Hello! This one's not really fantasy, I don't think. Maybe it's more "speculative fiction", I don't know my genres very well here, I'm afraid :( It's shorter and pretty different from what I usually write. Undoubtedly rough in places. Let me know of any sentences that could be reworked. I know they're there, but it's hard for me to notice sometimes. I do know the very first sentence needs to be changed, but no matter how much I shift it around, I can't seem to get it to flow better. Enjoy!   Monster of the Lake By Thomas Bradford In a forest of tall trees there is a clearing, and in this clearing is a lake, and on the surface of this lake you float. The forest is quiet, the lake still. Your body gently lifts and falls on the water’s surface, divided between the black depths and the cold air. This division is not equal, with your body’s greater half belonging to the depths. Your ears are submerged, the sounds of the world muffled and distant, beyond reach. The sky is gray, dark, with the threat of a storm that never comes, a promise of rain that is never fulfilled. Everything is perpetual dampness, leaving your bones cold, your soul left with the longing for fire, and warmth. There is no one besides you. You are floating alone. Yet that is not entirely the truth, because there is something else. Something down below, at the end of the darkness. Something that lives in the depths of the lake, with its eyes eternally poised, searching for you. There’s something in the lake. It wants you down there with it. At times such as now, when the waters are still and nothing disturbs the mirror of their surface, when your thoughts are content, there appears an object rising beneath you. A coil, unfurling from the black void beneath the surface. A coil of metal. A hook, rusted and dull, rising at the end of a serpentine chain cast by a corpulent hand. All is quiet, peaceful, and you never suspect the chain’s presence. Taken unawares, like the prey of a stalking animal, you are hooked by this chain. With no chance to cry out, you are pulled beneath the surface without a sound. The waters are undisturbed by your departure. Gently they ebb and flow, their reflection of the sky unbroken in your absence. More perfect. Spiraling, descending, you watch the daylight recede. First it is at arm’s length, and you can still reach for it, then the moment has passed and it is beyond your grasp. With each tug of the chain, it drifts further and further away, as you sink with the hook that has caught you. Darkness covers you, the Stygian world closing in, smothering your sight, severing your hope. You cannot breathe. The darkness is not empty. Certain things dwell there - misshapen things, not living, but neither dead. Aspects of yourself, the dark reflections that exist in you. Thoughts, memories, once forgotten but now remembered in terrible flashes. Like ghoulish specters they rise from the deep, one by one to greet you like old friends, each with a smile on its face. Smiles which bare many teeth. There is no air to scream, no chance to free yourself. Your only recourse is to cry, the tears flowing into the water around you, joining with the lake, making it stronger as you are pulled down. Down. Your only company are the phantoms of time, the things you never wanted to remember, but will never fully forget. The daylight has disappeared, the surface gone from you so completely that you are uncertain it was ever real. The world below becomes your reality, the dark water and grinning faces your nightmare, and your mind is filled with the terrible certainty that you will never get out again. Everything is distorted, all clarity lost. You become convinced that if there ever was a world above, somewhere free of this dark place, that that world is not for you. That you belong out of sight, in the darkness. As you think of giving in, of stopping your struggle to let the chain pulling you take its course, one last flicker of clarity does emerge, and you wonder how many times this has happened, and for what reason it continues to happen. What is the purpose of this lake, and why are you there? The chain pulls and pulls. You’re close to the bottom. With no air to breathe, surely you should be dead by now. And yet you live, trapped in this state of suffocation, desperate and denied the salvation of a single breath. Revolving slowly, your eyes catch a glimpse below of the thing that has ensnared you. Just a glimpse, a vague outline of the monstrous creature. Something that looks human. Eyes searing with hatred, a loathing that can never be undone. It grasps the chain, a murderous intensity in its eyes, in that grip, in every movement of it. This creature wants you dead. It wants nothing more than for you to end. This thing exists because you exist. Its life is tied undeniably to yours, and yet it wants you to die. It does not care, for its sole purpose in being is for you to suffer, and ultimately cease to be. To meet this creature, to descend to the bottom of this lake and stare into its pale face, is to mean your death. Until then, all your efforts will be distorted, reshaped into ridiculous failures unworthy of note. All your dreams will be taken from you, smothered in their cribs while you watch in silence. Perhaps you will fall to the lake’s bottom one day. Perhaps the monster will win in the end. But today the hook’s hold on you isn’t strong enough, and you slip free. Terror takes hold as you flail, scrambling back to the surface, to pull yourself out of this nightmare. The monster remains where it is, for it is patient and sure that one day it will have you. Your ascent from the terrible deep seems never-ending, and you are afraid the surface might have been something you dreamed a long time ago. Or that perhaps the darkness has irreversibly changed you in some way, spoiled you, and now you can never return. You don’t see the surface appear before you. There is no long and ardent journey towards some far-off light. One moment you’re still mired beneath, with the voices and whispers from the past pressing around your head, each getting its final say in before you pass from their domain. Each phantom grinning and chuckling at your pathetic motions. And then you are out, once again floating at the surface, without a splash or a loud gasp for air. You’re just back, like nothing had happened. The chill air drying your face is the only indication you ever left. No relief at your escape, no thankfulness to still be alive - your mind runs with one terrible certainty: It will happen again. Sooner or later there will be another hook, another chain, and you will be pulled under again. True escape will never be possible. You are trapped in this place, trapped in this cycle without end. No. A cycle with one end. The quiet is broken by your screams, the peaceful air filled with your wretched cries. There are people standing at the edge of the lake. You didn’t notice them before, but you see them now. How can they not see you? How does your screams, your thrashing, not get their attention? But they do see. They are not blind. All around the lake’s perimeter the people stand in silence, watching as you struggle, listening as you wail and cry, unable to save yourself. Some of the people have never swam these dark waters; others know the dangers. None can help. They’re all preoccupied, they have their own problems, and dreams. They don’t have time for yours. Some of the people leave, disappearing into the fog and the trees, perhaps to wander into lakes of their own one day. The others look away, and hope that your cries will end soon.


The day I was followed was like any other Thanksgiving Day - until it wasn’t. As was my ritual, I was out for a run. I never did the local turkey trot. I don’t run to make friends. I run for the quiet. For the meditative act of deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. For the puff of air in front of my face, like a personal storm, pent-up emotions melted to mist. For the crunch of leaves beneath the rubber soles of my sneakers. The bite of winter’s first frost on the tip of my nose. The dampness that gathers beneath my shirt, the wet sweat at my hairline. The steady heat from my heartbeat glowing in my chest. I never felt as alive as I did when I was on a trail, with pine trees around me like tall green sentinels and light slanting through branches as if the sun itself was sentient. When I left that morning, my husband said, “I really wish you wouldn’t run on Broken Rock Trail. You know how I feel about that place.” “That was a year ago,” I replied, sighing as I pulled my ponytail through the back of my baseball cap. “Nothing has happened since. Relax.” “They never caught the guy,” my husband reminded me, leaning against the kitchen counter in his boxer shorts, a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand. “No one ever proved there was a guy. Maybe it wasn’t a kidnapping.” I bent down to tie my shoes. A new pair, with fresh soles. They felt bouncy, ready to break in. “Perhaps she decided to disappear because her husband was driving her nuts.” “The family said that she ran that trail every day. Why on earth would she suddenly get lost?” “You’re overthinking it. Broken Rock has the best running trails in the area. I’m not staying home because there might be a lunatic,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. He smelled like toothpaste with a hint of spice, which I knew was the faint scent of his cologne left over from our date night. He put a muscled arm around my shoulders, pulled me into his chest. For a moment, I wanted to stay there. I could break in my new shoes another day and instead tumble back in bed, fall asleep after loving him, wake up with enough time to shower and fix my hair and pack the cooler with the pumpkin pies. “I love you,” he whispered. “And I love how strong you are. I know you can take care of yourself. But call me when you’re done, okay?” “You can always track me on Find my iPhone,” I point out. “If you’re that worried for no reason.” He smiled, kissed my forehead, pushed me away gently. “Have a good run, baby. I’ll be here when you get back.” *** I had planned on an hour of running, which was enough time to take me to Broken Rock, where I could pause, take a sip of water, and look at the view. For a while, I was completely alone, no one in the forest but chipmunks and sparrows and a single deer watching me with wide, black eyes from a copse of trees. I was surprised by another runner coming towards me on the trail, moving at a pace much faster than mine. He was tall and very lean, wearing a pair of polarized glasses, loose neon yellow shorts, and a gray quarter-zip jacket. He dipped his bald head, giving me the runner’s nod when he passed, recognition of a kindred spirit, a bolster of, “Hey, good job, we’re both out here doing a hard thing”. At least, that is what the runner’s nod usually means. It was hard to read him because of his big sunglasses, which I found odd. The morning was dappled and gray, and the sun was coming out only sparingly, teasing us. Not a day for running in sunglasses. To each their own, I guess , I thought, and pressed on, but there was a niggle in my mind. An unsettling. A change in the mood of the wood, like the man had shifted a piece of the peace. Even the wind paused, and maybe that was God, silencing the space so I could hear. But I didn’t need to hear the man’s footfalls to know he was following me. A woman doesn’t need to see danger to feel it. I wonder, sometimes, if we are born with this ability, or if the world builds it into us. Do our mothers teach us that we must be vigilant, or do we come out knowing that? Do we automatically understand that instinct can save us, but only if we are strong enough to listen to it? Fear taps like a finger on our backs, and it is only when you become a woman that you understand it is not to be shirked from. Look fear in the face, and she will help you. I turned around and saw the flash of neon yellow and the bright rainbow lenses of the polarized glasses. He was behind me, but not close, and that didn’t make any sense. My pace per mile was 11 minutes, 28 seconds. This man - this tall, lean man with light feet and sinewy legs - had been running much faster just minutes ago and going in the direction of the parking lot. Now, he was going in the direction of me, controlled and slow. Strategic. A hunter if I had ever seen one. Not safe not safe not safe. The words flooded my mind like a gush of water, a gush of panic that went cold and then hot, my body kicking on the adrenaline like it knew I needed gas. Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. I must not look afraid. Predators like easy prey. I dared to take another glance back. He was keeping his distance, still. He wasn’t ready to pounce. Not yet. We were likely too close to the trailhead, or not near enough to where he wanted me. I would never be able to outrun this man. God gave women bodies capable of miracles, but speed is not one of them, not when matched with the biology of a male. So, if we cannot be faster, we must be smarter. Stronger of mind. I love how strong you are. My husband was waiting for me. I remembered this, and something clicked inside. I would not die in these woods. I would not let this man take me, as he probably did to the woman a year ago, the woman I did not want to believe went missing. How absurd of me to think she ever got lost. Women don’t lose themselves. Men take us. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He was getting closer. *** I slid my phone from my pocket to make the call to Emergency Services. But terror bloomed in my chest as I looked at the black screen and realized my error, my possibly fatal error. Last night, when I fell asleep - I was tired and forgot to plug it in, my husband’s pet peeve. I had noticed the low battery in the car, but because I wasn’t running with music, and I knew this trail by heart, it didn’t matter. The phone was only there just in case. You idiot, my brain tells me, but I shout back, Not now. There will be time for self-deprecation later, if we survive this. Right now, you need to think. Think . I was now at the bottom of the small, steep incline leading to Broken Rock. If I could just get up there before him - even by seconds - I would have the advantage. It was an uneven and rocky climb, but I knew I could do it quickly if I pushed myself. If I called on that thing we call Grit, the deep and powerful strength that lies dormant until we are faced with a challenge that requires us to reach down inside ourselves with a claw and scrape at the edges of our limits. He was now close enough so I could hear his steps and breaths. Still running slower than he could, because I was apparently not worth the energy. Good. Let him think me slow and weak. I wouldn’t be surprised if Broken Rock was the place he planned to break me. I waited until I was halfway up the incline to make my move, to give him the least amount of time to outpace me. A look back told me that he was near the bottom, just starting the climb. I took my chance and sprinted, which I knew meant he would sprint, too - prey runs when it is afraid. My lungs burned and every tendon in my legs screamed as I ran, dodging slippery leaves and thick roots and hidden stones. But I knew where all the holes were, so I made it without tripping, and then I made a sharp left to conceal myself behind the bush at the top of the trail, where the path turned into nothing but a smooth boulder. I did not have time to catch my breath, only time to reach down for a rock. The man emerged from the trees a second later, a disturbing sense of urgency emanating from him. There was a small, expectant smile on his lips as he scanned the boulder, looking for me. My guts twisted as I realized how right my instinct was. I slammed the rock against the side of his head just as he found me. The force knocked him to the ground, and I hit him again for good measure, blood pooling along his skull and dripping into his ear. His glasses fell and their perfect, clean lenses cracked. He moaned and moved. Not dead. And neither was I. I didn’t think about the possibility of him standing up as I sprinted back down the hill. I ran as fast as I could to the parking lot, my muscles crying out and my breath short, my body more tired, I think, from the fear than from the run. The adrenaline kept me going until I got to the parking lot. My car was still in its spot, next to a blue Toyota Prius. The rest of the lot was empty, so I took a pen from my glove compartment and scribbled the license plate number on the back of an old receipt. I turned my car on and drove home with shaking hands. It was there that I collapsed on the kitchen floor, causing my husband to drop his breakfast plate. The white ceramic shattered, the shards mixing with remnants of runny bright eggs and golden hash browns and thick ketchup so red that I vomited. He bent down and cradled me. What happened what happened what happened? “Call the police,” I gasped through tears. “You were right, baby. Call them and send them to Broken Rock.” *** They found the blood but not the man. At least, not that day. They tracked the license plate to an owner, and then the owner to an address, and when they visited the house, a man with a bandage across the left side of his head answered the door. He said he fell in the shower. They showed me his picture, and when I confirmed it was him, they got a warrant and searched the property. I wish it had all happened faster because locked in the guest room they found her. Alyssa Evans, age 26, missing for one year. Alive. In the spring, she wrote me a letter. Asked to meet for coffee. In person, she looked better than the photos the media had used, which had shown a pale, fragile, bony woman with sunken gray eyes and thin hair pulled into a ponytail. Her face had filled out, there was color in her cheeks, and her blonde hair was bright again. It had looked white in the news. “I admit that I don’t really know what to say,” she said when I sat down across from her. She pushed a latte towards me, plus a blueberry muffin, a chocolate croissant, and a sausage egg sandwich. “I didn’t know what you like, so I just... I bought everything. I know that breakfast food is not enough, but I don’t know how else to say thank you.” She smiled softly, sweetly, and I saw the open, young girl she was before Broken Rock. Saw that her eyes were blue, not gray. “Food is my love language,” she added. “Mine, too,” I said and accepted it all. We ate in silence for a few moments. I had decided to let her talk when she was ready. I certainly didn’t know what to say. I’ve had nightmares every night since Thanksgiving didn’t seem helpful or appropriate. I use drugs to sleep because when I close my eyes I see his face seemed even worse. When she finished her muffin, she looked out the window. “I haven’t gone running since he took me,” she whispered. “Neither have I.” We met eyes, and I reached my hand across the table to cover hers. “Run with me?” she whispered, her face pleading and grieving, and I understood the desperation, because without running I am a shell, too. We met the next day at the trailhead. We took the first step together. We ran slow and steady and strong until we stood on Broken Rock. In through the nose, out through the mouth.


The song Shoot To Thrill plays, we’re in some sort of venue as on a main stage scantily clad women dance along to the music as pyrotechnics fly into the sky. As suddenly the man of the hour arrives just in time to the beat of the song. The Iron Warden flies in from the sky as the crowd seems to come alive to this as they cheer him on. Coming out of his suit he puts on his shades as the suit dances behind him. “How’s everyone doing today! I just wanted to thank you all for coming to the convention! Now let’s get this party on the road!” The Iron Warden laughs as he begins to walk around on stage to the cries of the people. Staring from a table with a glass in my hand, I watch him walk away as I prop up my collar as I walk away. I hear the murmurs of the old businessmen and military officials around me. “Jesus Christ, did he really bring his groupies to an arms convention?”, “Eh, it could have been better. Craftsmen, brought supermodels to theirs. That was a night to remember.”, “He’s going to need a lot more ‘convincing’ for me to offer him a new contract.”. Walking towards the exit I try to keep a straight face, as the Iron Warden starts to walk off stage. Suddenly, the Iron Warden’s head explodes. **No More Heroes.** Driving on the way, we’re greeted to the crew. At the driver seat we have Steven who’s busy looking at the road beside him is Marcos who’s looking at a map guiding him as behind them are Deon and Nova. They’re driving an early 00s model SUV, using the basics, road maps and their personal notebooks, no personal electronics. Turning his attention from the window, Deon looks over at the front. “So, who’s next?” Steven looks at him through the rear view mirror, Deon gives him a serious look. “It’s better if you don’t know.” Steven replies. “So it’s him, America’s sweetheart.” Staring out the opposite window, Nova scoffs. Marcos looks over at the radio as he turns it on. Tuning it to the news. “The Iron Warden was shot dead last night during the annual Iron Convention marking the 10th year since the resistance against the Alien Invasion. At this time, the terrorist organization known as Red Cell has taken credit for the action. With us right now is a statement from their supreme commander, Rhi’ Lago. Humans! Your time on this earth has come to an unfortunate end! While you may be safe under the command of the interplanetary alliance, know that at any moment we may strike you and your heroes!” Deon begins to laugh. “Turn that bullshit off.” Marcos glances over at Deon with a smile. “Why? Afraid of Red Cell? That the Chupacabra is going to get you?” He laughs. “Man, shut up before I slap you.” Deon mutters. “Relax, it was just a joke.” Steven looks over at the radio turning it off. He starts to slow down the car. “Hey, I was still listening to that.” Marcos looks over at Steven. “We’re here.” Steven says as he stops on the side of the highway. Steven looks around at them. Walking in the forest, the group looks around at the situation. It’s just the three of them, Steven, Marcos and Deon. They walk around on the forest floor, as leaves litter the ground, scanning around methodically as they approach. The sun is setting as the birds can be heard chirping along with the cries of other woodland creatures. “Alright, I’ve reached the top of the mountain. I’m on overwatch. Send the signal.” Nova’s voice can be heard over a radio. Deon turns around as he begins to shine a laser on and off repeatedly in the sky. He walks backwards as he does, while Marcos and Steven continue to scan their surroundings. “I have eyesight on you, proceed as planned over.” Deon turns around, putting away the laser, he continues to follow in step with Marcos and Steven. Who have stopped just ahead. A log cabin is in the distance as smoke can be seen plumbing from the top of its chimney. Marcos clicks his radio. “Nova, see anything inside?” “Nothing, near the windows. Switching to thermal, looks clear from here.” Marcos looks over at Steven who nods at him. They silently approach the cabin as Steven signals to Deon to cover the back entrance way. Approaching the windows, Marcos peaks inside, it’s almost pitch black inside. They wait as if trying to hear for anything at all. But it’s dead silent. Steven thinks to himself as Marcos looks over, shaking his head. “I don’t like this.” Marcos mutters. Clicking on the radio, Steven says. “Deon, anything on your end?” “No, it’s empty.”