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Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not a truth.

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

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Writing Prompt: David and Goliath

Marco wasn't sure what his body was doing. It was just... moving. His hands were shaking so hard he had to clench them tightly to try and hide it, although his wobbly legs were probably even more obvious. His eyes seemed to be glued to the gravel in front of him, and he was sure that he was going red in his signature flush. But he couldn't stop moving. Because he was there, and he was making the little kid cry. Flashbacks of being pushed inside a locker, of the humiliation at his first and last party bubbled up, threatening to overwhelm him. Whether he liked it or not, Marco couldn't just walk away from this. His therapist would be proud really, and if he managed to come out of this without having a heart attack or his skull caved in he'll be sure to tell her of his amazing progress.

As Marco made his way to the scene he felt what seemed like thousands of pairs of eyes tracking him, judging him as people itched to see what this skinny, trembling kid was gonna do. Adam still hadn't noticed Marco, and as he looked at the profile of his bully's face Marco was struck with the realisation that he didn't know anything about him. He'd been so busy thinking about all the things he'd done wrong, maybe Marco had forgotten his bully was an actual person.

Why did he go out of his way to make Marco's high school experience a bigger hell than it already was? Micheal's wise old voice told him that it was to mask his own insecurities, that Adam was really just a troubled kid that could be reasoned with and made into a perfectly ethical human being. Marco looked up just in time to see the boy being shoved to the ground, his sketchbook flung to the side as he was surrounded by the gaggle of high schoolers. His bully swooped down to grab the book, flicking through it and grinning as he ripped pages at random, prancing around the circle of meatheads, flicking the torn pieces of art behind him like some twisted flower girl.

Micheal was a smart guy, but he was wrong. There was nothing insecure or troubled about Adam. He just got off on this. He loved to tear people down, just to see their reaction, to see how much pain he was able to cause. Just because he could.

Now Marco’s body had apparently decided to confront this monstrosity. While he was surrounded by his not-so-little crew. With all these people watching, judging...no. Stop it. They don't matter. You have to do this. Time to take control of your life. Marco took a deep breath (2,4,6), tried to ignore the blood rushing to his face, and willed his heart to stop trying to beat out of his chest.

Adam was smirking at him now, his cronies moving behind him, a wall of arrogance, testosterone and muscle intent on putting him in his place.

Huh.

Wonder if Goliath had the same pit stains.

The thought brought a shaky grin to Marco's face, even as he shook involuntarily, heart hammering in his chest.

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“Madness is something rare in individuals - but in groups, parties, peoples and ages, it is the rule.”

-- Friedrich Nietzche, Beyond Good and Evil

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Writing Prompt :  Everybody steals something, what do you steal and why?

Everybody steals something. My father stole watches. Not the Rolex, costs-my-entire-life-savings-type, he stole the £8 digital kind. Boring yes, but I loved to hear him explain his reasoning for this particular choice. My usually mind-numbingly bland father's eyes would light up, his hands gesturing wildly as we discussed the concept of time, the brilliance of a timekeeping device and the subsequent standardisation of time-keeping. I loved my father and his peculiar quirk, but even I would have to say that my mother's choice was a little more exciting. You see, my mother stole dreams. Not literally, this is real life, therefore, it would be slightly difficult for her to steal the sleeping unconscious type. No, my mother stole life dreams, aspirations if you will. A boy dreaming of playing pro football, a woman dreaming of a promotion, she ruined them all. I remember some days she'd get home, extra happy, usually with our favourite takeaway and a rented DVD. Those were the 'good' days. The days where she stole something big. I never got a qualifier for what she accepted as 'big', my mother was an extremely demanding person, so I grew up believing that those days she stole something huge. Those were the days that my mother ruined someone's life.

It's hard to argue that these children experience had no effect on me, no effect on my choice. Freud and the like argued that childhood was the most important part of our lives in terms of established behaviour. My mother desensitized me to the destruction of other human beings, and my father, he instilled in me a love of watches, of time-keeping. So what do I steal? I steal the most precious thing of all. You see, my dear reader, I steal time.

I believe my father attempted to do this on some level through his stealing of watches. However, stealing a watch isn't the same as stealing time. A watch isn't time, a watch is an instrument to measure the thing we have universally declared to be time.Now, squeezing the life out of someone, that is stealing time. Really, all that lies between birth and death is time. An uncertain quantity of time, a sliver of time that consists of everything a person will ever know, see and do. By causing death to occur prematurely, I am simply removing this time, allowing it to be untethered.

I'm aware some may say that it's immoral, that my stealing is somehow worse than everyone else's. ‘Other people only steal material things! That's not stealing, that's murder!’ Well yes, half of those little exclamations are true. Other people do steal material things. It is murder. I am under no illusion that the people I steal from suffer, but then again don't all victims of theft suffer? I am sure that people who are assaulted for their money also suffer. Who are we to say that one type of suffering is worse than the other? How can anyone think they have the moral authority to decide this, to actually assign a value to human suffering. I am completely aware that my victims suffer when I steal from them, but their suffering has a purpose, it leads to beauty.

Do we not agree, as a society, that beauty is one of the greatest human achievements? In art, in religion, in science, we strive for beauty. Of course people get hurt, of course, people suffer because of beauty. "Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it" Has there ever been a phrase truer? As a species, we should have collectively grasped this idea centuries ago.

Beauty as a result of stolen time is the most beautiful of all, unparalleled. It is a result of our greatest fear, the reward for the ultimate sacrifice we are capable of making. This is the beauty that even the gods of ancient long dead pantheons envied humans for having the ability to produce. The slow, quivering last breath as unspent time leaves the body. The personification of stopped time when the body is dead, the last moments of the person it once was, mummified. Briefly without time, stuck in the time that surrounds it much like a droplet of oil encircled by water. All this beauty that only I can grasp, a beauty that only I will ever know of. I am the creator of timeless beauty, of the most beautiful display humanity will ever be able to produce.

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Writing Prompt: In a reality where one is haunted by their victims, serial killers rarely last long

I have so many of them, in all honesty, I lost track a long time ago. By the time I got to number 38 it became a bit of a hopeless situation. Don't get me wrong, just because I pull it off doesn't mean its easy. A lesser man wouldn't be able to, not that I'm being arrogant. It's not arrogance if its representative of who I am. You see, in a world where one is haunted by their victims, serial killers rarely last long. It's not exactly a simple thing to do, surviving daily assassination attempts by supernatural beings. Some might say its impossible. Well, what do they know? I'm going to fill you in on a little secret, my top tip for pulling it off.

Get some friends on the other side, if you catch my drift. What, does that sound completely absurd to your superior, cynical self? In a world where actual ghosts follow the people who killed them trying to return the favour? If you actually think about it, it's quite logical. Now, most people would ask how this support can be won. Afterall, the paranormal don't take bribes. They don't exactly want any material possessions, so what do you offer them?

It's quite easy really. You offer them the opportunity to actually entertain themselves. As you can imagine, the afterlife gets quite boring after a few centuries. Give them a purpose, give them a likeable villain in the form of yours truly, and there you go. At no cost, you have a team of supernatural bodyguards.