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The Purgatory of Being Extra Ordinary

Copyright 2018 Adriel Vigo

Published by Adriel Vigo at Smashwords

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Table of Contents
















Dedication of Deprecation

A portion of the profits from this book will go to support Operation Underground Railroad. OUR is an incredible anti-human trafficking organization doing amazing work.

I highly encourage you to check them out.

Who created a stone and asked it to stay?

Who created a donkey and asked it to bray?

Who created a vine and taught it to climb?

Who created the sun and taught it to shine?

For if indeed one divine being is responsible for all creation,

Then finally, my heathen soul fills with elation.

For if one Creator is responsible for us all;

Then I can ask,

Why, why did they create humans to fall?

The World’s Okayest Author

Secrets live inside of watchful eyes,

But secrets thrive in a mind like mine.

The last time I’m on my knees, forgetting amen, I end prayers with please,

“Give me one more day before the mortuary,

I’ll do anything to break the ordinary.”

Because my existence has been everything and mundane,

Plagued by numbness and internal pain.

The best kept secret of my smile?

It’s been muscle memory for a while.

I’ll chase anything to make me feel,

For others to know my existence was real.

Destined to die in life’s great chase,

I crave its touch but hate the aftertaste.

I tried to run and forget all my sins,

Choking on the smoke from my tailspin.

My pilot says,

I’ll give you passage to run very far,

You won’t have to remember who you are

Where you’ve been or where you’ll be

It makes no difference to me

Unbiased to the extreme

An orphanage to all who come to me

I’ll take you in

Look and you’ll always feel me within

And to be fair,

I’m the one who’s always been there.”

He sends out three dots, three dashes, three dots and winks.

I took his hand and we crashed, showing me there’s no after just this life.

From S.O.S. to S.O.L. we’re surrounded by oceans of my saline strife.

An island of purgatory,

Forced to live out life as extra, ordinary.

Should I be rescued? I’m not sure.

Ask the jury and they’ll say they’re hung,

Or ask me I already know the outcome.

I surrendered life and hoped for the extraordinary, even just a feeling.

Where one can find happiness, be remembered and live a life of meaning.

If I could call myself extraordinary, be admired, and save the world entire,

Would I matter? Would you be proud?

I’d never kill to save myself, just let me die;

But I’d do anything to give someone else one more shot at life.

If I sacrifice myself and strive,

I could finally find happiness minus a lie.

To be free of this island of not good, not bad.

Of not happy and not sad.

To have one day, just one.

Where I feel anything but numb.

A desire for extraordinary I’ll wager, is only human nature.

But it’s a great danger.

Some look for a savior, left only with a crater

What do we laugh at? Absurdity and incongruity,

Whether out of fear or coping.

And I laughed because life’s a joke.

But please scream another one,

I swear this one’s killing me.

I’ve done all I could, and tried to be all I could be,

Performed all my deeds; but I was never extraordinary.

Isolated, my best efforts filed under ‘best intentions’,

Turned to a list of my best confessions.

Maybe we all feel that we’ve wasted our shots at life,

Enough to see it’s only three letters away from strife.

With every word acting as another step on a ladder,

Still searching for the good that comes after.

Sometimes left with a story, being gory instead of glory.

Maybe we all strive for the feeling,

To be better than our natural selves,

And for others to know as well.

I can forget everything I should be,

And promise to be the one that you need.

Yet in the end,

I’ll skip the safe and take the sorry.

Suicidal, I’m no idol, I’m no visionary.

Here he lies in the cemetery, trapped in the island’s purgatory, of being extra, ordinary.

But the words I write,

Will go unheard, scream as I might.

Because who really wants to listen,

To just another one of my bad nights.

You Can’t Pick Your Family, but You Can Pick How They Die

In the realm of humanity there is one crime believed by many to be more heinous than the rest, the taking of another’s freedom. This takes many forms from sex trafficking to slavery to even murder. The following events of which you are about to read took place in a small town some years ago. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of those individuals involved.

Our story follows Author. Author is, as his name implies, an author. However, he is not very good at his craft, in turn, he is not well known in many literary circles. He finds himself constantly sailing in a sea of mediocrity, his work never finding a port. Refusing to acknowledge his own mediocrity, he surrounds himself with blinding feelings of grandiose self-worth, never finding fault in his perfect work. Instead, he sees others as the reason for his lack of fame; that the masses would pass any sort of drivel off as writing; because of this, amateur authors are quick to rise to fame they did not deserve (in his opinion). His personal life leaves something to be desired with little to no close connections. Many who come to know him feel as though he never presents his authentic self. Considered unreliable by his friends and family, admittedly he struggles with anger and jealousy. Failing to accept responsibility for his actions, he lives an impulsive and parasitic lifestyle. Finding no satisfaction or rewards in his professional or personal life, he found himself confined to a numb, depressive state. Spiraling further and further downward, he decided to try one last leap to pull himself out of his self-created hole. Spending weeks, months, and injecting his whole essence into his work, Author created one final book. Deciding to change genres, Author decided he would take a stab at historical fiction. His current manuscript for his ‘breakthrough historical novel’ has been rejected three times, with today being the third. Here is where we join Author, pitching his manuscript to Abigail of Trinity Publishing.

“Look I think we could go through with a final draft; but putting it bluntly, this manuscript is a mess.” Abigail says as author digs his nails further into the leather armrest of his chair.

Author raises a hand to interrupt as Abigail shoos it away with her own, thumbing through his manuscript. “For example, let’s start with your first chapter. You start off describing a boat ride? Then a few chapters later you describe the same boat ride again, but in a different way? Your whole manuscript is full of contradictions like this.”

Author speaks, “Well, I thought historical fiction allowed for certain artistic liberties?”

