virtually-unique

Casper supposedly worked four seven hour shifts a week, with overtime on Saturday. Supposedly. This overtime usually resulted on him working for five eight hour shifts. It was magic that he hadn't died yet. Then again, Guiseppe more or less lived at the station. He was pretty much a corpse, his lank, black hair hanging in curtains beside his face, covering his eyes as he stumbled around the small workplace. Casper and Guiseppe worked in a supermarket. They were a pretty big store, though. They currently had thirteen shelve stackers on duty each week, and then five people on the tills. Of course, this wasn't all work. Guiseppe and Casper

Guiseppe was dead. It was a side effect of the bullets, the bullets that he'd just pried from his shattered scull onto the fields bellow. It wasn't fun, he knew that already. Being dead was kind of floaty, and things kept making popping sounds in his stomach. There wasn't much to enjoy, really. Or to criticize. It was just a whole lot of walking to nothing. He'd died in a shoot-out at a bank. He'd taken the whole thing in stride, really. He was ready. He was working a dead-end job, after dropping out of university because he couldn't afford it. That was all. He'd been walking down to cash in his paycheck, when this guy had come in in and s

I didn't love you as if you were gems, Or the precious gold your mother often wore. I didn't love when you left unclipped stems, Or when you left the wreath out on the door. You did not enjoy chasing your ancestors, But what I did enjoy were your letters, Telling tales of shipwrecks, storms and monsters, Which I read while wrapped in one of your sweaters. I loved you as I loved an old book, Frayed and torn and dog-eared as me, Opened only when i wanted a look, To drag down, to leave me like I left thee. And now, you sink down into the reef, Drowned along with wine that stains my teeth.

As your hand brushes away the grime of the last day, your lips barely let escape a sigh - or what would be one, if it had been anything more than just a quiver of lips and a strong gasp of silent air. Or what may have been the last day - you're not so sure. The grime may have been your father's, but he most definitely had not bathed yesterday evening, or it could be your younger sister's. Upon the thought, it was most definitely someone's last day - and judging by the short, scattered shaving stubble hairs pooled by the plughole, you decide it was most definitely hers. You shake your hand almost immediately, rubbing it quickly across the towe

Burnt tyres on the sides of roads, mattresses slung into hedges, trolleys dumped in rivers... are these regular sights for you? Fly-tipping is one of the UK's biggest problems. Do you ever see waste in your local forests, or in your parks? Does it become bothersome and disgrace you because of how terrible it looks? Fly-tipping, by definition, is the 'illegal deposit of waste onto land or a highway that has no licence to accept it'. These illegal dumps can be either big or small, and it can range from kitchen waste to full-scale dumps of electrical items and furniture. It ruins our scenery and collecting and cleaning up after lazy, selfish tip

Winter has a job. Winter is also almost out of cigarettes, trying to drain all the nicotine he can muster from half of his last roll-up, his life-force and will to live draining rapidly. He wishes he had a friend who smoked, but since all the smoking bans and the fact you go all ugly and black on the inside, no-one else really bothered. He wishes he hadn't dropped out of school. He wishes he didn't have to pay for all the supplies he brakes. He wishes he was at home in bed watching chick-flicks. He's also in debt to his sister for around a million CDs he's scratched and life isn't fair. He stubs the cancer stick under his toe before turning

John brought you your dinner that night, but you refused to eat. You pushed the tray away with the palm of his hand, so he left it on your desk. He brought you some meds, too, and you took them, because you knew you would be a lot worse off if you didn't. After that you just stared at Billie for far too long. You ended up noticing the fact it wasn't even his own hand he was chewing on, it was Trè's. You also began to wonder how you hadn't noticed that before. It was such a big deal that you hadn't noticed that about the poster since you hung it, when, when you were 12? Around then. And then your eyes wondered to the ceiling. It was all swim

The next few days are so, so slow. You stay in your room, John visiting you every day, even when he doesn't even have to be here, so you don't have to go outside for therapy or anything. You like this man, a lot. He's your best friend already, even though he's at least 15 years older than you. You don't always talk about you. Sometimes you talk about books, or sometimes he brings in his laptop and you watch videos online. And sometimes you two draw little sketches, and stickmen, and sometimes he teaches you things. And you like it. He's like a second father, or maybe a big brother. Something you never really had. You enjoy his company, and so

You found it amazing that no one bothered to wake you in the morning. The bell had obviously rung, but you must have slept through it. Your eyes were stinging, and your throat is dry. You don't move, though, you just stare unblinking at the open blinds. You lick your lips before trying to turn over. Your desk is empty, except for a plastic cup of what you assume is plainly water. So you drink it down in hurried sips, trying not to look impolite to your audience of nobody. And you tell yourself to be calm as you stand up, your legs swinging limply off of the edge of the bed. They're sort of useless, because you try to stand twice, and fail. So