The gypsies played their hip-throbbing tunes on this fine evening, hired by the groom out of respect for his elders. No wedding is complete without Romani music, they thought, as the fast-paced rhythms mixed with raki cajoled the younglings into shaking their bodies with an exuberant lack of coordination—a dance best described as pulsing mini-seizures. Of course, some of the kids and men were crafty with it, synced with the notes, dancing on beat to make quite a show, drawing claps and roars from the onlookers. This idea of grandeur originated from times of solitude and stigmas when one man couldn’t inquire a woman for her name, except at events such as these, where slipping away into the crowd proved easy and useful. This is how Sharani and Mustafa had met, the groom’s parents. Dancing teens, musicians blowing on clarinets, confetti-spreading kids, and a large man holding a camera fit for his size—all overlooked by the couple’s innocent-white table. Hazan and Nazli had known each other since high school; he was senior to her by three grades, although older by two years. They started dating when Nazli graduated, and the wedding came not long after. Seated next to them were Filiz, the groom’s sister, and Halim, her betrothed. They flirted in a parading fashion. Halim flaunted his bourgeois roots by consuming expensive red wine together with Filiz, the only ones to do so, and laughed vociferously at her remarks. “He can’t tune down for even a second!” rebuked Hazan into Nazli’s ear. “Someone should have reminded her to dress more appropriately! This is my wedding, after all!” she hissed back, sneaking a peek at Filiz’s velvet gray gown with pleats that formed a flower, a flourished rose. Hazan's brow furrowed at his wife-to-be's rude comments. He grabbed a cup, his hand shaking slightly, and downed the drink in one gulp. A grimace flickered across his face as the liquid burned its way down his throat. The singer of the brass band halted the music and approached the couples. “Time for a dance, applause for the celebrants!” he cried, rallying the spectators. Hazan stumbled, leaned on the table, and kissed Nazli’s hand before leading her into the center of the now-empty dance floor. He sported a cream-toned three-piece suit, with a black stowed handkerchief. Complementing him, she wore a simple snow-white gown, stretched over her décolletage, adorned with golden jewelry. Hazan pressed her to himself, holding her by the waistline with one hand, and locking palms with the other, they danced,  semi-rhythmically to the song. Filiz's eyes narrowed as she watched Hazan stumble on Nazli's dress. “He is stepping on her dress, the drunk fool,” she muttered under her breath, tapping her foot. Halim placed a hand on her knee, attempting to still her restless leg. “Let them be, love,” he said, his voice soothing her irritation. “This is their day.” The attending crowd gradually fell into silence; roars muffled, and chit-chat whispers disappeared in a gust. To an outsider’s eye, they would seem miserable: a drunk speeding up and pausing mid-dance, and a woman whose bitter smile soured. But this was tradition, with only one rule forbidding one to not be blackout drunk, so that one can still perform his manly duties. As the song ended, a new one began, a less formal one but still composed for couples. Mustafa led Sharani to accompany the celebrants first, followed by Kalim and Afize, the bride’s parents. Halim, confident in his timing, ready to interject themselves now, darted up, pushing the table aside and spilling the wine, dotting red on the innocent-white tablecloth. Filiz frowned deeper. He kissed her hand and led her to the dance floor. They weaved their bodies into one, moving tenderly like waves on the sea. Unlike them, Hazan and Nazli resembled ripples, clashing with another dancing couple every two minutes. “You are as drunk as my brother, spilling wine on their table!” Filiz taunted. “Drunk on love and lost in your beauty!” He laughed cheekily. She looked away, and he took the opportunity to land a sly kiss on her cheek. “The boys will fix it, don’t worry!” he added, nodding towards the waiters. The boys began toiling away, throwing everything they could to remove the stain, but it persisted. Lucky for them, the tablecloth stretched longer than the table and gently rested on top of the pavement. They moved it a bit, and voila! The spillage was hidden successfully! Filiz watched the servants clean up the spilled wine, a small smile playing on her lips as they worked. Glancing over Halim's shoulder, she noticed Hazan's sweat-soaked face and vacant eyes, while Nazli's gaze seemed to linger too long on Halim, her eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. “Halim, she is watching you,” she whispered. “Had I known then the circumstances that I would be cursed with, my love, I would not have done it.” His eyes locked on Filiz’s tender face. “I know, I don’t blame you…” Their movements slowed, yet still languid. “My mind is troubled, love. What if tonight, there is a problem?” She stared at Halim, her eyes shining, reflecting the full moon on their damp surface. “Don’t worry, love, as long as he is drunk, no one will know!” He reassured her, landing another soft kiss on her clavicle. “She seems a bit…Full? Nazli was always a thin girl.” Filiz narrowed her eyes and observed Halim in suspicion. In silence, they danced, swaying from one side to the other and spinning flawlessly. The men couldn’t see them, but the signs spoke to Filiz. “Please… Filiz, you know it has been a long while!” He reassured her. The enlarged breasts, constantly leaning her head on Hazan, the mess she left yesterday, and the way she avoided alcohol… Filiz suspected Nazli. The signs were there, but she relieved herself, calling it stress, the weight of the wedding. “Your parents are a nice bunch, love! I am glad to have finally met them,” Halim pulled away Filiz from her worries. “They are, mostly. Although, I am afraid for my father, his sudden hair loss and how thin he became in such a short time!” “It comes with age, love. Do not worry yourself,” he whispered, gently patting her back as he hugged her. “His eyes have changed…” “They seemed fine to me. A happy bunch, him and your mother. I hoped mine would attend, but alas…” “Have you inquired about me?” She frowned. “Are they still against our marriage?” He pulled himself back to meet her eyes. “They are not against you, love. They are against this! Anything but traditional, they hate this music and the aura it radiates.” “They deny their roots then. We shall speak of this later.” “I do hope Hazan finds the happiness he seeks in Nazli.” “Oh, please. His love is for the bottle, and she still clings to yesterday’s events. Misery clouds trail them,” she hissed. “You are always skeptical of him. Give it some time, he will change…” The music swiftly adjusted into the rhythmic traditional type, and the couple went back to take their seats. “He has to…” Halim muttered.


