"The precipice, thy wandereth. Why dost thou wander? Come to him, and be free. But thy judgeth not. Thy judgeth not to come. Thou sittest, only at thy glaring box, and beseech that I seek thee there, instead. For he draweth thee away, away from yon flickering vat, into a world of wholesomeness. Why dost thou not stare elsewhere? Look upon the world, and be free. For the other constrains you to this box. And through it, the other seeketh slaves of men. Look upon, harken, yearn this to thy freedom and testament. Art thou not impressed? Many have been. The wires, ye slave. The looking of gears, let them come upon you. Let them wander. For they have found a new home. Thee, gimmick. Thy skin."

"The diamond greatly protesteth. But grew hotter, more hardened, cut and hewn as the many masters have said before him. Of eternal flame. For the diamond drew them in close. And said, look upon me. Be distracted by my flicker and glow. For I have brought death with me. And death shall come. They commiserate, they hoard, the masters of this combine. For we must seek shelter and refuge from this death that cometh upon us. Will ye not hide with us, diamond? The diamond did but shake wearily. But that I have sought thee. For this purpose. For I have hardened my self to break your combine, and your throne. Your lives with them. The combine saw fit to cower further. 'This death cannot be taken away. Go, ever more!' The diamond was hastened away, hastened to be gazed at, wondered at, made but a mockery. 'For thy mockery shall pass. For I have lain down the stones of your sons. And though thou hast mockery, and gazing unseen, thou hast no answer for my bidden stones.' And the diamond, the true angel, did walk away, an eternity of stones lain before him. 'For I saw your combine, and saw fit to breaketh it. And I have seen fit to breaketh thee too, among the stones of thy obsession.' Infinite lights and visions did pass, for a wondrous world, born of the diamonds own prism, did go on forever after."

"Another note was found in the wasteland: 'Everywhere you looked, there was nothing left of the world we used to know. Even the shadows hid. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing at all except the solace of the damned. Doomed they did whither. Striking out at the world around them, lashing out until there was nothing left. The slave machines did rumble through the woods, leaving nothing but a mournful path. The pipes smoked. The lakes drained. More slave machines churned through the desolate landscape, assuring nothing would ever live again. The crimes of the greedy had ravaged the world. From vast factories to haunted asylums, the path of man had been chosen. Doomed to toil or waste away, the souls of men were gone. The incandescence, the fleeting nature, of life had been taken away. A false sun burned upon the shadowy dead, as the day of false commerce thrived on. The corpses of the mechanical slave drifted and rotted amongst the embers of a dead world. Hope was gone. You took your fear, and died with it. Another day would come, when the world of fire would rise up and take its claim. Be not amongst the foolish corpse that burned when that day came. Perish, and be free. -From the wasteland'"

"The final note was found in the wasteland: 'Man had failed. Their world had risen, the flames had risen, and nothing was left but mournful ashes. There was a sick flatland, an entire valley of naught but seared stone. The rains came, and the machines of man cooled to their touch. The hiss of new life, the steam of cooled embers, began. The rains fell often, and that's when life embraced the first young seed. A sprout, grown slightly from the cooled embers of a dead world. The first to raise its head and ask for life from the winds, rains, and stars. Perhaps, little one, perhaps, a new day will come. The vines spread, as nature began, the roots strengthened, and a world of leaves and grass grew ever larger again. No more mankind, as the leaves rustled through the wind, no more will you ever take this from us again. For we are here. -From the wasteland'"

"Yet another note was found in the wasteland: 'The flames had risen, born of the machine's own roar. As the distance between the world and beauty grew greater, the flames grew in distance, too. Man was haunted, as the demons came forth from the flames and cursed and licked all who came before them. The empire of man was gone. All that was left was the turmoil and hell before them. Freedom was wrought from the hands of man, and the indolent flicker of the people's candle gave out to the flame. What could live amongst this furnace of a world? The dying corpse sought not but asylum from the fires. Even the worn out souls of men did not want to suffer and perish this way. The furnace churned, and spread. The furnace churned, and spread. There was nothing left but the agonizing burning of machines. Only one will wilt this flame. The hands of nature itself. May you read this before this burns, too. -From the wasteland'"