. Steven heads towards the doorway, turning the knob it opens. The door creaks as he slowly opens it up. Walking inside he looks around. There’s dust on the shelves next to him. He lowers his gun as Marcos enters behind him. Steven signals all clear. “Fuck! It’s a dead end.” Marcos says as he walks out. Undeterred, Steven looks around inside stopping at a small kitchen, he notices a series of letters inside. He picks one up looking at it, it’s fan mail, setting it down he inspects the others. One of them is a few days old. Marcos walks towards the door. “Hey! If you’re done, let’s head out.” “Wait.” Steven clicks on his radio. “Nova, check the parameter.” “What am I looking for?” “Anything out of the ordinary.” Steven walks back towards Marcos with the letter, he hands it to him. “What’s this? Fan mail? Dying cancer patient? Don’t show me this.” Marcos drops the letter. Steven raises his eyebrows as he looks at the recently burnt out fire. “He was here recently.” “And we just missed him-” “I got something, looks like there’s some smoke in the distance but I can’t see anything else from my position, I’m going to have to move.” Nova replies. “Roger, get to a more suitable position. Over.” Steven walks out the door with Marcos. Deon is waiting for them near a tree as he looks over at them, he walks in line with them. Deon looks over at Steven. “Think it’s the captain?” “You think that it could be anyone else?” Steven replies. Deon doesn’t reply, as he cocks his gun. “Puta madre, I trusted him. We all trusted him.” Marcos spits on the ground. The walk is silent as from time to time they look around in the forest, but it’s empty. Deon breaks the silence. “Think the other groups have made any progress?” “It’s hard to tell. We can only hope the other regions were as prepared for this as we were. Only time will tell. We can always lend a helping hand.” Steven replies. “If we’re still alive by then.” Marcos mutters. On the radio, static plays. “I have eyes on the target, should I engage?” Nova says. “No, I want to talk to him first.” Steven replies. In the distance, we see the campsite, sitting in front of a fire, The Captain waits with a kite shield laying beside the fire. He’s suited up in red white and blue as he slowly turns a handle which roasts a rabbit attached to a line. “I’ve been waiting for you to arrive.” The Captain says not even turning to look at them. The boys come to a stop in front of the camp. “To be honest, I wasn’t surprised when I heard the news. There aren’t that many people in this would with your particular set of skills. The Captain sighs. Taking the roasted rabbit with one of hands, he takes a bite out of it. “Betrayed by my own countrymen.” “You’re the one to talk.” Marcos replies. The Captain looks over at Marcos and scoffs. “Well, I wasn’t talking about you, or the other one.” The Captain and Steven’s eyes meet, Marcos reaches for a grenade as Steven stops him. The Captain laughs as he continues to eat his rabbit. “Looks like you have a good leash on your dogs.” Steven raises his eyebrows. “Why’d you do it?” Steven asks. “Do I really have to tell you? Everyone else was doing it. Is there really anything else you really need to know?” Steven clenches his fist. “Ah, there’s the Steven I know. Maybe if you stood up for yourself more, you could have saved her. But you’re just like me, like the rest of you dogs. Always failing when it counts.” The Captain throws the bone away in their direction. He stands up, grabbing his shield. A sniper bullet grazes him on the check as the wound begins to regenerate on itself. He touches his cheek as he puts the blood onto his shield. “Looks like the team’s all here. Good, that’ll make cleaning this up easier.” The Captain smiles. Almost instantaneously, The Captain cuts the distance between them in half. They spring into action, Deon provides suppressing fire as Marcos reaches for a hand grenade. Steven runs in front to try to grapple The Captain. “You’re out of your league!”. The Captain shouts. The Captain shield bashes Steven as he flies backwards. A flashbang lands directly beneath The Captain’s feet, seeing it he tries to cover it with his foot, it’s too late. The grenade goes off as the sound rings in his ears. Deon is able to take a volley of rounds into his chest as The Captain moves to cover it. The Captain screams out. Steven gets on his feet, as Marcos looks over at him with a grenade launcher now in his hands. Seeing The Captain look up from his shield, Marcos shoots the first grenade out. It’s high explosive as it connects with the shield forcing him to his knees. Taking the opportunity, Steven takes out a unique sledgehammer with a rocket attached to the end, he runs towards The Captain who remains staggered as he tries to force himself up. Steven swings the hammer onto the shield as the sheer force causes a shockwave. Quickly, The Captain latches onto Steven as a body bag and throws him with a single hand to the side. Steven screams as his body connects with a tree this time. The Captain checks his body to see it full of bullet wounds and holes. Blood drips out as the bits and shards of the bullets are forced out of his body. “Hollow point, huh? So this was your plan!?” The Captain shouts. He presses a button on his suit as a red liquid lines into his body at a rapid rate. As the gunfire stops, The Captain attempts to approach, the second grenade escapes from the launcher, this time The Captain catches it mid air. He laughs as he does. Inspecting it, the grenade begins to twirl. It explodes. We see parts of The Captain’s exposed skull as napalm continuously burns and regenerates parts of it. He immediately moves to cover his face with his shield as a sniper bullet connects with the upper part of the shield. “Not bad, but not good enough. Nova!” The Captain shouts out. Deon continues his suppressive fire. “You’re too predictable. Have none of you learned anything!?” The Captain shouts frustrated. The Captain tries to run forward as Nova shoots him in the leg immobilizing him, lowering his stance, he slowly methodically makes his way over as Deon and Marcos move in tandem at a constant distance away. Again, Deon is forced to reload as The Captain baits another round from Marcos. This time, Marcos shoots off an entire barrage. The Captain isn’t phased as he crouches down. “I’ve brought enough blood and marrow to last me for weeks, at this rate you’ll be out of ammo before the sunsets! I’ll make it quick if you drop them now!” The gunfire continues. This time, The Captain rushes straight at Deon, grabbing ahold of him with his spare arm, he holds up his shield with the other. As he does another sniper bullet flies towards him as the shield stands strong. “When I took you in, you had something to prove. Now look at you, is this really all that you are!?” The Captain learns in, staring directly into Deon’s eyes, Deon looks away. Deon laughs. “Look at me!” Suddenly from behind him, Steven slams his hammer into his life systems as the rocket causes the support system to burst, marrow and all flooding out. The Captain looks back at Steven in shock as he takes out a pistol and shoots both of his legs causing him to fall to his knees. The Captain stares at Steven. Who’s pointed the handgun at his skull. He closes his eyes. “Do it.” *Bang.* The Captain opens his eyes as he looks around in surprise. Steven takes out a blood pack handing it to him. “Why?” The others seem apprehensive about it but look towards The Captain. “In a world with no heroes, all we can do is make our own.” A tear falls from The Captain's eyes as he looks at Steven, thinking for a moment, he takes the bag. “How many others are there?” “Enough.


"Help Wanted", the sign read. I stopped and pulled my earbuds out, the vaguely death metal music fading as the music left my ears. I peered through the shop's large front window, squinting to see against the glare on the glass. It looked like an ordinary shop. From what I could see the shelves against one wall were lined with random oddities. The opposite wall was lined with glassware of all shapes and sizes. Must be a pawn shop, I thought and looked up at the sign over the door. Sure enough, it named the place "Jerry's Thrift." I shrugged and put my earbuds back in, starting to shuffle on down the sidewalk, but something pulled me back to the shop before I had gotten more than a few steps. I'm not really sure how long I stood there and stared at the door before I finally reached out and pushed it open, stepping into the shop. The little bell above the door jangled out a merry greeting, causing a pretty brunette woman in a dark green sundress behind the counter at the far end of the store to look up from her phone and smile. "Welcome to Jerry's," she said convivially. "Just let me know if you need help finding anything." A couple of the half dozen other customers looked toward me as well. I shuffled around the shop for a few minutes, pretending to look at this knick knack or that. Why was I so nervous? I was just going to get an application to get my parents off my back about finding a job, and then leave. Finally, I steeled myself and approached the counter. Again the woman looked up from her phone. I could see that she was playing some mobile game. "Hi there," she said with a beautiful, enchanting smile. "What can I help you with?" "Um," I said quietly, "I saw the 'Help Wanted' sign on the window. I was just wondering if I could get an application." The woman regarded me with a look of concentration and looked me up and down for a minute, seeming to size me up from my half-untied converse sneakers to my scraggly red hair. Without warning, she turned her head and shouted toward a door that led to what I assumed was the stockroom. "Jerry," she called, "there's a young man that would like to speak to you." "No, no," I replied with a nervous, forced smile. "I don't need to talk to anyone. I'll just take an application." "Oh, we don't have applications," the woman said, turning her attention back to her phone. "My husband will be out in a moment to speak to you." I considered leaving right then, but again there was that pull, and I found that I couldn't make my feet move. As the woman had promised, within a couple of minutes a large, fit man emerged from the back room. He stood about six and a half feet tall with wide shoulders. A brown goatee peppered with gray adorned his chin and mouth, and his dark brown eyes regarded me appraisingly. "Hello," he said in a voice much higher and lighter than his build would have suggested, "I'm Jerry. What can I do for you?" I couldn't tell if it was the way he held himself with confidence, or the kindness in his eyes, but suddenly my worries were all but gone. "I uh," I started to stammer out. I met his eyes and abruptly the words rushed out of me. "I saw the sign in the window and thought I would check to see if you still needed help." Jerry smiled suddenly and nodded. "Certainly," he said. "Would you mind coming into the back with me?" He must have sensed my trepidation returning. "Nothing to worry about, son. Just a quick interview. I don't like applications and resumes; I prefer to interview anyone who inquires immediately." I found myself nodding slowly and started to follow him toward the back. He led me to a small table off to one side of the storeroom and motioned for me to sit. "Coffee?" he asked, pouring himself a cup from a coffee pot on the small table. It smelled good, but I shook my head. "No thank you, Sir," I said. "None of that 'Sir' stuff, please," Jerry said and took the seat across from me. "Call me Jerry." I nodded a bit woodenly and looked down at the table top. "What's your name?" "I'm Chris," I said. "Chris Manfeld." "If it's not too much trouble, Chris," Jerry said gently, "would you mind looking at me while we talk?" "I'm sorry," I said, lifting my gaze to meet his. "I have pretty bad social anxiety." "I hadn't noticed," the other man chuckled, a slight twinkle in his eyes. "Nothing to worry about. Plenty of our kind have it. It's not exactly conducive to business as usual, but it's not a deal breaker." He seemed to be talking more to himself than me, and he smiled wide when he noticed the confusion on my face. He waved away the unspoken question with his free hand and took a sip of his coffee, making a face. "Be glad you refused. Been sitting in the pot too long." He set the cup aside and regarded me silently for a moment. "Tell me a bit about yourself, Chris." "I'm