None of this is real. I have no idea if anything actually exists until I touch it, and even then my brain is just cataloging sensations from my fingers into electrical impulses telling me that the covers on my bed are soft, or that the bed is firm. “They” have deemed these impulses from the more sensitive areas of the body to be your “senses”. But sight is nothing more than light-waves reflecting off of objects and through the lens of my eyes and interpreted by my brain; you can’t trust it. Ever have those dreams where reality bleeds into those last precious moments of rapid eye movement (or REM) sleep?
“This Friday night, I fall asleep at my desk at work. When I wake up with my face and my crossed arms on my desktop, the telephone is ringing, and everyone else is gone. A telephone was ringing in my dream, and it’s not clear if reality slipped into my dream or if my dream is slopping over into reality.” In this quote from the novel Fight Club by Chuck Palahnuik, reality is an illusion that the main character is unable to make sense of. What if this plague of confused interpretations swept the country? Everyone would have dyslexia of the mind. Color-blind realities would be everywhere. The line between fact and fiction would blur. You wouldn’t know what’s going on.
You lie in bed and you hear an alarm. It is far away and shouldn’t even bother you, much less annoy you. But it does, for it is not only the herald of a new day, but also the buzz of doom. So you get out of bed and go to turn it off. But it’s not on the table. Nor on the dresser. It is nowhere in plain sight. So you dig around the room for a few minutes. During this time someone has entered the room. Mother, sister, significant other, whoever. You acknowledge them with a grunt as you part the clothes hanging in your closet. You crouch down and raise a pile of clothes off of the floor, uncovering the bane of your morning. With a sense of pride, you flip the switch to deactivate the alarm. Then another bussing noise begins across the room. You stand up and sigh. Suddenly, as you turn around, the figments of your imagination blur together like strawberries, raspberries, ice and orange juice do in a blender. Slowly the colors of a cross between the old Batman show’s scene change and an acid trip give way to the white lumpiness of your room’s ceiling.
Your head is reeling at the sound of the still beeping alarm clock as your eyes blink at the dull haze of predawn. You try to push the covers back, only to discover your covers aren’t on the bed. They’re on the floor at the foot of your bed. You rouse yourself from the bed to turn the real alarm off, only to discover the chill in your air-condition haven. Oh, the fan’s on. That explains the chill. With the alarm deactivated, your other senses come to life and report impulses to your brain: your eyes interpret the light-waves off of clothes and pamphlets lying on the floor; your olfactory senses absorb the air, and the years of fermenting dirt, sweat, deodorant and dust; you taste the stagnancy of the room and savor it, letting your tongue digest the altered and, hopefully clean, air. But none of it is actually there . . . is it?

Do married men ever yearn for bachelor freedom? Or do bachelor’s ever appreciate those “one-night stands” that they pretend to enjoy? I’m sure some do. How else do you explain the high divorce rate in this country? But it is wrong to make a cuckold of someone who has trusted you for months on end, isn’t it? You must remain faithful to the woman you love. But will it last? Most people assume or take for granted the relationships they get into. But they won’t always be there.
Have you ever been so alone that you start talking to a chair? Or have you ever been among friends and felt unwanted? Like you’re in a black hole of loneliness? In moments like this, you can reach out so desperately for companionship. You will grab a flimsy strand of cobweb, commit any sin, and love any person to save yourself from the darkness. You will do this, even if you know, you know that it can’t support you and will lead to your ultimate doom or failure. But the darkness has made you so lonely that you just don’t care anymore.
It’s moments like these that test a person’s strength. But your inability to make a lasting connection is humanity’s weak link. Humans, in every fiber of their being are social creatures; they require communication and understanding. Without friends or family we lose sight of what’s important, even if just for a second. Moments like this force people to define personal philosophies on politics and love. But sometimes people don’t define it right away; they just hang onto that cobweb for all it’s worth: losing themselves in the darkness of loneliness.
Then the darkness begins to delude you, makes you hot and sweaty. Your dreams devolve into nightmares; your health deteriorates, until finally you can’t take it anymore. You’ve gone insane from solitude. In the fever of your excitement, you let go of the thread and land on a platform of understanding. You define what this moment meant for you and get on with your life.
But it just starts all over again. You will have to sharpen and redefine your philosophies so many times that you will feel like a flapjack flipper stuck in overdrive. Sometimes, it feels pointless, but it is for the best. If it wasn’t, then why were we made this way? Why were we created imperfect? Maybe our beauty is in our blemishes.

