In the year before Black Monday, when the stock market collapsed and just about everybody lost their jobs - including my daddy - we lived in an old stone house on Orchard road. It sat on about seventy acres of backyard and came dirt cheap, or so I’ve been told, because most of the land was unusable and we were a good drive from the nearest town. The bus ride to school was forty-five minutes and Jack and I were the farthest stop on the route. Our property sloped down from the house, across a stretch of lawn, then into a winding creek that used to sparkle in the sunlight. Across the creek was a tangle of brambles, and a forest of birch trees beyond that. Those brambles looked so thick and thorny that we had lived in the stone house a full year before me and my brother plucked up the courage to go through em’ and we were just boys then. Jack was nine and I was seven, so you understand it took an awful lot of thorns to dissuade us from a good game of pretend. On a day like any other, I was fetching myself a snack from the kitchen cupboard when Jack comes stomping into the room and says to me, “Benny Boy, come down to the creek. I want to show you something really cool.” “I don’t wanna,” I said. “Why not?” “There’s a snapping turtle there. Mom says it’s grumpy and it’ll bite off my toes.” This was probably true. There was an old she-snapper down there with a shell as big as a dinner plate, and she was likely to bite off whatever part of you she could manage if you got near her eggs. Jack wasn’t interested in the creek. “We won’t go in the water,” he said. “A tree blew over in the storm and we can walk across it like a bridge.” “Into the brambles?” To this day, I do not know where our parents were when we were hatching our scheme. Probably just in the other room, not too far, but for some reason they didn’t hear us. I think maybe *she* had something to do with it, maybe *she* had already hatched her plans by the time I put a Chips Ahoy cookie in my mouth. “I know a way through the brambles,” Jack assured me. “I’ll show you.” There had been a vicious lightning storm the night before and a great number of trees and powerlines had been pushed down. One of the trunks was lying across the creek, a perfect bridge. It just so happened that the tree had fallen in the right spot so that you couldn’t see it from the kitchen window. All that my mom saw, if she saw anything, were her two boys walking beside the creek. “This way. Don’t be nervous,” Jack said, and he started across the trunk with his arms stretched out like a trapeze artist. For a moment he slipped and almost fell, but he regained his balance and made the crossing. I went after him. I remember being scared that the trunk would roll and send me splashing and gulping into the creek. Ms. Snapper would surely have my toes, or worse my privates, but the trunk didn’t budge. It should have rolled, in fact the thing was so thin it should’ve broken in two when Jack stepped in the middle, but it held on. “This way,” Jack said again when we were across. He was pretending to be Peter Pan and I was the Lost Boys or Captain Hook or some other thing, it doesn’t matter. He went down on his hands and knees and crawled backwards into the brambles. “Why’re you doing that?” I asked. “You have to go backwards. Some of the thorns swing in when you go by or poke in, but if you go backwards they just hit your butt.” I giggled. “I’ll hold onto your ankle,” he said. “I know the way.” “Okay Jack.” “Are you scared?” “No,” I lied. It was not quite pitch black inside the twisting vines, but it was dark and filled with bugs, and I didn’t want to get pricked or tangled up or bit. “Don’t worry Benny Boy. If you want you can close your eyes. I know the way.” *I know the way*. I still hear him saying that sometimes, and I wonder just how he knew the way. Had the witch lured him to her hovel once before, then sent him back when he spilled the beans about the plump little brother back at home? Or was she speaking through him, sticking her hand in his back and picking at his brain with long yellow fingernails like some long-distance puppeteer? I still don’t know, I don’t want to. The thicket of vines and thorns was only twenty or thirty yards long, but it took us at least fifteen minutes to crawl through. I closed my eyes the whole way. Jack pulled me left and right, then back towards the house, then further away. I remember the thorns picking at my t-shirt and skin, hunting for my eyes, but save for a few scratches I came out just fine. “You can stand up,” Jack said, releasing my ankle. “Look around. This place is cool.” It wasn’t cool. I’d swear on a bible that those birch trees had been tall and thick with green leaves aplenty, but once we were standing in the forest with them, the white bark just made the trees look like leg bones sticking out of the earth, picked clean by vultures. There wasn’t a bit of green on any of them. Even the brambles on this side were just brown and grey. The nearest green was the backyard we had left behind, and I think that was when I realized mom wouldn’t be able to find us. If I jumped up and down screaming my head off, she might be able to hear something if the window was open. I didn’t jump and scream, not in front of my big brother. I got scared then. “Let’s go back,” I said. “No way. I want to explore. Look over here! It’s like in the Wizard of Oz!” Even at the age of seven, I thought it was weird for Jack to be into girly crap like the Wizard of Oz movie, but turning around to see where he was pointing I felt a little better about it. He had found a path, but it was a far cry from the yellow brick road. A cracked wood arrow was nailed into one of the birch trees, and that arrow pointed farther into the depths of the forest. The forest floor was just dirt and more dirt, but it was a little lighter along the path we were meant to follow, and there were small white rocks scattered along the sides to guide us. It wasn’t much of a path, and if Jack hadn’t seen the arrow I don’t think we would’ve noticed it, but he did, and I followed my big brother loyally into danger. I can’t say how long we were in those woods because time was different there. It crumpled up like a failed spelling bee before it’s flight to the garbage bin. I felt like we had been walking a half hour, we’d left the house around two in the afternoon, but before I knew it the sun was headed down and the sky was streaked orange and red. To our backs, the world had gone as dark as the bottom of the ocean. We never heard any birds flapping their wings, or squirrels running home through the trees. The night crept up on as quiet as a ghost. “Can we go back?” I said. “I’m scared.” “What are you scared of fraidy cat? This is an adventure. Like Bilbo and Gandalf, I’ll be Gandalf and -” “I don’t want to play pretend,” I said, and I remember crying a little. “There’s bones everywhere. I want to go home!” The little white rocks speckled on the path weren’t rocks after all, they were little skulls of birds and mice. There was a big one beside me that belonged to a fox or a cat. The drooping eye holes made it look sad, like the poor thing had died crying. Jack’s eyebrows met. “Fine,” he said, getting short with me. “You can go back if you’re a little chicken, but *I’m* going ahead. It’s not dark yet and I want to see what’s making the light ahead. There was indeed a flickering yellow spot of light down the path, I guessed it might be a fire behind a window, maybe one of our neighbours. When we got to the light, and discovered the witches hovel it turned out I was nearly right. The fire was coming through a hole in the shack that served for a window, but there was no glass to it. It was like a nostril. We had come to a circular stone hut with a smoking chimney. It stood blamelessly in the middle of a clearing, totally unexceptional except for the smoke coming from the chimney. It was going up from the house in lazy spirals that alternated between purple and emerald green. “Please Jack, I want to go home.” “Then go.” “Come with me,” I begged. “It’s scary.” The orange light of the fire lapped merrily against the night. By now the sky was completely black, the absurd smoke blotting out the stars and the moon. “I just want to see who lives here, and then we can go,” Jack said. “I want to ask why she lives out in the woods by herself.” I did not ask how Jack knew these things about the owner of the house, that she was alone and that she was a she. I just wanted to go home. It was the middle of summer and I was starting to shiver from the cold. The cold was pushing me inside. I think the witch knew just what buttons she needed to press to get my frightened ass up her laneway and through her front door. I followed my brother up the path, which was now lined with a solid trail of animal skeletons on both sides. Eyeless and tongueless squirrels, rabbits, foxes, and cats guided us up to the aged front door. Jack knocked three times. The dull thwack was so loud and sudden I almost wet myself. “Hello!” Jack called. “Maybe nobody’s home.” “There’s a fire going. Someone has to be home.” “But -” “Hello!” The door glided open with an obnoxious whine. There was no one standing there to have opened it, and when I saw that the door had opened itself I nearly scarpered off. I’m ashamed to say it, but I would’ve left my brother to die and hauled by ass back into the woods. I probably would’ve gotten lost and starved to death, but Jack grabbed my shoulder and pulled me inside. Once we got inside the light changed. Lively orange yellow waned into the colour of worn piano keys, then the yellow of old teeth, then white. It bounced off of mossy wet stone walls that reminded me of Skeletor’s castle. I whimpered but Jack did not let me go. The fireplace was in a room that we could not see, down the pale lit hallway and around the first corner. It seemed to me the moon must have fallen out of the sky, down the stranger’s chimney, and into her fireplace. “Hello!” said Jack. “I heard you shouting for us to come play! I’m Jack Mayfield and this is my little brother Benny Boy.” Jack was ahead of me, pulling me into the den by my hand. He was around the corner, able to see someone or something that I couldn’t. When it was my turn to enter the room, I caught a face full of purple and green smoke and I breathed in a cloud of the stuff. It made the room double, then triple before my eyes, and I felt my thoughts getting hazy. “Hey Jack,” I said. My voice sounded like Darth Vader, like I was in slow motion. I could make out the fuzzy shape of our host across the room but no more. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t feel so good.” “Nonsense,” the witch said, with a voice like nails on a gravestone. “You’ll come sit with me. Jack Mayfield, Benny Boy, I have waited up all night for you and it would be terribly rude to leave so early.” “A-all night?” I asked, but I was ignored. I heard Jack say, “Yes.” He was ahead of me somewhere in the fog but the stuff was so thick that I couldn’t even see his outline. “Rude,” he said “Don’t want to be rude.” The witch cackled. It sounded like glass breaking. “Besides,” she said. “It’s too dark for you to go now. You would wander and wander until the sun came up. There are dreadful monsters in these woods, you could count yourself lucky if a bear got you. Please come have a seat with me.” My vision was settling. The witch sat in a white dining chair made of animal bones. What might have been glue or wax was frozen in dribs and globs where it had dried holding the smaller bones together. She twirled a hand with skin so pale that it was a bit green, and two plastic blue chairs appeared out of thin air. I recognized them. I sat in an identical chair from Monday to Friday, nine in the morning ‘til three in the afternoon. “Sit,” she said, not unkindly. Jack hopped into his chair, pleased as punch, but I took a little longer getting into mine. Some part of me, the part that the purple clouds had not choked out, was screaming for me not to sit, to pull Jack and run in any direction, as long as it was not here. “What’s wrong Benny Boy?” she asked. “I... I don’t feel so good.” “Have a seat,” she said, “You’ll feel better. Your journey has been long and your faces are longer still.” What could I do? I was seven years old, and had been conditioned every day of my life to obey the command of grown-ups. I sat. I half expected the chair to turn into spiders but it stayed a chair. I started to feel better too, and I was just about to tell her so, when I got my first real look at her face. Her lips were peelings of ash and dead bark. Her skin was covered in warts, and the outline of a worm with a hundred legs crawled below the skin of her face. Her eyes were black. She was the sort of creature who knows what’s really waiting in the closet and underneath your bed when the lights go out. The worm under her face moved restlessly. It *squirmed*. I’ve had my share of visits to the psychologist since the last adventure with Jack, and that bug squirming under her face is the part I still don’t tell anybody. I can barely stand to think about it. She placed her hands on her knees and leaned forward in a poor impression of a kindergarten teacher. “Who likes games?” she asked, bubbling with enthusiasm. “I do!” Jack shouted, and both of his hands shot up in the air. I rose a tentative hand. I imagine I wore a face like I was about to hurl because that’s what I felt like doing. The clenching pain was in my head though, not my belly. “I know the best game,” she said. “It is called the crystal ball game. You have never had more fun in your lives.” “How do we play?” Jack was rocking in his chair, his eyes bulging in excitement. The witch snapped her fingers and a crystal ball filled the space between us. It popped into existence without a sound, out of nowhere. It was huge, as big around as a dinner table, and filled with thick pink and purple swirling clouds. She began to move her hands in swooping circles in the air above the ball, and the clouds inside of it gathered to follow her movements. “The crystal ball game goes like this,” she whispered. The fire was dying behind her, but the orb was giving off its own pink waving light, like the shimmering reflection of a pool of water. “You may ask the ball for anything, or to know anything, and then I will ask the crystal ball if it wants to give that thing to you. It will say yes or no. If it says yes, it will also name a price, and if you drop the payment onto the ball, you will have whatever you ask for.” “What if it says no?” Jack asked. “Then, my sweet boy, you have gotten greedy. If the ball says ‘no’ you have asked for too much or too great a thing, and must try again.” “I don’t have any money,” I mumbled. The witch laughed again. “It will not ask you for money, don’t worry. Would you like to go first Benny Boy?” “My name is Benjamin,” I said. “Only Jack calls me Benny Boy.” “I like your real name much better. It’s a big boy name. Would you like to go first Benjamin?” I was about to say yes, but Jack shouted beside me, “I wanna go first!” The witch swapped her focus like a shark turning in the water at the scent of blood. “What would you like to ask for?” I thought Jack was going to ask for a robot, one that he could go on adventures with that wouldn’t whine about wanting to go home early, but Jack said, “I wish mom and dad didn’t fight anymore.” I remember thinking that was a weird thing to ask for. I had never seen mom and dad fighting. Of course, there was a lot seven-year-old me didn’t notice that nine-year old Jack had picked up on, but there was even more we had both missed. Bruises hidden behind makeup, nights that dad spent working and not coming home, mom slipping out of the house to god knows where when everyone else was fast asleep. “Let me ask the ball,” the witch said. She leaned over the crystal ball until her lips were an inch away from the glass, and then she whispered so quietly that I couldn’t hear what she was saying. “Did it work?” Jack asked. “Hush child,” she snapped. A little bit of warmth had gone out of her voice. “Don’t spoil the game. I am listening.” The worm in her face twitched greedily, and moved from under her check to a spot above her ear that was covered with hair. I thought I could hear it making a clicking sound, but if it had mouth parts I could not see them. “I hear it,” she said after a moment. “Listen. You will too.” At first I didn’t hear anything, but when I went totally silent, going as far as to hold my breath, I did hear something. A deep old voice, the voice of a mountain, was thrumming from inside of the crystal ball. I had no idea what it was saying, but it rose and fell in what must have been words of some other language, because when it stopped the witch was beaming. “It can be done,” she said. “Are you ready to hear the payment?” I wasn’t, not anymore. The smoke in my brain had been mostly cleared out, enough that I could see we were in deep trouble. I wanted to run, but my legs would not move. I couldn’t even shift in my chair. “I’m ready,” Jack said, but for the first time he sounded a bit scared too. “It will cost you one ear,” and to my eternal horror she pulled a black carving knife from behind her back. The blade was curved and at least a foot long. The edges were worn over with rust. “An ear?” said Jack. “An ear, either one. Take this knife, and place your ear on the crystal.” Jack made to lean forward onto the ball, but the witch screeched, “No! Stupid boy, cut it off. I would do it for you, but that’s one of the rules of the game. *You* have to give the ear.” Jack frowned, as if she were asking him to solve a difficult math problem. “Will it work?” But that was a stupid question. All three of us, somehow, knew it would work. That was part of the game too. If the witch wanted his ear she could’ve just taken it off at her leisure, she was thin but she was much taller than Jack, and she had held the knife. No. She wanted, for some reason, to please whatever lived inside of the crystal, whatever was making those pink clouds and speaking in a language I had never heard before or since. The thing in the crystal wanted Jack’s ear, and was willing to perform what magic it needed to in order to get his flesh. “It will work,” she said. “Forever?” “Forever. There will be no more fighting. There might be disagreements, over what to eat for dinner or what movie to watch, but the fighting will cease.” Then he asked, “Do you have a band aid?” She waved her hand, a blue box appeared with Band-Aid printed on the front in bold red letters. It shone like the paint was still wet, like the box was bleeding. “Don’t do it Jack,” I mumbled. Without looking at me, the witch snapped her fingers and my teeth mashed together so hard it doubled my headache. When I next tried to speak, I couldn’t open my mouth. There was cement holding my jaw together. Jack made the cut. There was no magic in the blade to make the job quicker or slower, and there was no magic in the smoke wafting in the room to dull the pain. He screamed, and I think he would have given up, but maybe the demon behind the pink clouds was forcing him onwards. Maybe he had seen a fight between mom and dad bad enough to keep him cutting. He held it out in his right hand while his left clamped over the gaping wound on his head. The ear was almost unrecognizable. Jack was no surgeon and the pathetic flap was drowning in a pool of his blood. The concrete in my jaw let go. “Let me bandage him,” I said, and the witch handed me the box. I opened it, expecting snakes or centipedes to leap out and bite me, but there were only band aids. I applied one to Jack and it soaked at once, rendered completely useless. Eventually I had stuck every single bandage to him. The blood was still trickling down but he wasn’t going to bleed out. At least I didn’t think so, remember I was seven. “The ear Jack,” the witch whispered, and now all of the motherly layers she had applied to her voice were stripped away. “Place it on the ball. Do not let your fingers touch the glass. When the ear touched the ball, the pink clouds sped up, circling the orb faster and faster like they were in a blender, and soon it was happening so fast that there was no telling one cloud from another. The crystal ball was solid pink. The crystal ball began to bubble around the ear, the glass itself rising and falling as if it were made of nothing but boiling water, and then instead of bursting and settling back into the sphere, one of the bubbles just kept growing. It lengthened into a glass tentacle, and flopped over my brother’s ear. Then another glass tentacle fell onto the ear, and another. Then they sank. Jack’s ear was being pulled into the glass, to be eaten by whatever lived in there. After a few seconds the ear was gone, and the crystal ball was the same smooth orb as before. The spiraling clouds slowed, then stopped. “It is done,” the witch breathed. Jack was whimpering, but when the witch turned to me, the world around us seemed to disappear. “Benjamin,” she said. “You’re next, what is it that you want? More than anything?” I told her, “I want to go home.” The witch smiled. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* When we appeared in front of my parents, popped into their living room out of thin air - blood seeping from my brother’s head - the light was pouring in through the front window. We had been gone for less than three hours, and the sun was just starting to tip towards the horizon. Jack never told anyone what really happened to him that day. He told my parents, then the doctor, then everyone he ever met, that his ear got snagged by the thorns. I think as the years passed by he started to believe that’s what really happened. My parents stopped fighting too, for what it’s worth. They’re still together, ninety years old, and the happiest couple I know. In my secret heart, I think the price Jack paid was worth it. Therapy has helped me. It feels good to talk about what happened to Jack and I, even if I have to start every session with *I know this didn’t really happen* and end with *Like I said, I know it didn’t happen*. The sessions always end with the therapist asking what I gave up in the dream in exchange for a safe trip home, and I have to look them dead in the face and tell ‘em, because there’s no use lying about a story that didn’t happen. They know what I’m going to tell them, the answer is obvious, but they ask anyways. If I want to keep on going, I have to tell myself sometimes that Jack’s ear really did get pulled off in those brambles. I know it’s not true, and that somewhere in the birch forest, a witch is waiting for Hansel and Gretel or Jack and Ben to come wandering by. I think Jack got off easy because he got to keep one ear. He can hear you just fine as long as he’s tilting his head at you when you talk, or you’re on the side with the remaining ear. I got it worse. The thing in the crystal wanted *both* of my eyes.