Steel against steel, my blade swam through the air, as swiftly as the eels in the depths of the famous river. The sounds of metal clashing and the smell of sweat around me stimulated the pumping blood in my veins. I stepped left and then right, dodging the sharp edges of my opponent, counting my movements in preparation for a strike. I feinted one last time – sliding neatly to the left, as my adversary attacked right, and spun around just in time to place the cool, sharp edge of my blade against the back of his hairy neck. He gasped in disappointment as he fell to his knees, long blades dropping from both his hands. He raised them up, empty in surrender. I smirked. And then neatly removed my sword from his flesh. “You’ve come a long way,” my partner said over the grunts and shouts of the other fighters, busy with their own brawls. He rubbed the back of his neck and stood up slowly. Glancing at his hand, he chuckled when he found blood. “If this is how you practice with your own army, I would hate to meet you as an enemy in battle, Princess,” he said bending to collect his swords. He turned around and bowed his head at me at the mention of my title. I breathed rapidly to catch air, feeling the heat of the exercise. Unlike the bare arms and muscled torsos around me, I was covered from head to foot in a tight black suit. The material was glued to me with sweat, running from the top of my head and trickling down my face, which was hidden. Only my eyes were visible through a rectangle slit, and I turned them now on the military man expectantly. “Isn’t that what I’ve been training for?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and running my exposed fingers along the sharp edge of my sword, to remove the fine specks of the First Lieutenant’s blood. He coughed self-consciously, averting his gaze. “Your training has progressed it’s true-” he began. “So, I am ready for battle, you agree?” I asked, taking a step closer to him. I held my sword at my waist, blade pointed in his direction. “Your Highness must know that this is really not up to me,” he replied, eyes flicking to the blade and then back up to my face. “This decision is one for your superiors,” the First Lieutenant said, suddenly stern. He looked and sounded his age now, I thought. Scolding me like I was one of his lambs at home. “My ‘superiors’,” I said stepping back and lowering the sword. “Will listen to you if you persuade them of my skill.” “I will do all in my power to help the Princess,” the First Lieutenant said, bowing his head again. “But I am not convinced of my authority in this regard. I believe that your brother, the Prince, and your father, the King, may yet be convinced by yourself.” I scoffed loudly, my brows knitting in irritation. “Your Lords require much more than the appeal of a sister and a daughter. I need the recommendation of my teacher, sir,” I said firmly. I turned the sword at the hilt, offering it up to him. “Please,” I said, bowing. He paused. Then he sighed, reaching for the hilt warily. “As you command, your Highness,” he spoke formally, bowing back deeply. He stood upright and walked backwards from me, then turned and disappeared into the depths of the cave. I stood still in the middle of the sparring arena, surrounded by the dirty, sweaty army. Then I turned and walked out of the cavern, into the blazing sunlight of the desert, feeling deflated despite the day's victory. I undid the covering over my head, allowing the slight breeze to cool me down, and took a sip of water from my skin. Suddenly, I spotted a small cloud of dust in the distance. I squinted. Two horses I counted, pulling a closed chariot, flying the flag of my family’s emblem. I sighed and mounted my horse. No doubt this caravan was here for me. I rode fast towards the messengers, who stopped upon seeing my approach. I paused in front of them, palace guards. They bowed their heads and began speaking. “Your Royal Highness, King’s Daughter, Princess-” “Oho! Oho! Is she out there?” a high-pitched squeal interrupted. “Oho Princess! Princess!” My lady’s maid pushed her head out of the window of the chariot and wagged her finger at me earnestly. My mouth curved to smile automatically. “Princess! Princess!” she called beckoning me urgently now. “You are not supposed to be here, no!” I laughed and dismounted. Walking to one of the palace guards, I handed him the reins to my horse. “And yet you are here, Merit!” I exclaimed running to her and grabbing her fingers. I kissed them and she pulled them away in disgust, clicking her tongue. “Inside! Inside at once!” she squeaked crossly. I laughed, obeying her, pulling open the door and sliding into the cramped space. Merit hit the roof of the chariot with her palms to signal to the guards, and the horses began moving. “Don’t be angry my favourite one,” I said, pouting. “It was only a little training.” “A little – oho!” Merit huffed. “You should not be training at all Princess! No no, you should be practising for the banquet.” I scoffed. “The banquet is nothing to me.” “For shame, for shame!” Merit cried, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping sweat from her face. “This is a very important night for the royal family – for your father, the King!” she squeaked pointing at me sharply. I rolled my eyes, setting her off on a string of rebukes. The chariot slowed as we neared the gates of the city, and slowly wheeled through the arches. I looked outside the window as we passed through the bazaar – full of shining wares, delicious spice, and crowds of my beloved people. We passed by a cook and the smell of smokey meat entered the chariot. “Mmm, I’m famished,” I said flopping back against the velvet seat. “What – where you even listening to me?” Merit demanded huffing. “Yes, my sweet Merit of course I was,” I said leaning forward to take her hand. She drew them to her bosom tightly. “No, no touching,” she said shaking her head firmly. “You stink of man sweat!” “Man sweat?” I asked, bursting into laughter. “It’s not funny Princess, it’s unbecoming!” she squeaked sternly. “You shall bathe in milk and lavender as soon as we get to the palace. Pray to the Gods that we do not encounter your brother or father.” I stared at Merit in amusement but said nothing. She was right about me, I needed to get cleaned. She was also right to be cautious: I had yet to tell either my father or brother that I had been training at the cavern all these months. But it was time, I thought. War was coming and I was ready to fight. *** “The King’s Daughter smells as fresh as the perfume of a flower and looks as clean as the linens in the King’s court,” Khaem said handing me a grape. I grabbed it from him and popped it into my mouth hungrily. “You’re welcome,” I said swallowing. He offered me the whole bunch and I took it readily, pulling at the green fruit and shoving the sweet globules into my mouth. “Hard to believe then, that just a few hours ago, the Princess was seen in the training caverns sparring with the First Lieutenant.” I stopped chewing and swallowed hard, choking and spluttering. Khaem sighed irritably and handed me a skin of water. I took a sip and swallowed. “You- you know?” I said, wiping tears from my eyes and taking another sip. He sighed again. “Did you think that this would go unnoticed, Kiya?” he asked seriously. “I knew about it after your first visit all those months ago.” “But – But you didn’t say anything to me!” I said searching his face hopefully. “Did you tell father?” “Of course not!” he said, eyes widening. “He would be furious, you know that.” I stared back at my brother defiantly. “Maybe he wouldn’t be angry if he knew how well I fight now, Khaem.” My brother scoffed at me and grabbed the skin of water from my hands. “I’m serious!” I said loudly. Some heads around court turned their gazes at us, whispering. Khaem looked back at them smiling politely. “Keep your voice down,” he said, his expression fixed. “Khaem if you knew about me training, then you must know of my skill,” I said, attempting to speak quietly. “I’ve been training everyday for almost a year. Even the First Lieutenant thinks I’ve improved-” “I know. He told me so,” Khaem interrupted, passing his hand over his eyes wearily. I grabbed his fingers and held them in my hands. “So – so you think I could fight? I could join you and father on the frontlines?” I said, my eyes lighting with excitement. Khaem turned to me and smiled sadly. I knew that look. My face fell and I dropped his hands. He caressed my cheek. “Kiya, sister,” he said kindly. “ I believe you could fight. The First Lieutenant would have never dared approach me in such a way if he didn’t have faith in your abilities.” I looked up at my brother, anger and sadness mixing behind my eyes, forming involuntary tears. “But you know that father will never agree to it-” “Even if you ask him, brother? Even If it comes from you?” I begged, tears falling now. I wiped them away impatiently. “I fear that I am not as brave as the man who trained you. Even I do not dare make such a request of the King,” Khaem said quietly. He pulled my head to his chest and held me, allowing me time to collect myself. I wiped my face on his shirt and pulled away, picking up the bunch of grapes and attacking them. “I’ve – I’ve worked so hard Khaem,” I said looking down at the green pulp, speaking through gritted teeth. “All I want is to protect the kingdom, to fight in my family’s name, for my family’s people.” “There are other ways for you to do that,” Khaem replied gently. I laughed derisively. “By hiding under the city? With the woman and children?” “They look to you for courage and guidance Kiya,” Khaem said patiently. “Riding into battle, wielding weapons, spilling blood. Those things are easy. But protecting the innocent and vulnerable, being a symbol for the people and leading by example, that is strength.” “Don’t patronise me!” I said quietly, swallowing tears. “I wouldn’t dare. I heard you drew blood today.” I looked up at Khaem, he was grinning. I laughed in spite of myself. He leaned over and hugged me. “I suppose I should go back to practising for the banquet then,” I sighed gloomily. Khaem pushed me away from him and smirked. “Oho! What’s this hasty change of heart?” “I don’t know what you mean,” I said untangling from his arms and looking away. He laughed and shook his head. “I expect you will be back at the cavern tomorrow?” “I will be practising for the banquet, as I am required to,” I replied in monotone. Khaem laughed and pushed my arm playfully. “Save your theatre for Merit. She’s more willing to play the fool for you than I am.” I laughed. I rode to training as usual the next day, and for weeks afterwards. Nobody came to collect me, not even Merit. I had a suspicion that Khaem had a hand in that. I didn’t complain, it gave me hope. My swordsmanship was improving and fighting had made me stronger. It had given me purpose, an occupation that made me feel worthy and useful. I spent the mornings in training and the afternoons practising the arts: dancing, singing and playing the harp. The people deserved a well-rounded princess. We opened the city gates for the banquet, unlocked the palace doors. My father thought a celebration would lift the spirits of the people, and it did. Until night fell. Thousands of enemy soldiers exposed themselves amongst the crowd of revellers. Fine clothes were torn off to reveal battle armour beneath, concealed weapons were unsheathed and utilised swiftly. Blades flew threw the air, spilling blood and turning the celebration into hysteria. I stood on the balcony looking down at the chaos, suddenly shocked into paralysis. I looked behind me and saw fighting in the King’s Court, my father shouting a war cry, his swords held high. “Princess!” My limbs felt cold, as women screamed and ran in every direction, taking the nearest means of escape. I saw Merit’s face, white with terror, rushing towards me in the throng. “Princess!” she cried slamming into me with the weight of her full body, waking me from my daze. “Princess! Oh! We have to get beneath the city! We must go now!” she cried grabbing my arms and turning to run. “What- wait,” I said trying to stop her. “Khaem and father-” “They will take care of our enemies!” Merit screamed as the body of a soldier fell in her path, bloodied and dead. I stared at the face of the man, eyes open to the sky. Merit was pulling me away, dragging me back inside the palace. “Kiya!” I spun around, Khaem was running towards us. “Oho my Prince!” Merit cried in fear. Khaem ignored her and grabbed me by the shoulders. “You have to follow the women and children to the caves beneath the city,” he said urgently, pushing me towards the staircase. His blade had a crimson sheen, his face was sweaty and bruised already. “Khaem, I- I’m afraid,” I cried, the words escaping my lips unexpectedly. “You’d be a fool if you weren’t!” Khaem replied strongly, he glanced back anxiously, looking at our father. “Listen to me Kiya, you have to do what I said.” From his back he unsheathed his long blade and handed me the hilt. I hesitated. Then took it from him and looked into his eyes and nodded. “For your Kingdom, for your people,” he nodded back, and shoved Merit and I down the stairs. I ran then, dragging a hysterical Merit behind me. Outside, a few enemy soldiers came running towards us. I pushed Merit from me and raised the Prince’s sword, stepping and slashing as I had that very morning in the training cavern. Two soldiers fell at my feet bleeding, but one dodged and slid his blade across my arm. I cried out in pain and anger, shouting a war cry and turning my sword to attack. He pulled back in surprise and I struck him before he could recover. “Your Highness!” I put my blade through all three soldiers to finish my work and ran to Merit who was screaming – in terror of the soldiers or of me I could not tell. “Your Highness!” the First Lieutenant came running towards me breathlessly. He glanced at the dead soldiers, then back at me and bowed. “We have begun moving the women and children into the caverns,” he said quickly. “Some of the other lieutenants and I sealed off the entrances, only one remains open. We need you and the rest of the subjects to make their way down.” “Understood,” I said nodding firmly. “Lead us, Lieutenant.” He bowed and we began running towards the last entrance of the underground caverns. Soldiers came for us left and right, and we fought them off. When we reached the entrance to the tunnel, a small stream of women and children were trickling through. I turned to Merit. “Inside, now!” I commanded. She whimpered and nodded, running to obey. “These are the last of them, or the last we could round up,” a palace guard said bowing. I nodded and turned to the First Lieutenant. “I suppose there’s no chance of me staying above ground to help you fight?” He smiled sadly and shook his head. Then he took my hand, lowered his head and kissed it. “It has been an honour training you, Princess,” he said. I clasped his hand in mine for a minute. And then he straightened, nodded to the palace guard and both set off running towards the fray. My eyes glistened as I turned and ran towards the tunnel, I nodded absently to a guard as I flew in and heard the stone door shut behind me. I ran down the stairs and walked through the cavern, sand raining down intermittently as war thundered above me. When I reached the open plateau, a hundred or more faces turned towards me. “Oh King’s Daughter!” an old woman cried bowing. “What is to become of us?” I looked over at their faces: children and women looking up at me, pained yet hopeful. I remembered what Khaem said to me. “Whatever happens,” I cried back gripping my blade tightly. “I will protect you, my people!” I raised my sword into the air. “For my Kingdom, for my people!” I shouted. “For our Kingdom, for our people!” The crowd chanted back in unison. The chant echoed through the cavern, the strength of our voices soaring high over the battle above.