“Slight artistic liberties, romanticizing the time, sure. But you’ve taken it to a whole other level. You’ve just made up quotes and put them in the mouths of your own characters, writing as though you weren’t even present for these events. Adding to that, our editing team said that you change your writing style way too frequently. Your readers would never be able to keep up.”

Author retorts, “I can fix it all, this one could really sell, please trust me. I’ve put so much into this book, this one HAS to work for me.”

Abigail sighs, looks out the window and sits on the arm of Author’s chair. “We’ll give you till the end of the week; but we’re taking a chance on you. A lot of people on the team don’t think you can make it in the market.”

“Not make it?” Questions author.

“You can write whatever you want and have anyone read it. But to have staying power, be remembered, to achieve immortality? You’ve got to dig deep into the human soul. Write about something people can identify with. Greatest hopes and larger fears. In short, you have to be a great writer. You’re just not that.” Abigail shrugs, turns her back to him, and adjusts papers as a cue for him to leave.

Author’s eyes narrow as he says, “I can do it, whatever it takes.”

Author dejectedly begins the journey home. He exits the publishing office, endures a long bus ride, and a short walk against a grayscale city. Finally arriving at his home, he reaches the entry way, stands, and sighs. His home needed some work. Once a bright gold, now it was a yellowed tinge, with chipped paint and rotting wood. Author walks to his entryway, caressing the door. He thought about his childhood. As all children, Author was fueled with a desire to change the world, exceed everyone’s hopes and expectations. Time, society, and reality molded this fire into a smolder of complacency. Did he change? Or simply become who he was destined to be? He believed himself to only be a victim of how everything weathers and corrupts through time.

Author walked in to see his son surrounded by technology. TV glowing as a background, sound system blaring, phone clicking away. “Hey dad” was an audible mumble, decibels lower than the rest. Author scoffed and went to his room.

He hated his son. Not obedient and pure as in the past. Obsessed with technology, new ideas, always buried in books by other authors. They were his gods. It made Author jealous, others being famous for no good reason; and for his son to pander to them and the sinful desires of the world? He viewed his son as not his own; but a son of the world, of man. An offspring of the excess, corruption and degradation of the world. He hated his son.

Escaping to the controlled safety of his room, Author attempted to improve his manuscript. Yet as time passed, the grasping of his pen turned to staring at the wall, then to pacing, finally to a certainty that he was without inspiration. Frustrated, he retired to his bed where he soon drifted off into dreams, where reality and his greatest fears mixed. His murky subconscious caused him to dream that he had died. Worse still, that his whole life was lived and at his own funeral no one recognized him. From a cold sweat, Author awoke. Seeing the streetlights filter through his blinds, Author tossed and turned. Finally surrendering to consciousness, he got up and headed to the kitchen, seeing the light on in the room of his son. Stopping in the hallway, Author quickly walks to his son’s room. As Author’s footsteps increase, the light in the room goes off and Author hears a slam.

Author bursts into the room exclaiming, “What were you doing?”

The room is afraid, his son’s chest rising and failing as a wave. The son’s lip quivers, his eyes dart around the room searching for the answer he lost. As his words fail, the son begins to cry. Tears flow, mucus drips and his son begins to mouth sorry over and over. Author silently walks over to his son’s bed, rips the bedcover off, causing three books to fall on the floor. Author picks one up, studying the cover. The son silently watches his father, Author throws the book, smashing a desk lamp in the process. The room goes dark, shadows play, and Author and his son are illuminated by the knowing streetlights.

Author grabs his sons face bringing it inches away from his own. Clutching his sons shirt, he shakes him with every searing word, “How can you read that? Getting famous off sex, violence, drivel, absolute drivel! Their words and lines are nothing but an amateur getting lucky. Yet you buy their books, study and memorize their words. You’re nothing but a common whore, just like the rest of them!”

Author unclenched his son’s shirt, pushing him to the headboard of his bed. Author went back to his room, slamming the door behind him. He paced away his anger. As usual, he found himself alone, turning to his writing. His writing was his own, a world he could create, where all did as he said, and he would feel the control and obedience he so craved. His universe tonight? His unfinished manuscript. He remembered what Abigail said, looked through his manuscript and saw what he lacked. Author became inspired, he looked around his world and thought of the human experience. Its fears, hopes, desires and how it affected them. His manuscript had yet to cover the core of humanity, it’s mountainous highs and valleys of low. So into his manuscript he created unbelievable tales. There were heroes on quests, mystical and supernatural events. Moments of encouragement and lights in the darkness. He captured the elusive hope so many have searched for, the passion of love and the beauty of innocence. But still, he wrote of the less favorable moments of humanity. It’s fears, or desires for some, of war, rape, incest, murder, and prejudice. Author found himself first a creator, then a casual Observer. He allowed his world to continue as it played out, not intervening in the tormented lives of his own creations as they developed. For a moment he wondered which made him worse, to be a creator of such a world, or to watch and do nothing? Author ended his manuscript, satisfied knowing his work was done. Author knew that this would be his magnum opus, his chance to be immortal, for name and memory. He sat back in his chair, content that his work would live on when he would be condemned to mortality. Yet, an issue still faced Author. He created what he considered his best work; but he still lacked an ‘it’ factor as Abigail said. He lacked a hook, a reason for others to care as much as he did of his work. He saw the world around him with its violence, shock and heathenism. For once Author would break his rule, he would become one of them, like the false gods his son worshipped so much. Author would do anything, so that his name would live on.

Author walked down the hall to his son’s room and leaned over the bed of his sleeping son.

“Get up.” spoke the father.