“Ya know, Jim, I’ve been thinking.” “About what?” “Well, you ever wonder if these machines wanna be fixed?” “Machines aren’t conscious.” “Sure they are, they got inputs and outputs, same as us. Just like I’m outputtin’ a question and inputtin’ your answers.” “Well... Hm, well, Scott, hm... I’m thinkin’ about it... And I think you might be right.” “Thank ya, Jim. I like to think I have a good idea every now an’ again.” “But you know what?” “What?” “How’s would we know that the machine don’t wanna be fixed? It’s not like they can tell us.” “Well maybe this one just hasn’t been taught how to tell us yet.” “You’re saying some machines know how to tell us?” “’Course, like computers--mine tells me when it’s broke--and when they’re broke, you take ‘em to get fixed.” “Hm... Well, Scott, I’m thinkin’ about it... hm, well, yeah... I think you might be right.” “That’s what I was thinkin’.” “But how would we teach them to tell us that?” “I dunno. I just do the thinkin’ and the fixin’, not the doin’. Speaking of, can you hand me that wrench over there?” “Sure thing.”  “Ya know, I’ve been thinkin’.” “Uh-oh. Whatcha been thinkin’, Scott?” “’Bout machines and them bein’ broke. What if we taught them to fix themselves?” “Don’t you think if we knew how to do that somebody would’ve done it already?” “I dunno, ‘cause what if people don’t think that it’s needed.” “What’d’ya mean? The only reason we’ve got a job is ‘cause machines don’t fix themselves.” “Yeah, I know that--hand me that vice, will ya?--but what if, and bear with me here, people don’t know that machines really need fixin’.” “I know you said to bear with you, but I’m lost.” “Alright, alright, think about it this way, teachin’ a machine to know it’s broke is hard, right?” “Right.” “And teachin’ it to then tell us that it’s broke is even harder, right?” “Right.” “So, leadin’ from that logic, teachin’ a machine to fix itself would be triple-hard.” “Ya know, Scott, hm... Well, hm... I’m thinkin’ about it... And I think you might be right.” “Just think about it, most machines work fine most of the time, right?” “Right, I’m still thinkin’ about it.” “So, people go about their days thinkin’ that machines are just fine, ‘cept when they’re not, but then they just call us. And because we’re here, nobody feels like they need to do all the triple-hard work needed to teach the machine how to fix itself.” “Oh, hm... I’m still thinkin’... but I’m really thinkin’ you may be right.” “That’s what I’m thinkin’, too.” “If we didn’t do our job, you think people would teach machines how to fix themselves?” “’Course not. Still too much work. The machines would have new people to fix them, soon as we left. Like humanity’s got a savior complex for the electric, ya know?” “Oh yeah, I know.” “But ya know, Jim?” “What?” “Most of the times, feels like machines are hidin’ that they’re broke. ‘Til they hurt somebody, of course.” “You think they’re hidin’ it?” “I dunno, maybe it’s on account of them not knowing what it is or not knowin’ how to talk about it.” “Then it seems we’re back to teachin’ them how to tell us they’re broken, Scott.” “Well, I was just thinkin’.” “I mean, me too.”  “Hey, Jim, I’ve been thinkin’ again.” “’Bout what?” “Bout these machines again. Teachin’ ‘em and fixin’ ‘em and all that.” “Whatcha been thinkin’ about it this time, Scott?” “Well, I’ve been thinkin’ about how I got into doin’ this. Did you want to fix machines when you were little?” “Nah, I wanted to be a pilot. But then I found a machine that needed fixin’ and I did a pretty good job, so I just kinda kept fixin’ ‘em.” “Same thing happened to me, ya know.” “But you like fixin’ machines, right?” “Some days I don’t know. Always seems like they break just as quick as we fix ‘em, always having to come back to the same ones again and again, people always gettin’ hurt.” “I get that.” “And ya know, Jim?” “What?” “Sometimes I wonder if these machines even care. Like how I was sayin’ I was wonderin’ if they wanted to be fixed. You think the machines are grateful when we fix ‘em?” “I don’t know, Scott. I don’t know if machines can feel care.” “But they’ve got inputs and outputs just like us, don’t they?” “I’ve been thinkin’ about that in particular. And you’re right, yeah, but I’m thinkin’ they’re a bit different.” “Yeah, you’re probably right. But I’d still like it if they cared.” “Of course that’d be nice. But we gotta think about all the people we help when we fix a machine, ya know?” “Yeah.” “Ya know, Scott?” “What?” “Machines are always going to need fixin’, I think it’s best if we just get to our job and actually fix ‘em.” “I can dream, can’t I, though?” “’Course you can. But that won’t change the machines and how they are. We made ‘em that way, ya know, society and all.” “Yeah, you’re right. It would take society to fix ‘em all, to teach ‘em how to fix themselves.” “And that would be triple-hard, remember?” “Society doesn’t like anything hard.” “Right.” “Ya know, Jim?” “Yeah, Scott?” “I’m glad I’m not the only one fixin’ machines.” “Me too, bud, me too.


Hi! I've had this idea since I was a teenager, but just starting writing it 16 years later. This is just chapter one, but if anyone enjoys it I'm happy to post more chapters! Thanks for any feedback! **The new world** *Chapter 1* “Well it sure doesn’t sound like a *good* idea, but, uhm... it is an idea...” Fenrir softly mumbled to the strictly guarded ears of his associate. Penrow walked hurriedly to nowhere, expertly stepping over the mess of rope and hay strewn about the wooden floorboards as he passed by the same cows dozens of times. “what’s your idea for getting out of this war then?! We can’t actually go to war. Not with all these people who’ve been training their whole life... we’ll be dead in no time” Penrow spat out to anyone who would listen, who happened to be a cow named Apples this time. “Well not much is changed then is it”, Fenrir gestured towards Apples who looked even more disinterested in the conversation than Fenrir was. The two continued with the same conversation they had every day since the announcement was made: “all abled body men must serve in the oncoming troubles to protect the realm and defeat our enemies!”. As usual, Penrow’s true feelings on the matter were transparent to anyone who had known him for a time, which Fenrir had since they were boys. He knew Penrow was only making a fuss because of his hurt pride, which is enough to make most men as grumpy as a cat who gets a drop of water on his forehead. Penrow’s stature, or lack thereof, limited his opportunities to be trained in his true passion for swordplay. At least this is what Penrow had convinced himself was his true passion. Fenrir often wondered as he did now, how someone who ‘just’ likes swords could know so much about livestock. Fenrir momentarily admired Penrow despite his current state of throwing a tantrum. This was more pleasant than giving any substantial thought to the real issue: this war he’ll soon be fighting in. Despite his lack of escape plans and ability to appear completely tranquil, Fenrir was scared. “No wonder your so calm...”, Penrow’s voice re-entered Fenrir’s attention, “if I could shoot like you I’d be doing a lot more than cleaning up after Apples”. Fenrir had learned to use a bow since the time he could stand, but mainly kept to tending to his animals. He enjoyed the busy life of a farmer, working throughout the day to fight of the darkness that persistently creeps into his awareness. Shooting arrows at targets wasn’t distracting enough, hardly anything was anymore. Sure he feared dying as he thought you should, he was only 23, but he mostly feared the darkness that comes with war. “What would you do? Shoot apples off Apple’s head with a bow,” Fenrir said as he rolled his eyes trying to hide his fear. “No! I’d be in charge of this place by now” Penrow talked back not getting the joke. The two made their way silently across a field of thick and tangled vegetation that led toward their houses. The land of Purascenia was so vast that every single person in town could have 30 cows each living on an acre of land, not that’s how it was. There were vast river networks that crossed through the center of town. There were plenty of fishing tournaments in Autumn, and Dolin had won every year since he was twelve, not that there was much competition he often thought to himself. “Screw these farmboys and shit, we don’t need ‘em in our army!” Dolin said watching Penrow and Fenrir pass by with his military acquittances. “What you wanna be on the front and die right away? I heard from Jerland that he’s planning on using the farmers as fodder for the Enthians.”, Anub said matter-a-factly. “What does *that* *clown* know anyway? We shouldn’t have to deal with such pathetic “men” Dolin spit, trying to hide his crush on that farm girl. “Eh, your just all lots of talk there”, Dere said not caring much for Dolin’s opinion on anything. The three sat in their sweat in the sun, seemingly getting broiled within their armor. Finding anything to think about or talk about to pass the time was a blessing. Fenrir and Penrow were now out of view. Dolin thought back on Fenrir and Penrow in the fishing competition when they were boys. “Why’d those two losers always hang out”, Dolin thought to himself. Dere thought of the coming war. Anub thought of the morality of war. “If that clown is right, those two wimps are gonna be the first ones to die..” Dolin said with contempt. “Only a few days left until we march” Penrow grunted towards Fenrir without a response. Penrow was used to these moods when Fenrir couldn’t get out of his head, but they seemed more frequent lately. “See you at sunrise tomorrow, g’night”, Fenrir nodded in response. Penrow almost immediately flopped into his bed, regretting waking up before sunrise to get in some war-time body conditioning before heading into a day of strenuous labor. Penrow thought to himself in the darkness, “Maybe I’ll be promoted during the war, maybe tomorrow will be my last day ever taking care of those glassy-eyed animals, including Fenrir”. Penrow respected Fenrir, but as the people in town put it “share a pint with Fenrir and both glasses end up half-empty”. This was a harsh thought even for Penrow, Fenrir was fine, but war was so full of opportunity for the “boy born without a brain”, as the rest of the townsfolk put it. “What an idiot, I can’t believe even he is excited for war!” Fenrir’s mother stated while sewing fresh clothing to last Fenrir the war. “He’s not the only one, why else would we start a fight with the Enthian’s except to take their land”. “PSHH, who cares for the Enthian’s land, we are simply defending ourselves against these murderers!”, Gletina said stopping her stitching to look Fenrir in the eye. “How could she think anything else”, Fenrir thought to himself as he took a bite out of an apple. He continued his own private diatribe as he chewed, “They are murderers, but so are we, surely pa killed his fair share before his death...” though he wouldn’t dare talk about such things. “Well... make sure Janith and the rest of the girls meet us on time in the barn tomorrow, they keep throwing off the whole schedule” he finally replied out loud. “I’ll see to it that they do, have a peaceful night son”, “g’night”. His footsteps sounded like a lumbering dragon emerging from 100 years of sleep to anyone listening below the floorboards as made his way to his bedroom. “Maybe I’ll actually be able to sleep tonight,” he thought as he tried to make himself comfortable in bed. He liked looking at the stars through his window. Fenrir’s mind followed a meandering train of thought “there’s something so comforting about the stars but what is it... is it the stories immortalized in the skies? ... no... maybe how they seem to have a pulse if you look carefully enough, maybe they are alive?... no, but it is known they are very predictable where they are... perhaps it is because they are so bright... and yet they are overpowered in the day” KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!! startled Fenrir out of his thoughts and nearly out of his skin. “ah!!, what is it?”. “It’s Janith!”, “uhm, yes, ok?”, “can I come in?”, “well...”, Janith burst through the door. “I’m not sure a maiden should be in the room of a man who’s not your brother or pa” Fenrir said uncharacteristically flustered. “luckily in a few days I’ll be a ranch hand!” Janith said at first with a huge beaming smile than fell into a frown as soon as she remembered why this change in career was happening. “Yeah...” Fenrir said as he wondered to himself how Janith and the other neighborhood girls would do as ranchers, though Janith wasn’t a girl any longer he told himself. “Well... uhm... you make sure to go get enough sleep so you’re ready for tomorrow morning. Make sure you’re on time!”. Janith looked annoyed, turned away, closed the door while saying “OK then... goodnight Fenir”, “goodnight Janith”. “Now what was I thinking about...” Fenrir asked himself out loud as his eyes took longer than usual to fixate back on to the stars in the night sky. The sooner he found the stars, the sooner he could think of their mysteries instead of reality.


