Dr. W. A. Frost's Ides of Revolution

I wanted so badly to be like him. I’d stare at him from afar every day I commuted home from work. He was tall, he was stacked, he was dark, he was fuckin perfect. Each time I saw those arms, twice the size of my head, I had to stifle til the little moan I knew would escape my lips. I didn’t know his name, I didn’t know anything about him except he must have lived nearby, since he was jogging nearly every day down the main strip. No shirt, beadlets of sweat glistening on that ebony skin, trailing down a set of washboard abs into a soaked pair of black shorts. He was everything I knew I could never be. Surely a couple roid rages helped him along the way, but there’s something to be said about genetics. He had the genes I wouldn’t ever have. So I would sit there like creepy voyeurist every day and drool over this sweaty lug of a man I’d never met but so heavily admired. I couldn’t tell you what the catalyst was for my google search that day. Maybe it was the fact I was bored out of my min...

It was supposed to be my magnum opus. Ravenswood- my last creation and my forever home. For years I had suffered and degraded myself in firms filled with peons who wouldn’t know architectural integrity if it hit them on the nose, and when I finally finished that last project, it took all of fifteen minutes for me to type up my resignation and slap it on the boss’ desk. I’d gotten the severance I’d worked nearly 31 years for, and had built up the name Drake Astramore to a prominent name in the business. Finally, I was free. Free to create unrestricted by the trivial boundaries set by those beneath me. Work was slow in the beginning, my modern designs never seemed to convey the right mood or tone which I was seeking. Completely dejected, I resorted to corresponding with a peer of my own caliber who specialized in Eastlake-Tradition Victorian revival: James Lafreniere. The man was perhaps in his late 80’s, far past his prime, but I did value his insight purely to help spur some sort of cr...

The following is the final transcript from Dr. Harold Ferrier in Trial 151 of the Tranquility Experiment. No further trials were conducted. This document is classified, destroy after reading. —— DAY 1  - 10:25 AM Dr. Ferrier: “Alright. Subject 151, government name is Logan Marquette. Subject is 47 years of age, height of 5’2, weighing in at just over 253 pounds. Acquired from official test subject pool in Louisiana. According to intake documentation, the subject suffers from acute social anxiety, body dysmorphia, erectile dysfunction, and low testosterone. Upon introduction, Mr. Marquette expressed mild reservations in partaking in the experiment, but had signed the agreement. He now understands his legal obligation. How are we doing today, Mr. Marquette?” P151: “When are we going to start the experiment, doctor? It won’t take long, will it?” DF: “No, Mr. Marquette. This is going to be a quick and painless observational study. We are studying the effects of cannabis on musical crea...

Cory took a deep breath as he turned the corner, eyes tightly shut. Passersby likely stared with aloof confusion, but he didn’t care. This was the moment he’d dreamed of for almost fifteen years. Broadway, Nashville: the dream strip of country music nightclubs, southern apparel, moonshine, whiskey, and instruments. The gentle hum of twangy ballads tickled his ears, played by talented singers in the honky tonks along the street. It was now home. And as he opened his eyes, that dream was now reality. The street was bustling, even in midday. Tourists, buskers, musicians, and surely a few stars strolled past entranced in their own worlds they’d taken for granted. It took everything for Cory to get here- or rather it had cost him everything. Not that he minded. The move, to him, represented the beginning of the life he’d always dreamed he would lead: becoming the man he fantasized in his head. With his first steps, they were the first steps toward that goal. Walking slowly, he made his way ...

It was hot, sweltering actually: the hottest summer on record. All Jared wanted to do was get home and decompress after the bullshit day he had at the store. Twelve Karens all complaining about the heat inside the store, as if there was anything he could do about it. But, instead of doing what he desperately wished he could do (violent explicatives removed), all day long he had to bite his tongue and just “empathize” with the valued customers. For gods sake, Deborah Wyatt had come in three times and complained to managers about “why the a/c wasn’t working” and had to be removed by the police. The heat does crazy things to people, particularly the ones who you’d least expect to turn into some monster. Thankfully before he could turn into one himself, Jared punched in that time card and bolted; wishing the best of luck to his sour faced colleagues. Walking down State Street, he huffed at the humid air drowning his lungs. Thank god he’d swiped a Dove deodorant from the hygiene aisle befor...