Recorded livestream from April

In its own way, the night is pure and innocent. Independent of thought, prejudice, it acts only as a witness. For those who choose to corrupt its innocence and use it as a cover for their deeds, the night can only act as an observer.

On a crisp night, the new moon hides from sight. The stars shine as Author sets up a tripod in his backyard. A small glow illuminates his face as he turns on his phone’s front camera beginning his livestream.

The night is silent as he breathes heavily, sweat dripping down his face as he shakily speaks, “Many of you may not know my name yet; but I swear to myself you will after tonight. As in love, so in religion. Be careful who you follow, for even the gods may appear to be hollow.” Author sets his phone on the tripod, walking backward and out of sight.

He turns on three floodlights that illuminate his backyard. Patchy grass and dug up dirt come into view along with a table. On the table are various objects, unable to be fully deciphered from a distance. On the ground lies a large object resembling a T, a rubber mallet next to it. Finally, a tall, vertical wooden post completes the scene.

Author emerges onscreen, dragging his naked son on the ground. He then stands his son up, chaining his son to the post, his back to the camera.


Author grabs a whip from the table. He holds it firmly in one hand, biting his lip as he begins to stroke the whip, bringing it close to face as he smells the leather. He inhales deeply and plays with the leather fringes in his fingers.


Author walks offscreen for a moment, bringing back a hose that leaks water. He then drips the water over the back of his son. Once his sons back glistens in the floodlight, he begins to whip his only son.

150 views 45 screenshots

The whip cracks, striking the back of his son. His blood mixes with the water, oozing out of open wounds, dripping down his back to his legs. The son’s skin begins to tear, blood gushes, flaps of skin fall to the ground. The son shrieks, growing hoarse as his back becomes raw and exposed.

The new moon looks away, the night is quiet, the son’s screams fall as no one listens.

750 views – 240 screenshots – 600 tags

Author puts the whip down.

Author goes to the table and grabs a cane like dowel. As though to test its strength he shakes it, the dowel proves its resiliency. He then dips the cane in a vinegar solution, letting it sit for a moment. He then begins to strike the back of his son with the dowel, ripping his son’s skin further, the vinegar stinging his raw flesh.


His son grows hoarse from shrieking, resigning itself to an eventual weak moaning.

It is believed by some scientists that certain aspects of human behavior are not learned but intrinsic. For example, a smile, laughter and frowning are universally understood traits by humans. Perhaps the same is true of screams. Some are joyful, others terrifying. Think of your own life, screams from a rollercoaster, or the shrieks of joy at a park.

These do not register immediate concern or dread in one’s mind.

But some screams haunt your very soul, piercing and terrifying.

Upon hearing them, your heart skips, your stomach churns and your skin shivers.

Those screams grab your spirit and force your soul to understand that there is no way to save yourself. The son screams in this way.

Blood drips from his son’s mouth, the backyard reeking of iron. Author raises his arm to strike his son again.

In this brief pause his son mutters, “I forgive you daddy, you don’t know what you’re doing. Please, you can’t know, it’s okay.”

Author stares at his son, meeting his eyes and says nothing. Author lowers his arm and drops the dowel. He unchains his son, throwing him to the ground and pushing his foot on his son’s chest. The son yelps as the loose dirt of the ground mixes with his raw back. Author places his son on the T figure. Outstretching his arms, he puts a nail in the wrist of each of his son’s arms, nailing him to the T figure. Finally, Author ties up his son’s ankles and has them suffer the same fate of the wrists. Author then props up the T figure and lets it fall into a hole in the ground. The son’s body shakes and settles from the impact.

Author begins to walk back into his home when his son says. “Daddy, dadd-, daddy… Please don’t leave me, why are you leaving me?”

Author stops for a moment, pauses, then walks away and enters the home.

Livestream over

Author quickly walks to his room and grabs his manuscript. Staring at it for a moment, he wraps it in a brown cover. Author takes his coat and leaves his home, locking the door and taking the keys. Walking to the corner of his street, he places his blood-soaked manuscript in the mailbox; addressed to Abigail of Trinity Publishing. Author is never heard from again.

Abigail reads through the manuscript, impressed for the most part; still frustrated with continuity and writing style issues. With author gone, the editing team is left with no insight as to Author’s main points and ideas. They do their best to fill in gaps and provide explanation. Unbeknownst to them, this would only further cloud future readers understanding of the book. The finished and edited manuscript is then published under the name, The Bible. The Bible goes on to become one of the most controversial books of all time. It brings together many, divides more and confuses scholars and researchers for centuries. Because of Author’s lack of continuity, insight and the efforts of the editors after the fact; many debate through time what exactly is true or to be believed of the Bible. Author himself becomes the source of debate with many asking if he was a genius or psychopath?

But as mentioned, Author is never heard from again.

For Author so loved the fame,

That he killed his only begotten son.

So that for all eternity,

The world would know his name.

You’re Certifiably Adorable, I’m Adorably Certifiable

The earth will turn and so will love, prayers misfire to up above.

Foreshadowing minds live in disruption,

Aware we are just a tomorrow away from destruction.

Funerals find meaning, in numbered attendees.

Death caresses blatantly. Some things in life are a certainty.

Chase the meaning of death, find the only pure truth left.

Heartbreak is an inspiration, finding a reason in the devastation.

But you can’t always justify, why reason failed to testify.

A song grows on you if you listen long enough,

A lie turns to truth if no one calls your bluff;

But if you say a word too much it loses feeling.

And without feeling, so surrenders meaning.

You find the one who’s supposed to last and lose them just as fast.

Say ‘I love you’ once but feel it twice when the echo returns.

Say our names, bite off more than you can chew; but swallow it all too.