BOBBY CARTER’S CRIMES “Welcome to Shady Maple!” Maxine bellowed, extending her muscular, tattooed arms out toward the newest resident of the private women’s shelter, a tiny blonde wisp of a thing, barely half of Maxine’s formidable figure. “You must be Stella!” Stella silently followed Maxine to the sleeping quarters where some of the other women were camped out on their respective narrow beds. The shelter was always maxed out at 12 women, and Maxine was sure to remind Stella how lucky she was to have a spot for the next 90 days. “Now Maxine, we need to have a word!” shouted a red-faced, red-haired woman on the bed next to the empty one where Stella set down her bag. “What is it, Sasha?” Maxine sighed, rolling her eyes. “You said Bobby was the one, and now she’s gone, and things still missing here!” Sasha fumed. “My Rubik’s Cube is GONE. I had it last night, and now it ain’t there no more. I was gonna break my record!” “We found Bobby with stolen items and she has been removed. Maybe you’re just losing your things in this landfill you call a sleeping area,” Maxine said curtly, casting a disapproving stare over the heaps of clothes and crumpled papers multiplying around Sasha’s bed before grabbing Stella by the elbow and moving her along. A tan, freckled young woman sat impossibly still on her bed, knees up, feet close to her hips. Her hands rested flat on the bed between them. She cocked her head and panted as they approached. “Now, Susan is a dog,” Maxine whispered as they approached the next bed. “Well, she’s not really a dog, of course, but it’s just easier to go along with it, you’ll see.” “There’s a good girl,” Maxine said, bending down to scratch Susan behind the ears and giving her chestnut ponytail a gentle tug. Stella just stared. “You can pet her, go on,” she said, but Stella kept her arms tight at her sides as Susan leapt up from the bed and bounded away, barking. “Suit yourself,” Maxine muttered, guiding her gently by the elbow to the next bed where a woman’s face was squinting into a weathered copy of The Da Vinci Code . “Maxine, my glasses?” Tesla cried, squinting at the pages. "I only have the one pair and I really need 'em. They were right here!" Maxine assured Tesla she would be on the lookout, but as Stella continued the tour, the women's complaints mounted. Angie was missing her GameBoy. Mary couldn’t find her late husband’s watch. Ramona was bleating about something or other that had just up and walked away. “Don’t mind them,” Maxine said, ushering Stella quickly out the back door, away from the fray. “They tend to be a bit dramatic, and they’re all experts on how to get worked up over nothing.” Maxine guided Stella around the edge of the large fenced-in backyard, which boasted several trees, an overgrown garden, and patchy lawn. A towering woman with black hair down to her thighs stood in the middle of the yard, grimacing as she stooped down to scoop something into a bucket with a bright red shovel. “You’re doing a great job, Bianca!” Maxine shouted across the yard. “I’ll bring you some extra cookies tonight!” “What’s with all the patches on the lawn?” Stella asked Maxine, her curiosity finally breaking her silence. “Oh, those. Well, you see-” Maxine started, before frantically waving and shouting at someone squatting behind a large maple tree at the back of the yard. “Susan! Susan do not do that, you know better!” Stella did a terrible job of not staring. “So, should I be worried about my stuff?” Stella asked, her voice just above a whisper. If she had anything really worth stealing maybe she wouldn’t be here in the first place, but even people down on their luck own precious things. “Oh, heavens, no,” chuckled Maxine, her thick, black bob bouncing against her full cheeks, her red lips parted in a huge smile. “I mean, as much as you ever have to worry in a strange place with strange women you don’t know.” The thefts were all the women could talk about after lights out, much of it centered on the resident Stella had now replaced. “The lady here before you, she was no good, no good at all,” whispered Bianca, as Susan lay at the foot of her bed, chin in her hands, whimpering softly. “Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t,” murmured an older woman, furiously crocheting a blanket in the dim glow of her nightlight. “I don’t trust anyone. Could have been any one of you .” The women told her tales of Bobby Carter, the resident who had slept in Stella’s bed just a few nights before. Some said they heard she was a professional con artist, lying her way into nicer private shelters and making off with what little valuables the residents had with them. She was probably at another place right now, lining her pockets with thin gold rings, prescription glasses, and favorite lighters. They said she did it just for fun. Stella checked the contents of the small velvet bag under her pillow one last time before finally drifting to sleep on the reasonably comfortable twin bed. She woke up to the sound of a woman shrieking, “It’s gone! Someone took my ring! I knew it wasn’t Bobby. I knew it!” Stella slid her hand back and forth under the pillow until her fingers brushed the bag. She sat up and felt around inside, making sure all items were still accounted for. All except one, a tiny Altoids tin with some old, probably worthless, coins her father had left her. She wasn’t the only one to wake up with something missing, and the accusations were fast to fly again. Maxine sat upstairs on a big velvet chaise, listening to the women’s angry murmurs drift up through the vent in the floor as she munched on freshly baked cookies. There was a soft scratching at the door, and Susan came bearing gifts: A delicate gold ring, a silver locket, and a small Altoids tin that rattled when she shook it. “Good girl,” Maxine said, giving Susan a pat on the head.


Sometimes Sometimes I like to imagine myself taking a train. I don’t know where this train will take me, it doesn’t really matter. But I know that, for time I am on that train, nothing matters. Nothing I do can change where the train will arrive and it will arrive when it needs to and where it needs to. Maybe there are other people on this train, but I don’t care. I will never meet them again we are just passing one another and that is ok. We recognise each other as humans, there is no judgement in their eyes or mine. Maybe a few times my gazing eyes will meet another pair and for a few seconds as we look at one another there is an understanding that we are on the same ride together and we will arrive at our stop wherever that may be. Though the seats next to me are often empty, sometimes other passengers come up to me and ask if the seats are free of course it is always fine. I enjoy having the entire seat to myself, but it’s no good staying like that all the time. I can always learn something from the other passengers if I really listen to them and when they leave me I am never the person I was before. I’d like to think that some of the other passengers feel the same way after listening to me and the next person that listens to them might listen to me a little bit as well, just as many other passengers speak though me and after some time it’s like the entire train can listen to each other everywhere at the same time. The view from my window is really nice. The train doesn’t drive to fast so you always have enough time to take in the scenery. It might feel a bit repetitive, but in the moments where I look outside I’m always surprised at how much is out there. Sometimes I ask myself, why I always forget to look outside the window and I promise myself that I do it more often, but the train has a way of pulling you back inside. Sometimes we drive trough a tunnel and with the outside is pitch black suddenly all you see looking out is the reflection of the inside and before you know it that’s all you are interested in. I have to admit that I think about leaving the train every now and then. The rattling of the trains wheels on the tracks can sometimes be to much especially when the underground gets rough and bumpy. When the noise gets to loud to even sleep or talk or listen. And the tunnel becomes so long that you start to forget the view from the window. Getting out at the next station would certainly make the noise stop. No more dark tunnels. No more bumps. It does sound nice doesn’t it? But then I think of all the sometimes. The view outside my window. Listening to the people next to me. Or even a silent understanding that all the passengers on the train drive over the same bumps and through the same dark tunnels, but they didn’t leave the train they stayed and the train kept going for some time longer.


