A Middledge Journal
In this piece: After running from the past for so long, Matthew Heart returns home to Middledge to find some things never change.

The rain was relentless against my windshield, my stomach in knots and my mind lost in memories as I crossed the city limit into Middledge. I spent my entire adolescence longing to escape it, only to come back with a handful of spare change and a heart full of regrets. The rain wasn't going to stop pouring anytime soon, and even showed signs of getting worse, so I pulled inside the old parking garage to get out of it. I passed walls covered in bad graffiti and an old discarded sofa as I made the trek to the spot where it all began.
Sitting on the hood of my Ford Escort, I lit a cigarette and let my myself get taken back to a time where my hair was much longer and life seemed a hell of a lot shorter. Just the four of us, too blind to realize the opportunities we all had, full of angst and hormones. Too young to realize how much we still had to figure out.
"Turn it a little to the left" Chase said with a grunt as he and I struggled to maneuver a couch from the back of his father's truck. The girls giggled to each other, watching our scrawny selves attempt lifting it for the third time. We eventually just tipped it out of the truck bed letting it crash onto the cement floor of the parking garage. It suffered minimal damage, but it was still usable. To celebrate I pulled out the green magic I stole from my mother's medicine cabinet. Chase rolled it into four decent sized joints and we got lost in ourselves.
Chase and Kat had just met not long before this. Kat's parents just bought what used to be small library and turned it into a coffeehouse, which was starting to become a little hub of culture in our little redneck town.
Maggie and I had been friends for years, almost as long as I'd been friends with Chase.

A Middledge Journal
In this piece: David Heart (aka: Froggy) reflects on the death of Sage Walker.

RIP Sage Walker (1988-2009)

Twitch and I crashed Sage's funeral the other day. Just like we crashed so many of his parties when he was still with us. I knew he wouldn't mind. Although his father gave us a strange look as we entered the church, fashionably late as always. Sage hated churches. This man knew nothing about his son. He had the nerve to pull us aside after the eulogies to tell us that we were disrespecting Sage. I wanted to tell him that that the only disrespect I see here is that a devout atheist's life is being "honored" in the one place he felt more uncomfortable than under his father's roof. Twitch stopped me before I could say anything that would get us kicked out.

Sage and I had developed a strange relationship over the years. I wouldn't call us friends, at least not at first. I met him through Rook, my mom's pot dealer. Sage was Rook's best friend and often tagged along with him on his deliveries. While my mother and Rook talked business,Sage and I would make small talk in my dining room. Outside of this time every week we pretended not to know one another. If we passed each other in the halls at school or on the street we wouldn't so much as acknowledge the other's existence. That was our sort of unspoken pact. A way of denying the paths that led to our time together.

Despite how hard you fight it, after a while, small talk becomes bigger and deeper. In a way I felt more comfortable telling him things I couldn't tell Twitch. Partly because we technically didn't know each other, and the time we spent together didn't really exist. What was said in the confines of our thirty minutes didn't matter. I think he felt the same way.

Every now and then I'd catch wind of these parties that he's throw when his parents were out of state. They left out of state a lot. I never got formally invited to one of them, although I always got the feeling that he was glad I came, when I did. A glance, a smile, a broken rule.

Senior year I passed around my yearbook for signatures. Yesterday I found out that he signed it. It hiding among the HAGS, HAKAS, an Good Lucks on page two of the back section. He wrote: Frog, Thanks for listening. Take care of yourself man -SW.

He stopped coming over with Rook that Summer. Rumor went around that he'd gone to an early enrollment college thing. This would have been his first summer back home since. I was looking forward to the party that would most likely occur for his return. The party that I'd, no doubt, end up crashing. Too bad the fucker had to get hit by that car.

Still, his death suited him, in a way. He was killed while saving a little girl from suffering the same fate. That's the kind of guy Sage was. Willing to tag along with a friend while he deals pot, just to make sure he doesn't get in too much trouble. He was a good guy. He was -sort of- my friend. He will be missed.

This is how this is going to work:
I will write jounals/blogs from the point of view of different characters that live in my storyspheres (aka "Then Small World")

For those who do not now, all short fictions of mine take place in one of two universes. My realitic fiction takes place mostly in Middledge, Ohio : a small town east of the middle of nowhere, on the edge of nothingness. If it does not take place in that town it still has ties to it as it is the same "world". My fantasy writings tend to follow this as well, but loosely. Everything in those stories can be, but not always are, in a roundabout way tied to a city (supposedly near Middledge) called Ravenburg. Ravenburg is the "weird cousin-town of Middledge"- Sort of a Smallville to it's Metropolis- or Edenton, a TSM college town created by my other half, Jessica. These journals can be from anyone in the towns and tell the some insignificant story or tie into a larger of my tales in my web of drama. Those who know my work will know the difference.

Keep watching/reading for the first of many stories to come.

-J.M. Romig
Catalyst.

As many of you may know by now, we have entered the Summer Of Death. Everywhere you turn someone is dead or dying, reminding us that our time in limited on this planet. This summer, in the free time you have between funerals, do something you enjoy. Grab the theoretical bull by the theoretical horns. Not literally though, it is the Summer Of Death and you can't be too careful. You could lock yourself inside until Fall. But Surely, that won't help a bit. We've all seen enough Final Destination flicks to know that Death is a relentless perfectionist who get's really pissed when you fuck with his plan. Our best bet to avoid a catastrophic death in some strange and disturbing manner is to just stay the course, know that it's all going to be over soon. Enjoy your time left on the Earth and if a bunch of us happen to survive the summer, we can go looting together in celebration. Unless a zombie outbreak happens and we are forced to start a militia. 20,000 points to whoever nails Farah Faucett. I mean with a shotgun you sick sick minded person.
I wonder if Micheal Jackson is going to start releasing recordings he did that no one has heard before for the next 20-30 years. You know, like that one dead "musician" who was actually black.12pack? Something like that. LOL. I just imagined Zombie Michael Jackson singing about Zombie Billy Mays.
"Bill Mayz is not my lover,
He's just a dude,
who sold lots of stuff.
I really love Vinces' nuts."
I am so going to hell for this, and given the state of things, I might see a lot of you there really soon. So, I'll bring the icewater and someone else can bring steaks. We'll have a party. No, Ed, you are not invited - unless we've won the $100,000,000.