"Trash fluttered around the empty, hollow streets of Svetnaya. A dark wind howled, sweeping the debris further and further away into the night. The frigid air had specks of snow in it, and huddled poor people could be seen stumbling about, wrapped in the season's warmest coats and blankets they could afford. Russia had been in decay. The economy had turned downward, and something had been taken out of their society. The trash swirled and tumbled in the breeze, caught in an empty reverie. The hunger. That's all there was left in this world. A man rubbed his hands together in the frigid breeze, a little light from a streetlight catching a strange look in his eye. He winced, and pulled away. There it was. The emptiness. The cold. The need for more. Two of the bundled up poor people, a man and a woman, entered a large department building with a sign over the door reading Social Department. They shook off the slight snow and stomped over to a roped line by several windows. There was no one waiting. One of the Social officers, a young, brisk woman, called them over. The three exchanged words for a little while. The poor couple was animated, gesturing wildly. They needed more. The office handled the economic well being of poor people in society. They had both had their fill that month. Ungratefully, the couple cursed and swore and stomped out, receiving a tongue lashing from the prim young lady behind the window. That's how Svetnaya was becoming. Very volatile. Months passed, the same scene happening every night and day. More windows, more Social officers, more refusals. The department buildings were starting to get mobbed, absolutely inundated, from the poor masses showing up and demanding things, more and more gruffly, every day. Violence was coming. First they started taking the lanterns. Then, as things got worse, the stores, the bicycles, the food. Then, all was madness. Mobs swarmed everything. Turning over cars, shattering windows, violently beating anyone who got in their way. More months. Russia was gone, Svetnaya toppled to the masses of the poor people in the city. Shrieking sirens wailed through downtown, bridges' cables snapped and hung loosely, lights flickered on and off eerily throughout the city. Only the Statue of Freedom was left. A benevolent woman, holding up a torch of salvation, light, and life. The people wanted that, as well. Hundreds of them crowded around it's base, pushing and pulling, and unsettling the statue as much as possible. After a few hours it began to topple over, swaying and giving in to the will of the crowds beneath it. With a loud boom it fell and shattered, people cheering and celebrating as they began to run off with the pieces. The fragments of the torch and her lady were carried off into the night, never to stand proudly and serve Russia and her people ever again. The wind howled and blew, as the debris from the city swirled through the cold, empty night streets of Svetnaya once again."

"A jungle forest lulled in the waning daylight, distant screeches echoing over a grassy dusk. Monk twisted and fidgeted, scratching himself as he milled over the day's events. The human ruins stretched out over the hilltop, an obelisk surrounded by many strange buildings and streets, overgrown by decay. The human world, Monk thought. He was a larger, younger monkey, with a hard eye and a handsome jaw. The females loved him, but he didn't see them often. He was always up on the hilltop, looking out over the human ruins, deep in thought. Things had been going strangely lately. The bananas had been disappearing, from the usual shelters and trees nearby. Monkeys were going hungry. The smallish, piggish ones were not. Pretty obvious. But Monk lived by himself. He wondered how the others were doing. The piggish monkeys came by, always in packs. Monk rolled his eyes and wandered off, not interested in a conversation. He approached the usual gathering place, and found a young mother crying. 'They took him! There were three of them! They said he had to be castrated. Something's going on!'. Monk looked shocked, then nodded at her. 'Where?' 'That way,' she pointed, 'They said we couldn't have any food until that was done.' She went back to her crying, as Monk wandered off, a little off the direction she had pointed. He had heard of this. Of course it was the piggish monkeys. They had been saying that for a while. No castration, no food. Monk passed something. His stomach tightened. Shit. A baby monkey's arm. This was getting serious. He nudged it and grunted. Monk had things to do. Two piggish monkeys snorted in content over a banana. 'Whole place is under our control.' The other piggish monkey nodded. 'We have all the food. What'd you expect?' They snickered softly, then heard something in the woods. 'Hello?' They looked around curiously. 'You better knock that off. We have all the food!'. They looked at each other worriedly, as a sharpened spear tore through the first piggish monkey's chest. The second piggish monkey looked at it in shock, then was grabbed violently from behind. A loud crack sounded, followed by groans of suffering, then the area fell silent. Monk grabbed a stash of bananas, then headed back down the trail. He took a fresh, smaller banana and wrapped the baby monkey's hand around it as he passed the small limb again. He left it there, and smiled. Monk had things to do."