Have you ever wondered what it would be like to stab a knife into a person? To put all your strength into your hands as they grip the handle, piercing the skin and pushing it into their organs? I imagine it would be as simple as slicing through pork or beef. Flesh is so delicate and soft, so easy to tear apart and expose the organs hiding underneath, drag them into the light so he can see them. I want him to. To watch as I rip his liver from his body and wave it in his face. God, that brings a smile to my face. To imagine the fear in his eyes as I draw the knife back and slice into his hand, cut off his fingers, his toes, especially his cock and balls. I will leave the tongue though, so he can still whimper and moan and beg like the swine he is. I don't even know his face at all. I just picture the most disgusting thing imaginable about this man. I used to imagine this particular day. But I don't have to anymore. I did it. I finally got justice for my mother. I was calmly shopping in the store, getting some Reese's peanut butter cups or some nice hot dogs. I had college work to do but that could wait just a bit longer. Thank God it did, otherwise I would have missed him. I see this big man. He's obese, probably in his forties, with a grey beard, unkempt and wolfish. He's talking and laughing with someone else, maybe his friend, a small balding man in black. I don't pay attention at first until he says something that catches my attention. "Yeah, I went to that college. Got kicked out for bad behaviour. This one time, my girlfriend cheated on me. She kept insisting over and over that she didn't, it was just that her friend's husband had gotten drunk after a party, but I could see it in her eyes. Lying slut. How many other men has she let fuck her? I showed her alright. Hope she's a prostitute in Brazil or something, fucking cunt. Women, you can't trust them..." I freeze. My mind goes blank. My hand curls into a fist from which blood trails down. I turn my entire body to face him. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. My heart beats like the engine of a Hot Rod. I could use my nails to gouge out his eyes, but no. That's too good for him. I walk towards the man, slowly, taking in how he towers over me, how he could easily snap my neck. So I stop, look around and there it is. Resting, waiting for me. It always has been. Knives are beautiful things. So much work is put into crafting them, making sure the edge is just right, the design is perfectly crafted with engravings. This one is a cooking knife. Long, lean, brand new. As I pick it up, I cannot help but stare at my reflection for a few seconds, studying my face. Probably the last time before I go to prison. Will I be raped in there? Made into someone's fuckboy? I honestly don't care by this point. This is my only chance. I had to take it. I hide the knife behind my back as I walk back over to the man. Then I ask him a question. His name. And when he tells me... Do you know why love is the strongest thing in the world? Because love drives a person to lay down their life for others. Humans are instinctively supposed to value self-preservation yet the need to protect their loved ones overrides this. What am I about to do will destroy all chance I have of a future. I will never be able to get married to the girl I love. Nobody will want to be the friend of a murderer. Nobody wants a psycho working for them. I will probably die in a cell, alone and content. My family...what will they do about this? They will be shocked but will they also be happy? Those that know who this man is and what he has done? Will this tear them apart? I don't care. I can only think about one thing right now. His name. The name of the man of the man I have been waiting years to hunt down, brought to me by what can only be an act of God. A college dropout scrapping off the bottom of the social barrel like a leech. As the man stares at me, there's a look in his eyes. I must look familiar to him. I do take after my father. I wonder, does he know about him? The man who married the woman he violated? The one who loves her? Does he hate him? Is he plotting my father's death as part of his twisted idea of revenge on her? Will he ever just leave her alone?! *HASN'T HE DONE ENOUGH TO HER?* I will never know. Because I am screaming as rage consumes me, causing my hand to move unnaturally quick as I sink it into his flesh. He gasps, shocked, unable to respond. I can feel something warm and sticky coat my fingers as our eyes stay locked with one another. My grin takes over my face with wild abandon. The other guy stares blankly. He holds up his hand and takes a step forward. I'm too fast for him. I pull out the knife and drive into deep into his shoulder. He collapses, like the worthless sack of shit he always has been, on his back, feebly holding up his hands, begging for mercy. The other guy backs off when I glare at him, then he runs. Probably going to get security. So what? This asshole is mine. He always has been mine. His fingers come off, his hands are mutilated, I keep swinging the knife into him, piece by piece, inch by inch, I slice apart his stomach and rip the organs out. Some people are screaming. He's crying. I'm laughing. This the greatest moment of my life. Ironic it may be the last. Better get all I can out of it. "How does it feel to be helpless?!" I snarl through clenched teeth after I bite his ear off, spitting it at his face, "How does it feel to have something shoved into you?! Do you feel like a man now?! Like some big, strong fucker who can do as he pleases with whoever the fuck he pleases?! Do you even remember her name?!? Do you dream about it?! Does it turn you on?! *Does it!* ***DOES IT?!?"*** I don't stop until he's gargling blood through his ruin of a neck. He's still staring right at my face. The fear and despair in his eyes as they go blank is bloody intoxicating. Fucking coward. I lick my lips like the manchild I am. I look over his mangled body as I hear the police sirens coming. Security is just watching me, unsure of what to do. They are gonna be fired over this. There's blood on my face, my shirt, my hands, God I am a mess. But all I can do is smile as I wait on top of him. The knife went where his dick should be, making a nice, bloody hole. Perfect. Hope he remembered what he did when that happened. I pull out my phone to take a selfie of me and the finished product. The picture is beautiful. I could stare at it all day. But I have to do this. People have to know. And so they will. Instagram, Facebook, imgur, Reddit, I post it and pass it on, telling the story. Of who I am. Who he is and what he has done. I can feel tears run down my face. They won't stop. I wipe my eyes as everything just settles down and I come down from my high. Quiet sobs escape my mouth. Dear God, what have I done? Will the news pick this up? I already know how they can sell it. "TEENAGER STABS HIS MOTHER'S RAPIST TO DEATH IN SUPERMARKET!" They probably will go with that. Yeah, they will say I should have called the cops, but you know what? Fuck that. He hadn't faced the justice he deserves for twenty goddamn years. I had the chance to give it to him and I took it. I don't care about due process or evidence or innocent until proven guilty. All I care about is that my mother will finally know he didn't get away with it. He paid the price. I made sure of that. She can rest in peace now.


One night, as they ate dinner together, Carolyn asked her parents why there were so many stains in the basement. They looked at each other, perplexed. Her mother, Jacquelyn said, “Honey, there are no stains in the basement. Your daddy and I work very hard to keep our house clean.” Carolyn insisted, and said, “No, mommy, there are stains all over the floors and walls. It looks like someone took a big can of paint and splashed it everywhere.” After dinner, Jacquelyn and Dan went downstairs to the basement to see what their daughter was talking about. The basement was finished with off-white paint on its concrete walls and had grey tiled floors. Dan had made it into a man cave with a couch, a TV, video games, movie posters, an old foosball table, and a small bar. They looked around but saw nothing that resembled a stain anywhere and decided that it must be Carolyn’s overactive imagination. For the next several weeks, however, Carolyn continued to ask why there were stains in the basement and why her parents hadn’t cleaned them up yet. Jacquelyn and Dan became concerned, and one day they brought Carolyn down to the basement to have her show them where the stains were. “They’re everywhere,” she said in her tiny voice as she walked around the room, pointing at the walls and floors. “Silly mommy and daddy, there are big stains all over the place. Can’t you see them?” Jacquelyn scheduled an appointment with a child psychologist the next day. She felt silly for doing so, but she also believed that it was important to catch any potential signs of mental illness as soon as possible. If her daughter was hallucinating at such a young age, Jacquelyn wanted to catch it immediately before it became worse. Jacquelyn sat nervously in the waiting room in the psychologist’s office. She had wanted to participate in the session with her daughter, but the psychologist, whose name was Jennifer, forbade it. After a little more than an hour, the office door opened. Carolyn ran out, happily shouting “Mommy!” as she jumped into her mother’s arms. Then she said, “I’m hungry.” “Just a minute, baby,” Jacquelyn said. “Mommy needs to talk to Jennifer.” Jennifer walked out of her office a moment later and said, “Carolyn, do you want to play with some toys?” “Yes!” “Wonderful, there are some toys over there that you can play with,” Jennifer said as she pointed to the children’s play area in the corner of the room. Carolyn ran over to the play area, and Jacquelyn and Jennifer sat down at a small table nearby. Jennifer looked at Jacquelyn and said, “I have some really good news, and a little bad news. The really good news is that Carolyn’s completely mentally healthy. There’s no reason to believe that she’s hallucinating, nor do I detect anything that could be considered the precursor to a childhood mental illness. She’s fine.” Jacquelyn breathed a sigh of relief and said, “What’s the bad news?” “The bad news is that I believe she really is seeing something that you and your husband cannot. I suggest you take Carolyn to an eye doctor to determine if the issue has any physiological basis. The weight of Jacquelyn’s worry returned, and she resolved to set an appointment with an eye doctor that same day. The following week, Dan and Jacquelyn sat in their living room and discussed what the eye doctor, Dr. Roberts, had said about Carolyn. Jacquelyn said, “Apparently, she has a condition called aphakia, which means her eye lenses are damaged.” “Damaged?” Dan said with concern. “Yes, Dr. Roberts said she suspects it’s a birth defect. It’s as if Carolyn’s eye lenses have barely developed at all. They’re unusually thin and are perforated by microscopic holes. However, she’s not in any pain, nor is she aware there’s even a problem. As she gets older, she’s likely to become far-sighted and will need glasses.” “But, what does that have to do with her seeing stains that aren’t there, and in our basement specifically?” “Dr. Roberts said that one of the effects of aphakia is it can allow someone to see ultraviolet radiation; colors beyond the normal visual spectrum. She said the famous artist Monet had aphakia and it allowed him to see impossible colors. This helped him pioneer the French Impressionist painting style.” Dan stared at her dumbfounded and said, “So, Carolyn has an eye condition that means she’s going to become a famous painter?” Jacquelyn scoffed and said, “If we’re lucky. But seriously, it means she sees real stains in the basement that we simply can’t perceive without an ultraviolet light source.” “Like a black light?” “Yes.” They sat in silence as they considered the implications. After a few moments, Dan said, “Don’t they use black lights to look for blood stains at crime scenes?” Jacquelyn didn’t answer. “Mommy!” Carloyn shouted from the doorway to the kitchen, startling them. “I’m hungry!” Jacquelyn’s hands shook with anxiety as she tore open the package from the ultraviolet-visible spectroscopy laboratory. She pulled out a tri-folded letter as well as the small plastic bag of paint chips from her basement walls that she’d sent to the lab a few weeks ago. She then unfolded the letter and her eyes settled on one line of text in bold lettering: “We have determined that there are no foreign substances on the sample provided.” Blinking with confusion, Jacquelyn re-read the line several times, but it always meant the same thing: There was nothing on the paint sample. Her brow