Eric Druseikis.

The experiment had long ago breached ethical standards. In fact, they had never really existed. There had been a legal looking document, with legal looking paper and legal looking words and the subject, being unfamiliar with the legal this and legal that agreed to the research procedure despite what he did not know. From the comfort of his chair, which he rarely left now, the scientist observed his subject. He'd forgotten the subjects name long ago and in his head thought of him only as 'the subject.' But that isn't to say he had forgotten his humanity. It was for that very reason that he remained there in his chair. Early in the experiment, when he still bothered to heat the food, when he still monitored with meticulous care the temperature and still documented all that occurred; when the subject still moved and when the subjects eyes had not yet withdrawn, the subject began to speak to himself his thoughts aloud. To whom these were directed to exactly it was unclear, but when everything else stopped, these still occurred. The thoughts themselves encompassed everything, from the most mundane to the most novel, and appeared now involuntary. This subject's thought life, combined with the researcher's own, had captured his imagination entirely and despite all that he saw and knew to be now wrong he could not release him. To the researcher, the barrier that naturally exists between human beings had been broken down and his thoughts were now equally dependent upon the subjects.

Sarah Gregory.

There is a world out there that I no longer understand. I mean I remember some of the details, but now they only puzzle me. Images of myself playing tag with the neighborhood friends of my childhood, holding hands with Desiree on the curb of a parking lot, the thrill of bustling through the mucky fairgrounds in the fall, all these things have lost their relevance. I no longer understand what it felt like to interact, to feel.
I'm starting to believe that none of it ever mattered anyways. There is no one to know but the inside of our own head anyways. No way to truly know anybody else. Maybe it is better to stop pretending that we ever can. How was I fooled for so long? The clock is ticking. With every tick I believe I can feel the microscopic movement of my hair and my nails seeping out of my body. They are telling me that time is passing and still my body in all its futility is going through its senseless cycles. I am tired of eating. It takes so much effort and it is never ending. We have to constantly fill ourselves with things, with food, with distractions, with ideas of purpose, so that we can continue to fill the world with our waste, our worthless shit. I am fading into a sea of grains of sand. There is no difference between my body and the fibers of this couch, of the plaster on these walls. We are molecules idly vibrating if you look close enough; waiting for a purpose. And until then we will continue to aimlessly vibrate, distracting ourselves with our own electrons and pretending that it is important that they stay in motion. I wonder how much more research it will take them to realize these things.

Kneesmith.

I wonder if they’re still watching me. Sometimes I find myself looking around for a sign that I haven’t been forgotten. For some reassurance that I haven’t been lost among endless stacks of paperwork in some medical lab miles away. But what use is it. No use to concern myself with matters out of my control now. So I’m left to my vices. The 11 o’clock news, the daily “TuffTown” internet comic strip, and probably a book or two from the online Google library. My vices. My beautiful distractions from this unfortunate predicament. How I fucking despise them. They have let me experience sunrises and sunsets, beautiful ethereal women I only knew in dreams, the taste of fine wines, conversations with Gods and Devils, and all of this is so fleeting. In the end I’ll still die in here and death will wipe me out as if I was no bigger than the mice I can hear in my walls at night. Just like the bastards who trapped me here and just like the authors, directors, and producers of all that distracts me. Good God this is my casket.

Avery Collins.

The bleak walls sing back to me...i won’t dare to answer my own question, for who am i to be optimistic, pessimistic, who am i to be anyone? I dare to question myself, for i fear i will lose me as a companion.
i’ve had the urge to write my thoughts upon these walls, to maybe give myself some sense of adventure. maybe i could leave a trace, i’m not so sure i am that important. i dream only of insignificance...i wish i had a quarter, i dreamt i lost a quarter in a gum ball machine, i really wanted a green one.

This won't have a title.

(I want to start a story that is open to all. Basically, I'm going to write the first entry, and probably add on every now and then if it ever picks up steam, but the rest will be up to you, the faceless mass. I will act as a sort of moderator, and I will only have a few rules: I will only post your submission if you take it seriously. I don't mean you can't be humorous, but don't mock the work as a whole, and don't negate any other entries. Just be courteous to the other authors, please. Also, nobody will have back-to-back entries, even me. If you wish to submit anonymously, all you have to do is ask such of me upon sending me your submission. If you have any questions or submissions, please email me at dylanv@mac.com.)

The low hum of the distant lawnmower is starting to grate on my nerves. I've had it with this place, I need a change, even if it's something so unsubstantial as a cup of coffee at a coffee shop I've never seen before. Why did I ever sign up for this experiment? I distinctly remember the lead research scientist's expression of dim glee as he explained the purpose of my isolation. "To examine the extent of total isolation on a perfectly sane individual raised in the Information Age, totally dependent on multiple forms of media and instant communication. The subject will be provided ample nutrition and a clean facility, and will be held for an indeterminate amount of time, or until the subjects physical or mental health is considered in jeopardy." That was 7 years, 54 days ago, give or take a few weeks. My pleas for release fall on deaf walls. I'm going to die in here, aren't I?