not sure what you want to know," I replied and ran a hand through my hair. He merely stared at me, waiting. "I'm nineteen. I live with my parents. They're the reason I stopped in. They've been hounding me to either get a job or go to school, and I just don't feel like college is for me." "It's not for everyone," Jerry said, nodding slightly. "Any reason you chose my store specifically?" "Not really," I said, considering. "I was on my way to the arcade and saw the sign. Something called me in here, I guess. I know that sounds dumb." "Not at all," Jerry replied. "The universe is full of forces that push or pull us this way or that all the time. And no I'm not some crazy person who believes in the alignment of the stars affecting our ultimate destiny or anything like that." The thought had only been halfway through my head. "Do you have any special requirements? What times are you available?" "I don't think so," I said. "I'm available pretty much all the time. I don't really do anything." Jerry stared at me for several long minutes before slapping a hand on the table, causing me to jump. "Well, you'll do just fine for our nefarious purposes." He gave me a wink and a smile and stood. He offered me a hand which I shook with a nervous laugh. "Come on. I'll get you properly introduced to Mare." I stood, a bit bewildered, and followed him back out into the front of the store. The first thing I noticed was that the sun was starting to sink below the horizon. It had been just a bit before noon when I came in here, hadn't it? The store was empty and the door appeared to be locked now. "Well, you boys were certainly back there for a long time," the woman previously behind the counter, now sweeping the floor, said without looking up. "Can I take that as a good sign?" "Yes," Jerry said, "I think he'll do nicely." He turned to me and then motioned to the woman. "Chris, this is my wife Marielle. She and I run this shop together. Mare, this is Chris. Can you get him all the legal paperwork?" Marielle put her broom aside and moved behind the counter. She seemed almost to float across the floor like a spectre. Reaching under the counter, she opened a filing cabinet and produced a stack of papers. She put them on the counter and pushed them toward me with one of the most enchanting smiles I'd ever seen. "This is just the normal stuff," she said. "1040, W2, release form, consent to background check, direct deposit form, et cetera. Take these home and fill them out. Bring them back with your ID and social security card on Monday at 8:30 and we'll get you started. Did Jerry mention anything about pay?" "No," I said, turning to look at the man only to find that he was gone, disappeared back into the storeroom presumably. "Where'd he go?" "Of course he didn't," she said, rolling her eyes. "He does that from time to time. Just wanders off. Well you'll start at fifteen an hour, with full-time hours and full benefits. That's all laid out in the packet I gave you there. After a probationary period, if Jerry decides to keep you on you'll get a five dollar per hour raise." I stared at her stupidly, my mouth hanging open. "What's wrong?" "Nothing," I said. "It's just...that much? With benefits? What will I be doing?" "The usual stuff," she said, her smile widening. "Stocking shelves, sweeping up, keeping up the back room." After a few more minutes of her explaining what the job would entail she asked, "So, do you have any questions?" "How long does the probationary period last?" I asked. "That depends entirely on you, Hon," she said with a knowing smile. "Jerry will know when you're ready. I know this is probably a lot to take in. Are you okay?" "Yeah," I said, still awestruck by just how generous my new employers were, and the whole experience in general. She nodded and extended a hand to me. I reached out and shook it firmly. Something strange passed through me in that moment, like a tingling all through my body. Marielle pulled me into a firm hug. "Welcome to the family, Chris," she said. "It'll be nice to have some fresh meat for the grinder around here." She pushed me out to arms length and chuckled. "Just a joke." I smiled, the first genuine smile since I had walked into the store. Marielle let me out the front door, the sun nearly entirely below the horizon now, and waved goodbye as I started for home. * * * The next couple of months went by smoothly. I learned how to do everything in the store except run the register, which I was told only Marielle did. Every day was pretty much the same, but I didn't mind. It was steady, good work and amazing pay. My parents were off my back, and I had started saving money to get myself a car and possibly move out of my parents' house. Best of all, Jerry and Mare were amazing. Mare greeted me every morning with a cup of coffee and a box of donuts from the bakery across the street. Jerry always asked how I was doing and made a point to make sure I was comfortable with the work I was doing. After a few weeks, I started to notice something a bit odd. Not only were there few repeat customers, but I never once saw payment of any kind change hands. Anyone who came in to purchase items simply signed a receipt and left with their items. At first I shrugged it off and minded my own business, but after two months of having never seen anyone pay for anything, I was starting to get a little freaked out. I finally decided to ask Jerry about it. "Oh, our customers don't pay with money," Jerry said with a broad grin, looking down at me expectantly. I cocked my head to the side and looked at my employer quizzically. I could tell that he was waiting for me to ask what he meant, but I had this strange feeling that I didn't really want the answer to that question. I found my mouth opening to ask it all the same. "You've been working here for a couple of months, right?" Jerry asked before I could say anything. I nodded and he rubbed at his goatee, his eyes pondering as he looked down at me. His presence made me suddenly feel far shorter despite there being only inches difference between us. He turned to Mare where she sat at the cash register as always. "Mare, mind the front would you? I'm going to show Chris the office." The woman looked up from the game she was playing on her phone and smiled knowingly. "Is it that time already?" she asked. "Yeah, I think so," Jerry responded and turned toward the back of the store, motioning for me to follow without another word. "Have fun, Sweetheart," she said to me, also waving for me to follow her husband. Something in the deepest part of me told me to run, get out the door and never come back. Sure, these two had been nothing but amazing to me for the last two months, but something felt off about this whole thing suddenly. My feet started to move toward the back room as if under their own power. I followed Jerry through the storeroom, which suddenly seemed darker and more bleak than before, back toward his office. I'd never been this far back into the building before. It simply wasn't allowed. The older man took a set of keys off of his belt and they jangled as he unlocked the office door. I don't know what I was expecting, but it just looked like a normal office to me. He ushered me in and then used the same keyring to unlock a filing cabinet. "Have a seat there," he said. I took the chair he had offered in a daze as he pulled a file folder from the cabinet and handed it to me. "Open it up and tell me what you see." I did so. Inside the folder were hundreds of receipts, some dating back as far as ten years. It didn't seem possible so many could fit in this tiny folder. "They're..." I started to say and paused to turn a few over in my hand. "They're just receipts from the store." "Right," Jerry said, "but look closer." I did. I poured over every inch of several of the receipts, but saw nothing different. "Like I said," I told him, "they're receipts." He rubbed at his chin again and studied me a moment before taking a seat on the edge of his desk and crossing his arms over his chest. "Well," he said, a bit of consternation in his voice, "I know I didn't misread you. It must not have manifested yet." He held his hand out for the folder, which I gave to him hastily, and he removed a single receipt, holding it up for me to see. "I'm a sorcerer. So are you." I gaped at him. "What?" I said, nervous and disbelieving laughter in my tone. "That’s impossible. There's no such thing as sorcerers and magic. And I'm pretty sure I would know if I was one." He simply smiled and shook his head. "Not necessarily," he said. "If you haven't hit your breaking point yet, then you wouldn't have manifested. You see, I hired you to take over this store when I'm gone. Our business is kindness." Apparently, I still had a slack-jawed look on my face because he continued. "On every one of these receipts is imprinted a magical contract. When it's signed, the contract goes into effect." "What does the contract do?" I asked against my better judgment. "For that matter, if it's magical shouldn't people be signing in blood or something?" My employer let out a hearty chuckle and shook his head once more. "Gods no, son," he said. "I'm no Warlock, and you've seen too many movies. A simple signature will do, but it has to be given freely. The contract is simply a minor compulsion spell that compels the subject to do one random act of kindness per day." I thought about that for a moment, staring at the folder in his hands. "If you're wondering if the customers know, they don't. They know there's something odd about it, but they're pretty sure it isn't nefarious, as we've been around for almost two and a half decades now. I don't think any of them know it's magic." "Why?" I asked. I had meant to say something eloquent and meaningful, but that was all that would come out. "I told you. Our business is kindness. I woke one day, shortly after realizing my full potential as a sorcerer, and decided I didn't like the state the world was in. What was I to do about it? Did I go about killing people who did bad things? No. That would make me worse than the atrocities I wanted to get rid of. When I met Mare, she knew me for what I was. She's not a sorcerer herself, but her mother was, and she's sensitive to magical energies. I told her on our third date that I wanted to make the world a better place. I had already sort of worked out the idea of the contract, but the shop was her idea." "That’s like rape!" I blurted without thinking, pointing at the folder. He cocked an eyebrow at me, but didn't rush to defend himself, so I pressed on. "Let’s say that I believe you. Let’s say that I believe in magic. What you’re doing...you're taking away people's free will." "Oh?" he said, not seeming the least bit ruffled. "How am I taking away free will?" "Your spell forces people to do something they might not otherwise want to do. Kindness means nothing unless you have the free will to choose to do it." "I told you, son. The customers know there's something strange going on here, but they come in anyway. I merely use the inherent greed of the human condition to do my job for me. I don't use magic to make them come into the shop. I don't force them to sign the receipt. Besides, the compulsion wears off after a few weeks. By that time, most people are so addicted to the warm and fuzzies that come with helping someone just to help them that they continue doing good without being compelled." "Again, let's pretend for a minute that I believe you," I said warily, choosing my words very carefully. "Let's say that you are a sorcerer and all of this is legitimate. How can you claim you don't use magic to force people to come in?" "Because I don't," Jerry replied with a confused look on his face. "You did it to me," I said, heat creeping into my voice. "The day I came in here to get an application, I almost walked right by. Something pulled me back." "Okay," the other man said, understanding now. "That wasn't me. You were drawn to me, sure, but it was my magical presence that brought you in. It wasn't some evil spell that did that. Like I told you that