Smiles plastered on the faces of girls, too rigid. Hunger in the eyes of the boys, too desperate. The air smelled of nothing but you could almost feel the foreboding of sweat and bodily fluids. Darkness, colored streams of light dancing around, puppet masters to the bodies they honored with their spotlights. It tasted of hunger, desperation, a need to fit in. Alcohol. Maybe that last was just on his tongue. The wooden floor rigid and unbending beneath his wooden shoes. Another time, in a more silent place, he would probably have heard them tap on the floor. The sound. Well it was loud. Heartbeats thumping, forcing yours to thump along. Throbbing heavily in your ears.

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It’s the end of days. God and Lucifer stand before the last human being. You are the first neutral soul who is neither good or evil enough to pass into an afterlife and thus must be judged personally. Unknown to them, you are Death, and have come for them instead. Death comes as the end.

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You are a brain surgeon. Every time you perform a surgery, you have the ability to see the memories of the patient you are operating on. Your mind is exhausted, you do not want to see their abilities, their hopes, their dreams. You do not want to see their memories. But you do. This one is particularly rough. He has killed so many people. He was jailed. He never felt guilty. Now he is old and in this place. You are performing his surgery. You see the reason to kill people.

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Demons and angels collect human souls as part of a trading card game, dueling with decks made from them, and are taking it very seriously. In the ever-shaping meta, you have just become a very sought-out staple. You are a human being. You are a human being whose soul is neutral. You can go to heaven, or you can go to hell. The souls who are destined for hell are stronger in the hands of the demons, the souls who are destined for heaven are stronger in the hands of the angels. You were worthless on earth, no point and no purpose of your miserable existence. You are supremely powerful in death.

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An immortal is experiencing the heat death of the universe, when he can hear the sounds of confetti, and blasting music. The music stops with a record scratch, and a bewildered voice can be heard saying, “Wait… one’s still here”. The immortal feels a shudder go through his spine, a terror he has not felt in millenia, for how can you feel fear if the last, the penultimate fear does not exist for you. His nostrils flare, his eyes sting, his tongue parches and dries, as if the heat death is trying to push itself into him with vengeance now that he thinks, nay believes that it will burn him to cinder. He turns around to run, and a heavy hand bumps into his chest, palm straight, holding him there. He is paralyzed. He screams.

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It’s 3am. An official phone alert wakes you up, buzzing urgently, angrily by your bedside. It says, “Do not look at the moon.” you have hundreds of notifications. Hundreds of random numbers are sending, “it’s a beautiful night tonight. Look outside.” your room is basked in a warm glow. The thick curtains cannot hide it. It is the glow of the moon. You walk to the curtains, you tell yourself you will not look at the moon, you just want to figure out why its light is in your room. A shudder passes through your spine, shiver in your legs. They stop, falter. A tremor and a fear pass through your brain. What if you can't stop yourself from looking up when you open the curtains. It would be so easy, and so hard to stop. You know you shouldn't. This is weird enough as it is. Curiosity gets your legs moving again. One step after another, you are watching them as if outside your body. Your body is indifferent, your brain in terror. Your hands part the curtains. Your neck cranes up. Oh, no

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He’s home, he’s home. I can hear the key turning in the lock, i jump out of the cage, and run to the bed. I sit there, he seems to be struggling with the key. But i can smell him, i hear him. I cock my head. The door opens, he is in the living room, i can hear his movements outside, is he coming to the room? I don't know yet, he’s paused. Sometimes he doesn’t come into the room first. Sometimes, he goes to the bathroom. Oh, he’s coming! The door opens, and he hugs me, and he whispers, “meri jaan”. I prance around him. He’s home. I was so bored, thank you for coming back. I was bored, and i didnt have anything to do. I bark up at him, and paw at him, can we go to the park, please?

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"What is it…? Oh? So the great deluge has begun… Bwahahahaha! But of course it has! That is exactly what I have―"

The rain came down hard and fast. Cold, uncaring, indifferent. Pellets hitting with ferocity and velocity, the smell was heavenly, earthly.

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The gravel pavement was hard and solid under his shoes. He could imagine how hot it would be, having baked in the sun for almost two hours now. The sun above was cheery, warm. So many scents in the air, a light salty breeze coming from the river a block away, mixed with earthy tones from the trees that lined the pavement, the dog he was walking could probably smell the urination of many others on the sides, on the small pieces of mud and land that were allotted to the trees. Footsteps, dancing with the whoosh of cars, the humming of engines, a horn every now and then, the whispering of the trees, the thudding of his own feet on the ground, the contented sighs of his dog.

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Small, blinking lights, making lazy circles in the air, the fireflies illuminating the pond below, like so many stars in the pitch black night time sky. The air smelled cool, and of dew and pine, of earthy freshness. The grass sighed slowly in the wind, each stalk dancing, as if in synchronicity with the others. The air felt moist and tasted of contentment and joy.

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Clap. clap.

His hands went clapping around, slamming one another with a loud slap every time, they would cup, and then fold open like a butterfly’s wings. He would look for the telltale black speck. Sometimes there would be one, sometimes there would be none. No matter how fast he tried to kill them, they would not die. And every week, they were growing, there were so many now.

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Bees were buzzing, humming gleefully as they flew around the flowers, all shades, all colors: purple, red, yellow, shades of orange, and blue, and mauve, all rising from the ground from forests upon forests of green stalks. Water was yapping joyfully nearby, splashing the ground playfully, belying the big ocean it came from. The air smelled salty, there was a warmth in it, as the sun shone done brightly and cheerfully.

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