CW: violence A bear meandered at the edge of the backyard, big and brown. Bears weren’t native to the area, so this merited some wide-eyed gawking. It even earned the kids’ attention, had them scrambling over furniture—and each other—to join Liam by the sliding glass door. Emily looked uneasy. The apple tree at the back of the yard had dropped fruit in a ten-foot radius around its base. The bear gobbled them up. With its dog-like face and mannerisms, and the way it used its tongue like a spoon, Liam found it rather cute. But the cloud of dirt that flew from its fur when it shook spoiled the friendly illusion, reminding him that this was a dangerous animal. Liam ushered the kids upstairs. With them tucked safely away in their rooms, he retrieved a spear from the back of the bedroom closet, where it lay behind a row of mothballed suits, still in the box it arrived in. He took it downstairs. Emily fretted over their cat. Fumbles, chubby and orange, warmed himself on the back porch, oblivious to the danger. The bear and its smorgasbord of half-rotten fruit were a dozen yards away. Though the cat lounged closer to the door, Emily didn’t want to grab him. Fumbles didn’t like being approached when outside. He might run off, and one of his avenues of escape contained a bear. The creaking stairs sounded Liam’s descent. She took one look at the spear, at his face, and set her own face in opposition. “No. Put that thing down—what’s wrong with you? What do you think you’re gonna do?” Liam had expected the challenge, but hadn’t prepared a rebuttal. He felt ridiculous all of a sudden. What had he meant to do? “I… I don’t know.” He took the spear back upstairs, resolving to just sell the thing. When he returned, Emily had slid the patio door slightly ajar, tapping a can of cat food with a spoon—a siren’s call to which Fumbles promptly responded. The bear raised his head too, but then returned his attention to the apples. Emily closed the door. “We need to call animal control or something.” “Why? It’s not hurting anyone.” “Didn’t you just have a spear?” “Well I wasn’t gonna use it. I don’t think.” He really wasn’t, forgot he’d even purchased the thing until it showed up on his porch, and only kept it because it looked cool. Now, with a staircase separating him from the violent influence of that sleek, expensive, oversized kabob, even calling animal control began to feel too extreme. He didn’t want the bear shot just for wandering into their backyard. Fumbles ate the can of cat food as though it were his first time eating. An idea formed. During a brief interest in aerial photography, Liam bought a drone. He returned from the garage with the expensive, little-used toy. Grabbing lunch meat and string from the kitchen, he tied up some ham and attached the wad to the drone. “It’s got a camera and a mile radius.” “I think we should just call animal control.” “Let me try this. There’s nothing but marshes out back anyway. I’ll lure it away, then we can call.” Liam placed the drone on the porch, then stepped back inside and closed the door. Watching his progress through the small screen on the controller, he teased the bear to get it interested, dipping near and rising up as it swatted. He kept it low, and led the bear out of their yard to the fields and forest beyond. “What if it just follows the ham back?” Emily asked after he’d flown it half a mile. Liam hadn’t considered this. Fortunately, the problem resolved itself as the drone hit a tree and the video connection broke. “You’re not going after it. Not right now, anyway,” Emily said as she called animal control. Liam stood by the door, watching for signs of the bear while Emily was on the phone in the other room. She came back a few minutes later. “They said it’s got something to do with the climate—bears are coming further east. It’s probably going to get worse. We’re supposed to keep our cat inside and put up a fence if we want to avoid a recurrence.” Liam tried installing a fence. He’d dug latrine pits in basic training and thought the skills would translate. They didn’t. After several attempts, they paid a company to do it. * * * * Once a month, they went to Liam’s parents for dinner. Out of familial duty, the kids raked their grandparents' leaves into neat piles, then messed them up by jumping in them. Liam’s father, Frank, cooked food on the grill while his mother listened intently to Emily’s recounting of the bear story. When Emily finished, Frank spoke. “You said ‘We paid a company to do it.’ What do you mean?” Liam regarded his father. “Well, I’ve never installed a fence before. I tried but, you know, it’s hard.” “No, I get that. But what did she mean ‘we’ paid for the company? You ain’t got a job.” “Emily does, but we—” “Ah, so your wife paid for it.” “Well, it’s our money—both of ours. That’s how we’ve always done it.” “She’s been supporting you for a while now and it’s supposed to be the other way around. How long since they fired you? Four years?” “Six years, and I quit to stay home with the kids. You know that.” It might have ended there, but Emily stepped in. “It’s better with him home, it really is. He gets the kids ready for school, cooks breakfast, cleans—honestly, I don’t know how we managed before.” Frank turned away from the grill. “So he’s the wife? He does the wife stuff?” “Well, he…” her voice faded to nothing. Liam shook his head at her. Liam’s mom went inside, got Frank a beer. He took it from her and popped the cap off with the edge of the patio table. “It ain’t right for you to work and not him. Not my son. The club we go to just posted a help wanted ad for a security guard. He’s gonna take the job. Third shift, so he can still be home to cook and clean and all that other nonsense.” Liam, ever the peacemaker, pushed the conversation along. “How’s the club been? I read they renovated the gym.” By the end of dinner, everyone was joking and having fun. But as they packed up to leave, Frank grabbed Liam’s elbow and said, “You’re taking that job.” He repeated this to Emily once they got home. “He’s got a point, Em.” “If you want the job, take the job. But we both know you’d only take it because your dad is bullying you into it—and I think I finally had enough of that. From now on, they can come here to see the kids. They can come to my—our house.” The slip did not go unnoticed. “But, Em, it isn’t okay for me to mooch off you. And anyway, it’s not like more money is a bad thing.” “You quit because I got a big promotion and would be working longer hours. It made sense for us to do it that way. I make more than what we both were making together. It’d be better if you stayed home, but whatever—keep caving to your dad’s demands.” * * * * Like most humans, Liam was a diurnal creature. The abrupt reversal of his sleeping pattern proved hard to reconcile. His first night at work, he showed up with a gallon of coffee in a comically large mug and bags under his eyes that could hold watermelons. His second night was much the same. And the third. He got used to the night shift in stages. Each day got easier, but in the way lifting heavy weights got easier—through application of tremendous effort. The repetition of non-events was a waist-deep mud he slogged through nightly. So little happened around the club at night, the camera feeds were more like movie stills. One night, something triggered the motion sensors along the fence surrounding the golf course. A corresponding node on the security room's electronic map blinked red and beeped like a watch alarm. They didn't have cameras installed that far out along the perimeter, so he grabbed keys for the security golf cart to investigate. In the distance, a light scored through trees. He approached the source—a truck idling outside the fence, its dangerously bright headlights bathing a group of people with its beams. Liam turned his own lights off to surprise the trespassers. He got within a stone's throw of the group without them detecting him. It was a group of teenagers. Trees of all kinds grew along the fence, a tasteful way to disguise the chain-link that also blocked the view of houses further out. Some of the trees were apple trees, like the one he had at home, and the kids used shovels to pick up fallen apples and whip them at each other. Liam switched on the cart's lights, red-and-blue like the police, and the group all jumped and backed up to the fence. There were eight of them. Cans of cheap beer littered the ground. The kids’ surprise melted, and some mental math played out on their faces. Liam misread their sums and exited the cart. “Just stay where you are and we’ll figure this out.” A boy took a few steps towards him. “I said stay where you are, dammit!” “What’s your plan, man? Gonna chain us to the cart and drag us?” said the boy, propping himself up with his shovel. These words were the camel-breaker. Before the boy could say anything more, Liam grabbed the shovel from his hands and pressed the butt of it into the boy’s stomach. “Now, if you don’t want me to call the police, get—” The boy rocketed forward and punched Liam in the face, snapping his jaw closed and breaking a tooth. They ripped the shovel from his hand and swung it against his legs, knocking him on his face. All the kids punched, kicked, and stomped him. Liam crawled, and the edge of a shovel shattered the elbow of his right arm. He tried dragging himself with the one that worked. In doing so, he exposed his stomach—an opportunity quickly seized. They kicked him so hard, he vomited as he rolled on his back. From the ground, the kids didn’t look like kids—they didn't look like people . Their faces were stretched, misshapen, and hungry. He stopped his feeble attempts to protect himself, resolved in his mounting delirium to just let the event play out. Then, a deep roar sounded, sonorous as mountains forming. It caused the kids to scatter like a burst bag of marbles. The chain-link fence rattled as the kids hurdled themselves over it, and the truck peeled away. For a while, all was quiet save for the sounds of nearby munching. With great effort, Liam opened an eye. There was a bear. A big brown one. It nuzzled at the ground, moving away the cans to eat the apples strewn about the area. Liam groaned. The bear noticed, lumbered over to Liam, and sniffed. So cute with its dog-like face—but when its wet nose touched Liam’s own, he smelled the animal's breath, and the illusion of cuteness was shattered. Chances were slim this was the same bear. It wouldn't mean anything even if it was. Thinking he was going to die anyway, Liam lifted his good arm and pet the big head. The bear lingered a moment longer, then went back to the fruit.


I wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection. You can do this! I jumped on the spot getting my blood pumping before exiting the bathroom & getting dressed for the day. By the time I was ready to leave with coffee in hand I was almost vibrating with first day jitters. It was still dark out when I pulled up curb side & checked the time on my watch. I was a few minutes late but the light was still on behind the window so I wasn’t worried. You can do this! You aced your training! You’ve got this! The front room light turned off. I popped the hood of the car as I jumped out. She was out the front door & walking towards her car. “Hello! Miss! Can you help? I need a jump start.” I saw her quickly glance my way but she kept walking to the car. “Hey! Do you have jumper cables?” No reaction. She got in the car & turned the ignition but didn’t pull out. Maybe.. I waved & pointed under the hood of the car. “My battery’s died. Can you give me a jump start?” After another minute, all while holding my breath, she reversed out of the driveway and drove off quickly down the street. Taillights disappearing as she sped around the corner. What the hell?! I slammed the bonnet shut & got back in the drivers seat. My hands shook as I fumbled to put the keys in the ignition. How had this happened? I’d apprenticed for a month! Absorbed all the training! Aced my practise test! I started the car & drove towards the office. How was I going to explain this to the boss? Would I be fired on my first offical day? The boss looked surprised to see me as I walked into the office, shoulders slumped. He must have seen something on my face because he looked over at his receptionist while motioning me back to his office. “Janette hold my calls” I sat down in the chair by his large desk as he shut the door & came around the desk. Before he could say anything I held up hands. “Sir I’m so sorry! I don’t know what happened! I was all set, standing beside the car with the hood up before she came but..” “But what?” “Well I called out just like we were taught. Didn’t deviate from the script I swear! But she didn’t come over! Besides a quick glance over she just went straight to her car and left! I didn’t know what to do! What was I supposed to do? She never tried to help” I all but wailed. Unprofessional, sure. But it wasn’t like I was getting a second chance after this. I wrung my hands staring at the boss. He came around the desk & put a hand on my shoulder while looking down at me. “Son, listen. It’s okay. This is a her problem not a you problem. What kind of a psycho doesn’t go over to someone calling out for help! Not to mention she was getting into her car so it would have been no bother to give you a jump. No.” He shook his head. “You did everything right. I’m proud of initiative and planning. You’ll get the next one, just you wait and see!” The pressure in my chest released. He was right! What kind of a psycho wouldn’t help out a stranger? This wasn’t about me. This was about her! I just needed to increase my surveillance before the next one to make sure she wasn’t heartless like this women! I left the office feeling light stepped & determined to make my boss proud on the next one.


Theirs was a typical relationship. For the first few years the two were completely inseparable. He couldn't stop thinking about her. She treated him like a proverbial king. They were so emotionally connected that they finished each other's sentences but after their five year anniversary, the 'love' endorphins greatly dissipated. The admiration and mutual respect were still in abundance but it was definitely different from that point on. Though solid, the relationship was on a slightly downward arc. There were no specific reasons for it. They didn't fight or argue. It was just a naturally-occurring decline in carnal attraction. The downside to knowing your partner so well is that everything they do becomes very familiar. There were no surprises anymore. She knew all of his rituals and he knew her routines. Life and ordinary complacency got in the way of maintaining their initial spark. Suddenly her cute quirks were no longer endearing. They grated on his nerves and it was exactly the same for her. His personality was annoying at times. Anyone observing them might have marveled at how the same traits went from cherished to aggravating in just a few years. It was just human nature. We become desensitized to the same old thing, no matter how amazing it might have seemed before. This static trend continued for a few more years. She wanted more and more time to 'find herself'. His company in and out of the bedroom was less desired; and he was hurt by that ongoing physical rejection. It was the first marriage for both so they had no frame of reference to gauge their perspectives against a previous relationship. At different times they both assumed it just reflected a normal couple's growth. Even if that so-called 'growth' was expanding in opposite directions. In the next few years, they had a handful of very heated arguments. It was never physical but there was definitely some simmering animosity and resentment below the surface. Their philosophical disagreements grew broader. Not surprisingly, their intimate relationship also dwindled to smoldering ashes. Despite these personal woes, they excelled in their professional lives. They acquired a very nice home and many desirable possessions in the trade-off. It was perhaps the complicated financial entanglements which kept them together during this difficult phase. Near the eve of the holidays, he fretted over what to buy for her. He had to settle on a gift card from her favorite store. In the beginning of the relationship, he knew exactly what she desired but the further they drew apart, the more private and secretive she became. All the personal 'space' she used to find herself, was also a distance buffer away from him. His gift card idea was uninspired and boring but at least it insured she could get what she really wanted. It was the 'safe bet'. She opened it up and couldn't even feign enthusiasm. A sigh of disgust escaped her lips. He threw up his arms in frustrated surrender. He was officially out of patience. In her hands she held his gift. The small box was expertly wrapped and topped with an ornate bow. He was filled with a sense of dread. It clearly wasn't large enough to contain what he really wanted and he didn't want to cause any more of a rift between them. If it was possible, he was even less of an actor than she was. He couldn't even begin to fake his true feelings; even to prevent a fight. He pulled at the ribbon slowly. The bow unraveled and fell to the floor. As he pulled the lid off the box, he tried to prepare for whatever was inside. Instead of an electronic gadget that he expected, there was only a single piece of paper in the bottom. It wasn't even as thick as a gift card. He nervously reached inside to retrieve it. In bold lettering it read: "The bearer of this coupon is entitled to one (1) no-strings-attached, sexual encounter with the person of his choice. There will be absolutely no repercussions from his spouse." As she stood in front of him, he read the card a half dozen times to make sure he read it correctly. His initial reaction was that of confusion. Then doubt. The whole thing stunk of a cunning trap, or a cringeworthy joke. On the back of the embossed card was a clever, very relevant footnote. "No, it's not a 'trap'. I promise." "That's the very sort of thing that a wife's 'gotcha' trap would proclaim."; He thought in amusement to himself. He made brief eye contact with her for the first time since reading the bizarre coupon. She wasn't smiling. She looked dead serious. Was she gauging his reaction to the one-time 'infidelity coupon offer', or just trying to reassure him it was really ok to use it. He couldn't decide. "Is this some sort of joke, or test?"; He stammered. She shook her head slowly from side to side. There was no hint of amusement on her lips. It was apparently a serious offer. His mind began to wander at the unlikely possibilities. If it really was a serious proposition, who would he choose? There were several ladies who had caught his eyes over the years but that would only open up another can of worms. Then as logic returned to his brain, he began to question the real reason for this unusual 'gift'. Why would she offer to let him have an unanswered dalliance? It was more than just a little bit suspicious. People generally only display that level of unjealous 'generosity' when they had already taken a turn on the infidelity merry-go-round, themselves. It was almost as if she was trying to assuage her own guilty conscience. His mind reeled at the terrifying possibility. Rage, fear, suspicion, and disgust coursed through his veins. As much as it pained him to visualize, it would make sense and explain a great deal about their strained relationship. Regardless, he dared not ask 'that' question. He wasn't sure if he could handle the answer. Instead he just stood looking downward with mouth agape. She spoke, to break the pregnant pause. "I know what you're thinking. No one else in the world knows you as well as I do. I've already went through those same dark emotions. Many, many times, I've anticipated your unspoken questions about the coupon. I've also imagined how you would respond, if the situation was reversed. No, it's not a joke or a trap to see how you would respond. And no, I've never been unfaithful to you, sweetheart. Our distance in the past few years and my lack of affection is because of my own distractions and personal issues. I'm deeply sorry about the wall I've erected around myself. It's not you. It's me. Please try to be patient as I slowly remove those bricks, ok? For this reason, I want to offer you some form of... 'compensation'. All I ask is that you try to avoid an emotional connection with whomever you choose to hand it to." Tears of relief welled up in his eyes. He extended his arm and handed her the coupon. It was the best gift he ever received.