day, the universe has a way of guiding us in the right direction." I sat in stunned silence for a moment, and felt my anger receding. I didn't want to believe any of this, but I knew he was telling the truth. "It still isn't right," I said, my earlier conviction waning. "It still seems wrong somehow." "Look," Jerry said, suddenly very serious, "what I do here doesn't hurt anyone. No one is rushing to give their life savings to a charity or jumping in front of trains to save lives. It's simple stuff, like holding the door for someone or paying a dollar and change to buy coffee for the person behind them in line at the gas station. When I started my work, this town was miserable with angry and hurting people. In the twenty-four years since those doors first opened, people have become kinder to each other, and our little town has become a place where people want to live to get away from the hatred and violence of the big cities." When he had finished, I just sat there, staring at the floor. My head was starting to hurt. Part of me wanted to be angry at this man that I had started to like so much, but what he was saying made so much sense. Who was really getting hurt in all this? No one. After several minutes of silence, I felt his hand on my shoulder and looked up to see him crouching in front of me. "Do me a favor," he said. I nodded. "Take the rest of the day and the weekend off. Mare and I can manage without you. If you still feel so strongly that what I'm doing is wrong come Monday, don't come in. I'll pay you two months wages for your troubles and you can find yourself a different job." "And if I do come back?" I asked. "When you come back," he said, emphasizing that he knew my mind was already made up, "we'll start trying to break you so that power of yours can manifest. After that, I'll start teaching you how to run this place properly. Like I said, I want you to take over for me when I'm gone." "Why me specifically?" I asked. "Mare and I can't have kids of our own," he replied. A small, soft sadness briefly took his eyes, but it was gone the next instant. "So I need a protege to keep my good work going, and you just happened to be the first one to apply for the job in whom I saw some good. There were a few other sorcerers who applied before you, but I sensed a darkness deep in them just waiting to be let out. I can't have that be the legacy I leave behind. So here you are." He stood and offered me a hand. After a quick consideration, I took it and rose from the chair slowly. When I reached the door to the office, I turned. "You're sure this is okay?" I asked. "Been doing it for over two decades, son," he replied. "People in this town have never been happier." A thought struck me as I turned to leave again. "One last thing. If no one pays for anything, how can you afford to stay open? How can you afford to pay me for that matter?" "I was wondering when you would ask that," the older man chuckled. "Nothing evil going on there, either. I sell my magical abilities to a very small, select client base on the side. People with money who want a quick heartburn remedy, or potion to make their roses grow stronger and healthier. You'd be surprised how much people will pay for simple things like that." I considered a moment before nodding, and left without another word. When I returned to work on Monday, it was with a renewed vigor for life and what was to come. Marielle poured me my cup of black coffee and handed me a donut, and Jerry and I retired to the stockroom to start breaking my walls as Master Sorcerer and Apprentice. * * * It had been twenty years since I started working at the shop, and another year since Jerry had sadly passed due to a massive stroke, leaving the shop to me. I could tell Mare still held sadness at her husband's sudden passing, but she insisted on continuing to work the cash register. She still had a cup of coffee and a box of donuts waiting for me every morning. My own wife, while having no problem with our business, had decided to go a different route and worked as a veterinarian a few blocks away. She and Mare got along very well. One night as I was doing evening inventory, the doorbell jangled merrily to announce that we had a customer. "I'm sorry," Mare said. "We were just closing up. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow." "Oh," I heard a young woman's voice say from where I was working. "I was hoping to get an application. I saw the sign in the window." "Chris," Mare called to me, "there's a lovely young lady here to see you." I emerged from the store room and sized up the girl. She was probably no older than I had been when I had started working here. The magical presence surrounding her was astoundingly powerful, but fuzzy like a blunted axe. I led her, Katie, into the back room and interviewed her briefly before making an easy decision. When we both returned to the front of the store, I nodded to Mare, who smiled that knowing smile of hers. "Mare," I said, "this is Katie. Katie, this is my employee and friend Marielle." The women greeted each other. "Mare, could you get Katie here the employment packet? She can start Monday." Mare just nodded again and reached into that same old filing cabinet under the counter as I turned and headed back into the storeroom to finish up inventory.


The students of Stephan Pastis Junior High School awoke with excitement. On the first Friday of every month, their principal, Mr. Conqueso, scheduled fantastic assemblies. Last month they saw an abbreviated rendition of the show, “Cats” performed by the members of the Sunnyside Retirement Community. A couple of months before that, the rock band, “Midnight Oil,” played for forty-five minutes. What would this month bring? Social media buzzed with rumors and innuendo. One student claimed that the great-grandson of President William McKinley would be in attendance. Another student said he overheard Mr. Collins and Ms. Leatherbelt talking about Shaft. Billy Clemantine swore that Principal Conqueso had booked the Kool-Aid Man to burst through the walls. Billy had zero credibility. So when Vice Principal Chowders clicked on the PA signaling it was time, a cheer erupted on all three floors of the building. Hell, even the teachers were smiling. Sure, some were happy to get out of teaching, but they were excited nevertheless! The faculty and administration stood in the aisles, directing traffic as students maneuvered to sit next to their best friends or significant others. They knew the drill by now, the faster they sat down, the faster the show would begin. Finally, after the last student had found his seat, Principal Conqueso appeared on the stage. As was his habit, he adjusted his tie before speaking. “Good Morning, Rats!” “Good Morning, Principal Conqueso!” “Before we get to the main event, I have a couple of announcements. Tickets to next week’s dance are still on sale outside of the cafeteria. They’re only five dollars! If you have any questions, please see Professora Biftec.” Professora Biftec stood up and waved her hand, in case there was any question of who to see. “Also, we’re still collecting for the canned food drive. We want to beat last year’s record of forty-nine cans, so please remember to bring one in. It could be a can of corn, or potatoes, or string beans, or carrots, or turnips, or salsa, or tuna fish or beans or...” Principal Conqueso looked down at the first row and saw Vice Principal Chowders laughing and let out a laugh of his own. “Or even a can of clam chowder. Are we good?” “Yes!” “Now, as you know, I put a lot of thought into these assemblies. I want them to be fun, and I want to trick you into learning something too! But of all the assemblies I’ve ever booked at Stephan Pastis Junior High, this might be the most important. I’m sure some of you are well aware of how there is a scourge running through our community right now. It’s a problem that’s getting out of hand, and I want to make sure the students who attend this school are not only informed but also alert of the dangers that are out on the streets.” The students who were already sitting up were now coming out of their chairs. Danger? What did Principal Conqueso have in mind today? “So let’s give a warm Stephan Pastis welcome! Are we ready, Marv?” Principal Conqueso looked to the side of the stage to see Marv giving him the thumbs up. The stage lights went down, and a spotlight scanned the room. Suddenly pyro went off on both sides of the stage, and the cheerful tones of U2, “A Beautiful Day,” blasted out of the speakers. The kids were cheering, and they had no idea why! The spotlight continued to circle until it stopped on a man coming out from behind the curtain. He looked to be in his early twenties, dressed in a purple cardigan and tan Dockers. He jumped up and down, then ran back and forth on the stage, causing the students to scream. At once, he stopped and shot his right index finger high into the air. He let out a primal, “WOOOOO!” and his cry echoed courtesy of a nifty headset. “Stephan Pastis Junior High! Are you ready?” The students cheered. “No, no, no. I said, are you ready?” More screams, some students stood up to make their voices louder. “I know you can do better than that! One last time. Stephan Pastis Junior High...I said...ARE...YOU...REEEEEADDDDDDY????!!!” The sound coming from the seats suggested that yes, the students were ready. More ready than they’ve ever been in their entire lives. “DON’T SAY YES TO SPS!” For the second time, the young man pointed to the sky, and pyro went off on both sides of the stage. Then, the lights cut out, and the auditorium was in complete darkness. “Coolest assembly ever,” Dave Millman yelled out to no one in particular. When the lights came back up, a man and a woman dressed as typical junior high students were walking across the stage. He had a flat-brimmed Oklahoma City Thunder hat and Criss Cross clothing. She had her hair in a ponytail and wore overalls with only the right strap buttoned. The kids saw mirror images of themselves and felt instantly at ease. “Hey Alice, have you heard the latest from Nelly? He’s lit.” “Yeah, Ted. He keeps it 100.” The kids knowingly nodded their heads. Ted stopped walking and took Alice’s hand. “You know what else keeps it 100 Alice? SPS.” Alice looked out at the crowd and paused. “I don’t know Ted, that sounds dangerous.” “C’mon, Alice, all the cool kids are doing it.” “Well, ...what’s SPS?” “Let me show you.” Ted and Alice walked to the front of the stage and came across a sleeping puppy all stretched out. “Awww, is that a golden retriever?” Alice put her hands over her mouth and AWWed. The entire audience AWWed back. “Not just a golden retriever, a puppy.” The students AWWed even louder. “Best of all, he’s sleeping.” Even Principal Conqueso was AWWing. “Well, he is just a-dor-a-BLE!” Alice put both her arms up in excitement, punctuating every syllable. “You bet he is. Say, Alice, have you ever smelled a sleeping puppy?” Alice shook her head. “Here. Try it.” Ted picked up the sleeping puppy. “Give her a sniff.” Alice put her nose deep in the puppy’s ear and took a sniff. Suddenly the stage lights turned psychedelic, and “Shakedown Street” by “The Grateful Dead” played on the speakers. “Woah, Ted, I don’t feel good.” “AAAAAND, FREEZE!” The lights went off, and the cardigan man was back on stage, bathed in the spotlight. “Kids, you just witnessed Alice throwing her life away when she took that first deep sniff. It goes by many names: Odie, Rin Tin Tin, Old Yeller, Mr. Cutiepie, but its official name is SPS, Sleepy Puppy Smell. Last year ninety-one kids died from SPS.” The man in the cardigan looked to his left, and the spotlight followed his gaze to Alice. She was on the ground, writhing in ecstasy while Ted stood over her with a demonic grin on his face. The spotlight swung back to the cardigan man. “You think its all fun and games when someone brings a cute beagle puppy or a corgi puppy and tells you to take a sniff but what they’re really doing is handing you a loaded gun! Let’s watch what happens to Alice after that