There is no excuse for ignorance. Yet it is everywhere. Oh how it persists. I am plagued by the ignorant and the apathetic. Their continued existence makes me sick to my stomach and puts my nerves on edge. Every part of me is repulsed by the happy sheep who speak only in grunts and baying. I try to ignore them, but when the world is falling to pieces around you it is hard to keep your attention off the faults of man.
The world requires intelligence in order for it to make sense. The more you know, the more you search, the more that is revealed that you don't know yet. Even with a lifetime devoted to study it is impossible to know everything. I understand this. Even with this is mind, without study what is the point of life. Just wasting my oxygen, my food, my water. These things I could be using but these stupid sheep continue to feed, continue to hump, continue to breath and fart and speak even though their existence is pointless.
Their fleece is cut, their flesh is taken when they are too old and yet they stand by and allow themselves to stay as a flock for the slaughter. They are content with this. They are happy to run around, to stand in fear of the unknown while allowing someone else to manage their lives and to feel for them, react for them. "Let someone else do it." It is the anthem of their nation, a nation I no longer belong to.
And you know, if they were to ask me to come back I would know what I would say.

But these things are of no matter. I don't have long as it is. Even now, so far into it, I can tell that I am losing myself to the treatment. I have tried. God knows I have tried to resist, but their persistence is commendable. I think I a may very well die here, but not yet. I will not perish until the truth is known. Until all is revealed. The truth about the current way of things. The truth about the world.
It all happened so fast that not even I am sure that things were any different before. Those walls, those towering walls that cast those on the outskirts of the city and beyond in darkness half the time and keep us in. Those abominable eyesores that make it clear that we are not free, that we are not righteous, that we are nothing more than penned animals.
But not me.
Oh, not me my dear comrades. I am different. But I suppose that is why am here instead of out there. Quietly wasting my oxygen, my food, my water. I am rotting away, most of what I am is already gone. But inside there is something holding on, something deeper than their efforts that keeps me together, keeps me from rotting away. Rotting away like the rest of the world, in this large scale decontamination room.
They speak of germs. They speak of infection. But I know they only tell me this to try and make me believe their promises. I know the truth. I know I am already damned.

Winters frost burns against the window pains
A dusty and angry typewriter sits idle
As I sit by myself in a old and crooked room
Trying to find the incentive I need to write another line

Long have I waited and invariably longer shall I wait
As the empty and hallow winters scene provides little
The inspiration I need requiring colors and sounds
The white landscape and the coarse wind providing neither

The animals that still inhabit this world of desolation
They find little reason in the current circumstances
Not to play, not to live and bounce and dance
Perhaps they are wiser than I, but I was never wise they say

Countless half finished poems lay strewn upon my desk
Each one a failure only in its proximity to me
The long, drawn out period of winter
Being little more than a metaphor for my own hibernation

I remember once writing about buffalo in the grove
About a man sitting on a porch, trying like I am to write
He found himself in similar straights
But perhaps he is much wiser than I

Looking off into space at the roads left un-shoveled
And the trees stripped of all their life
I find only myself slipping back into thoughts of things I once had
Things that I let go to those winds that bring the cold

I take another sip of the coffee that is not dark enough
Not bitter enough for my taste or my needs
And place my hands on the keys of that dilapidated typewriter
Then remove them from the keys as my hands move to my lap

And it is there that they stay
A testament to my inaction and foolishness
The dust rendered on the keys giving way to my fingerprints
The keys F-A-I-T-H being all that exists of my efforts

I walk in silence among the near endless stream of trees that tower over me. I try to judge their height using what I was told in school was math but I learned later was just guess work for most of us. Twenty feet...thirty five...fifteen...I learned early on that I would never comprehend the advanced mathematics and sciences that people use to judge the world around them. So I use what I can, words that I have learned, color and texture, hope and despair to try and create a sense of what I see before me. But I find as usual that all that I have come to know will never truly comprehend the world as simply as I would hope, as completely as I would wish to understand. And so I use a simple formula of measurement and guesswork, the only two things I'm sure of.