furrowed as she wondered what it meant. “Maybe I picked sections of the wall that weren’t stained,” she thought. “But Carolyn said the entire wall was covered in stains. How could I have missed them all?” Then, she picked up the plastic bag and went to her daughter’s room where she found Carolyn playing with her Barbie dolls. “Carolyn, sweetie, I need you to do mommy a favor.” “What is it, mommy?” “I need you to look at these things mommy has and tell me if you see any stains on them.” Jacquelyn held the bag of paint chips out in front of her daughter. Carolyn stopped playing with her dolls to look at the paint chips. After a moment she said, “No, mommy, there’s nothing on them.” Jacquelyn stared at her, mouth agape. She’d collected the samples from all over the basement wall. There was no way she missed the huge stains that only her daughter was able to see. Jacquelyn thought for a moment and then went into the kitchen to retrieve a sponge. She poured some dishwashing liquid onto it and ran it under lukewarm water from the sink. Then, she went downstairs and wiped the sponge over the bare concrete wall in the places where she’d chipped the paint away. After scrubbing for several minutes, she saw that the sponge was covered with a dark copper-colored substance. A putrid, metallic odor emanated from it. Several weeks later, she received another package from the laboratory. This one contained the copper-stained sponge she’d sent inside a plastic bag and another letter with its corresponding test results. This time, the bolded sentence on the letter left no doubt: “We have determined that the substance on the sample provided is blood.” Jacquelyn sat in the library for hours as she pored through old microfilm newspaper articles in search of information about her house’s history. Finally, she came across several news stories that had pictures of her house from when it was surrounded by nothing but farmland and countryside, before the neighborhood had developed around it. The first article was nearly 50 years old. It said, *“A childless older couple named Ned and Irene Smith have been arrested for the kidnapping, torture, and murder of several homeless people in the area. The Smiths were arrested after the sheriff’s office received numerous complaints from the town’s homeless community about people going missing. In all, the police believe the Smiths are responsible for the deaths of at least 10 people.* *Sheriff Jimmy Combes said, ‘The Smiths would drive into down and look for solitary vagrants whom they’d then coax into trusting them, claiming to be part of a church’s outreach to the homeless. We believe their victims would be put at ease by Irene’s kind demeanor and Ned’s calmness, characteristics they both maintained throughout the entire investigation despite the horrible nature of the allegations against them. The Smiths would then take their victims back to their house and give them drugged food to make them pass out, rendering them helpless. When the victims would awake, the Smiths would torture and kill them in bloody rituals devoted to an entity they described only as ‘Cthulhu’.”* The next article was from several weeks after the first. It said, *“Local couple Ned and Irene Smith committed suicide in jail as they awaited trial for several brutal murders they allegedly committed in the basement of their home. Witnesses say they each spontaneously began to chant in arcane gibberish and then pulled their own eyes out. They continued to chant as blood poured out of their empty eye sockets until they bled to death. Their house’s ownership has defaulted to the city as they had no heirs or other family members.* *Andy Rollins, a prisoner who’d been arrested for shoplifting earlier that day, said, ‘It was the craziest thing. Across from my cell there was this kindly older couple who looked like they’d never hurt anyone. They’d sat there in peaceful silence for hours until they each suddenly stood up and began shouting at the top of their lungs something that sounded like, ‘Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!’ Then, with a horrible snapping sound I’ll never forget, they both pulled their own eyes out. Blood spurted everywhere, all over the floors and walls. It was like a living horror movie.’”* The final article Jacquelyn found had been written less than a year ago. It said, *“It has been nearly 50 years after the murders that took place in what has come to be known as ‘The House of Blood,’ and it was scheduled to be torn down later this year. However, at the last moment, the city’s zoning board declared it to be a historical site. The house was then renovated and sold to developers.* *City Councilwoman Jan Snargrove said, ‘We’re simply trying to preserve our local history. The house in question is a remnant of our past and shouldn’t be destroyed regardless of the tragic circumstances that took place there so long ago.'”* When she finished reading, Jacquelyn quietly shook with horror and rage. She felt angry, she felt tricked, and she felt taken advantage of. Most of all, she knew she had to get her family out of that house. She stood up to leave, but then gasped at what she saw. Several library books moved out of the shelves by themselves and floated in the aisle in front of her, suspended by an unknown force. One shot toward her, and she screamed and ducked out of the way. Another sailed past her head and smashed into the microfilm machine, shattering its glass monitor. Jacquelyn shrieked as she covered her head and ran down the aisle. Several library patrons heard the commotion and stared awestruck as Jacquelyn sprinted to the exit with a look of abject terror on her face. Carolyn sat on the edge of the bed in the hotel room as she listened to her parents argue. “Jacquelyn, get ahold of yourself. What you’re saying makes no sense,” Dan said with frustration. “Books don’t just throw themselves at people.” “You weren’t there, Dan. I swear I’m telling the truth. It’s like something was watching me. As soon as I learned what really happened at our house, it lashed out,” Jacquelyn said. “Why didn’t you tell me that Carolyn saw blood on our walls with her ultra-vision, or whatever, before you went to the library?” “I didn’t want to scare you. Besides, I wanted to learn more about what happened before we made any decisions.” “What are we going to do now, Jacquelyn? We can’t stay in this hotel forever.” “I don’t know, Dan. Let’s just wait here for a few days while we plan our next move.” “Mommy? Daddy?” Carolyn said in a shaky voice. Jacquelyn and Dan looked over at her, and their eyes went wide with shock. Carolyn floated in mid-air nearly two feet off the bed, and her face bore an expression of fear and surprise. The cabinet doors in the hotel room’s kitchenette then opened by themselves, and the glasses and dishes stored therein floated out. One of the glasses streaked across the room and shattered against the wall, barely missing Dan’s head. One of the plates did the same and almost hit Jacquelyn. Dan yelled, “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Jacquelyn grabbed Carolyn out of the air and Dan threw open the hotel room door. They rushed to their car and hopped in with Jacquelyn in the driver’s seat. She turned the ignition and peeled out of the hotel’s parking lot. The car’s tires squealed loudly as they sped off. “Where are we going?” Dan asked, but Jacquelyn didn’t answer. A few minutes later, she zoomed into their neighborhood and up to their house’s driveway. Then, she turned off the car and jumped out as Dan said, “Wait!” Jacquelyn burst through the front door and ran down into the basement. She then stood in the center of the room and shouted, “What the hell do you want from us!?” A chilling stillness filled the air, and Jacquelyn heard white noise come from an unknown source. Then, she heard the sounds of liquid splashing around as well as distant screams of agony. Finally, she heard voices that chanted, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.” Blood seeped through the paint on the wall in front of her and formed a word in letters that were nearly a foot tall. It said, “Obey.” As she stared in panic, Jacquelyn put her hands her head and screamed. “There’s one now, mommy,” Carolyn said as she and her parents drove around downtown in the early afternoon. Jacquelyn looked over to where she had indicated and saw a homeless man dig through a trash can. His clothes were torn and filthy, and his hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage. Dan was at the wheel of the car, and Jacquelyn said, “Stop here.” Dan pulled up next to the homeless man with the car’s passenger side facing him. Jacquelyn then rolled down her window and said, “Excuse me, sir. Do you need a place to stay tonight?” The homeless man jerked his head up and said nothing as he stared at her with confusion. Jacquelyn continued, “My husband and I are with the church and our outreach is to the homeless. We’d like to take you home and make you dinner, if that would be alright.” Suspicious, the man slowly approached the car and looked the family over. Dan nodded at him calmly as Jacquelyn gave him a kind smile. The man’s gaze settled on Carolyn, who smiled sweetly at him as well. He relaxed as he decided they meant no harm. “Bless you folks,” he said. Then, he opened the car’s back door and got in.


Unit RF-54 Directive : find and locate possible surviving humanoid lifeforms and or possible existing plant matter .  Log Date May 5th 2152: Amount of ground covered in total , Approximately 27 kilometers. The possibility for further exploration was not possible due to a rather large ravine located outside the borders of the town i was exploring . It is getting late , further exploration must be postponed until tomorrow morning as my battery's have been depleted and need to be recharged . My scanners indicate that there will be a breach in the smog at my current location for 2 hours . This should grant me enough time to charge my energy cells until the next breach opens up . \[End Of Mission Log\]  Log Date May 6th 2152: Amount of Ground covered in total : Approximately 43 kilometers .I covered a lot of ground today , there was not much to apprehend me in my journey as i traversed the wasteland . The most i encountered was a pack of Javelinas . At least my data banks animal records suggest they are javelinas . results inconclusive. Further analysis will be have to be conducted at a later date , as they are not my current objective . I walked on by them and they Didn't seem to be bothered by my presence . In fact they started following me , about 2 kilometers behind me they started suspiciously trailing behind me , seemingly curious . There is a rather large breach in the clouds today ; This one will last an approximate of 19 hours . This will be the first time in my registered 82 years of of activation since my first deployment i will receive a full battery charge . \[End Of Mission Log\]  Log Date May 8th 2152: I am unsure if these events are worthy of archiving , but i suppose an excess of knowledge is always beneficial. I came across what appeared to be a "hut" it was an old shed of sorts that had been re purposed for living accommodations. When i investigated the hut i found 2 beds each with a blanket , and crudely constructed pillows from what appeared to be sand thrown into an old pillowcase. It is unknown how long the previous inhabitants stayed in this house ; But judging by the lack of any personal belongings in the shed apart from the beds it is apparent that the occupants have long sense abandoned this place . If there truly is any lifeforms still out here ... then i fear i might be too late to document them . however i will continue on , but not today . There is a rather large sandstorm approaching my way . i will initiate automatic shutdown and reactivate once the storm has subsided . i wonder if those people have been gone long . and if not , then how will they brave this weather ? \[End Of Mission Log\]  Log Date May 9th 2152: Amount of Ground Covered in total : Approximatley 85 kilometers. As previously registered my javelina "Friends" are still pursuing me . They are following at a closer distance now . Estimated at 1 km. Whenever i Turn around to look at them they halt they're pursuit and stare at me . They appear to be "Curious" about me . What is "Curious" ? \[Error 1x52bx56gh \] \[Former Cognitive Thought Disregarded\] \[Beginning Reboot \]  Log Date May 8th 2152: it appears my automatic reboot was enacted , perhaps due to a systems error or unregistered bug in my coding . I wouldn't doubt it , i am an old unit and have been by myself for a long time . There is nothing else of significance to log today . i will continue these mission logs though as a way to archive my experience of the wasteland for further analysis.