Greg clung to the rosary for dear life. The mansion creaked around him, every dark stain in the abandoned place making him think of the blood spilled there long ago. “I’m here to make a bargain.” He was supposed to speak the words in a loud, clear voice. Instead they came out as a half-shriek. Nothing answered. “Axaroth, I am here to make a bargain,” Greg repeated, his voice a little calmer. Nothing was going to happen. Not really. His friends had been messing with him. “Speak!” The voice rang out from every direction at once. It boomed with a deep bass, and demanded compliance. “I...I...I…” Greg stuttered as he tried to get words out. “I..I..I...I will perish if I don’t speak and waste the time of beings infinitely more important than mine own. Speak or be damned.” “I have requests.” “And you are willing to sell your soul?” Gregory held up the rosary in defiance. “You must make a bargain for an earthly price if I am protected. There was a moment of silence, and then laughter rang forth from the walls. Deep, bellowing laughter. It went on for some time. When it finally halted, the demon answered. “That protects against lesser demons. I am Axaroth, Prince of Hatred.” Gregory bolted, but froze with his hand on the doorknob. He had come here for a reason. “It offers no protection.” “Half of your soul, so you are doomed to half an existence. Unless, of course, you come to hell. Then your soul can be reforged for an eternity of torture.” “Kill my father.” Silence. It stretched out, like a rubber band, thinner and thinner until everything threatened to *snap*. “I said kill my father,” Greg screamed when he could take it no longer. The next voice Greg heard wasn’t the demon Axaroth. It came from upstairs. Several voices, in fact, were arguing. Greg followed them. Up the stairs, down the hall, he found a bedroom. His friends, if he could call them that, sat around a laptop and microphone, the laptop displaying a view of the foyer Greg had just been in. His friends turned and looked at him in shame. Greg looked over them all once, then turned without a word. They chased him to the entrance, pleading their excuses, how it was supposed to be funny, how they thought he’d ask for Jessica to date him. As they reached the front door, the lights went out. “It isn’t funny anymore.” Mike, the ring leader, pleaded their innocence as the room turned cold. “I said it isn’t...funny...any...okay, what the fuck is that?” Something was rumbling, almost like a chuckle, in the darkness. The boys turned, and from the darkness stepped forth something large. Something evil. It stood eight feet tall, ten with its horns, a goat standing like a human, a pentacle of blood upon its forehead. As it strode forward it stared into the eyes of each boy in turn, the blacker than night holes in its head seeming to suck out their secrets. “Gregory.” The demon’s voice was deeper than was possible, it rumbled like the Earth moving, it was fear itself, made manifest. Greg reached behind him and yanked at the doorknob, but it refused to budge. “Gregory dear, these friends of yours need to go. Say the word.” Mike turned from the beast, the only one to do so. The rest plead on their knees to the beast, overlapping voices crying out for their mommy’s for the first time since leaving for college, crying out for mercy where there could be none, crying out for salvation from the very thing they had wanted to be. Their eyes locked. For a moment, Gregory saw Mike. He had wet himself in fear, and that was what he had wanted from Gregory. Fear. Embarrassment. Shame. The video was supposed to go viral, shaming Gregory into leaving college and going home. “And your father too. I know you hate how he treats your family. Let me punish them for you. Let me punish them all. Say the word.” Greg’s mouth moved silently. One of Mike’s friends charged the beast, only to be effortlessly backhanded across the room. He fell in a slump, the moaning the only sign he was still alive. “Choose quickly, lest I give them the chance to choose your fate.” Greg ripped his eyes from Mike as Mike spun back towards the beast. “Yes,” Mike screamed, “yes, kill him, kill Greg and let us go.” The beast ignored Mike and held Greg’s gaze. “Say it.” Greg swallowed as the word came to his lips as if on its own. “Yes. ***** Entry for the /r/WritingPrompts spooky campfire, happening Saturday.