"It is common knowledge that the fight or flight response is a universal attribute, and that although we learn to harness it more respectfully it is still animalistic in nature."
Joseph put down his book and returned his attention to the class.
"Now, who can tell me why it is scientifically unfeasible for humans to give birth to live young? Anyone?"
No one answered at first, but eventually a young boy named Ben spoke up.
"Because we have yet to evolve such faculties?"
The teacher smiled. "You are close Ben but you are off in the matter of sequence. We no longer have a need to give birth to live young because it has been since been supplemented thus we evolved OUT of the behavior. Now Ben, now tell me why this achievement is so remarkable and why is it so important to our understanding of humanity?"
"Because it separates us from animals?"
"Is that an answer or a question?"
"Answer."
"Correct."
"But sir," said Mary, another student three seats to the left of Ben, "Wouldn't the fact that it is a natural process make it unnecessary for us to find a way to supplement it?"
"But you forget that just because something is natural doesn't mean it is necessarily beneficial. Before natural birth was outlawed the actual birthing process took place excessively in the body of females. The process caused significant pain and the process statistically decreased the possible age expectancy by an exponential amount based on the number of births the mother had participated in. By using supplementary techniques the stresses on both mother and child are reduced for obvious reasons and the level of control and management that can be exerted over the entire birthing process is much greater than before thus resulting in better, healthier offspring. SO as you can see, this natural process of childbirth was in the end a detriment to the development of humans, and resulted in unnecessary risks. All parts of the process from the sound of a mothers beating heart to the more fundamental elements of pregnancy are replicated without the consequences of more natural methods."
"But just because the process may be painful or may be supplemented by another method doesn't mean the original function is unnecessary."
"And why is that," asked Joseph.
Mary opened her mouth to speak but found herself at a loss to explain what she felt. Her skin grew hot as she probed her brain for the answer she hopped she had inside of her. Shaking her head she uttered the only answer she could find.
"I don't know."
Joseph smiled. "I appreciate your curiosity, but the conclusions of our ancestors were based on evidence and generations worth of experience." Looking over the class he spread open his arms. "Truly in the world in which we live we have found reason for celebration for we have conquered that part of ourselves that is so primal, allowing our true humanity to come through. And surely," he said, addressing Mary alone, "no one would wish to argue with that."
Mary sunk back in her seat, trying to make herself small as the stale breath of her teacher and the silence of the classroom overwhelmed her. Suddenly the bell rang announcing the movement to the next class. Breathing a sigh of relief, Mary gathered her things and headed to the door.
"Miss Mary," called Joseph. "May I see you for a moment?"
Mary headed over to his desk as the rest of her classmates left the room on route to their other classes.
"Now tell me Miss Mary, what do you suggest we do with you, hmm? Every time we have a lesson you have something to say about it, some irrational quip that does not further the discussion. But it is not your questioning that concerns me, it's your obvious lack of understanding of the material. The midterm exam is in a couple weeks and yet you still don't seem to understand even the most fundamental of concepts. Humans are meant to overcome our animal selves, not co-exist. And nothing that is animal is something that we cannot supplement.
All those processes that once occurred within us and made us animals have been harnessed and yet still you insist on trying to argue that somehow these matters that are so distinctly animal should remain so, and that we so should not separate ourselves from them. If you don't understand then ask for my help AFTER class and do not waste anymore class time on the subject."
Mary looked at the ground. "It isn't that I don't understand why we live the way we do. I just can't find a reason why we were set up differently in the first place. If evolution is correct, then why were we designed with so many faulty attributes?"
Joseph let out a sigh. "Mary, evolution is purely a term applicable to animals. We as humans need not evolve. We are successful as we are. Yes we did evolve along a plane just like all other creature, but unlike other creatures we have found a sense of ourselves outside of the category of mammals or any other animal for that matter. We had these set of systems because we were once animals. Now we are far beyond any animal and have an understanding of ourselves that negates our natural processes, rendering them unnecessary."
"But there are certain things that are found in animals that we cannot supplement, that cannot be..."
"Mary!" Joseph bellowed. "I will not entertain such foolery any longer. If you cannot show improvement in the fallowing weeks I will fail you. Are we clear?"
"Yes sir," Mary mumbled. Picking up her bag she went to leave.
"And Mary," said Joseph.
"Yes"
"Don't get lost in the questions."
Mary nodded and headed out the door.
"I wouldn't if I had answers" she muttered.
His lack of concern for her questions upset her deeply. All of her life she had believed in the same things as he, recited the same tenants, and read the same works as everyone else. But lately it had been different. Though there was no literature available to validate her claims there were thoughts stirring within her, thoughts that came in conflict with what she had been told. She could not figure out where they came from or why they were so deeply rooted within her mind.
"But there are certain things that are found in animals that we cannot supplement..." What on earth had possessed her to say that? It was ridiculous. Other than the original trappings of the human form there was no process that could not be supplemented. The beating of the heart, breathing, things such as that are of course irreplaceable. But things such as child birth, the fight or flight response, genetics, these were the grounds for the argument and there was really no real reason to doubt the logic. They had each along with others served their purpose at the time. But they were no longer needed to remain natural or even existent in certain cases.
The fight or flight response could easily be supplemented with proper education about how to react in a given situation, thus limiting the disquieting effects of adrenaline and others stressors. These were things she had been taught from birth and yet still she found her mind at odds with the limitless amounts of education she had received in the fourteen years of her life.
"Mary," called a familiar voice.
Mary turned around as the sound of footsteps on the sterile tile floors approached.
"You're a tuff person to catch up with. I have been calling your name all day but every time you just walked past me. What's wrong? Don't you like me," the boy teased.
"I do like you. I have just been a bit out of it today," She regretted having to lie to him, even if it was a little one. They had been assigned friends for their entire lives after all, but there were things Edward just wouldn't understand, such as the questions she had asked earlier. And so for the sake of their friendship when there were too many questions like on days like these she would avoid him and would then propose a little white lie to explain her behavior.
"So what's up? You have any plans after school?"
Mary looked at him with a puzzled look on her face.
Edward noticed. "I'm sorry. That was really impulsive of me. I should have asked you in a less forceful fashion."
Mary's cheeks flushed. "I accept your apology." Smiling she looked away. Inwardly she liked his aggressiveness, though she knew she wasn't allowed to be. They were told about how aggressiveness in nature leads to conflict and ultimately violence, but there was something intriguing about his behavior that she could not quite comprehend. Somewhere in the back of her mind she hoped that perhaps she would find the answer to all her questions. Ignoring the thumping in her chest she quietly retorted that she indeed had no plans outside from studying for her previous class.
"If you would like, maybe I could visit you and help you."
Mary smiled. Her heart began to race again. "I accept your offer."
<Photo 1>