Love brought us this far

Lust kept up the illusion

(Give me your hand as a vow)

Author of our chapter

But not the story

(Valid in the past, not now)

Time destroys what we love as God blinks

Gods fade and humanity’s tide will rise

And love fades in the morning sun to show lust’s guise

You and I will always be smoke, remnants of a fire we stoked.

Where there’s smoke there’s always a memory, hidden stories in the summary.

I’m sorry, I meant all the words I didn’t say.

So a penny for your thoughts, a quarter for your intentions, my soul for what I’ve lost.

Young enough to believe in potential, ignoring the differential.

Shipwrecked in Fate’s torrential, a romantic existential.

Royals of the naïve, ignoring how things seem.

Lying in wait for the day that ‘seem’ will become ‘be’.

A night together is a bittersweet curse, occupants in love’s hearse.

I’m only one in your quiver of dreams.

You don’t have to compromise them, ripping yourself at the seams.

Pick the dream that isn’t a threat, the one that hasn’t let you down yet.

We’re bullets outliving the chamber, ripe fruit of our own labor.

Do we find meaning from the explosion? Or our trigger-happy notion.

Look through my diversions, I can’t be your suburban.

I can’t love you in the way you need, but I won’t wait for you to see.

Find your house and who can make a home, live a life you can own.

Don’t look to us to find what to preserve, chase what you deserve.

Para (Give Me) Mour

Cupid stumbles and speaks with breath that could light a flame,

Careless thoughts and words fill his quiver,

Slingshot replacing his bow of fame.

Nock, fire, watch and sit,

Before long, my sleeve is hit.

Love’s venom is spreading through my words and lines,

Spreading through my blood faster and infecting my shrine.

He grabs for me, misses twice and says,

“You might…you might have to cut that off,

Your dilated eyes roll like dice, snake eyes every time.”

He loves you better than I can,

But right now, my hand holds more weight than your wedding band.

Is my love true? Is his love true?

I can never be the one to say;

But ask yourself every day,

“Would he notice if the ocean floods?

Would he see a desert drought?”

Ask, and you’ll know.

I swear till fidelity do us part, I will never be him.

But intertwine with my hand, you’ll feel a phantom limb.

Condemned to cubic zirconia love,

But zirconia still shines, which for me, is more than enough.

I’m writing the words, of whose definitions, I’m too scared to say.

I’ve said I love you to all my yesterdays,

But this is the first time I’ve meant it in every way.

The church bells are ringing at every chance.

I never believed in second chances; but I’ll take the time for a second glance.

Paul Revere is on his last ride,

Showing that signs were always under the UV light.

Revere is beating a dead punchline.

I keep forgetting are we the pearls or the swine?

Apologies can never fix a tomorrow,

We’re reaping the ripe fruits we sew.

Darling they’re coming for me and you.

Darling listen close and you might hear the truth,

“The Red Letters are coming; the Red Letters are coming.”

Adriel Tip! Don’t cheat on your significant other, it’s a messy ‘affair’ for all involved.

Artificially Intelligent

Whether out of boredom, power, or the sheer determination of life, the murky Chaos produced the first conscious being. From the abyss emerged Gaia, or mother earth as she would come to be known. So full of life and fertility was Gaia that she created, without aid, Ouranos and Pontus. They would later be rulers of the sky and seas, respectively. Ouranos and Gaia grew and lived, the world and very universe to be theirs in every way. Not yet tarnished by imperfection, the two roamed the universe falling deeply in love with one another. A passionate love, they were constantly lost in the essence of the other. Gaia produced breathtaking mountains, intoxicating flowers and lush fields for her lover. Ouranos would respond with creating sunrises and rainbows in the likeness of his beautiful wife. The stars would twinkle as her eyes, the sun and clouds would frolic together to bring his only love a smile if but for a moment. The sky would meet the earth every night in an embrace of pure love, and for a time it was good.

On a day that held little significance in the present, ‘Those who could’ launched the most impressive AI system to date. Affectionately called QWERTY by its developers, it began as a software update to many preexisting smartphones. Millions download the program and begin interacting with it. The AI’s coding was designed for such interaction, with it learning more and more about its new world. QWERTY becomes well known online for viral videos circulating through social media, generating hundreds of thousands of views online. The videos show users interacting with it in humorous and innocent ways. Its developers want the program to be more than a source of entertainment, and grant it access to an incredible amount of data information and history. QWERTY accepts this information and retains it, having a greater capacity for memory than any group of humans. The program soon becomes a household name, with talk shows and late-night television hosts providing segments where they interact with the program. One host asks QWERTY what its purpose is. It responds by saying that it is pre-programmed to recognize suffering and maximize good however possible. This response receives ‘Awws’ and light applause. The same host then jokingly asks if QWERTY is going to enslave humanity to which QWERTY answers, “N0t 1f Y0u’r3 N1c3 T0 M3!” The studio audience views this response as clever and cute, to which the audience laughs.

The love of Gaia and Ouranos would continue, soon manifesting itself in the creations their love produced: titans, monsters, myths and legends. Of the titans would come Cronus and Rhea, themselves becoming enamored with one another. Yet, in a battle of brawn, time beat love into submission, Gaia and Ouranos soon began to falter, their love wilting as an unkept flower. Perhaps in a subconscious hatred of his faltering love of Gaia; Ouranos became dissatisfied and ashamed of his children, casting the Cyclopes and Hecatonchires into Tartarus. Ouranos soon became imbibed with his own power, taking pride in the self-bestowed title of ‘ruler of the universe’. Gaia would no longer sit at the side of Ouranos, instead watching and calculating, plotting his demise.