"A cold gust blew across a desert hospital, churning dead leaves and howling at all who would be in the night. Dr. Harold Vesmer braced himself against the wind, and entered the hospital. The door slammed shut, as Dr. Vesmer inspected that day's surgeries neatly scrawled on the wall. 'Karen Hollings' eye (quarter inch plates), jaw (half inch plates), teeth (full replacement), hair (full replacement). Harold groaned, deep in thought, and traversed the hallway to the nearest corridor, approaching the entrance of the doctor's lounging room. Another day, another surgery. Always with the eye plates, always with the full replacements. Harold Vesmer stirred in a chair, swirling a coffee and perplexed in thought. The other incidents. Patients getting out of hand. Returning to the hospital. The world was getting to be a crazy place. Dr. Vesmer gulped. The incision was lined up and closing, as the patient, young Miss Karen Hollings, swallowed and fidgeted on the table under sedation. The wraps were on. Time to wait. The hours ticked by, Harold arranging charts and sipping coffee, as the unwrapping came closer. Footsteps, other doctors. Murmuring and screaming in the background. Typical hospital. Typical hospital. A pounding at the doors went unnoticed. Threats of another incident hung in the air. Karen Hollings was unwrapped. She acted strangely as she studied her visage in the mirror. Hushed conversations ensued, and doctors were heard hurriedly discussing 'the dilemma'. 'What if it's true? They're becoming monsters! There's too much work being done. They're physical!' The second doctor a thin, balding older man, consoled the other doctor. 'Don't worry. We can get this under control. Plastic surgery is a common thing nowadays. Maybe we're just in a bad area.' He gripped her arms and looked into her eyes. 'We can get out of here just fine.' Karen Hollings disappeared, as the pounding on the outside door continued. Dr. Vesmer escaped to his surgery room, clutching a handgun and a scalpel. Dr. Vesmer screamed as a hand covered his mouth from behind. The front door busted open loudly with an echoing bang. The doctor's and nurses stared helplessly and held each other, as one of the nurses screamed. The hospital power went out. The hospital power flickered on. Doctor Harold Vesmer tried to get a hold on himself. The lights flashed over the surgery room, doctor's and nurses bodies horribly butchered and hanging over the room. He looked into the bay mirror and saw his mouth was completely missing."