The wiper blades move in rhythmic motion across the cracked windshield that grows more opaque with every breath I expel. The air is hot and sticky inside this car, the natural humidity adding to my fowl mood.
"Focus," I tell myself though in truth that is near impossible to do, the rain and the low elevation coming together in a torrent that masks the lines of the road, leaving my efforts rendered only as guesswork and faith.
Beyond lies my destination, a decrepit old home where generations of my family had had their wake's before their internment in the family plot three blocks down. It was a tragically short drive from the home to the plot, but after a six hour wake, I have found that all respect for the deceased ends as people just want the coffin in the ground and their car heading to the nearest restaurant.
It is only once I get to the funeral that I realize I don't know the person.
"No matter," I say to myself. "A hole is a hole after all. What matter is it of anyone's what goes in it?" They say she was my mother. I look at the body and wonder why we look so different when we die.

Ok, I have to say this is one of the darkest things I have ever writen. And now "Honeysuckle."

---Tony Barrington never meant to fall in love. Truth be told, most people of the town had simply given up on him ever settling down, believing him to be too old and bitter to ever really make it work. Yet here he found himself, three years later, with a wedding ring on his hand and a shifting bundle resting peacefully in his broad arms. He was fifty years old, but inside he had gotten younger, the weight of the years he had spent alone slipping from his shoulders the day his child was born. He was old, older in fact than most of the people in town, definitely older than all of the new parents, but he had a barreled chest and a strong frame. It would take more than just the passing of time to bring him down.

His eyes came to rest on an old garden on the side of the house, one he hadn't tended in over twenty years. Setting the bundle down in the grass beneath a nearby tree he allowed his hands to run their way through the course dirt that he had long since gone hard. Pulling a few sparse weeds that sat intermingled in the grass; he turned his attention to the breathing bundle that sat quietly in the foliage. In his mind he began to devise an idea, his demeanor getting brighter and brighter as he formulated his plan. He smiled, and picking up the bundle he headed off towards his truck.

Ten minutes later he returned with a packet of seeds and some soil. Setting the bundle back under the tree, he headed over to the shed where he kept his tools. A few minutes later he emerged carrying a garbage bag and a hoe, along with the various other digging tools he had collected all those years ago. Back then they had seemed to be just mere pleasantries, but now, now he had a mission, and for a man like Tony Barrington they might as well have been the hand of God. Setting his tools down he got down on his hand and knees and began to work.

And he worked. And he worked until sweat formed on his brow and his shirt stuck fast to his skin. He worked until his hands were raw and blistered, and his head felt faint and his throat felt dry from thirst. He worked until that garden he had let go of so many years ago was back to it former state, the soil soft to the skin and the borders defined and strong. Taking out the packet of seed he took them and scattered them in the rich soil.