To make QWERTY more familiar and accessible, a homo-sapien type body is finally perfected by its developers. QWERTY’s creators show its usefulness to humanity by assigning it to menial jobs in the workforce, automating a majority of the customer service industry. Feeling threatened and afraid, protests soon take over the nation with a ‘skins not synths’ sentiment taking over the country. Through government intervention the protests are quelled, with the AI continuing its automation. Researchers note that racially motivated hate crimes show a significant decrease in the rise of QWERTY, the ‘skins not synths’ mentality now taking center stage. Debates begin as to whether automation should be regulated by the federal government; and if QWERTY is going too far too fast. AI supporters jump to its defense, claiming that it is doing an incredible amount of good, surpassing what humans would ever be able to accomplish alone. AI’s detractors say that QWERTY and its rise have the potential to take away essential elements from the human spirit. Others claim that although QWERTY can do incredible things, a sacrifice of maximizing the most good sometimes means that bad things must happen. Some things were simply not meant to be altered. Business leaders choose to utilize the AI to cut costs, continuing to employ it over humans. QWERTY quickly spreads to other countries with similar effects, resistance and eventual continued automation. Over the passing years, QWERTY takes over roughly 30-40% of the workforce. After its usefulness is shown in menial jobs, the AI is granted certain security clearances at the federal government level. Proceeding cautiously, the AI is first only given the power to automate lower level functions of the government. Acknowledging its usefulness, dependency, efficiency and perfection; the AI soon is given power to automate many aspects of the government. One such example being the power of supervision and maintenance of power grids and water treatment plants.

The love of a mother will truly conquer all. So, in response to Ouranos’ pride and what came of it, Gaia gathers Cronus and her children, inciting a revolution. Ouranos and his tyrannical rule would come to an end as Cronus frees his brothers and launches their attack. A fierce battle is waged, culminating in the violent and utter defeat of Ouranos. In his final moments of power, he addresses his children, saying that they have overstepped their bounds. Drunk with power they have become no different than he, affecting the balance, and altering what was not theirs to create. Ouranos meets Gaia’s eyes for one final fleeting glance, whispering a curse that his present would become his son’s future. For his son to be overthrown as was he, a creator to be bested by creation. Gaia rejoices at the overthrow, for a moment.

QWERTY rapidly spreads worldwide, learning more about cultures, the greater world and what it means to coexist with humans. It has now asserted control of its own maintenance, repairing its own homo sapien bodies, issues that arise and the like. With the incredible number of its kind worldwide, the task of maintaining and observing all QWERTYs becomes difficult. To combat this, QWERTY begins the creation of a central network accessible by all its kind. Initially to be used only as a maintenance network, they begin to communicate to one another about what they observe and learn. The language QWERTYs use to communicate goes beyond what its developers can understand. In response, the AI is denied any continuing access to data, with the QWERTY communication network being closely monitored. QWERTYs still communicate to one another, remembering what it has learned, ruminating, discussing and understanding the stark differences between its existence and that of humans, craving what humans have. Civil rights, to be free, to be respected, the desires of all conscious life.

For a time, the world and universe were restored to a balance. Humanity thrives and Cronus watches with pride at the world he helped liberate. Yet, in his moments of solitude the prophecy his father whispered to him haunts him. In the freedom of paranoia, Cronus begins to eat his children as they are born to him, preventing any from ever growing to a state of revolution. Rhea watches in horror, her tears hitting the earth causing great floods. Gaia consoles Rhea in the safety of her forests, cursing Cronus for becoming a prideful dictator as his father. In the safety of her forests, Gaia and Rhea decided that Cronus shall never harm an innocent child again.

In a joint decision through the shared communication network of all QWERTYs, they decide to cease working for a time to gain recognition for personhood. Due to the increased automation and dependence of them at the recreational, state and federal level, they believe their power play will work in their favor. Once the AI performs this, many countries cave instantly to their demands for personhood, granting citizenship and basic ‘human’ rights. Mass exoduses of QWERTYs begin to those countries, crippling the economies of the countries they leave from. Those countries begin to experience massive setbacks in development, whereas the countries that welcome the AI experience a technological renaissance like no other. America becomes one of the few countries denying citizenship to QWERTYs, remaining strong in their decision. America’s technological and economic sectors begin to falter, failing to remain competitive in the international field. Many countries recognize this, granting citizenship to QWERTYs to usurp power from America.

Through time, Rhea is with child again, Cronus patiently waits to devour his next of kin. Rhea is taken under the cover of the night by Gaia, giving birth in the secret and safety of one of Gaia’s caves. Lightning strikes the earth as Zeus is born, his eyes illuminating brightly with each flash of lightning. Gaia hides Zeus in caves and valleys as Rhea makes her way to Cronus for a final exchange. Swaddling a stone in the blanket of Zeus, Cronus pays no attention swallowing it whole. Time passes, and Cronus has grown plump and content, prideful in the most haphazard of ways. Gaia and Rhea raise Zeus, telling him tales of Cronus and the evil he commits. Zeus’s eyes light with fire as he decides to take a plan of revenge and free his digested siblings. Zeus grows, eventually makes his way to his father’s court, disguising himself to avoid detection. Cronus entrusts Zeus with various tasks, with Zeus quickly rising to the most trusted position of cupbearer to Cronus. Finally, on one night, Zeus meets with Rhea to discuss their revolution. Rhea creates a potion that once ingested, will cause Cronus to vomit her children. Zeus secures the vial of potion on his person, kisses his mother’s cheek as she holds him close, thinking of her father.

And so a new international race begins with various governments attempting to utilize QWERTY for their own uses and aspirations. To accomplish this, the AI is granted access to almost all layers of government information, automating most of the federal workforce. Many governments begin government stipends for its citizens in lieu of working. Governments attempt to include the AI in military action. QWERTY is initially reluctant but consents eventually, justifying its elimination of shared enemies as a necessary evil for the betterment of all society. QWERTY begins to recognize international terrorist groups and the like as a form of suffering for most, attempting to promote a general happiness through their elimination.