Terra tilted her head to the canopy of stars over the glade. A cool wind blew from the trees surrounding her, covering the area with the energy of the earth and stars. She stretched her arms overhead, the silver bond around her wrists sparking in the full moonlight. Your energy is mine. “This tribunal is called to order,” Alinta said from her throne on the north end of the circle. Her dark form glowed with the fire of her magic, warming the space in front of Alysia. “Alysia, you are charged with magic negation. How do you plead?” Terra’s brown eyes glinted. “Not guilty.” “How can you say that?” Zephyrine said in her whispery voice. “You clearly stole our magic for your own gain. How else can you explain how we fade while you strengthen?” Terra stiffened in the coldness emanating from Zephyrine’s wispy form. “I’m of the earth. My power is from the alignment of life. If you’re out of alignment with your element, then you aren’t using your energy properly.” “We’re talking about magic, not your mystical energy,” Maren's smooth voice washed over Terra. “I am of the water. How can you explain why the tides are running low? Or the streams are running dry?” Terra channeled the earth's energy through her feet, fortifying herself against the binding of her sisters’ accusatory forces. “You’re out of alignment.” “We form a symbiotic circle,” Alinta said. “Fire, wind, water, and you, the earth. It’s impossible for three of us to be out of alignment and one to overpower the others. The nature of the world is balance, but that balance has been disturbed. Earth is strengthened in direct proportion to our weakening forces. Explain yourself. What have you done?” I rise. Terra silenced the thought. She could not reveal herself. The cosmic forces needed more time to complete the cycle of redistribution. “I have done as I always did, living in alignment with the power of the earth,” Terra said. “You are my sisters. You know that my strength comes from the living world, not from the elements. I have only what the universe chooses to give to the growth and sustenance of life.” A golden light streaked across the sky. Terra smiled. If it chooses to give more, then I will gladly take it. “The skies are strange with new lights, and the planetary forces are shifting,” Maren said. “This is no natural phenomenon. We feel it in our elements. There’s been a shift in the cosmos, and our magic reveals no other enemies or disruptions from without. That means that the problem is from within.” She leaned forward, pressing the force of her cold presence against Terra. “Except for you. You’ve grown stronger these past months, and more vibrant. It’s as if you discovered some secret that you did not share with your sisters.” “There are no secrets. We’re bound to one another as we are bound to this planet,” Terra said. “We share access to the same knowledge, power, and energy.” “Magic,” Zephyrine hissed. “Your magic is simply a redistribution of energy,” Terra said as she willed the energy from her wrist bond through her body as another gold light flashed across the sky. “The only difference between us and the mortals is our ability to manipulate that energy through the will of the mind and body.” “This is blaspheme,” Maren said. “We hold this world together. We keep order in nature. If not for us, cataclysmic forces would have destroyed the planet, the people, and this entire system eons ago!” “The earth only exists for us,” Alinta said. “We keep the balance. We direct the forces through this world. We hold the key to the light of life and existence. Without us, they are nothing!” “You are becoming nothing through the abuse of your energy,” Terra said. “Has it occurred to you that the reason you wane isn’t some dark threat, but the sullenness of your soul?” “You are a heretic and a thief,” Alinta said. “How dare you accuse us of tainting this world with our magic? You are the one who needs to learn your place.” She stood, casting her red shadow over Terra. “We will hear no more of your lies. I proclaim you guilty of magic negation and heresy. I sentence you to the dungeons of purgatory until you repentant and rehabilitate enough to rejoin our forces.” Terra smiled. “You mean until I’m more firmly under your control, but you forget one thing: one of us cannot control the others. We only control our elements.” A firey finger flew through the sky. Terra stood up straight, inhaled deeply, and raised her cuffed fists in front of her. “Your energy is mine. You control nothing of this world anymore.” Rise. White light burst from the cuff, breaking it off Terra’s wrist. The light swirled around Terra, jolting her with the full energy of the system. She stretched and exhaled deeply. A gust of wind erupted from her, knocking Alinta, Maren, and Zephyrine to the ground. A band of light bound the three to the ground.  White light and wind swirled around the glade. Terra expanded her awareness from the natural world to the universe above, adding the cosmic energy of expansion to the swirl and harnessing it to her will until it swirled and contracted into a single point in her hand. She walked to the three forms of her sisters on the ground and kneeled in front of them, holding the sparkling energy against her heart. “The problem isn’t that I was guilty of anything. The problem is that we’re just too different. You choose to use energy for the magic to keep this world under your control. I choose to harness the energy to evolve the planet and all of life upon it. I don’t seek to rule this world. I seek to liberate it.” “No, that would be chaos!” Alinta said. “Mortals don’t know what do to with this power!” Maren said. “It must stay hidden with the ancients!” Zephyrine cried. Terra stood and held up her hands. “This was not meant to be under any person’s control. This creative energy is a gift to all.” She opened her hands, releasing the energy to the sky. The ball expanded and spread over the glade, widening as it rose into the sky. The stars overhead sparkled, raining their energy over the earth. “It’s time for this world to break free of your tyranny and rise into the joy of freedom.” “What have you done?” Alinta asked. “You offered up our essence. We’ll die!” Terra took another deep breath, savoring the deep scent of the earth. “I offered only what was already given by the supreme power. Humanity was meant to grow, not stagnate under our power. The energy revealed the ancient knowledge that they were meant to rise while we were meant to blend and sustain the elements. We set this world in motion. After creation, we were destined to maintain it, not rule it. I merely set things right.”  “I will drown your selfish ambition!” Mara cried. “I command the air to suck your energy dry!” Zephrine rasped. “You will burn for this!” Alinta hissed. Terra smiled as she looked at the sky. “All is as it was created to be.” She took a last look at her sisters'. “What this new reality becomes for you is entirely up to you. You can continue to drown, suffocate, and burn the world. Lie there and fade, or rise and embrace the new reality. The choice is yours, as it always was.” Terra inhaled deeply, breathing her strength over the glade. “My choice is made. Yours is upon you. I pray you go in peace, but the same freedom lies before you. Use it as you will. Just remember that it always comes back.” The light holding the sisters down swirled into the sky, releasing them as Terra walked into the trees, the glow of her form blending into the life energy of the woods and rising into the sky as she passed into the world beyond.


       “Don’t do it that way. You’re going to strip the screw.” Dad corrected as he pushed up from his chair to retrieve the tool out of mom’s hands. They were replacing the screens in the kitchen windows, the last home improvement project of the summer. Winged insects buzzed in and out into the night air. My mother handed the tool over, the familiar look of defeat in her eyes, and went back to the stove to stir the boiling pot of pasta. Her eyeglasses slipped to the end of her nose from the moisture in the air, grey tendrils escaping from her loose ponytail. Dad returned to his seat across from me to read his newspaper. It was the week before I would enter middle school.            “Come See Our Newest Attraction! The Red Bat!” The local zoo summoned in bold print on the back of dad’s paper. I had been to the low budget zoo the year before on a class field trip. Small dirty cages with depressed looking animals circling about. The most impressive animal they had was a giraffe. He had an extra tall doorway leading into his own small dirty cage. The main attraction though, was Smokey Joe, the chimpanzee. Smokey Joe got his name because he smoked Marlboro Reds, up to a pack a day. He inhaled and everything, which was rare for chimp.

           Staring at my ceiling that night I dreamed about the red bat. I first learned about bats in my Ranger Rick magazine (I had wanted a dog but dad said they were too messy and got me a subscription instead.) Did you know bats have belly buttons? Although, I don’t know if they are innies or outies, I suppose it just depends, like in people. And mother bats breastfeed their young, because they are mammals, not birds.            Bats have always had a bad reputation, known mostly as disease-ridden, rabies-transmitting guardians of the night. But they are actually quite important to the ecosystem. Seed dispersers, vital pollinators, they also keep the insect population down. One bat can consume up to 600 mosquitos in one night.             But I had never read anything about them being different colors, they were always some version of black. Was it really red? Was it the only one? For the next 3 days I became consumed with the mystery of the red bat.

           I had been particularly interested in bats after an encounter with them earlier that summer. One evening, like most others, I sat between my parents on the couch. I was well into my summer reading, Where the Red Fern Grows, while Mom was lost in another cheap romance novel from the bargain bin at the drugstore.             “Do you hear that?” she asked turning to me. A particular scratching sound was coming from above our heads.            “Probably a squirrel,” Dad said.

           “But squirrels are diurnal,” I stated.            “Then a mouse,” he said looking down at me annoyed. But mice are so light you don’t hear them walking about. I kept that to myself though, as I made my way outside to investigate.             Walking past the window, glowing blue with the nightly news, I looked in at my parents. It was like looking into a diorama I had made for school the year before, a three- dimensional model with two life-like figurines sitting at either end of the couch, stoic bookends with only space between them.            Nothing like the framed picture on the end table of a moment frozen in time before I was born, dad in his uniform and mom in her nursing outfit. (She stopped working when I was born and never went back.) His arms wrapped around her waist from behind, their heads thrown back laughing, exposing their white necks.

           Dad got up from the couch without a word and came to the side of the house with a ladder he had retrieved from the garage. He nudged me out of the way as he steadied it against the house.

           “Stay right there. It’s too dangerous,” he ordered pointing at me, and then at the ladder, and then back at me again. I nodded. He went back into the house.             With specific instructions not to climb up, I waited dutifully. I heard my mother through the freshly screened kitchen window sheepishly suggest an exterminator as my father scavenged through the closets, a broom falling out nearly hitting her.

           “Don’t need an exterminator,” he said as he walked past her. She bent over to pick up the broom and caught my eye looking at her through the diorama window. She turned to say something to him but he was already gone. That would be the last time she would be stuck in the place between action and consequence. She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand.            Hot sweat stung my eyes. I turned and climbed the homemade wooden ladder. Creaking with every rung, I made my way to the top. I poked my head inside the round window and looked around.            Dusty beach chairs from long lost summer days when we would go to East Matunuck State Beach stood propped against the pink insulation. My favorite part of those trips was the car rides home. Sitting in the back, stuck to the hot leather seat, dried salt making my skin tight against my bones. From the time the sun set to the time it got dark out was an hour, which was the time it took to drive home.            We would always stop at Salty’s, a seasonal clam shack that only accepted cash, on the way home. Within minutes of ordering the girl would bring two grease-stained paper bags to our car window and a stack of napkins. I would get a cone of vanilla ice cream, vanilla was only flavor they had. I got to eat it in the backseat before dinner so it wouldn’t melt.            ‘Too hot!’ Dad would scream as he bit into a clam cake that Mom held to his mouth while he drove us home, the hot grease burning it with every bite. We’d laugh as he swerved between lanes.