Heading inside he grabbed the largest watering can he had and filled it up to the brim. Bringing it outside, he walked over to the resting bundle and plucked it up. Stirring momentarily the bundle eventually stopped, resigning itself to the comfort of the arms. With one hand Tony dug a trench, deep enough to be accommodating but not deep enough to be forgotten. Placing the bundle in the ground he covered it over with dirt, carefully patting it down as to not crush it. Taking the watering can he emptied its contents on the bed of soil. Tired and dirty, he headed inside, his labors complete.

Three weeks later the Honeysuckle was in full bloom. Taking its time it wound its way around the grounds, climbing up the side of the house in places. But Tony Barrington was not at home to witness the grandeur of his efforts. Three blocks away he was, knelt down in reverence in front of two tombstones, one new, one old. On the old one read the words Mary Eleanor Barrington, devoted mother and wife. One the grave next to it on the right sat the other, on its face was carved the words Patricia Ann Barrington. Getting to his feet he walked away, the grass in front of the tombstone undisturbed by human hands.

Walking home Tony walked directly to the back of the house and the garden that resided there. Taking off his hat and coat he tended to the individual flowers as the sun set low in the horizon. Under the tree sat an open book, a single entry on the rain washed page.

"...I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood
And I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference"---

I found this to be pretty dunny. The first day of school was crap but I guess I can hope tommarow goes better. I have my two favorite subjects and one of my favorite teachers so it should go ok. This morning the train was late. I figured it was a bad omen. In a way I was right.

School starts Monday. I'm really not to pleased with it, though I did finish most of what I wanted to by the time my break is/was over. Anyway, I'll be up at five thirty, six o'clock at the latest. I like my time in the morning to be silent and five thirty is about as dead as the world gets. Anyway, here is a short piece. Pretty much sums up my feelings about what most people will achieve after college.

---The room is quite with only the heavy humming of the run down, overworked air conditioner to keep me company. It is one of those old wall units, the ones that people used to use to cool an entire apartment, but are now simply used to cool one room because some sweaty fat fuck can't lose the weight. I wish I had something important to do, but I know that this life of ease was designed by me to be easy. All the bills are paid, and the house is clean. There is food in the refrigerator and all the personal calls I had to make are finished. Now I have time for me, and I spend it sitting alone either in front of the TV or sleeping. What a life. A college degree never taught me how to be myself, it just taught me to be part of a team. So I join the team in front of the TV and let what is left of my conscience drift on the passing commercial break.---

This is the last entry of Black Snow, my ongoing distopian work about a society that rewards its workers with a paycheck of meicine that provides them with a weeks worth of sleep. It is long but trust me when I say its worth reading it all.

---Outside the sky was heavy with black clouds. As he exited the large pine doors and descended the steps he could pick up the slightest sent of ash and the burning of wood. In the distance sat the factory, smoke billowing from its south-east corner. The sounds of screams carried over the landscape as the fire continued to grow.

Patrick exited the front of the complex, grasping his right arm which was now scorched and bleeding. Wincing as he removed his shirt, he carefully wrapped the bloodied cloth around his arm. The explosion had been much larger than he had anticipated. He bit his lip as he drew out the various pieces of shrapnel that had become entrenched in his skin. By now he could already feel the faint feeling of weightlessness as blood continued to issue from his wounds.

Approaching from a distance, Jacob watched as the foundry burned. Observing a man coming out the front, he picked up his pace, breaking into a dead run as he watched the form collapse against the snow.

Getting to his knees, Jacob rested Patrick's head on his coat as he looked at his wounds.

"Why Desmond, why did you do it?"

Patrick looked up at him.

"Don't you realize what you have done? The factory was the sole provider of the medicine. Even with our reserves we couldn't possibly have enough to keep everyone alive long enough to repair the foundry and produce more. Maybe it could be managed to keep a select group long enough, but by that point there wouldn't be any point. Why Patrick," Jacob shook his head. "WHY!"

Patrick smiled. "You all had it coming."

"How?"

"You enslaved us all. You convinced us that the world was dying and that you could save us. But you lied. And now we are all hooked on this pill, this pill that took my wife's life and so many others. All because they didn't produce enough; at least that's what I thought. Then I saw the shop Forman being dragged away. He never under produced, so why him? And that got me to wondering about the whole bloody system. How many have been lost for no reason at all. And if that is the way it is than I figure I need to end it all."