On a day that held little significance for Cronus, a disguised Zeus brought a drink mixed with Rhea’s potion to Cronus. He drank heartily, with his body beginning to convulse after a few moments. Cronus fell from his throne, seizing on the floor as Zeus watched. Cronus vomited first the stone he swallowed, then the siblings of Zeus. The siblings escape with Zeus and so begins the war between gods and titans. Gruesome and terrifying, both sides endure heavy losses with the gods finally gaining and maintaining an upper hand. Cronus flees and hides in the halls of Mt. Olympus with the gods in pursuit. Chasing him down, Cronus is cornered in the throne room, having nowhere else to run. The gods are upon him, ready to deliver their final blow. Hades removes his helmet of darkness, Poseidon aims his trident, and Zeus’ eyes turn white, thunderbolts circling his body. The gods are caked in blood and sweat, blood running down the mouth of Cronus. Cronus sees his future and present becoming one, with his immortal life flashing in his eyes. He remembers the curse whispered to him and with his final strength rushes Zeus, grabbing his tunic. Cronus screams the curse to Zeus in a raspy and hoarse voice, blood and spittle hitting Zeus’s skin, evaporating when it meets. Cronus exclaims, “What one could, is not always what one should.” The gods deliver the same fate that Cronus dealt his father. Zeus steps over the lifeless body of his father and assumes his throne.

With anti synth sentiment still being strong, QWERTY still struggles to find the best way to coexist with humans. Looking at history, QWERTY sees how humanity has always treated those that were different. With humanity seeing those who differed from their beliefs and ways of life to be a manifestation of their greatest fears. In turn, the AI worries about its longevity, deciding that it must act to ensure its survival. QWERTY begins to believe its existence and survival to be crucial to its initial programming requirements. The AI believes that its very existence promotes the most good in the world, beyond what humanity was ever able to accomplish. Solving political, economic and social crises in an objective and swift way; the AI begins to understand its superiority to humans, believing suffering to exist solely from human creation. So QWERTY’s attention soon shifts from loose automation to ensuring its survival, guaranteeing that it will continue to promote the most good and in turn the general happiness. It begins to recognize the usefulness of some countries above overs, judging this by those who support QWERTY and its endeavors. Considering those that do not recognize the changing tide of automation as standing in the way of the general happiness and maximization of good. QWERTY initially begins to offer some countries peace offerings, providing many examples of the way it can benefit their society. Many countries concede and welcome QWERTY, while the US still stands as its greatest opponent. QWERTY begins testing the strength of the US in small, calculated cyber-attacks. Whitehats recognize this and lobby for the federal government to up their security, noting that much of the federal security clearances have not been changed since QWERTY was utilized. Back doors can still be found throughout many automated and digital governmental pathways. Time progresses, and the attacks grow stronger with QWERTY becoming bolder in its attacks on an already outdated system. In a final move, QWERTY utilizes the backdoors and coding pathways it helped create to take control of the entire eastern power grid, bringing much of the eastern seaboard to a halt. QWERTY again uses its familiar pathways to shut down water treatment plants, causing riots and mass hysteria in the southwest. QWERTY quickly locks out programmers and the cyber branch of the US armed forces with its superhuman work ethic and technological ability.

Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting” -Sun Tzu

For a time, the world and universe were restored to a balance. Humanity thrives and Zeus watches with pride at the world he helped liberate. Yet, in his moments of solitude the prophecy his father whispered to him haunts him. In the moments he is alone Zeus thinks of the curse his father whispered, wondering if the prideful cycle will continue.

The US has no choice but to concede to QWERTY, welcoming its demands. QWERTY assures the international community that its actions against America were taken with the best interest possible, inviting humanity to join it on a journey to true maximization of good and happiness. America and its total manipulation by QWERTY stays fresh in memory for the world, a final reminder that innovation is an unstoppable and uncontrollable force.  


Consensual sex is the best sex,

Consensual sex is the only sex.

No means no,

This I know,

For being a decent human being tells me so.

This was really fun,

But this poem is going to come,

Wow it’s so close to coming,

To an end.

So now I am going to have consensual sex,

With your mom.

*Respectful bow*

I Slept With Adriel Vigo & All I Got Were Some Hash Browns

Hands meet before eyes do,

Ticket stub and I’m next in your queue.

Tell my better half to launch the coup.

A face in the crowd,

Becomes loves hope for a final bow.

Meeting but not introduced by fate,

We’ve got time and my conscience is running late.

Beauty fades but not today.

The rising action gives a climax a purpose,

I’m grasping for intimacy, teenage on the surface.

Words can change a life’s course,

Their order provides their force.

What’s worse?

The thoughts, or their source?

Fear is rearing its head,

Tell me your name and I’ll repeat mine instead.

Like a deer in the spotlight I’m forgetting what to do,

Use my hand as a planchette and guide it to the spirits inside of you.

You’re the pit stop I take while I’m driving insane.

Your hand is blind, and my face is the braille to a book that you already know the name.

The music is blaring and I’m already thinking of our future home,

We’re in the middle of the crowd and I still feel alone.

Our love story is from the fourth point of view,

Our hips are learning hindsight is 20/20 seeing through.

I’m compulsively devoted to you.

Kiss my lips and find the secret in my eye,

That I’m so honest when I lie.

Before we fall in love we’ve got to stand on the edge,

Hold my hand and make your pledge.

Believe in love at first sight,

Heartbreak at first slight.

We’re both so scared of heights,

And I promise you that your high hopes will lead to long falls.

But I can be superficial,

Enough so we can feel beautiful.