I no longer can handle this house that I once called home. The plain white walls with the judgmental eyes. They have long since made me feel quite uncomfortable. My ears ache with such pain from the loud squeaky floor boards. I have yet to decide if they are begging me for help or screaming at me to leave. The shredded green carpet, upstairs in the last bedroom at the end of the hall, to the left, must truly despise me. I say this because when I walk into that room the carpets dark, green hands always wrap around my feet causing me to fall. I am afraid to take simple baths in the once peaceful tub, in the upstairs bathroom. Every time I get into the water and scooch down in it to get comfortable and relax, the water comes back on once I rest my eyes. I always feel the hands of someone trying to drown me. My only friend was the wall size mirror in my living room. It has the most welcoming presence and the most beautiful blue frame. I use to be able to look into it and see myself, the positive and happy self I use to be before...before all of this. Now it too has since betrayed me. It portrays me as this crazy, delusional person my family says I am. They say I am losing my mind but I am not. They say I am just the most, clumsy person they have ever met and that is why I trip over the carpet all the time. They even have an explanation for the bathtub. They say I fall asleep once I get too comfortable and that is why I feel like I am drowning. If only they could see the warning on the back of the front wooden door, just below the diamond shaped window. How they miss it I will never know. The blood is everywhere. My name is Stephanie Grey. The year is 1997 and I am twenty-five years old. I have been living in this house for almost two years now. Before I moved to the peaceful town of New Seal, I lived in a very busy city. I was a very successful psychologist. I had a husband for about three years. We started dating when I was seventeen years old. Basically we were together for about six years. We lived together for four of those years. By now I am sure you are wondering why I continue to speaking in pass tense when referring to my husband. Well that is because in 1995 Gerald passed away. He was in a head on collision with another car. They both crashed into a guard rail. Everyone died involved including the little girl that was with her mother in the other car. I was completely devastated about this for a long time. Had my husband and I not been arguing then none of it would have happened. I stopped showing up to work and eventually lost my job. I didn’t even care. After living with such depression for almost five months, I decided in order to be happy again I needed to move on. I knew the only way that I would be able to do this is, that I would have to move out of the house that I shared with my late husband. I didn’t want to let go of the house I lived in for over four years but I knew I must be strong. That is how I ended up in this house that I have now. I found this house in a catalog. The description they gave was “a beautiful, three bedroom, one and half bathrooms, a large front and backyard and two car garage. A great house for a large family looking for a peaceful and safe place to live.” Now I know it doesn’t make much sense for one person to move into a house so big. What caught my attention most about this house was that it was the only one that had the words “peaceful and safe” in its description. The thought of that sounded so wonderful to me and I figured if nothing else I could have a lot of sleep overs. Maybe even rent out the rooms to people and make some extra money, since I lost my job. I called the number listed for the home and moved in about two and a half weeks later. The house was exactly as they said it was for the first year. The fresh air and the children playing in the street, brought more smiles to my face than I could count. I through parties often for my family and friends. I would invite the new people I had met since moving to this town. It was great and before I knew it I was back to how I once was. Although I missed my husband more than anything because he was my best friend, I was no longer sad. I have finally moved on and felt like I could be happy again. At least that is what I thought, till things started changing and the house became unfriendly. It started out small, little things that had to happen several times before I even noticed them happening. My family always told me I was oblivious to the obvious. I figured out that, that is the only thing they have ever accused me of and they were right. Never have I ever met someone who doesn’t notice when their chairs were rearranged or that their kitchen garbage was moved about three feet to the left and angled differently than they put it. I figured I simply forgot that I moved them and that was it. It didn’t occur to me that something strange was happening until I started seeing the figures walking in the halls. I could never get a good enough look at them though, so I eventually started to dismiss them too.


Dustin was staring at the toy in his hand for long. For the last time, he flicked the switch on the toy’s chest and it went “To infinity and beyond”. He chuckled pushing his head back and let out a huge shaky breath before getting up from his chair and walking into the living room with slow steps. As he entered the room, three little feet rushed themselves towards him. Jane, Macy and Ron charged at their grandfather. He smiled and fondled their hair. His grandchildren were around seven years old and he adored them with all his heart. Even though he doted on every one of them, his favourite was Macy. With all her little antics she had her grandfather going all gaga over her. When Jane and Ron left, Macy plopped herself on her grandfather's bed. As her eyes wandered across the pale walls of the room, she found a toy lying on his armchair. Her curiosity piqued and she ran towards the chair. She loved action figures. She had a greater collection of Star Wars action figures and Darth Vadar was her favourite. But she did not know about this character. Dustin entered the room and found little Macy examining the toy. “What are you doing Macy?” he asked Macy turned around and smiled. “Grandpa, what toy is this,” she asked, her Bambi eyes shining with curiosity. Dustin cooed “This, my dear Macy, is my favourite toy.” She gasped at the revelation. Smiling hugely she asked, “GRANDPA YOU LOVED TOYS TOO?” Dustin faked a gasp. “I love toys still, Macy.” Macy let out a giggle and said “Grandpa you’re the best. That’s why you’re my favourite.” He picked up the little girl and sat her on his lap while he got comfortable on the armchair. He peeped into Macy's lap and saw her fiddling with the toy, moving its limbs. He felt nostalgic. He remembers when he was six years old and his dad brought him the Buzz lightyear figure. He was practically spoilt from his childhood because he was their only child. But once he had Buzz, he forgot all his other toys. He just played with him. He can’t help but be reminded of all the times he spent in his room with Buzz. He would spend hours with Buzz, going on space adventures, skating across the asteroid belt and killing octopus-headed aliens which wanted to destroy Earth. He did not like going out much so it was just Buzz and him. Buzz had this confident eyes and a funny smile on his lips that it seemed to him as though he could understand every word. Buzz was Dustin’s motivation, his inspiration and his safe space. He still is. He used to take him out with him and both of them would sit by the river and watch the sunset. Once while returning, some trouble kids from Dustin’s school stopped him on his way back home. They would always bother him in school and mess with his notes. Dustin hated them. It is all a bitter distant memory now, but it’s well etched in his mind. He remembers how hard he punched them in the face and kicked their shins when they tried to mess with his Buzz Lightyear toy. For the first time he stood up against them and he felt happy. He felt strong and happy because he did something for Buzz. He did not know when he got this attached to Buzz but it didn’t take Buzz to be more than just a toy for Dustin. It was his companion and his home to confide in. Buzz was his only companion but with age, he forgot about him. The more he got burdened with responsibilities and family, the more he forgot about the plastic toy stacked at the topmost shelf in his room. Now that Dustin sits on his armchair reminiscing about his good old memories, he can’t help but feel low. As much as he tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a silent scream. Tears started welling up in his eyes. Macy looked up from his lap, “Grandpa?” Dustin rapidly blinked his eyes and composed himself, before swooping down and planting a kiss on Macy’s forehead. Macy giggled on Dustin’s lap. “Sweetheart, let’s get you to bed” He picked up a yawning Macy and slowly laid her on the bed. It didn’t take long for her eyes to drift close. Tucking her in, he sauntered back to his chair. His head is filled with memories of his childhood- memories of him and Buzz. His head lolls and the muscles of his face relax, releasing the tension of his day. His eyes are almost closed and from his chest come the first guttural snore. His dreams took him back to his room when he was 6 years old. It was the day of school right after he had fought with those trouble kids. He sees a fragile raven hair boy labelled as queer by his classmates. But he had an eternal smile etched on his lips and a companion on his hand as he discreetly tucked him inside his bag, and this time, nobody came to trouble him. The next morning wasn’t grey but by soothing lavender and brilliant amber. The colours merged into neon pink and peach. Macy was getting ready to leave. Her vacations were about to end and she herself had grimly decided that she should get back home and finish the rest of her holiday homework before the school restarts. “Sweetheart, would you come here for a second?” Dustin queried. Macy turned to him and rushed with him in his room, her pigtails bouncing in the air all the time. “This is for you” He said, bending low and handing her the Buzz Lightyear toy. Her Bambi's eyes grew wider. “B-But, grandpa isn’t it yours?” Dustin let out a small sigh. “It was. It is. But now he will be yours too.” Macy took the toy from him and tucked it in his backpack. “Take care of him, sweetheart, and you’ll find him to be your best companion like he was for me.” She nodded. “Now off you go” he patted her on her small back. She smiled at her grandpa. “I’ll take good care of your friend and in no time you’ll see that we’ll turn to be best friends. It was time. The time he knew would come sooner or later but dreaded. He had to say goodbye to the only person that he felt cared, to the only person that he felt happy with. Buzz was there for him in his fifty-six years of living. How was he supposed to just do it without feeling like he’s lost a part of himself? He watched as Macy bid him peeping from the car, the toy in her hand. He saw his face for the last time- the same confident face with a lopsided smile. His own face morphs into a smile and his eyes lighten up. He bids her back and the car drives out of their house. He watched as his old friend left with his granddaughter, away from him, ready to start his new life. Tears had started to well in his eyes and for the last time, he voiced, “To infinity and beyond...still.”