first hit.” The lights went out for a couple of seconds; this time met with complete silence from the student body. When the lights came back on, Alice was standing on the left side of the stage. Above her were two street signs, 42nd and 8th. She was wearing a black mini skirt, fishnet stockings, and a faux mink coat. Her hair, formerly in a ponytail, was now a rat’s nest, and her makeup streaked across her face. A man in a suit walked past her, “Hey, honey, you look like you own a dog.” The man stopped and looked at her. “Why, yes, yes, I do.” Alice moved closer. “I can tell.” “How so?” “You have kind eyes.” A wicked smile appeared in the corners of her mouth. What kind of dog?” “We have a dachshund named Judy.” “She sounds like a cutie.” “Indeed, she is. I should be going...” “Hold on, mister. What do you say we go back to your house and meet Judy?” “I would, but she’s probably sleeping.” Alice’s eyes lit up. “Then we have to go. We have to go now!” She grabbed his hand, and he jerked it away. “What’s gotten into you?” “I need to smell your dog. I’ll do anything. I’ll su -- “ **FREEZE** The man in the cardigan reappeared on the right side of the stage while Alice and the businessman stood frozen. “Are you getting the picture yet? Do you see what happens when you take that first hit of SPS? I don’t think you do. I’m sure you’re thinking c’mon, what’s the harm in smelling a sleepy puppy? Well, I’ll tell you, junior! First, you’re getting your kicks from a sleepy puppy, but soon that won’t be enough. Let’s go back to Alice and see what’s become of her.” The lights went out, and the folks in the front row could hear some rustling. Instead of the lights coming back on, a spotlight started on the right side of the stage. There, a girl who looked to be an older version of Alice was sitting on the edge, holding a big ol’ tabby cat in her lap. “Oh, Mr. Scampers, I love you. I love you so much. I love...I need...I need to -- “ Suddenly she scooped him up and shoved him in her face. Mr. Scampers freaked out and clawed at her eyes, causing Alice to howl in pain. When she dropped the cat, bloody claw marks covered Alice’s face. Some of the students in the front began to cry. The audience heard the cardigan man’s voice in the darkness. “But it gets worse.” The spotlight shifted over to the left, where we saw another version of Alice standing with her eyes rolling back, two gerbils shoved up her nose. “And worse!” The spotlight moved again to the right, and we saw a sketchy man in a trench coat with a mustache standing in front of a chain-linked fence. A strung-out Alice stood next to him and asked with more than a hint of desperation, “You sure you got it?” “Yeah, baby, you know I got it.” “Then, let me see it.” The man opened his trench coat and took out a gecko. He stared at her for a couple of seconds while her nostrils flared in excitement. “You know what you have to do.” Alice began to cry and knelt on the ground. “UNTIL THERE’S NOTHING LEFT!” The spotlight moved one last time to the center of the stage, where a police officer stood next to an older woman. There was a sheet covering something on a table in front of them. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The older woman began to cry. “You know you don’t have to do this.” “No, I want to. I have to know.” The police officer lifted the sheet showing Alice face down in the crotch of a turkey. The older woman screamed and beat her chest. “Yes...yes, that’s my daughter Alice! Oh my God, my little girl! MY LITTLE GIRL!” The woman fell to her knees and looked up at the heavens. “YOU BASTARDS!” The lights went out one last time, and by now, most of the students at Stephan Pastis Junior High were traumatized. Kids were openly bawling and asking for their mommies. A couple of teachers stepped out of the room to compose themselves. A rumor went around that Mr. Hastings, the woodshop teacher, threw up in a trashcan. The spotlight reappeared, and there stood the cardigan man. “So, what are you going to do when someone offers you a puppy?” The audience stared blankly at him, the silence broken by the occasional whimper. Teachers were going up and down the aisle doing their best to console. “I said, so what are you going to do when someone offers you a puppy?” A couple of students tried to reply but were too choked up to form the words. “You know what you say?” \*silence\* “Huh?” \*more silence\* “Fine, I’ll tell you what to say! DON’T SAY YES TO SPS!” Just like that, the cardigan man ripped off his headset and spiked it, causing shrapnel to fly everywhere, while at the same time, the lights came up. Behind him stood Ted, the first Alice, the businessman, the sketchy man, the policeman, Alice’s mom, all the other women who played Alice, and all the animals. The light tones of U2, “A Beautiful Day” once again played as they all took a bow. Principal Conqueso walked back on the stage, staring out into the audience, a symphony of scarred children playing quietly in the background.


I would like to regale you with a tale of heroism, courage, betrayal, regret, and loss. We find our start at the beginning of a quiet Saturday morning. I was working the opening shift, so it would’ve been 6am, to be exact. I clocked in, found a suitable register, and turned on my light, ready for another day in retail. Just as I had turned my light on, I felt a rumble in my tunnel; a small gassy surprise if you will. I said to myself “Awesome! I get to fart!” Now, to anyone who hasn’t opened at a grocery store, it can be a very boring first few hours, so a nice fart may very well be the most excitement one gets that morning. But boy was I wrong this time. I felt it reach the exit hatch, and as standard procedure, I *squeezed* and let it go. “Oh,” I thought nervously, “that one felt kind of weird.” But every fart feels a little different, like little gaseous snowflakes. Perhaps this was just a special snowflake, with its very own feel and texture, unlike any other before. So I gave it no more thought and decided I would help out the girl in Starbucks, by putting the chairs down from the table. As I took a step however, I felt it--it was a mix between wet, gooey, and creamy. I knew immediately what it was. That little snowflake brought an uninvited guest. But I continued towards the task I had set my mind to, as to not draw attention to myself, all the while devising a battle plan. After I had finished with the chairs, I asked the thankful girl if she wouldn’t mind watching my register, and calling me if anyone walks up, as I had to use the restroom rather urgently. She obliged, none the wiser to my terrible dilemma. I quickly made the shameful trek to the toilet, all the while being wary of any spillage that may occur. Thankfully there was none. The entire walk I could feel the mess caressing more and more of my lower buttocks. I knew I hadn’t much time, and I prayed that the bathroom would be empty. God, seeing me in my despair, certainly had pity and grace, for I had the privacy I greatly desired. I hastily grabbed a couple paper towels, dampened them, and rushed to the large stall. I unbuckled, unzipped, and undid my pants, and pulled them down. Instantly I was hit with the most putrid stench that would make even Krillin cry and a Muk vomit. Have you ever had a moment on the toilet that made you think, “When did I devour a dozen rotten eggs, and down them with 2 year spoiled milk?” This was one of those moments, except not on the toilet, but in my pants. I assessed the damage, and the boxers were totaled, but the undercarriage was salvageable. However, I wouldn’t have the time to fix everything now. The boxers were covered in a brown, gross, swamp like stain, so much so that I think I heard Shrek telling me to stay out. So, counting them as loss, I grabbed the paper towels and cleaned as much of the area where my legs meet as I could. But the paper towels only lasted so long, and I eventually had to resort to the half-ply excuse for toilet paper, and get as much as I could with that. Keep in mind; at this moment, there was a lonely register with its light on, that was meant to be manned. But that man--nay--that boy is hurriedly cleaning feces out of his pants. The half-ply wad had done very little in this endeavor, and seemed to instead deflect most of the work towards my hand, which was now covered. I knew I couldn’t stay any longer, so I threw the wad and paper towels in the toilet, gave it a careless flush, and redid my pants as best I could with one hand out of commission. I made my way to the sink, and washed my hands of the mess as much as could be done, short of dissolving my skin in acid. After composing myself, I returned to my check stand, pleasantly surprised by the lack of interruption during that ordeal. But it wasn’t done yet. I checked the schedule, and I had 2 hours to wait until someone else came in, so I could take a proper leave to the bathroom, and finish this battle. So I stood stewing in my own filth. My pants were soiled more than California’s Great Central Valley. But I took it like a man; a man who had crapped himself. I could feel the wetness start to dry, and the remaining bits begin to stick to my skin. Just by breathing deeply through my nose, I would be hit with the agonizing reminder of my mistake. I knew others could smell it, but I held a poker face, and did everything in my power to stay as far away from people as possible; a hard task as a cashier. It finally came time for my coworker to join me on the lines of duty--hehe, duty--and the second she was on her register I was off mine. “I’m going on break,” I said, making my way back to the battlegrounds. She replied, “Ok,” while looking at her watch, which I resented. I would’ve liked to have stolen a few extra minutes for this particular break, but now I was bound to the allotted 15. No matter. I quickly made my way back to the bathroom, tore half the roll of paper towels out, and got them wet once again. Back in my stall of solitude, I tore off my pants and started scrubbing as much as I could, until there was nothing left for me to do. Staring at my boxers, the source of the odor, I contemplated whether to abandon them, and be free--from the stench and more--or keep them, lest I experience an episode II: attack of a clone. I decided towards the latter, as I was not trusting my backside bets today. There were many a time in the past that I had gambled on farts, and won. I could’ve made millions with those odds at Vegas. But my streak was over; smeared by another kind of streak. Even though these boxers were going to be worn no more--which was sad, to say the least--I knew they had some fight left in them, in case of another attack that day. So doing all that could be done without a shower, lighter fluid and a match, I tossed the wad of paper towels in the same toilet, which had not flushed properly from round one. Usually I try to be courteous, and I would try to remedy the situation--as it was my fault--but I really didn’t care at this point. I flushed again for good measure, and the water went down an inch before starting to rise again. I got out of there as quickly as I could, as I was in enough crap for one day (don’t worry, all was well with it in the end). For the rest of my 8-hour shift, I had to act like I didn’t smell like a baby’s diaper that hadn’t been changed in a week, knowing full well that I did. At one point a lady came through my line and scrunched up her face, as one does when smelling something horrific, “Do you smell that?” She asked disgustedly. “It’s been like that since I got here,” I cleverly remarked. That last part never happened, but I had that response in my back pocket if ever the time arose. The rest of this story is full of truth, only embellished slightly for comedic effect. The moral of this anecdote is as such: don’t trust a fart; they’re all filthy liars, and if you can’t laugh at yourself, don’t do stupid things. Now you may be wondering, “What was *heroic* about that?! You crapped your pants.” Well, avid reader, it simply sounded better than, “a tale of stupidity.