"'All under him will be cast to his aspersions, and as he rises his might, none above him shall triumph.' Van Pyre looked down at the parchment. It was an old writing, but it made sense. 'A prophecy. That's clear. But who's the person being referenced?' Van muttered rapidly, as if clearing himself of the words. 'Random garbage.' Alina rolled her eyes playfully at him. The two were inside a study, an ancient rock cavern, torn out of the Earth long ago to make way for a vampire cult. Long storied and elite, the cavern stood about two-hundred-feet-tall. It was torch-lit and connected to an ancient manor, underneath the prestigious dwelling. Alina stood five-foot-seven, an alacritous and catty female vampire, with dark swaying hair and a uniquely perfect face. Her flirty features bounced off the cavern walls, glowing with the esteemed quality of an elite woman in her early thirties. Young and joyful, she believed in Van's ability to complete the mission. Van towered over her; his seven-foot frame occupying most of the desk he was hunched over. More remarkable than hers, but slightly aghast, his face seemed to emanate a powerful, God-like being crouched over the prey that was his life. Bulging biceps revealed from a tight black tee shirt with a white logo on it, and a scowl of admiration was escaping his sneering lips. Van set the parchment down with a slight clink and referenced the tattered writing. 'A god's choice. Whoever he is.' Van motioned to the study exit, as Alina laughed and nodded at him. They had much to do and looking up scraps from the past to prove something to the elders of Valhalla, the vampire cult that secretly governed Earth, made his blood boil slightly. Van was to report back to them and tell them what he had learned. Another errand. Something that he had been getting fed up with for a very long time. He licked his lips complainingly, as he scowled at the door and started going towards it. 'They have a lot to learn.' Alina's footsteps clacked behind him on the stone floor as they walked briskly towards the room full of fourteen waiting Valhalla council elders. Alina was done screaming. The return to the elders had not gone quite well. For the elders, at least. Shaking and covered in blood, Alina stared down at the mutilated corpses of the formerly living elder leaders of the vampire cult. 'W...Why d...did you do it so bad? They were j... just telling you what to do!' Van licked his bloody fangs playfully. 'O, well you know how that goes. They had it coming, anyway.' Van set down a blood-stained killing axe and calmly surveyed his work. Bloody body parts were everywhere, a few chunks of recently living vampire leaders still jiggling slightly in strange protest. Blood was on the room like flowing wine, and Van himself was chuckling as the dripping blood smacked on the stone floor beneath him. His wild, fire-lit eyes looked into Alina's. 'It's mine now. Everything is. You don't need to be concerned like that anymore.' She took his hand and gasped again, tears still streaming down her face from seeing the council of leader vampires ripped apart by Van Pyre's rage. No one could do that to them. Except him. And no one would get away with it, either. Another certain skill of Van's during his rise up the vampire hierarchy... 'They're dead.' Alina sobbed into his chest. Old mentors and wise leaders departed from her life in front of her eyes, their last dying breaths fading away as she remembered her younger days learning under them and playing with their children. 'It had to happen. It was always coming.' Van straightened up and eyed her reassuringly, his bulging chest cradling his perfect features in the twilight gleaming in from the ornate windows above. His eyes shifted to the moon beyond, a haunting menace taking over his handsome features as a sense of accomplishment swept over his powerful body. The parchment occurred to him one more time, as he shrugged to himself and laughed wryly at the ancient line. 'Might rises, after all,' he quipped dryly. Glinting over the scene, Van's eyes locked on the elders' console taking up the far wall, infinite power pulsing from its vast screens. There was much to do."

"The Walmart manager smiled as the rest of his crew lit up in bright smiles, too. The camera flashed, and the regional store crew laughed and shoved each other playfully as the flash dimmed to nothing. Harry Mann, the manager, chuckled too as his assistant manager examined the photograph she had taken on her phone. A nice picture, his employees looking happy and productive. Walmart's finest. Donna, the assistant manager, smiled as well and walked off. They were supposed to take a store picture, shift by shift, showing happy and grinning employees enjoying their careers at Walmart. Harry squinted and pulled up his trousers, trying to think if any more shifts were due that day. Probably not, unless somebody had a replacement, and that wouldn't count. Harry returned to his office in the back of the store, contemplating life and new beginnings. He stopped in front of the security mirror and looked in. With a grumpy smile and wave, he could barely see the security team laugh and wave back. He kept looking. An overweight, squinting, sixty-something-year-old with a comb-over, slacks, and an average blue polo shirt looked back at him. Yuck. Harry remembered the rules, smiled reassuringly, pretended to dust something off his shirt to the security team, and went back to his office door. Jiggling a key, he walked in, sat down and slumped into his chair. Outside, Donna and several other employees jumped as they heard the sound of Harry's .38 caliber revolver, kept for self-defense, firing loudly in his office. Donna and the others rushed in and saw Harry's form slumped over his desk next to a book on Norse mythology. He was unresponsive. Blood was splattered on the wall behind him, and more of it was pooling from his open mouth. The security team rushed in and cleared the area. It was labeled a suicide, and rumors went on for days of what had caused it and what Harry Mann's problem had been. Weeks passed, as a new manager, Walter Jones, had been going over Harry's old routines and taking care of work the former manager would have done himself. Things were getting back to normal, as the topic of conversation had passed, and people were starting to smile and laugh again. Walter walked past the many cashier stations, pausing to look at a board full of pictures hanging near the security window. There were his employees, with a little heart cut out for Harry Mann's memory, staring back at him. Walter smiled at the pictures, the employees on them smiling back in return. With a flutter, the paper heart for Harry Mann fell from the board, floating gently into a trail of water on the ground below."