Dexter Miles

The cool crisp breeze carried a mean whistle. The frivolous notes danced through the air with confidence seducing the ear. Retching the foot into fitful taps of rhythm. Heads turned eager to follow its call. One such head belonged to the body of Dexter Miles. Thirty with thick black hair, a sharp nose, and mesmerizing blue eyes. A quaint four piece button up suit with bright red bow-tie. His suit looked well worn, almost dirty from the days work. 
The notes grew faint as their owner took to the corner of Abbey. Dexter stood rooted to the spot unable to will his legs further. Giving up on his legs he turned his had to crane at the large imposing structure that held him to his spot. Sixty floors up was his destination, the wall of glass offered only moments of sight before returning to the reflection of the burning sun. Dexter twisted his wrist lifting the worn brown leather briefcase along with it. Brushing back the wrist of his suite, noting briefly that the bottom button was missing, he peered at the ticking hands of his Rolex. Time was of the essence as it always was.
Dexter believed in time. The very reason he bought the Rolex was buried deep in his subconscious worship of time. His dad had once told him that without time events hold no meaning. It is the series that matters not the occurance. Time is what defines humanity.
Three minutes left, he had planned it down to a the second. Slowly pushing forward he took the steps up to the doors greeted by a small man, plum vest and all.
"Evening sir."
Dexter nodded and walking towards the seamless marble reception area. 
The woman behind the counter wore her hair in a tight bun sitting high on the top of her head, almost like a fez. The skin of her face was pulled back and showed very little age. Maybe late twenties. Thin glasses, a harsh profile and a glossy nameplate with Susan written in long flowing strokes complete the picture. 
"Welcome to Avalon Technologies. How may I be of assistance?"
Dexter leaned into the desk, catching a wisp of perfume. Forcing back a cough, he rambled off his rehearsed sentence, "Dexter Gilligan Miles to see, Elizabeth Mornson."
The receptionist Susan stuck a finger up at him hushing him. Touching her ear, she rattled off a series of words that were lost on Dexter. A small whisper of the voice on the receptionists headset reached him. How had he overseen it. His face burned with embarrassment. Socially awkward didn't begin to describe Dexter. 
Taking a step back he pulled out a bright red handkerchief. The receptionist eye caught the gesture and twisted her face with disgust. Dexter blew hard into the handkerchief. 
Disgust was suddenly replaced with recognition. Susan leaned forward glancing up and down and assessing Dexter. 
"I'm going to have to let you go Ma'm." She fumbled with the headset clearly eager to end the call. "Dexter Miles?" her voice carried an air of respect. 
Dexter nodded perhaps a few seconds too long, unable to once again voice his rehearsed line.
"Elevator is down and to the right. The room number is 601. First room on the left. If you need anything I will be glad to...." The words faded as Dexter swiftly walked down the hall. Three people waited outside of the the row of elevators each watching the numbers shift up and down. He stood off to the left away from the line. The middle elevator let out a lyrical ring and opened. Head down Dexter strode towards the open door. Four people pilled out. Replaced immediately by those waiting. 
"Going up?" Another plum vested man stood near the controls. 
"Tenth floor." The mans deep voice mirrored his heavy build.
A stick of a woman seconded the desire for the tenth floor.
Sweat dripped off of Dexter's brow. "Floor Sixty?" he muttered with no confidence. The other passenger twisted to look back at him. Recognition struck their faces washing away confusion. They poured back onto the ground floor. Glancing briefly over their shoulders. The elevator was completely empty. 
Another musical note signaled the decision on the desired floor.
"Going up." 
Dexter stared at the doors willing them to part and end this ride. He felt a rush of impatience wash over him. Twisting his wrist he saw the hand tick away the seconds. Perfect.

Morning Grim

Pleasant tweeting trickled through the window along with a cool brisk air, twisting its away around the room. Stirring the black robe draped over the chair, wrapping around the intricate carvings of the smooth beds surface. The hinges resisted for a moment as if to hold its sleeper for just a blink longer. A bony arm stretch a high arc into the air.
Grim slipped out of his coffin.
What a night it had been. 
That new memory foam mattress was doing wonders for his back. He kicked his legs over the edge jumping to his feet. He was feeling more lively than he ever had. There was something about the cool stale air after a hards night's rest. He grabbed the robe still dusty from his last chase. Edward R. Phillip had been quite the handful. Six bullets lodged in his chest cavity and it still took twenty minutes to die. He had almost made it to the hospital when Grim saw him dripping all over the pavement. 
Grim wondered if he had ever looked that pathetic. 
He shook the thought from his head. He had unknowingly walked into the bathroom. The mirror was smudged with grease and dried up windex. His gaunt face could not have been looking better. The whitening was really paying off. He tossed a boyish grin at the mirror. 
What he would give for a pair of eyebrows. As a matter of fact he knew exactly what he would give, that god forsaken sickle his dad had given him as a coming of age gift. That thing was a real lady-killer, literally. Try picking up a girl at the pub with a sickle, its harder than it looks. Not that it is often seen. 
Grim downed his cup of black coffee, threw in a tic-tac, and glanced back in the mirror.
Today would be one hell of a day. 

The Dawning Apocalypse Of Man

In a self sustained continuum of thought there is no end only continues conclusions. However in a self demolishing continuum there is no beginning only the promise of end. Which ironically what we as a culture are, ironic simply for the fact that in our eyes the doors open before us with endless possibilities, when in fact each door narrows our reach reducing the infinite possibilities to one of imminent death. Not immediate death, simply a death looming, crouched in the car, loaded in a gun, cocooned in an organ, patiently biding its time as we close door after door. 
The saying "Life goes on" is merely a motivation to close more doors, tearing through life viscerally devouring our own ineptitude to understand why things happen. I can only promise one answer and that is of finality. However glorious or uneventful the path.