That's the thing about this city. No one lives in it. Except me. Me and my loyal dog Lick-- back off I named her when I was five.-- So here I am writing in a notebook I stole from the store that no one shops at. And if you want to know why everyone left. I don't know. I just grew up here all by myself and have never seen another person. Okay okay, calm down. I will answer all of your questions in time, but I thought it would be fun to write down what my days are like living in an abandoned city. Entry 1 That first entry wasn't official. But this one is. Hi, my name is Bean. I came up with that name because it's my favorite food, and I guess I just called myself that. I think, from what I guess, I'm around 17 to 19 years of age. And I don't know my birthday so I celebrate it on the fourth of July. I came up with that by looking at a calendar. It was all bright and caught my eye so I chose it. And if you want to know what I look like. Too bad you'll have to wait. So to start my day, I woke up with the sun then I got out of bed and woke Lick up. Also a note, she's more of a wolf than a dog, but she's domesticated so I don't know. You’ll find I don't know a lot of things. But what I do know is that after I ate a nice breakfast of toaster squares, I went to the school. I've been trying to teach myself more, and they have everything I could possibly need there. Today I tried to learn about Algebra. I didn't get it. The numbers confused me, and I wondered if there was a certain order you were supposed to learn these things. I also drew with Crayola's today. I drew that thing you see after it rains and the sun comes out. The red ink got all over my hands and made it look like I was bleeding. It was awesome. Then I read an entire book about a guy and a girl falling in love. It made me cry. After that, I started to hear my tummy growl. I pulled out my iPod and blasted a bunch of interesting sounds. It's called music (you probably knew that). I did it as I walked to the store to get myself some food. I went to my usual store. The sign is broken, and I don't know the name. So I just call it The Store. I went to my garden that I scraped together. I picked some food from it. And also got a bag of dried apples. Lick and I ate together, and the two of us sat watching the sun go down. We sit at the top of a really tall building I use as shelter. I always do that. The sunset is pretty. Now I'm here writing my day. I enjoyed this. I think I might keep doing it. It does get a little lonely sometimes. But I'll always have Lick. Entry 2 I decided to try driving again. It's been about two months since the last time I decided to drive to the store for dinner and ended up inside the gas station instead. And when I say inside I mean inside. I literally stepped on about a thousand chips as I got out. Lucky Lick decided not to join me. Since then I've been terrified. So today I have finally mustered up the courage to try again. I found the car I had crashed into the station, but I couldn't find the keys. So I went around to all of the cars, peeping through the window, to see if any of the keys had been left. Some of them did, but they were locked. I didn't want to have to break the window to get to them. I did finally find a newer-looking black van that was unlocked. I hopped into the seat without Lick and turned the keys. The car came alive and... jolted( that sounds right). I tried to remind myself which one was the stop and which one was the go. I couldn't quite remember so I tried one. I did remember to take the car out of the P into the D. I pressed my right foot to the go pedal and zoomed forward. I wasn't the best at keeping myself on the streets. But I made my way to the store without crashing. It was only when I got to the store I got so excited and forgot I was driving. Then when the wheel turned me into a tree I think I might have blacked out. Good thing the pillow saved me from any real damage. I evacuated the car-- yes, I looked at that one in the dictionary-- though I learn most of the words I use from the big box that turns on now and then. I heard a loud boom, and the ground shook a little. I don't think that it's really of any importance though. I had a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich on some stale crackers I found in a beaten-down house - I think you call it - for dinner today, and the sunset looked a bit redder than usual. I didn't do anything else exciting today. And the light is running out so I'm going to stop. Goodnight. Entry 3 It's the middle of the night, and I'm writing because the big boom and shaking happened again, but even more than last time. I'm starting to think there is a problem now. I'm restless (that means you can't sleep right?), and so is Lick. She keeps whining and is now sitting in my lap as I write this. She's a bit heavy but it's the only thing to keep her from being scared. I feel sad for her. She's the one who took care of me. And honestly is the only reason I'm alive. She brought me food to eat and water when I was young. And she kept me from doing anything dangerous. Like one time I claimed a tree and fell out, breaking my leg. I sat there for a week waiting for when I could walk on it again. And she stayed with me the whole time and brought me food and water. I love her so much, and I don't know what I would do without her. It’s happening again. The shaking. And I have this really strange feeling that there are other people out there. Out there causing this to happen. It makes me feel happy that maybe I can meet another person. But I’m scared at the same time. If they are causing the shaking then do I want to trust them? My curiosity is killing me. My stomach is a knot, and I'm starting to shiver. I want to know. So badly I want to know. So I might just find out. I'll come back too. I love this place too much, but I'll bring you along; I mean my journal. And, of course, Lick. Alright, I'm going to pack. See you. Entry 4 It's morning now, and I watched the sunrise this morning because I won't be able to watch the sunset. I've never seen a sunrise or sunset so red as this morning. It was pretty but unnerving. I'm all ready to go. I've got some food. I've got a jar of peanut butter, Some food from my garden, and I picked some food from a tree that I like to climb. Ohm and some beans... yum. I don't know if that will last me, but I've seen Lick catch stuff. I've also got my iPod with all my songs. Along with a book about how to survive in the wild. There is no sun today. So I'll have to wing it. Wish me luck. Entry 5 Good news! The last time I wrote, a large grey blob appeared in the sky, so I followed that. It was an exhausting day. It's night now. I just walked through a large forest. It was a very yellow forest and looked amazing with the blue sky. Like my eyes. But my eyes are more grey. Anyway, I walked for what I think was four hours-- again the sun wasn't out so I couldn't tell.-- before something interesting happened. I met an owl! And it attacked me! I must have accidentally thrown a stick at its nest because it was angry. This spiraled into me getting covered in mud. First, the owl swooped down and scratched me on the face. I then tripped over a root and tumbled down a small hill gaining speed until I tripped again and started rolling instead. Then I rolled into a large puddle of mud at the bottom. Yeah, my hair used to be black. It's brown now. I didn't bother cleaning it because more and more events kept me busy. I lost the grey blob at one point and had to climb a tree to find it again. The problem was Lick barked at me to come down the whole time, and I couldn't focus. I yelled at her to stop but it didn't help. By that time I was too high for her to hear me. I met several birds I didn't care about. And when I finally got to a spot I could see the blob again I was so high I didn't want to come back down. I stayed there for a bit and thankfully did not fall when I did decide to come down. I was tired and hungry. The sun came out and gave me two minutes of hope and told me what time it was. It was lunchtime. So I ate an apple with peanut butter for lunch. I fed Lick some carrots. Then I started walking again, but my bad luck seemed to continue because as I did I felt yet another shake and heard another boom more vicious than anything I had felt in the city. I fell on my butt. It hurts now. Along with my face, head, feet, legs, and throat. Oh, I forgot to tell you about that one. Well, the reason my throat hurts is because, at some point during the day, I also lost Lick. So I spent the rest of the day yelling her name until I finally found her only a few steps behind me. Have no idea where she went or when she got back, but now my wrist hurts from writing this too. See ya. Entry 6 I didn't write the past two days because I've been too tired. I spent those two days walking. I eventually found a river and washed my hair. And if you want to know, yes, I do wash myself often. There is a lake a little ways away from the city that I use. The days were pretty uneventful too. Which is another reason I haven't written. Just walking and trying to stay on my feet from the more frequent and ever-growing shaking that keeps happening. Lick found a friend. It's a small cat that is really friendly. It brought me a rat. I thanked it and threw the rat over my shoulder. I've eaten rats before but it's not really... not... I don't really like eating it. That was pretty much the first day. There were some more quakes and I found that they come in short spurts. And then leave for a long time. The second day it rained all day. I got some walking in but it was wet and we were all tired. Plus there was lighting and Lick is terrified of lighting, so we sat most of day two under a tall brown tree with lots of leaves to keep ourselves dry. The cat was there too. I named it Jack. And if it's a girl I'll just change it to Jacklyn. No biggie. It was peaceful sitting there. The forest went quiet under the sound of the rain. I caught up on a lot of sleep the second day. We did walk a bit that day too. Maybe about for an hour and then we stopped in a cave that we shared with a couple of rabbits. I noticed something white falling from the sky. Except it wasn't snow. It wasn't cold, it was warm. I don't have a clue what it was or why it was there. So that leads up to this day. It's morning so I haven't done anything yet. It stopped raining and it's cool for now but the sun is out so it's probably going to get warmer. Write later. Entry 7 I found the city today. I walked all day and got here at sunset. This city is a lot like mine. But the thing about this city. Is that it's on fire.