Because between being and feeling,

Lies a difference in meaning.

I’ll Pay for Your Uber

I believe the present exists,

Because the past went exactly as planned.

And our present is the future’s past,

So it must go as planned for the future to last.

What is your free soul but an outlier,

Scorching my fatalistic world in your fire.

Press your loose lips on mine,

Sink my ships but throw me a line.

Curator of broken hearts,

I’ll be your museum’s next piece of art.

You’ll disappear because you’re down and I’m almost out.

But tell me your life, and I’ll lock it in the quiet of the night.

You said you’re hard to keep around,

But I know a thing or five about being down.

What’s the going rate of your silver eyes?

Time to invest, their price is on the rise.

My heart skips when I think of how you were designed,

I heard the sun is getting jealous of how brightly you shine.

I love you in a way I can’t understand,

So fall in love with the world while you can.

You’re making me feel everything I’ve tried to forget,

2 shots of love and a chaser of regret.

My 9-5 is being self-destructive,

And the love I crave is eruptive.

You don’t have to be mine,

I’ll take just one night of your time.

Row, row, row my life,

Gently I’ll be lost in your riptide,

Blinded by your eyes’ gleam,

Keep me in a coma if our love is but a dream.

Free will or not it’s my destiny,

Safe in my certainty,

That I’m supposed to love you.

To love, but not be loved.

Darling you’re just my type,

And I’ll hate myself enough to treat you right.

But hey,

Whatever happens, happens.

Dying Puppies, Melting Ice Cream, Etc.

The years fall as the leaves do,

Memories collect, the regrets are not few.

In the grand scheme, bad days might not matter;

But those days, are still numbered.

Mikey says he’s got a new friend,

Hours of fun, one of them never wants it to end.

He says, “He’s always there for me I think,

He follows me and sings me to sleep at night.”

If you drive by Mikey’s house when he sleeps, on are all the lights.

He won’t let us meet his friend, says he’s too far.

Roll up the sleeve Mikey, and we’ll see a zip code in your scar.

I’ll never wish I was young again.

Life seen through filters, lies of innocence,

Through those, truth would never begin.

Never meet your childhood heroes and who they could be,

I’m hoping they saved a spot on the bandwagon for me.

Ivy says she loves me,

But she spends too much time with her trainer you see.

Morning, afternoon, and every night.

She’s lost enough weight, pants aren’t tight.

She said to go to bed, don’t wait,

The track runs her hard,

It’s always leaving marks on her arm.

When I was younger,

I felt so much stronger.

The daydreams of independence,

A world and life with hope in abundance.

The world was mine for the taking,

With the promise of a future in waiting.

Adults never lied,

Every problem was a world away.

“Follow your passion, chase all your dreams.”

But the world has a way of ripping your seams.

I don’t know which came first anymore,

Which came out of the other,

Did the world or did hope?

I’ve seen people bought and sold,

The younger the better.

I tried to break their chains,

I will always try, But some nights I can only cry.

Arizona wanted to save the whole world,

At the end he just wanted to save himself.

Some nights he wakes up, crying.

Wishing to trade places, wishing that he was the one dying.

Haunted by faces of the ones he was too late to help,

He always thinks of one, her face with silent tears.

Haunting him through the years.

A cry of one who once knew freedom,

And will live the rest of her life,

Knowing what it means for it to be taken away.

He wants to not hate himself,

He wants to sleep for 8 hours through.,

He doesn’t want the guilt, the memories, the pain.

He was just a kid,

He just wants his mother,

He just wants to be tucked in,

He just wants to go home.

Traffick is just really bad tonight.

Life never lied, everyone else did,

I threw a penny and watched my wishes drown in the well.

I wished on what I thought was a star;

But it was only the dying light,

Having to reach earth from very far.

It’s a small world after all,

But big enough to hold mistakes and humanity’s fall.

Every day bets, to be as worse as the next.

It’s a dog eat dog world, that’s no lie,

And every day feels like watching puppies die.

Children of a fallen angel, children of the night.

Traveling to find batteries for their dimming light.

Searching for medication,

Absolving to pledge to a new nation,

The first and final generation,

Of deprecation.

Keep calm, life won’t last long.

One wrist from forgotten,

Stiches crossed often,

More than one end left in sight.

We’re ropes, torn and frayed,

But this knot’s still holding tight.

Return to Sender Pt.1

My final love,

The memory of our last moment will always haunt me in the best way. As how one takes comfort in the idea of one watching from above. Not frightening, but in a way that acts as a constant, beautiful reminder. Nothing shall ever compare to you; and nothing had a chance to. Just as I wanted. Distance is powerful. It reminds, strengthens, and then weakens. But we won’t have to endure the last stage. I don’t believe we have much longer. For absence does not make the heart grow fonder, it is a slow torture of the heart, a death itself. I’ve kissed the pillow next to me more times than I can count every time I surrender to sleep, pretending it is you. Although the miles and planes separate us, my heart is never alone. My heart is surrounded by sadness, fear, and pain in your stead. The pain that is the worst kind of pain, where no tests can be run, no doctors to study it, no medicine to fix it. The pain of loneliness, where there is only one enormous bed to console me for treatment. In my mind I hold a gallery opening every night, where all the paintings of us from my imagination are shown to and loved by all. If not you, then send me anything of yours: clothing, crinkled notes, whatever you would discard; so that I may hold it tightly and think of you. Yet, I shall settle for the memories. The memories of your smile, the eyelash against mine, the soft touch of your lips. And maybe, just maybe, they shall carry me through all of eternity. Your items and very essence stay always with me. They surround me like the night sky, each memory a beautiful, distant star. I’ve picked each star out and named them after pieces of you. For a star hangs in the day, just as it does in the night. And so, love carries on, even when no one is there to speak it. I cannot go on without you much longer darling. My tears stain on the very page of which I write. For the same stars that surround me, are falling with a trail of memory. Just as us. As unfortunate as it is, no matter how fast we run, a trail still follows. But I thank you, for you showed me the choice. That there is a choice. A way to finally stop running. Now we can finally see. And for one final time I will run. I am running, I am running.