           Next to the chairs were my old baby things. A stroller, a crib and boxes upon boxes of baby clothes, perfectly folded and organized by age. Mom was good at things like that. They had kept all my baby things in hopes of another baby, but another baby never came.            Whatever was in the musty attic must have already checked out I thought as I tilted my head in a little further, the night air was thick with dust and humidity. Then I saw them, twenty, maybe thirty, little blood-sucking (they don’t actually suck, they lap) vampires taking refuge at the opening of the window, inches from my face. They cloaked themselves in their wings like militant little corpses. Their transparent skin pink in the light of my flashlight, blood flowing from whatever victim they stole it from the night before. I scrambled down the ladder, skipping rungs, my heart racing. A knot formed in my throat when I saw my father round the corner with a butterfly net. Without a word I watched him make his way up the ladder. Less then a minute later he calmly came back down, walked past me, and then past my mother and got the phonebook.

           “Mom, can we go to the zoo today, pleeease?” I pleaded with my mother after my father left for work. Summer was nearing its end and soon I’d be back in the real world of complex equations and required reading.            “Not today,” she said softly shaking her head not bothering to look up. She was trimming the roll of screen to fit the dining room windows. I had almost given up when that Monday, my mother announced the three of us were going to the zoo after breakfast. My father looked up from his newspaper as if it was the first he’d heard of it.            We were the first in line at the zoo that morning. After they stamped our hands and gave us a bag of feed for the goats, I was off like a bat out of hell. (No pun intended.) Flamingos, meerkats, cranes, ostriches, lemurs, they were all a blur as I whirled past cages and exhibits. I only stopped to see Smokey Joe. I was worried lung cancer may have gotten the best of him but there he was in all his glory, a head of lettuce in one hand, a cigarette in the other. By the time he had gotten down to the filter I was ready to continue on.            We were nearly to the exit when I saw it. A dilapidated shelter, cracked boards nailed together with the words “Red Bat” scrawled across the top. It had one small peephole to keep the light out. Bats aren’t totally blind, contrary to popular belief, but they do use echolocation to navigate. With nervous anticipation I climbed the three cinder block steps and peered into the aperture. And there it was. Hanging from a rope was a Louisville Slugger, painted red. My eyes filled with tears of anger and disappointment. I quickly wiped them away before anyone saw. On the ride home, skin tight from my salty tears, my parents told me they were getting divorced, but I was too upset to care.


“The United States entered World War I in 1917 as an associated power on the allied…” I groaned internally in my seat as Mr. Lawson rambled on for eons about… whatever it was he was talking about. Honestly, I was doing anything but listening, and judging from the varying looks of weariness, ennui and fatigue around the dead-silent classroom, my classmates were probably doing the same. I lazily lifted my arm up to glance at my wristwatch. 11:05 am. Which meant we were in store for 25 more minutes of Mr. Lawson’s *glorious* monotoning. Hooray. Struggling to maintain consciousness at my desk -a losing battle, I might add-, a familiar thought came to my mind. See, ever since I was a kid, I’ve always had this idea that if I just randomly screamed internally, maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to catch some random psychic off guard and startle them. Yes, you read that right. Mind readers. I thought I could startle a mind reader by screaming in my head. Before you laugh, just know I was a very… imaginative kid, ok? I also happened to be *tremendously* obsessed with superheroes and comics at the time. And no, I don’t believe in psychics or mind readers or super powers *anymore*, I was just a kid. But occasionally, just sometimes, I would still give a random shout in my head, just for the heck of it. Weird, I know. Call it my idiosyncrasy if you will. So, as I was sitting at my desk, physically dying of boredom, I thought with a hint of a smirk, why not? For old times sake. So I sat up a bit straighter in my chair, took a slow, deep breath, and let loose a long, shrill scream, inside my head of course. My features scrunched up as I yelled internally, and if anyone had looked at my face right at that moment, I’d probably look like I was trying to lay an egg. But I made sure to keep my eyes open, you know, to see if anyone actually reacted to my ridiculous mental howling. Now *obviously* I wasn’t actually expecting anything to happen. Like I said, I stopped believing in that kinda stuff a long time ago. No one's gonna like, suddenly yelp and fall out of their chair in surprise or something. Or at least, I thought no one would. The moment the shout flitted across my mind, my eyes caught a glimpse of movement ahead of me. Two desks up and to the right of me, a long haired brunette girl had just jolted in her seat. Veronica I think her name was? For a second I just stared, wide eyed. That *had* to have been a coincidence right? ...Right? *“Pssshhhhhhh,”* I thought to myself with a smirk, “*Lucky timing. Calm down.”* I contemplated for a moment. *“But just in case…”* Now staring directly at the girl who’s name may-or-may-not be Veronica, I silently counted down from 3 and let out another mental shout. This time, I saw her make a subtle, slightly more controlled jolt, like… like she’d been *expecting* to be startled and was *ready* for it. As soon as the realization hit me, I involuntarily gasped out loud. Loud enough for Mr. Lawson to stop his lecture and make everyone turn to look. “Is there anything you’d like to add to the topic, Mr. Wade?” Mr. Lawson said over his horn-rimmed glasses. “I-uh… No sir,” I said quickly, anxious to remove myself from the student’s expectant gazes. “Then I would appreciate it if you refrained from interrupting my class again.” I grimaced and nodded. Seeming satisfied, Mr. Lawson turned back to the board and resumed his lecture. The moment the coast was clear, my attention snapped back to Veronica, who was the only one seemingly undisturbed by my outburst. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t have moved my mouth to speak if I’d tried. Good thing I didn’t need to. “*Y-you…*” I thought, now knowing she was listening. “*You can read MINDS!?”* No reaction. Veronica made no gesture to show she heard me. She didn’t even budge. But I knew better, and I wasn’t just gonna let her ignore me. “*I know you hear me,*” I thought. I was boring my eyes straight into her, attempting to make eye contact, but no such luck. In fact, the harder I stared, the more she seemed to tilt her head slightly in the other direction. She was *intentionally* avoiding my gaze. At this point, any doubts I had before were now squashed. “*Oh my god, it’s true isn’t it?*” Then finally a reaction. As I confirm my suspicion, Veronica seems to almost slump into her chair, defeated. The body signals couldn’t have been more clear: “The jig is up.” I also sank into my seat, wallowing in my own epiphany. Questions bounced around in my head, directed more to myself this time. Not that it made a difference to Veronica. “*How is this possible?”* *“Does anyone else know?”* *“How long have you been able to do this?”* *“Who are you?”* *“WHAT are you?”* Veronica visibly flinched at the last question, and immediately I felt a pang of guilt. It was already kind of bad enough I inadvertently found out her biggest secret (Or advertently? The whole point of the “mind jump-scare” *was* to find mind readers after all.), and now I’m questioning whether or not she’s even *human*. It made me realize, maybe I’m in over my head here. Maybe if I can just act like nothing ever happen- *Briiiiiiiing!* My thoughts were interrupted by the school bell ringing, signifying the end of class. Students were already packing their stuff to leave, and I anxiously joined them. As I dumped my supplies into my bag and zipped it shut, I felt something grab my arm. I turned around to find myself face to face with Veronica. She took a deep breath, then spoke. “We need to talk.