All it takes is one slip. Gaps are to be avoided. Gaps are where important things fall. That’s why Mind The Gap resonates like a cattle prod to the temple. There are gaps everywhere and the devil uses details to his advantage and what is to his advantage is to our disadvantage. He’s pretty tricksy like that. It was a buggered detail that led to Thruk struggling his way across a dessert. There was something utterly wrong about this from the get-go, but Thruk was not a thinker, he was a doer and so he trudged and splotched across the pink expanse of dessert knowing that this was what he must do. Why he must do it was beyond his pay grade. His one simple thought was that he’d probably know why he had had to traverse the dessert once he’d gotten to the other side. “Good job it’s blancmange,” Thruk muttered to himself. As desserts went, blancmange was one of the better ones when it came to walking on sweet foodstuff. This particular blancmange had set well and so Thruk wasn’t wading through it, he was walking atop it, albeit his legs were aching from the give in that surface and he was concerned that he may puncture the outer layer with a clumsy footfall and that would not end well. A good way into Thruk’s nonsensical culinary journey he espied an object that was partially submerged in the blancmange. Thruk was thankful for this distraction as an unending expanse of blancmange soon enough loses its allure and becomes utterly depressing. What had not been helping Thruk’s mood was that although he liked the structural integrity of this dessert, blancmange was one of the few desserts he avoided. It was a consistency thing. Blancmange was claggy and claggy wasn’t something Thruk wanted going on in his mouth. He couldn’t understand anyone putting themselves through a claggy sensation no matter what tastes were being delivered to the palate during that traumatic episode. The other problem with an infinite panorama of strawberry blancmange was that it was pink. Scientific studies have been performed on the colour pink. This is because pink is a naughty turncoat. A smiling assassin of a colour. Spend twenty minutes with pink and it soothes and lulls you and promises you more of the same. However, in the twenty first minute it whips off its mask and socks you a googly one to the back of the napper. Scientists were brought in to study this phenomena by insurance companies. The insurance companies insured buildings where pink had been deployed in supposed Calming Rooms. Everything started out well in these rooms. People with what was called anger management issues, which was to say angry people, were put in these rooms and the anger ebbed away in such a breezy and delightful way. Then the angry person seemed to remember that they were angry and in one fell swoop, they remembered all of the things they had ever been angry about. They got so angry that they had to take their anger out on the nearest thing and that just so happened to be the pink wall of the Calming Room. It turned out that the Calming Room wall was harder than an angry person’s head. There was a body of empirical evidence to bear this out, so the scientists didn’t have to study that. Through the mist of his building anger, an anger that was seeking to blindside Thruk, but was unlikely to do much of anything other than annoy him, what with blancmange not being anywhere near as hard as the wall in a Calming Room, Thruk saw a large red object. Thruk was glad of the red object. It gave him something to focus upon and walk towards and in so doing he largely ignored the dangerous and annoying pinkness of the blancmange. It did not escape Thruk that approaching the red object held other dangers. After all, it had breached the surface of the blancmange and so Thruk would have to take care around the surrounding areas of the object. He would do a thumbnail risk assessment as he closed in on the object and he would do his best not to think about what next. Despite that, what next began tapping on his shoulder and whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Beyond the object was an inescapably huge expanse of pinkness. Nothing but pink blancmange for as far as the eye could see. “Bugger off!” Thruk said to the whispering what next. Talking to intangible manifestations of anxiety is very common in those who find themselves in a desert, let alone an unending dessert, so Thruk was in good company. “I’ll walk backwards! So stuff that in yer pipe and smoke it!” added Thruk. This was quite a good idea. In fact, it was an inspired and very good idea for Thruk. He didn’t have many ideas and most of the ideas he’d had in the past he’d rescued from the recycling centre in his mind. New ideas were too expensive for the likes of Thruk. But he wasn’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth, for that mouth was probably pink and he’d had his fill of pink. From afar, Thruk had assumed the red object to be the very obvious object to be found in the midst not only of a blancmange, but upon a great many dessert dishes. The universal appeal of the red cherry was legend. Everyone expected red cherries to top their dessert. Red cherries were the crown of choice. Red cherries were so important that the lack of a red cherry could crush a soul in a thrice. Even the use of a half red cherry was a terrible disappointment, but to see the circular lipstick mark of a red cherry’s kiss on your dessert was to stumble upon the most horrendous of crime scenes. Only the worst of people would steal the cherry from atop a dessert. And so it was that Thruk experienced horrendous disappointment as his expectations of a red cherry in the midst of the blancmange were dashed upon the sharp grey rocks of despair. Closing in on his objective, the object revealed more and more of its true nature. At first, the circular element of the nature began to take shape and Thruk say that it was more of an oblong. Nearer still, he saw that it was flat and as he ascertained this flatness he began to think of it as a base. And if it were a base then the object had been upended in this dessert. Now Thruk could see that the colour of the object was more matt than a glace cherry would have been. Somehow this hurt a little more. That colour spoke of the material of the object and in speaking it uttered a language foreign to Thruk’s ears. “That shouldn’t be there,” he stated simply. This was an understatement. For starters, Thruk should not have been strolling through this pink dessert, but due to an administrative error deep in the bowels of the universe, here he was. Again. Yes, it wasn’t for the first time that Thruk had been placed in a sugary predicament. He didn’t like talking about the last time. The flashbacks were so gruesome that he was doubly incontinent. He had had to adapt to those flashbacks. No longer did he make ad hoc visits to the shops. He was a convert to online shopping for the most practical of reasons. Oddly, he had no concerns with regard to a flashback occurring whilst he was perambulating this expanse of blancmange, and if he were a thinker, Thruk would have wondered at that. There were many questions arising from the entirety of this situation, but those questions were for others. Thruk was content with doing what he must and moving on, hopefully as swiftly as was possible. Thruk was right though, the object was out of place. This object brought more aspects of wrong to the situation and although Thruk was no deep thinker he was still curious and so he had to know more of the object. Despite its size, the object was not heavy. Thruk could tell this just by looking at it. He surveyed the blancmange ground around himself and then around the object and adjudged it safe to attempt the extraction and subsequent identification of the object. That way, he could cease thinking of it as the object and give it a more appropriate name. There was something desolate and soulless about the word object and Thruk was beginning to object to the use of that word. Thruk grasped the plastic base, braced himself and with a glance toward his feet. He tugged for all he was worth. This he did several times, but to no avail. There was give and then the blancmange tugged back. “Bugger,” said Thruk. Thruk liked the word bugger. Bugger was a word that had soul. Bugger was a versatile form of expression. Bugger was Thruk’s friend. The blancmange was not Thruk’s friend. The blancmange was a stubborn git of a dessert. He circled his foe and considered the problem of extraction. Thruk was strong and he was sentient. His desired result was a foregone conclusion, all he had to do was apply himself to the task in hand. Having circled, given forth of much stroking of his chin and then kicked the object for good measure, he returned to his original position, spat on his palms and then grasped the base as though he were going to strangle it into submission. Then he really put his back into it and pulled. None of the former tugging lark that led to frustrating yo-yoing. Thruk went at it with deadly intent and this time there was give. The trick, he knew, was not to stop even if it felt like he was winning. The blancmange would yield no ground. If Thruk were to do half a job the blancmange would suck the object right back down. So Thruk pulled and pulled with all his might. He pulled until the breath in him had given everything it had and was not asphyxiating him. He kept going even as his face went from its usual pale pink through every shade of red to an alarming hue of purple that would have been the envy of the best of blackcurrants. PLOP! Thruk lay there on the dessert floor and for a moment he was not there. He’d given everything and there was nothing left. Then he began to come back to himself and as he did he understood that he was laying on a vast expanse of blancmange and that he had managed to retrieve the object that had made his existence just a little more interesting than blancmange alone could have. “Oh...” Thruk groaned. His plaintive cry sounded dull in this dessert environment. Blancmange is the best sugary sound dampener in the known universe. And the unknown universe for that matter. His cry arose because as he lay there and recalled his venture he had a terrible sinking feeling and his sinking feeling was in direct response to the potential sinking feeling the object would have been subjected to as it was hurled into the air, cartwheeled end over end and then landed back into the blancmange. Thruk wasn’t ready for that level of disappointment, so instead, he arose unsteadily on his feet, his muscles still trembling from his exertions and he kept his back firmly to the trajectory of the object. First he was going to peer into the ragged and unexpected hole in the blancmange. Thruk was no expert in blancmange, but he’d half expected the hole to close up. Like mud. Claggy mud that flopped and plopped any hole firmly shut. But that hadn’t happened and so there was a hole to peer down into and in that hole was a small chunk of Thruk’s hope, for Thruk had a mindful expectation that was in accord to the order of the universe as he knew it. After all, desserts such as this always had a sweet red glace cherry on top and so in that hole could well be the frivolous object of Thruk’s desire. Thruk held his breath as he leant over the hole. His muscles did not thank him for this and the largest of the bunch decided it was time to take action on this point. “Ah!” cried Thruk as waves of pain assailed him. The cramp the muscle had garnered was impressive and was not for turning even as Thruk strutted like Jagger, hopped like kangaroo with a scalded foot and made noises like a very surprised and intrigued orangutan. He blindly went around and around in an ever increasing circle whilst the cramp gripped his butt and squeezed it in a vice. Let’s take a moment to pan back from Thruk’s song and dance. The dance is unlike anything witnessed throughout the history of this universe. That Thruk’s song of pain matches it is remarkable. But he is performing on a lake of pink. This is a dessert for the eyes, ears and the mind. Bravo Thruk! As one, the judges raise their scores and it’s 6.0, 6.0, 6.0, 6.0... ...is he going to achieve a clean sweep? A perfect score in his first ever outing in Dancing on Blancmange? Come on! It’s got to happen! 5.9. Now that’s deflating. But there’s always one isn’t there? As the agonising pain of the worst cramp pain ever subsided, the glut muscle having made its point very will indeed, Thruk ceased his amazing staccato dance and sang his last. In the daunting silence time itself held its breath and watched. Thruk stood at the end of his arc of pain and he looked down. In the thrall of the cramp he had seen nothing. He had been transported to another world and that was the world of pain. Now he was back and he found that he was stood before the sprawled object. Thruk’s fears had been unfounded. The object had not re-entered the dessert surface. Fear is a fickle and often stupid fellow though, for Thruk’s fears had taken a left turn instead of a right and where they should have been was right here in the face of the object, which was to say Thruk’s face. In this moment, the prospect of buried cherry treasure was all but gone, vanished in the strawberry tinted air. It was all Thruk could do to stare into the plastic version of his own face. “That shouldn’t be there,” Thruk stated simply. And it shouldn’t. A life sized version of Thruk, cast in red plastic in the midst of a planet sized desert of blancmange dessert. Thruk would have stood there like that. A living version of the plastic statue that he gazed down upon had it not been for the intervention of the finger of fate. Or in this case, the finger of a little boy in search of his red toy soldier. The bestest of all his toy soldiers because he was red and red was the very best of all the colours. “There he is!” cried Billy. He plucked Thruk roughly from his bowl of blancmange and brought him level with his eyes so he could reacquaint himself with his favouritist of toys. “Err!” said the boy, “you’re not Kurt the Killer!” And with that he lobbed poor Thruk over his shoulder. “There he is!” the boy was giggling as he retrieved Kurt the Killer from his blancmange and licked him clean. Thruk lay winded and forgotten on the kitchen floor. “What the...” he began to say as his senses came back to him, but then a gigantic paw landed on his chest pinning him and winding him all over again. Oh not again, thought Thruk as he heard the blare of an animal’s voice above him. MEOW!