Once upon a time, a young girl named Alice stepped through a looking glass into Wonderland. She fell in love with this land and visited occasionally. This is the story of one of those journeys. Based on the stories of Lewis Carrol.

One Christmas Eve, Alice was lying in her bed trying to sleep, waiting for Santa Claus to come. She hoped he knew the way to her house, for she had been very good this year. Suddenly she thought that maybe he had gotten lost and decided to go looking for him. It was too late to leave the house, so she figured that she would start her search in Wonderland. She walked up to the looking glass and looked at her reflection. The moon shone through the curtains on her dark brown hair and unnaturally paled her face. Suddenly the mirror shimmered, as if a rock had been dropped in a pond. She raised her foot and stepped through the glass.

She found herself in the Looking-Glass House, mirroring her own room. She walked down the stairs and out the back door to the garden. Passing through the garden, she found herself in the middle of a forest, surrounded by twinkling Christmas lights. The entire Tulgey Woods was covered from top to bottom with twinkling lights of all colors: periwinkle, chartreuse, pink, purple, and lots of white. She walked down the path, stepping over the horn ducks and the mome raths, dazzled by the lights. Suddenly, down the path came the Cheshire cat. She knew it was he for she saw only his smile and the footprints he made walking down the road.

“Hello Cheshire Cat,” Alice said. The cat’s eye’s appeared and looked at Alice.

“Oh hello my dear!” the cat exclaimed. “Thank you for joining us this Christmas. Aren’t the decorations simply mad?”

“Why yes they are,” Alice responded. “Have you perchance seen a jolly old man in a bright red suit around here?”

“You wouldn’t be referring to the Queen of Hearts, would you?” the Cheshire grinned wickedly.

“Oh no, you mustn’t upset her. Remember what happened last time?”

“Oh, it took us weeks to get her out of that rabbit hole, and boy was she ever mad.”

“But have you seen anybody fitting that description?” Alice asked, feeling slightly exasperated with the Cheshire’s playfulness.

“Oh, do you mean Santa Claus? I believe I saw him at tea with the March Hare. Then again, it might have been at the Mad Hatter’s house. You might as well try both of them . . . since they live together.” The Cheshire cat broke into thunderous laughter, silencing the rest of the woods. Alice tried to quiet him down, but a thud behind her told her that it was too late. She turned around to see the Jabberwocky.

“Oopsie,” laughed the Cheshire cat. “Toodle-oo!” he shouted, disappearing with a wink of his eye.

“Oh drat,” Alice muttered, looking around for help. Suddenly she heard a bugle blowing from behind her.

“TALLY-HO!” shouted a voice. Alice spun around to see none other than the White Knight, ready to defend the damsel in distress.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Alice breathed, clearing the way for the Knight to skewer the Jabberwocky on his lance.

“Fear not, young maiden. I shall slay the beast and save thee from certain doom.” The knight made quick work of the Jabberwocky then lifted Alice onto his saddle.

“Where shall we away, mistress?” the knight asked Alice.

“I need your help,” Alice told the knight. “I’m looking for Santa Claus. The Cheshire cat thought he saw him at the Mad Hatter and the March Hare’s. Can you give me a ride and help me find him? I don’t want him to get lost on the way to my house.”

“The White Knight at your service,” the knight said.

So off they rode, in search of jolly old St. Nick. Their first point of search was, obviously, the Mad Hatter and March Hare’s house. Arriving there, they were greeted with the cheery strains of the Unbirthday Song. Alice asked the knight to wait outside while she asked the Mad Hatter and March Hare if they had seen Santa. Entering the house she could see nothing but a table laden with teacups, covered in smoke. She walked around the table and sat at one of the chairs near the end of the table.