Jacob looked at him, dumbfounded. "Lied to you, you think we lied to you." Jacob

suddenly became quite as he considered what he just heard. Then in a weak, helpless voice he responded. "There really was a plague. All this time we have spent managing the population, creating a fear based system, not to enslave, but to buy us some time so we could figure out a way to solve the dreaded side effect of the medicine. Yes there really was a plague, one that has taken out every last remnant of humanity except this one. The rest of the world is dead now and you just destroyed all that was left of it."

Patrick tried to speak but felt his voice cut off with pain.

"Sleeplessness is a side effect you see. The antidote worked but came at a terrible price. I've spent most of my career trying to find a way to fix it, but now it seems my efforts are too late."

Patrick struggled to sit up, but felt Jacob hold him down. "Don't sit up. Your body is going into shock. At this point the lack of sleep and your wounds will just make any effort on my part fruitless. Just stay down and listen."

Patrick nodded.

"I have a question I need answered. I know that the world doesn't have very long but before it all ends I want to understand one thing. Why did you feel you should save everyone?"

"I didn't do this for anyone."

Jacob stared at him, taken aback by what he was hearing.

"I didn't do it for the people of the city. I didn't do it for Martha or out of bitterness. I did it for me, and no one else." Patrick's voice became weak and haggard as he struggled to continue. "My father told me once that the reason he joined the army was because he felt that by doing so he could make up for all the time he wasted in his youth on selfish endeavors. Well, there are no armies anymore, but the way I figure it if what I have done is right I should have a damn good chance of getting into heaven. And If I'm wrong then the Devil definitely wouldn't mind one last blunder by humanity. And if God and the Devil don't exist, then it doesn't matter anyhow."

As he finished speaking his voice began to quiver as his body became limp, his eyes glazed. As the factory burned behind him, the sky above him opened up and began to snow. Standing up, Jacob laid Patrick's head on his jacket and headed off towards the city. As the snow began to fall, it began to collect on Patrick, its ink blackness melting on his rapidly cooling body as the last timber of the foundry fell to the ground. Falling from the fire was a scorched page torn from an ancient work. On its form was written "Good-bye, by Ralph Waldo Emerson."

"Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam:
But now, proud world! I'm going home..."

Black Snow END---

Well it almost the end now. Depending on how I divide it up the next one to two entries will be all that is left to post from my story Black Snow.

---Control the chemicals that cause REM sleep, that's all it would take. Then make sure you repress the gene that causes tolerance. "It was all so theoretically simple, so intrinsically genius." Yet somehow the medicine had changed this woman, had fixed her genetic defect or repressed it by introducing a new sequence of proteins, allowing her body to repress the symptoms so common to her family. By preventing sleep they were able to grant this one woman the ability to do so when her illness would have long ago killed her.

"How many are there now?" There was no way to test it without drawing suspicion. But there was a larger problem. Patrick Desmond. Thinking back he remembered his conversation with Thompson.

"I'm telling you the man can't sleep. I try to keep him focused on his work but he is so tired he can't do it well enough. I would just suggest he lose his paycheck but he is my friend. Something about his wife is hurting him but I don't know what to do about it. I sent his father over to see him, hoping he could find any clue as to why his son was reacting the way he is to his wife's death, but all he found out was more evidence of his insomnia."

"What are his symptoms?"

"Memory loss, decreased productivity, irritability; I'm telling you this man can't go on much longer. He is getting no more than five and a half hours and its getting worse. He takes his medicine, I checked. What's wrong with him? I just want to..."

"That will be all Preacher..."

Jacob stared down absently at his files, his thin, sickly fingers drawing themselves up and down the bridge of his nose as he lowered his brow in frustration. "Two separate cases, two separate conditions, but they suggest a failure in the system." How to best handle it, that was all that mattered but at this point he knew he couldn't just kill them. There was too much to be learned, to much to gain.
"Understand" was the word his father had said at the end of virtually every sentence he spoke.

"Oh I will father," he thought, "that much I understand."

Grabbing his coat from the hook on the wall he moved his way around the piles of books and papers, essays and theories that he had littered all around the room. On the walls sat an inconceivably large stock of literature from simple alchemy and economics to advanced studies of anatomy and some of the more radical thoughts the occult. The stained glass window that took up a precedent position on the far wall exploded with kaleidoscopic effect as the light of the setting sun intensified the colors of the well crafted masterwork. At the bottom were the words nostrum crux crucis perfero. "Our cross to bear," it said. Above it in heavy detail was a picture of a supposed messiah, his body bloodied and raw, with his back bent and weary look in his eyes as he looked up towards to top of the hill where he was to be crucified for speaking the word of the lord. The image held no significance.---