Gutsy.
I used to work early morning shifts. Basically, middle of the night shifts. I would get up at 2:30 and walk an hour to work cross town in the street light. One night, I had this feeling deep inside. This urge to vent. There was no one to talk to. So I spilled my guts like a bear in the woods. Discarded muddy socks for the clean up. Feet were bare at work that day.
Lucky Roll
It's not all under your control...
I believe in merit. Try as we might things are not promised. Life is unfair. The best we can do is give ourselves a better chance. The images that are projected to us are those of the successes. We don't get to see those who don't make it... We might think: oh we just do X or Y, and then we get Z. The successful people think this of themselves: I did X and Y, and I get Z! So why can't you?
Genetics account for a large portion of your base intelligence. Genetics set you up for your health, athleticism, and attractiveness. Thanks mom and dad! Your genetics determine if you're more or less likely to develop many different illnesses over the course of your life.
Where you were born sets you up for success or lack thereof. To paraphrase Scott Adams "go where there is more luck." You have a better chance of getting a job as an actor in New York City than you do in Utica. Nonetheless being born in a first world country vs a third world country makes a big difference. This often determines what kind of education you receive, which affects your prospects later in life. Though it appears statistically most people do not end up near where they were born.
How you were raised both by your parents, as well as the culture that surrounds you has a profound effect on your development. A child that is raised by loving parents that gently challenge them sets a child up for much greater success than one who beats on the children or neglects them. Growing up in different countries or communities from individualist vs collectivist societies (to address one dimension of cultural difference) greater effects your outlook on your place in the world.
There are random events that may occur such as a major injury, pregnancy, or addiction. Granted you have SOME agency in these happenings. There is also a genetic predisposition / sociocultural dimension to these which is a hard curveball to sidestep.
There are people who are truly lazy, truly not trying. There are also many who are putting in the work. We live in a competitive society. Results are NOT promised. Which absolutely is to say we should try really hard! We should also respect the efforts of others, not just the outcome. You can absolutely improve things but there is a different between a person who starts life at negative four vs someone who starts at positive five.
A little compassion, and a little humility make sense when we consider the reality.
Cowards
Dillon Danis was swarmed by multiple assailants at UFC 322 in Madison Square Garden, New York City on Saturday November 15th.
This came after Danis had been trolling several fighters on X for several years.
People who gang up on others are cowards. People who attack by surprise are cowards. People who hit to the back of the head are cowards. Who kick and stomp those who have fallen to the ground. Pathetic little boys.
A professional fighter punching a man to the back of the head multiple times can easily kill him. Not to mention getting knocked out and bouncing someone's head off the concrete below. It is only luck that no one was killed, it is certainly not probabilitistically unlikely! Thank God no one was killed. I'm sure we'll find out the extent of the injuries later. What would have happened if security did not defend this man? He could easily have been killed.
This is disgusting and you deserve jail time. There is no honour in this. Shame on you, and anyone who taught you this was acceptable behaviour.
I get that you attacked someone who has been insulting you for years. I do not condone street fighting either but at least if you say "let's go" and fight someone one on one making it clear that you intend to fight, then your target has a reasonable chance of defending themselves. And you are both professional fighters so fair enough.
I am a fan of combat sports: a contest between people who agree to fight, agree to a set of rules. To me it's cowardly of the UFC themselves to not press charges, and only ban the target of the attacks. I don't know whether it's just some bullshit macho fight culture stuff, or it is motivated by profit, but this is just so weak. You're setting a precedent and almost encouraging this behaviour with your laissez-faire boys-will-be-boys attitude. Or saying "these people" are from a culture that doesn't put up with you staying mean things about them should not fly in the United States. That is not an acceptable culture.
Maybe I shouldn't joke about such a serious subject but as George Costanza would spout exasperatedly, "We're trying to have a society here!"
Street fighting is dangerous and disgusting in general. To do so ten against one, is savage.
You are not men, you are sheep dressed in wolf costumes. No words can justify this behaviour.
Johnny Had a Sick Sense of Humour
His body wasn't doing what it was supposed to. Joints were turning green, his skin was as attractive as a 7-11 pepperoni pizza. Not a fresh one.
As leprosy overtook his body he became, "The Detachable Comedian."
People aren't big fans of prop comedy these days. But imagine the looks on the audience's faces when they would pull his finger. He would remove an arm and scratch his own back to the crowd's horrified delight after cracking a one-liner. "That's convenient!" Next he would smash a giant ovoid watermelon (pumpkin when unavailable) with the limb as if it was Gallagher's hammer. And then there were the bits about self-fellation...
"I don't even need to be flexible. Yoink!" to a mix of grimace and guffaw.
He reattached himself with duct tape. The night club owners assisting after shows.
It was a hard life, but Johnny was an airbag stuffed to the brim with relentless positivity.
Just So
I'm the Princess and everyone keeps filling my pillowcase with split pea soup. Having people to my liking nearby works for me. Not when I have to interact with them, just when they are there doing their own thing. But not just anyone. The preferred peoples. Hidden in plain sight like ceiling tiles. It's relaxing leaving the crowds in the distance like the far off woods far-flung an outdoor musical festival. Many is too much. Alone is too little. Shadow of a leash. Fast walkers and talkers stress me out, do they have to do and say nothing so swiftly? I look at them with one eye open in-between my pointer and thumb. Then I slowly squish them. Empty keychain jingles.