“A very merry un-a-birth-a-day . . . too-o-o . . . y-a-h-o-o,” the pair finished the song with a flourish before taking another sip of tea.

“Hello,” Alice said. The pair looked at her once, went back to take another sip then did a double take.

“Welcome my dear,” the Mad Hatter said, taking another sip of tea.

“Have a cup of tea, will you?” the March Hare said, offering her a fresh cup.

“Oh, no thank you,” Alice said. “I was actually wondering if either of you have seen Santa Claus recently.”

“Recently as in last week? Or recently as in five minutes ago?” the March Hare asked.

“Recently as in five minutes ago,” said Alice, excited at the prospect that they might actually know something.

“No we haven’t,” the Mad Hatter said, finishing his tea.

“Would you like some more?” the March Hare asked the Mad Hatter.

“Just half a cup, please.” The March Hare proceeded to cut a cup in half with a butter knife and fill it to the brim with tea.

“Well,” Alice asked, “have you seen him in the last week?”

“We did see him just ten minutes ago,” the March Hare said.

“Well why didn’t you say so?”

“Because you asked if we had seen him in the last five minutes, not ten.”

“Well, did you see which way he went?”

“I think he went that way,” the Mad Hatter pointed left.

“No, he went that way,” the March Hare pointed left.

“Thank you for your help,” Alice said.

“Are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea?” the March Hare asked again.

“Quite positive, thank you,” Alice responded.

“Not at all, madam,” the Mad Hatter said. “Farewell.”

So Alice and the White Knight went in the direction the Hatter and Hare had indicated. They had been traveling for a while when they turned a bend and found themselves facing a pair of figures so straight and stern that they could have been waxworks. But they weren’t; they were none other then Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. The White Knight had no idea what to do, so Alice dismounted and walked up to the twins and poked them each in the belly. They jumped to life and began dancing around Alice like boxers.

“Forgive me for awakening you so rudely, but we must pass. We’re looking for Santa Claus,” Alice said.

“Apology accepted, Alice,” Tweedle-Dee said.

“Yeah,” Tweedle-Dum interjected, “if we had known it was you we would ‘ave cleared out of the way. Are you still looking for the White Rabbit?”

“No, I’m looking for Santa Claus,” Alice replied. “Have you seen him?”

“Why yes!” exclaimed Tweedle Dee. “He passed this way just moments ago.”

“Why thank you!” Alice said. “I’ll see you later!”

“Good-bye, Alice,” the twins said as she re-mounted the horse and rode off down the path. They then proceeded to continue their battle, for Tweedle-Dee had broken Tweedle-Dum’s rattle. Alice and the White Knight continued down the path only to run into a dead end.

“I don’t understand,” Alice said. “They said he went this way. Where could he have gone?”

“Well maybe Santa Claus never really came to Wonderland in the first place,” the White Knight said.

“What do you mean?” Alice asked.

“Well, quite simply, I mean that maybe Santa Claus doesn’t visit Wonderland because . . . because . . .”

“Because what?” Alice inquired, very curious indeed.

“Because his reindeer aren’t allowed here.”

“Why not?”

“Because they aren’t mad enough.”

“Oh really. Well I think that that’s a bunch of . . .” Alice’s vision became blurry as she got off the White Knight’s horse. She felt like she was falling down a long dark tunnel. Suddenly she heard her sister’s voice.

“Alice! Alice!”

“Mm?” Alice said, opening her eyes. Why, she was safe in her bed and it was morning.

“What?” Alice asked.

“Why, it’s Christmas morning,” Alice’s sister said. “Come downstairs and open up your presents from Santa.” Alice followed her sister down the stairs to find presents littered under the tree.

“I guess the Knight was right,” Alice pondered.

“What’s that, darling?” Alice’s sister puzzled.

“Oh, nothing,” Alice replied. “Just a dream I had.”