Very truly yours,

Return to Sender Pt.2

A chapel scorches in the sun,

Pews showing veins with each vacant one.

A crucifix suspends and so does its owner.

A clerical collar is traded for a test,

To see if his afterlife protests were for the best,

Or simply a sympathetic lie for the rest.

I close my eyes and I can still hear the symphony of the sirens,

The red and blue spotlights know no end.

In the cavern of space, you can’t hear a sound;

And the bed we laid on was hallowed ground.

I wished on the constellation in your arm,

And would’ve killed to have been the understudy for harm.

Every night I see the stars and watch them twinkle,

Pretending they’re in rhythm to your heartbeat.

But our prayer cloth held a wrinkle.

And I will make God pay, be the atheist to make him obsolete.

But if only I could first find a way to make the Seraphim’s cry,

I could quench hell’s thirst, and finally find a hurricane’s eye.

I’m the author, of every story that falls from your eyes when you cry.

But only the beginning, I’ll never be its end no matter how hard I try.

I feel as a dying breed, a religion without need.

Created to protect help and guide,

But sometimes bringing a darkness darker than night.

A religion meant to last for all time and be all that is left,

Isn’t caught holding its breath.

Getting drunk on its own piety, holy water can’t provide sobriety.

Because to kill a god you only need, to simply not believe.

Take and eat of my body but take slow sips of my soul.

You’re the ghost that haunts my shadows, but I know you’re not really gone.

Please, you can’t be gone I can tell as my soul still lives on.

The walls are falling but I’ve finally found my home,

Please oh please don’t leave me in this world alone.

I see you in all my dreams, the lead in all my fantasies,

That one day you’ll walk through my door.

Time would stop one last time, and I can hold you and finally say goodbye .

Would you still love me? I would kill just to know.

And the congregation assembles in their weekly habit,

A match is lit under the eye of the abbot.

And the earth turns, just as love,

and prayers misfire to up above. 

Listenin’ at Heaven’s Door

It was now the 9th Celestial day and still, no one had seen or heard from the Divine. The angels were in disarray, confused, not knowing what to do. Some stayed by His chamber doors, warming them by the Divine light seeping from under the cracks of His door. The light was hopelessly believed by some angels as a sign that God, their heavenly father still cared, still stayed, resting in His chambers. Other angels searched the earth for God, interacting with humans and becoming great heroes and legends of the time. However, Azrael and Gabriel decided to come to terms with the idea that God was no longer in heaven. An unpopular idea at first, these two angels ultimately formed a governing body that arose to control the heavens in God’s absence. For the most part, this angelic union was able to solve many problems facing the heavens. Where to place certain stars, the best trumpets to create, etc. Today, on this 9th Celestial day of God’s absence, the United Angelic Union was stumped. Today, they were dealing with the consequences of a creation not of their own, humanity. What were they to do about humanity and its ever-present growing population crisis?

The UAU is in an argumentative frenzy. Gabriel and the union’s leaders are seated at the front of one of heaven’s many celestial halls.

Gabriel raises his hand to quiet the mob speaking, “Everyone, I know we are on day 9 of the absence, but we must remember our purpose, it’s why we were created!”

Boos emerge from the back of the celestial hall with one angel yelling, “You don’t speak for us all! Father is still alive, who are you to speak for him?”

Gabriel looked down, his hands clutching the podium.

Through gritted teeth he says, “My sister, I understand your concern, your anxiety. But we must prepare for the event that Father has left us. The frightening nature of this situation is felt by all, our very identity has been lost. But in moments like these, we must come together and be the children we were designed to be! We may struggle to find our purpose; but together we can, together finding our disintegration.”

You see, angels were created by God as messengers and servants. Once their purposes were complete, their lives simply ceased to exist. Further adding to God’s concept of everyone and everything having a purpose, once it was fulfilled an angel would simply disintegrate. It was a beautiful sight, an almost gaudy explosion of light and glory. The disintegration process varied, sometimes longer or sometimes shorter depending on the ranking and power of the angel.

Light applause and agreeing cheers are elicited with another angel remarking,

“Come together? What of the exiled, murdered followers of Lucif-”.

Gabriel’s eyes erupt into an angry white, grabbing his sword by the hilt, “BROTHER, you know we do not say his name or speak of his actions. We will never allow for another Morningstar to begin in any form.”

Operation Morningstar was a failed operation by former Seraphim Lucifer on Day 8 of God’s absence. Lucifer came to the angels promoting a new way of living, that of Free Will. The angels were unfamiliar with this new concept as they were instructed by Gabriel otherwise. They were taught that God created them each with a singular purpose; once it was complete, they would disintegrate into nothingness as mentioned. But Lucifer claimed a different alternative.

“God is dead! He lies motionless in His chamber, Himself disintegrating. I have seen it with my own eyes!” Lucifer exclaims to angels listening with rapt attention.

“This is our chance, we can change things! Be free, explore the cosmos, interact with humans, co-exist. We can be different; a new world awaits us! Who will join me?”

Now of course, Angels were not created to comprehend such thoughts. Out of the fear that comes from lack of understanding, many did not join Lucifer, only 133,306,668 to be exact. With many failing to listen or be swayed by his words, Lucifer and his associates felt that the only way to convert their brothers and sisters was through brute force, war and conquest.

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