Everything is just so. Blink half an eyebrow and I don't want it anymore.
What Makes an Awesome Horror Game?
Horror games have different requirements from the movies and fiction they were inspired by. Take this as a critical dissection of what makes these games good. It is certainly not an endorsement of fucked up behaviour in real life. This is for those that find this form of entertainment thrilling. An excellent horror game must balance the narrative elements of horror with rewarding gameplay.
A horror game must disturb the player. The Corpse Party series are great at this, very fucked up storylines: everything horrific you can think of (perhaps to the point of overuse). I would argue that Capcom's flagship horror series, Resident Evil, does this poorly. To me they are essentially action games with minor horror elements and really driven towards quick reflexes rather than a scary narrative. However, Capcom is pretty skilled at crafting a spooky tale or two in games such as Clock Tower 3, and Haunting Ground. The former centering around a teenage girl who has to run away from perverted ghosts, who try to "embrace" her. It does a good job of creating a lot of distance between encounters to let the horror built in your mind for a while. These are not just movies or novels, however, and would be nothing if the "game" portion were listless.
An excellent horror game must also be an enjoyable game not merely a horror narrative. I assert that the Resident Evil series has become better over time. Earlier on the tank controls were used to make it more difficult to control. The argument was this actually increased the "horror" factor. I personally couldn't get past the tank controls, and thankfully more recent games in the series have gotten rid them for more modern left goes left, forward goes forward type control schemes. The Fatal Frame series are great from a play standpoint. Centering around a camera with special powers that reveals hidden images when photographed, and sends spirits trying in an agony to their final resting place. The first Parasite Eve game has a rewarding power-up system: instead of levelling up your character like a traditional RPG you add abilities to your gun over time.
My personal preference is an RPG or visual novel style game, as I'm back at quick reaction games. I also prefer more psychological horror than gory, Rosemary's Baby or Psycho rather than Human Centipede or the Saw movies. The first Silent Hill game does this well: you are stuck in this deserted town in the middle of winter, with barely anyone around. You must slowly piece clues together in this lonely town. To quote the spine-chilling band Barenaked Ladies "I'm the type of guy that laughs at a funeral," I enjoy horror video games (and movies) more if they can poke fun at themselves. I prefer games set before smartphones, and very current technology, as those elements just distract me from the immersion. I am a man stuck in the past.
An excellent horror game must balance the narrative elements of horror with rewarding gameplay. They allow a safe release of our shadow selves which should be indulged on occasion. Best played by candlelight.
The Locker by Luke Lester
[Victoria, Canada]
Posted November 2025
When I was a young whipper-snapper on a crisp prairie afternoon, I locked the keys in the car. Grandpa was pissed; however, he happened to have a spare made for this eventuality, his hoarding vindicated, much to Granny’s chagrin.
Running theme.
Few years ago, I locked my keys inside and attempted to bolt-cutter the lock myself. It was so sturdy that the attempt actually pulled the lockers out of the wall, rusty screws screeching as they were ripped from the wall. My supervisor chewed me out, detailing all the mistakes in my decision-making process step by excruciating step.
I should have learned from my mistakes.
Not me.
I lock my keys in my locker again.
Goddamnit all to hell! I can’t have, I double check my pockets, I check near the toilet, maybe they fell out of my pocket there…
Eat lunch, ignoring the elephant sitting in my mind’s room. The elephant grows and expands and widens and lengthens and heightens as my mind’s room somehow shrinks like my appetite. So, I seek our facilities manager, Charlie. Of course, he is at lunch as well. I wander.
I come back, Charlie is early of course, multitasking away as if eight limbed, as per usual. I interrupt with my problem. He grabs the toolbox, and we exit to the lockers. My bright bronze lock is thicker than expected: even I can’t steal my own stuff!
Back to work for me.
Charlie, the stand-up problem-solver that he is, embarks on a magical quest to find the tools to break the lock. Different departments, outside, inside, hardware stores, even Bilko, the twitchy coffee infused handyman, nothing can penetrate the locker’s defences.
Meanwhile, I assist fire-breathing extremely hygienic customers with their very important difficulties for a couple of hours.
Break time!
Upstairs to the physical heart of my trauma, aka the locker room, Charlie is grinding away with shimmering silver bolt-cutters. I wait, red-faced and awkward as ever.
CLANK! The Ring is thrown into the fires of Mordor! My locker is free. But there is a sequel…
I exit to get a snack for Charlie to thank the hero for his noble sacrifice, but another vexing struggle…
I open the gnarled maw that holds my stuff. But where are my keys?! This isn’t happening! My mother’s about to drive our car off a cliff with me inside and I’m about to wake up again, right?!!
I search. Lockers. Bathroom. Downstairs. Check the lost and found, again. Back to my locker - it has to be in there. Pull everything out. Belongings on the chair. Dig through dusty black jacket. Empty smooth fabric backpack. Where the hell are they? Search every crevice (who needs this many pouches?) Pick up and shake: a metallic jingling sound, is it just the zippers?
There they are the silver reflection of the objects of my desire blinding me with relief! It would’ve been easier if I had a spare. Grandpa wasn’t such a hoarder after all.
Published in Flash Fiction North November 5th, 2025
https://www.flashfictionnorth.com/recentfiction