THE END

Mark is sweating bullets. Not real bullets, like the ones in the gun he’s holding, but they might as well be. He deserves to die. Here he is standing in the lobby of Irvine’s First National with a loaded gun from the holster of the cop he just killed and he’s demanding money from the tellers. Sloppy, but not bad for an ex-Green Beret. He’s robbing a bank, but that’s small change compared to the laundry list of felonies Mark has committed in the past 24 hours. And it’s not even his fault. It’s all Bill Gates’ fault. Let’s go back to yesterday and Del Taco.
Mark was munching on a chicken soft taco and reading this weeks Time magazine. On the cover is Bill Gates and his wife, with the headline “Bill Gates Cures AIDS!” Mark, a worker at the local power plant, could care less about the cover article. He thinks that Bill Gates is going to sell the cure at outrageous prices, thereby controlling the lives of all those afflicted by the HIV virus. Idly, he ponders what he would do with the power of life and death. Then he resumes reading his article discussing the results of the latest sex survey. Suddenly, the door bangs open and in walks a quintet of college students from the local JC, talking loudly and laughing raucously. Mark tries to ignore them, but the noise is overwhelming and he can’t help but think of the broken silence and how much he wants those kids to SHUT UP! And just like that, they do. All except for the group leader: some punk kid with maroon spiked hair that clutches his stomach as he screams in agony. Mark and the patrons all turn around and stare at the kid as he falls to the floor gasping for air. He’s obviously been poisoned or something. Mark’s thoughts gather crazily at the door of his mind, accusing him of causing the teen’s death. Then everything stops. Time doesn’t freeze, though several witnesses said their watches were out of synch afterwards. The stillness lasts only a moment, like the calm before the storm. Then somebody screams. The moment is gone, lost in the hustle of bodies rushing out of the building, fleeing the scene of a murder. Mark is right with them, still brooding over his part in the ongoing drama. He decides to run away, heading back to the plant to finish off his shift. But he doesn’t make it.
As the crowd erupts out the doors of the pseudo-Mexican fast food joint, a line of police and S.W.A.T. cars halt them. The police are out of their cars with guns shouting for them to freeze. Mark freezes along with the crowd, but is confused. Since when are the police at the scene of a murder moments after it is committed? The police slowly advance on the panic-stricken crowd, when suddenly a bomb explodes in Mark’s old Chevy Nova. The crowd freaks out and, ignoring the police, run to their cars and burn rubber out of the parking lot. Mark is the only one left behind, starring at the charred remains of his car. The police ignore the rest of the crowd and rush forward to arrest Mark. He is in shock and doesn’t resist them as they handcuff him. Getting into the car, he notices a shadowy figure leaving the Del Taco. He wonders who it is, and then collapses his head back in exhaustion.
He wakes up in the back of a rental car, speeding down First Street in the middle of the night. He looks at the driver and sees the shadowy figure from Del Taco.
“Hey, where are you taking me?” Mark demands of the driver.
“You’re going to help me,” the figure says.
“And why would I do that?” Mark demands. The car jerks to a stop at the side of the road as the driver turns to face Mark. Mark’s jaw drops in horror as he sees the drivers face.
“Because if you don’t, you’ll lose your most valuable possession.” Mark forces a nod and swallows heavily. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but he knows he has no choice. He can’t lose what matters most in his life. The driver starts down the road again and says,
“You’re going to rob a bank for me.” Again Mark nods, though he knows the driver can’t see him.
“How much do you want me to take?”
“All of it.”
The next morning, Mark walks into First National like any other patron. Except for the fact that he is hiding a 6” dagger in his coat pocket. He walks to the rear of the security booth, barges inside and slits the guard’s throat. Grabbing the gun from the dead cop’s holster, he points it at the teller and demands all the money to be emptied into bags and given to him. The teller silently obeys as Mark instructs the crowd to stay calm and that it will all be over soon. Taking the bag from the teller he walks back out of the bank and meets the shadowy figure at a new rental car. Tossing the money through the passenger side window, Mark says, “That wasn’t too hard. Now give me my most valuable possession.” “You did me a favor and got me this money,” the driver says, “so it’s only fair.” The driver tosses Mark a nondescript black box then speeds off with the money. Mark opens the box and stares lovingly at his 1952 autographed Mickey Mantle baseball card.