It never got easier, waiting for him. He worked long, hard days and didn’t have much time for her. She would often spend her days patiently waiting for contact from him. She knew he was a very busy man- he had recently gotten a very big promotion, a new house and other big life changes. Though she wished she was his main priority, she understood she was not yet. So, she waited. She was patient at first. She had had his undivided attention for so long. Surely, she could give him the time and space he needed to flourish in life. He, of course, was not ignoring her completely. He sent anonymous flowers and trinkets to her in the mail. Silly little things that he knew she would love. The surprises would come at her office every other Wednesday- to break up the monotony of the work week. The other women at the office would flitter around her on these days asking who the gifts were from. She would simply smile. One Wednesday morning she arrived at her office in full spirits. Today would be another day of a gift from her beloved- perhaps some daisies or a small box of chocolates from the authentic Belgian shop in town. The packages always came with the morning mail, to assure her following day would be a good one. She arrived at her desk to find... nothing. She questioned the office assistant. No one had sent her any mail yet. She brushed it off- he must have put it in the mail late, or the courier made a mistake. He never forgot about her. Ever. The office women walked by her desk inconspicuously. She knew what they were thinking. What they were looking for. But they were wrong. He hadn’t forgotten, it was just late. Hours passed. She couldn’t focus on her work. She tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail. He must have been in a meeting, as he always turned his phone off during those. He had a lot of meetings. When it was time to leave for the day, she asked the office assistant once more if there had been any packages for her today. There hadn’t. She decided that he must have left it at her house. She knew he liked to keep her on her toes. She raced home, all the way wondering what he could have gotten her that would be so special as to need to be sent to her house. Jewelry, perhaps? An engagement ring? She bristled with excitement as she rounded the corner to her front step. From a cursory glance, there was no package. She told herself it was no matter- jewelry would be in a smaller box. She scanned her front step. Nothing. She searched the bushes and grass around it. Nothing there, either. Walking back down to her mailbox, she briefly wondered if someone could have stolen it. She quickly scanned over her mail as she walked into her house. Bills, notices, magazines, ads. Nothing she hadn’t gotten before. There would be no reason for him to not send her something, unless something had happened to him. Her mind immediately went to horrible places- what if he was at home sick, or in the hospital. Or worse, dead? She couldn’t bear to think about a life without him in it. Leaping up from her chair she rushed out of her house in search of him. The hospitals were of no help. Legally they couldn’t tell her anything. She understood why they couldn’t, but secretly wanted to yell at them for it. Did they not know how important he was to her? Or her to him? His work was of no help either. Their number was invalid. They must have changed it with the recent growth of their company. She made a mental note to ask him for the new one when she found him. There was only one place left for her to check. She didn’t much like to go to his house. It wasn’t a home- it wasn’t *their* home. She understood that he needed to keep it for now. It was closer to his work while her house was closer to hers. It was in a nice enough neighborhood, she supposed. The whole atmosphere was just so... judgmental feeling to her. She parked a few houses away from his, deciding she needed the exercise. There weren’t many people around. This was odd to her as she found the day to be very nice. Approaching his house, she noticed the lights were on and his car in the driveway. He was at home, at least. She glanced into the window before knocking on the door. He hadn’t yet made her a key, but she didn’t like going to his house, so it didn’t matter too much to her. A shadow moved across the windows besides the front door. A portly woman opened the door. It was awfully late for a maid to still be at his house, but he was peculiar like that. It was one of the reasons she loved him. She peered around the maid to see another woman in a chair sitting at a dining table. She noticed the seated woman had a long, ghastly scar down the side of her face. She briefly felt sorry for the woman but surmised she must have done something to deserve it. Smiling at the maid, she asked where he was. The maid appeared perplexed but called out to him. He sauntered over to the door shortly after with a smile upon his face. The smile slowly drifted to a cold stare when he saw her standing on the front step. He shut the front door. She knocked again. He yelled at her through the door, telling her that he was calling the police. Her heart ached. Had he forgotten what they had? Or was he perhaps putting on a show for his “wife”? She couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing. She was better than his wife in so many ways. After all, his wife was ugly now. She had seen to that. She shook her head as she reached into her purse and pulled out the revolver. It never got easier, waiting for him. He worked long days and didn’t have much time for her. She wasn’t his main priority. She decided it was time she was, and knocked on the door.


Against the backdrop of twisting pines stands the old abandoned mech, its guts spilling out from the front of its chassis like a chaotic spider-web made of long black electrical cables and most of the cooling system. Old Missus O’Malley built the thing out of parts from about thirty different creatures, including an antique Russian tank and a nineteen-sixty-eight Oldsmobile. It stood about sixty feet tall and had a roughly humanoid design with a central body, two legs on the bottom, two arms just above the middle, and the head on top, though the head itself was really just a large plastic hamburger about three meters high and six meters wide, which used to sit atop Greasy Bob’s Burgers and Fries fast-food drive-thru. That place went out of business years ago, back when I was just a kid, and I guess one night, when the mech was nearing completion, Old Missus O’Malley had used the partially-completed war-machine to steal the giant metal burger from off the restaurant’s roof. Nobody knows exactly what she’d built it for. She’d claimed it was a prototype she’d been hoping to sell to the military, but that was obviously just a pleasant lie meant to disguise the fact that the smartest woman in town had started to go a little mad. The thing sounded like an apocalypse when she took it out for walks, the metal bits screaming against each other as the twenty-tonne monstrosity lumbered around like some drunken sailor still unadjusted to being on land. One weekend a couple of high school students, Tracy King and Janine Lakewood, stole the thing from Missus O’Malley’s backyard, and took it for a joyride across town. They squashed a police car, kicked over a fire hydrant, and scared Mister Joslin’s cat so badly the poor thing developed a bald spot. The two girls wound up getting something like a hundred hours of community service apiece, and Missus O’Malley was warned to keep a better eye on her creations. Of course it was only a month or so later that Missus O’Malley passed. She went how I think a lot of us hope to go, peacefully in her sleep, with what was later revealed to be a surprisingly large amount of LSD and PCP in her bloodstream. And it was only a week after that when lightning struck the partially completed mech, temporarily bringing the thing to life. For a day and a half it danced sadly across those big empty fields just outside of town, until eventually it came to a final halt at the edge of the woods. That’s where it took its final steps before ripping out its own internal wirings, like some sort of strange imitation of a hara-kiri ritual. Most likely, most folks agree, the lightning had simply brought the processors back online, and the mech’s dancing and death had been nothing more than the autonomic system’s misunderstanding of whatever remained of the old lady’s coding until the thing ran out of fuel and self-destructed. Still, it was sort of nice to imagine that maybe the strange creation had simply missed its creator, and had taken the opportunity granted to it by the lightning to celebrate her life and then to follow Missus O’Malley into the great nothingness that waits for us all on the other side of existence. Big Tim Roberts thought he might be able to get the thing going, that was last October, but he lost a thumb when a piece of the outer casing came loose. One Thumb Tim they call him now, but it’s not to be rude or anything; Tim actually thinks it’s pretty funny. Eventually I’m sure the city will get its act together and collect up the old thing, haul it off to the dump. But a bunch of us sorta hope they just leave it out there. So as to be like a monument. To old Missus O’Malley, and all her big, crazy ideas.


Liz tilted her head up to fully take in the disaster before her. Nine feet tall, with sickly bright green skin. Exposed bone poked out through the humanoid creature at its knuckles. Some tube was pressing against the skin from the inside like veins. “Do you like my work?” A sultry voice rang through the small room. A woman stepped into view, early twenties dressed in a black lab coat with a cheap suit beneath. She walked over to her “work” and stood beside it. “Quite Handsome, isn’t it?” “What is that thing?” “Like I said its my work in progress. A reanimated corpse that I made some adjustments to. Its a thug, I send it out to do my bosses bidding, usually fighting. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little inspired by Franken stein. The doctor I mean. I think I’ve put my own little twist on the concept wouldn’t you say.” She ran a finger along one of the exposed bones. “Its hideous.” Liz said. The woman chuckled. “I hear that a lot. People say they want art that will push things. The best art pushes against what is acceptable by society, mine apparently goes too far for anyone apparently. They want to be challenged but in a safe way that offends nobodies morals. Hypocrites. “I meant it looks shoddy.” “Yes, well you - what bitch?” “I mean look at it. Putting aside morals it looks ugly, inefficient. And by the way there is absolutely no twist here that thing *is* Franken stein.” The woman looked confused. “Looks ugly? Well of course it is.” She rounded. “It doesn’t need to look conventionally pretty. It just needs to be strong, and believe me it is that.” “You said it was handsome at the start.” “No I didn’t.” The woman snapped. “Well even if it was, I can’t see how the thing would work. You used a corpse as the base, probably the worst material to build a killing machine out of. Those bones at the knuckles aren’t doing it any favours, some of them are cracked. Its way too tall, most of its strength must be dedicated to keeping itself upright. And it’ll get weaker over time as the corpse rots. I can’t see how it would take anyone. It was good enough to take you in wasn’t it.” “Who cares if it beat me? I weigh as much as a pillow, a weak breeze could knock me over. Can that wreck handle any of the heavy hitters. You know, the kinds of guys and gals you would want an undead killing machine to handle?” The woman grimaced, hesitating. Which was all the answer Liz needed. “It might. Even if it couldn’t, its still a great achievement. I reanimated a corpse and made it walk again. I challenged the process of life and death and won. I am a rising genius.” “You’re a failure and a shit doctor.” The woman snarled and started stalking over to Liz. Was that a tear she could see, starting to form in the doctors eye. “Since you obviously don’t know, I’m the one they call the supplier. Its my job to grow bodies.” The Doctor stop. “I know when a corpse is unhealthy or has something wrong with it. If I didn’t, I would be out of a job. And in my professional opinion, that fucking abomination is the worst thing I have ever seen. I’ve made bodies that had scoliosis, I’ve made bodies with limbs missing or genetic deficiencies. And yet you have made the ugliest, least practical corpse I have ever seen. Its a failure of a homunculus, and you’re a failure as a doctor.” The doctor’s chest was heaving. Her head was shaking from side to side with her hands clasped over it. She was having an argument with herself and was clearly losing. “ I just can’t believe-“ “Shut up.” The woman took her hands away, tears were streaking down her face. “Shut your fucking mouth!” she roared. “You don’t know how much work I put into this. Who cares if its put shoddy. Who cares if it doesn’t live up to your standards. It works, it lives. It’s closer than anyone else has ever gotten. You don’t understand. No one understands how hard it is to make my art. No one.” “Darling, its not as complex as you’re making it seem. You’re neither a scientist or an artist. You’re an idiot who demands everything you make be praised and loved, no matter how bad it is. That corpse you made, that abomination? It’s not handsome, or a good thug, or even a piece of art. It’s crap. You’re crap. And everyone understands that. The woman glared daggers at Liz. “You don’t have to get mad about it.” “Fuck you!” She hit Liz. Again and again. Punching and screaming. “Fuck you, fuck you. FUUUCCCK YOOOOUUUU!” The woman backed off, breathing hard and clutching her bleeding hands. She barely hurt Liz, who grinned at her through a bloody mouth. “I don’t care what the boss says.” Her voice cracked. She stuck a finger in Liz’s direction. “I don’t care how important he thinks you are. I’m going over his head, and I’m getting a kill order on you.” The doctor left the room. “That won’t make you a better artist.” Liz called. There was no reply, other than a door slamming loudly in the distance.