The Trelf and the Cow
Once upon a time in a land of green pastures and brown dirt, there lived a trelf and a cow, happily married by a wandering minstrel and his dog. A trelf is an elf who loves to bake cookies. They lived in Battle Creek, Iowa, which had once been a thriving gold-mining town. The mine just out of town had been home to the trelf’s entire extended family of 300 trelves, but the mine collapsed after one trelf’s oven exploded. With no gold mine, the economy of the town dried up and people deserted the town until Battle Creek was little more than a ghost town; except for all the trelves. See, when the gold mine collapsed, the trelves were left without a home. So they hid in the fields until the town was empty then moved into the vacant buildings. The cow and trelf were married shortly after the trelves inhabited the town and were content to stay with the trelf’s family.
One day, the happy couple was wandering about, making lovey-dovey faces at each other, when they stumbled upon a bon lying on a tree stump. A bon is the spirit of a tree. They rushed over to see if he was all right.
“Are you all right?” the cow asked.
“No. I’m dying,” the bon croaked out.
“Well, who did this to you?” the trelf asked.
“A . . . lum . . . ber . . . jack,” whispered the bon, as he slowly fell silent.
“Oh no,” said the cow. “He’s dead.” The bon suddenly gasped for air and coughed. Looking at the trelf he whispered, “Avenge . . . me,” and died.
“What should we do with him?” the cow asked.
I don’t know,” the trelf wondered, “Bury him, I guess.”
But as they picked him up, he dispirited into fat air, never to be seen or heard from again.
“Well, what do we do now?” asked the cow.
“We go find that lumberjack and ask him why he killed that poor, helpless bon,” the trelf decided.
“But shouldn’t we tell your family what we’re doing?”
“And let them steal this golden opportunity to prove our worth? No way!”
“But what if he kills us to conceal his crime?”
“Don’t worry honey, he can’t take on both of us.”
So off they went in search of the murderous lumberjack. His trail wasn’t hard to find as he left strings of tree stumps and dead bons behind. After several nights of tracking, the cow collapsed on the nearest stump.
“I can’t do this, I’m too tired,” the cow complained.
“Come on, honey, I’m sure he’s just over this next ridge,” the trelf told her.
“You’ve been saying that for the past week and we’re still following him. We’ll never catch up.”
Suddenly, they heard a loud thwack. The trelf ran up to the top of the next hill and started jumping for joy.
“What is it?” his wife asked from the bottom of the hill. “What do you see?”
“We found it!” exclaimed the trelf; “We found the lumberjack’s camp.”
Sure enough, at the bottom of the hill stood the biggest lumberjack the trelf had ever seen. He must have been 100 feet tall he was so big. Despite the intimidation factor, the trelf and his wife marched up to the lumberjack, who was measuring a tree.
“Excuse me,” squeaked the trelf, feeling very nervous indeed. The lumberjack wiggled his ear with his finger as if it had water in it. The trelf tried again. “Excuse me,” he said. Again the lumberjack continued to ignore him as he picked up his axe and prepared to hack down the next tree. “EXCUSE ME!” shouted the cow. The lumberjack dropped his axe and spun around to face his attacker. He looked around for a minute, then glanced down.
“A cow and a garden gnome,” the lumberjack said.
“Number one, I’m a trelf, and number two, we’re here to ask you what you’re doing,” the trelf said.
“Yes,” the cow said, “and why you are murdering those poor helpless bons.”
“You guys can talk?” the lumberjack said in amazement.
“Yes, of course we can talk,” the cow said impatiently. “We asked you a question.” The lumberjack continued to stare at the pair in amazement, although the initial shock was fading.
“Yeah,” the trelf said, “what about those poor bons?”
“What are you guys talking about?” the lumberjack said. “I’m just harvesting trees for the Tree Smack-em-Down Company of Gilead, Wisconsin.”
“Well then what are you doing in the middle of Iowa?” the cow said.
“Well . . . um . . .” the lumberjack appeared flustered, like he was trying to hide something. “You know, that’s a good question, ‘What am I doing in the middle of Iowa?’ um . . . my company is expanding it’s business. Yeah, that’s it. We’re expanding our harvesting, um, range to Iowa. There’s not much wood left in Wisconsin.”
“But why Iowa?” the trelf asked.
“Well little man,” the lumberjack said, crouching down to get a better look at the trelf, “Iowa was the closest state with enough lumber.”
“Well, you’re going to have to go back to Wisconsin,” the cow said, “because every time you chop down a tree, a bon dies.”
“Yeah, about that,” the lumberjack said, “you mentioned those things before. What are bons?”
“Well,” the trelf said, “they are the spirit of the tree. And we will stop you and your evil company from killing anymore helpless trees and tree spirits.”
“Those are big words coming from such a little guy,” the lumberjack said. The trelf turned beet red and started muttering something under his breath. The cow turned to her husband and said,
“Let me handle this, hon.” The cow turned back to the lumberjack and said,
“I’m sorry about my husband, he just gets a little excited when he thinks he can do something. Last year he tried to save the whales, but you can guess how that went.”
“Yeah,” the lumberjack said, “damn hippies.”
“Any ways, is there any way we could persuade you to stop cutting down these trees?”
“Well, if you could tell me where to find a better forest to chop from, I would be able to leave these trees alone. How would that do?”
“That would be just fine. Now let me think. Ah yes. There is a lovely forest of good lumber just outside of Dodgeville, Tennessee. Would that be good enough for you?”
“That would be great! There’s only one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I have to make sure that bons are eliminated from the face of this earth. They killed my family. And no heifer is going to stand in my way.” The lumberjack stood up and grabbed his axe.
“RUN!” screamed the trelf, as he leapt onto his wife’s back. The cow began to run back up the hill while the lumberjack chased them with his axe raised high. They ran for several miles, slowly loosing the lumberjack, until he collapsed from weakness. The cow and the trelf continued to run, stopping for nothing. Finally they arrived in Nebraska, where the cow had relatives that they could stay with.
After resting, they decided to take a train back to Iowa and report the lumberjack to the police. After a cramped ride in the baggage car, they arrived in Des Moines, Iowa. As they headed down Main Street, they thought about what they were going to tell the police. I mean, it’s not every day that a talking cow and a mythical being walk into a modern police station to report a crime. And it’s not like they could use a phone without any money. So they walked into the police station and up to the front desk. The trelf stood on his wife’s back and spoke to the officer.
“Excuse me, officer. But we’d like to report a crime.” The donut in the policeman’s hand dropped to the floor with a smack as the officer looked at the trelf in amazement.
“That’s right officer,” the cow said, raising her head so she could she him, “there is a lumberjack murdering bons out in the plains around Battle Creek. We’d like you to do something about it.”
“What’s going on here, Lieutenant?” Police Chief Bratton said, as he barged through the door, staring at the cow and the trelf.
“Uh . . . sir,” the lieutenant replied, “the cow and the elf . . .” he was interrupted by the trelf, “That’s trelf, sir.”
“Sorry. The cow and the trelf have a crime to report,” the lieutenant finished.
“WHAT!” screamed the chief, “What do you mean they have a crime to report. Everyone knows cows don’t talk and elves or whatever don’t exist.”
“There’s no need to shout,” the cow said, turning to the chief, “we’re right here.” Chief Bratton’s jaw dropped as he stared at the cow, before realizing he was being rude.
“Yes of course. What can we help you with today?”
“We came to tell you,” the trelf said, “that there is a man posing as a lumberjack outside of Battle Creek cutting down trees inhabited by bons, which are tree spirits. He claims they murdered his family. Personally I think he’s a little wacky.”
“All right,” Bratton said, “let me get on the horn to Battle Creek PD and we’ll get this straightened out right away. I won’t have psychotic tree killers in my state.”
“Thank you very much,” the cow said.
“You’re quite welcome,” Bratton said. And with that, the cow and trelf walked out of the station and headed home. The lumberjack was arrested on charges of possession of a very sharp axe and a bad attitude and was admitted to Battle Creek Psycho Ward on January the 1st, 2000. The cow and the trelf spent the rest of their lives in the plains around Battle Creek, pleased that they had saved the bons, and content to live the rest of their lives making lovey-dovey faces at each other and eating the trelf’s delicious cookies.

THE END