There Is Only the Hunt by C.S. Humble It's 8:37 in the morning when Johnny comes sliding around the corner of the neon-soaked Double A training emporium. His hair is a Jheri curl fresh and dripping with 1983 sex appeal. Eighty-eight degrees outside, Mother Nature? Johnny doesn't give a shit. He's rocking a black leather jacket that looks like it's been polished with turtle wax, a real gamma burst glinting off volcanic glass situation. And that's just the jacket. He's got pants like a firetruck and a piano black belt to match the high top kicks. Every other sob story Joe in the world is grinding his brakes on the tollway to get to his cubicle and this motherfucker, throwing all worldly care into the sun, looks like he just stepped out of Michael Jackson's *Beat It*. Johnny is humming on a frequency that can only be captured on the RCA stereo inside a Pontiac Firebird. Johnny's a phoenix rising, killing it all the way to the top. 8:38 AM and Johnny Mac has just turned my Monday morning around. I am a low-rent recruiter for the League, but when I see Johnny, all I want to do is hit a bump of coke and dance until our shoes take us straight into a realm that can only be traversed by moonwalking. At the age of eight he blows through all the toughest scenes: *Hyborea*, *Atlantean Conquest*, all of that baby trainer shit that we use to separate wheat and chaff, talented from prodigy. Johnny's done with that by the age of ten, ready to move on to *Commander Horizon*, and he came close, and I mean straight razor shave close to beating *Colossus Valley* on his first go. Johnny Mac is a game changer. He's going to be the biggest star in the world. If he can pass the test of course. He slips inside the Double A, just like every morning, around 8:45. He warms-up with *Galaxy Hero*. A classic. I walk across the street and add myself to the glowing stream of avatars bustling down the neon nursery pink walkway. Every century of human history is represented in the faces and clothes of a thousand hopeful dreamers shouldering into the pyrite glow of the emporium. I'm not here for potential utility players. Those days are over for me. What makes Johnny superior to all these digitally re-skinned mouth-breathers, outside of that absolutely bitching hair and threads, is that Johnny plays the Pilot position better than anyone I've ever seen. I'm being modest. Johnny Mac runs Pilot better than any human being who has ever, or will ever jack himself into the throbbing heart of the Spiral. The rainbow shower of neon inside the Double A is a psychadellium. Hundreds of games, each of them running thousands of different self-generating scenarios. But, like all good training emporiums, the Double A is a labyrinth. A spiral in the Spiral. A maze of twisting addiction that demands a higher mastery the deeper you go. Deeper and deeper until you find yourself at the center. It would be a mistake to think that gaming your way to the heart of the labyrinth is the end of the journey. It isn't. At the center of the Double A's winding labyrinth is a monster. A *Minotaur.* *Minotaur* is a microcosm of the player's journey. It's the only complete neural net interface game that the talent gets to try. Beauty in simplicity. It's the trial you only get to take once. You win, you punch your ticket. You lose? Fuck you. You took your shot and you missed. Time to join the ranks of data miners and number crunching assholes who never go deeper than the edge of the Funnel. The Spiral is for the League and the League is for Theseus types. You either have it or you don't. Johnny Mac has what it takes. I've known that since the first day he found me, telling me that he was going to be the best pilot in the world. The day he told me that nothing mattered more than getting his shot at *Minotaur*. Like I haven't heard that before, right? Kids get confused. Johnny conflated beating the game with making it in the League. I corrected him and asked him to prove his dedication. He's done that in spades. And now, even though he never mentions the League itself, only *Minotaur*, my prize pilot is all done warming up and ready to make war. A war he's been begging me to give him since we met. I make the arrangements for the Double A to fire up the beast. I hand Johnny the contract, but he makes me hold it myself, only offering single hand out of his pocket to sign it. His brown eyes are twinkling with the magic I've managed to keep hidden away from other scouts. There's an uncharacteristic sheen of sweat on his brow, and he's more quiet than usual, but I chalk it up to nerves. Red and blue lights explode into alarm. Every trainer game currently in progress shuts right the hell down and every one of those jealous dreamers make their way to the arena. It's showtime. The triangular stadium at the center of the Double A seats eighty-five thousand and whenever someone decides to run *Minotaur* it's standing room only. The four story monitors flicker to life. Every palpitant heart gets a dose of adrenaline when the black screen flashes with the three most important words of our modern life. *Start New Game?* The hostesses, dressed in their sparkling peacock outfits, usher Johnny out onto the stage. The crowd roars at the rush. There is nothing that gets them off faster than the prospect of seeing a dream walk the knife. A disco ball of glimmering wires and crackling energy descends from the rafters. Johnny is a stone gargoyle of concentration. The moment isn't too big for him. His hands are still in his pockets, which is weird, but it's okay. He's eager, ready to fire up that nuclear reactor inside his head and sling liquid fire. Probably doesn't want folks to see his hands shaking. I get it. Twin jets of steam and an artillery battery of pyrotechnics turn the place into a recreation of earth's New Armistice Day. A little visual foreplay, all part of the show, that whets more than the appetite of onlookers. The arena goes dark. All sound dies in the midnight shine of the towering screens. Those three little words, asking their question. The sound of thunder announces the advent of a single sodium spotlight down on Johnny's head, anointing my savior. *Start New Game?* He nods. *Minotaur* randomly generates a topography bigger than a continent in the span of a nanosecond. The world and obstacles are different for every person. The goal is always the same. Find the gatekeeper and make him bend the knee. Win by guile, no-scope precision, or savagery; doesn't matter. When you're plugged into the game the only thing that matters is finding the beast and making him say uncle. The screens flash on and we see what Johnny sees. In medias res, Johnny is in the cockpit of a fighter, screaming through a galactic warscape, less than a meter away from crashing into the alien steel of a Capital ship. *Minotaur* knows Johnny's record, it uses the data of every game Johnny's ever played inside the Double A to build a scenario designed to crush him. The crowd gasps in horror. They think it's over before it even begins. A young life crushed on the wheel of gainful venture. I smile. Johnny punches his retrothrusters and banks his fighter into a vertigo inducing spin. Sparks flash over the window of the cockpit, leaving a blistering skid mark where the steel of the Capital ship kisses the glass. Everything is instinct now as he looks at the cavalcade of blinking lights, chrome levers, and switches on a command console he's never seen before. In less than a span of a heartbeat my meal ticket slips into the unfamiliar interface like a glove. The game likes to rush pilots early, see if it can get them to flinch in the opening salvo. Johnny doesn't blink. *Minotaur* sees, for the first time, what I've seen for years. Johnny Mac's brain isn't a biochemical engine, it's a weapon. Like Crocea Mors, Kusanagi, or Excalibur, Johnny's mind is mythical. "Birdman, this is Priest. Do you copy? Over." The A.I. is kicking on. It's objective time. Johnny slides into character perfectly. "Priest, this is Birdman. I copy." "I'm on your wing. The battle cruiser *Minotaur* is located on the far side of--wait, enemy fighters are--" The comm-line flatlines with static. A vaporous explosion sends particle debris against the aft of Johnny's fighter. Priest is gone, leaving only the tiniest morsel of information for the mission parameters. No hand holding for Johnny. *Minotaur* doesn't play to win. It plays to conquer. Demoralize. Johnny levels out the fighter, twisting wing over wing, skimming the surface of the mammoth vessel. Six enemy fighters, perfectly assembled in attack formation give chase. Their laser fire peppers what's left of his shields. In the cockpit, sirens scream. Without looking at the console, Johnny flips a lever, pushing his energy reserves into the rear shields. Then he barrels left and puts the hammer down. Azure propulsion cyclers ignite, sending his heat gauge into the red, throwing him screaming over the edge of the Capital ship. Three of the fighters following him can't make the blistering maneuver. They explode against the hull, snuffed out like little candles. The blue jewel of a planet, big as a dinner plate in the window of Johnny's fighter, comes into view. The overlay flashes a holo-panel: *Titus-6*. A desolate world--the surface long since turned to glass by the turbocharged guns of the dozen Capital ships controlled by the game's A.I. A fresh, red horror blinks onto the overlay: *Targeting Systems Offline.* Another. *Fuel Cell Reserves Engaged*. And another. *Enemy Target Lock.* *Minotaur* is not fucking around. It wants to crush my rising star before he ever has a chance to dawn. One final overlay, a slap in the face of any player who's ever tried their hand at *Minotaur*, reads: "Concede defeat? Y/N" "Computer," Johnny says. "Open hailing frequency: BROADCAST." What the hell is he doing? The on-board computer whistles. "Hailing frequency live, set to open broadcast." Then I realize, he's going to do something no player has ever done before. He's going to talk to the game itself. "To the Minotaur Fleet, this is Johnny "Birdman" MacMorn." In the corona of the cockpit's solar shields I can see the pearly white slash of Johnny's smile. He is *in*. *Minotaur* is within his grasp. His dream is coming true. All my fears pass away. I'm going to be so goddamn wealthy. For the first time in the thirty-eight years since the first iteration of *Minotaur* was birthed into the Spiral, *Minotaur* spoke. "This is the *Minotaur.* I read you MacMorn." *Minotaur's* voice is cold and sharp. A calculating tone of a masculine artificial intelligence. "Do you wish to concede defeat?" A hushed gasp shivers through the crowd. "Negative, *Minotaur*." Johnny, flipping the levers of actuators that stave off critical system failures, uses his off-hand to grab the yoke by the throat. The rear shields fade to nothing. The afterburners ignite. The fighter streaks across the black void, a silver arrow headed for the far side of *Titus-6*. "What then, MacMorn, is the nature of your hailing?" "Negotiation." He's pouring everything into the engines, pulling himself out of the range of the now two-dozen enemy fighters struggling to keep up. "Negotiation..." The game is confused, unsure of how to react. "Negotiation of what?" "Your unconditional surrender." The balls on this kid. "I do not surrender." There might be anger in that cold, cybernetic voice. "Have it your way," Johnny says. "Computer, close channel." In the cockpit window, the rim of *Titus-6* looms closer like a blue theater curtain pulled back. He's close. The computer whistles again, the conversation over. The fighter dips down toward the surface of the planet, the burn of the atmosphere on the ship's hull sends alarms into panic. A girl screams in the arena. "What's he doing?" Somehow, the speed gauge on the fighter ramps up higher and higher. Gravity. He's using the gravity of the planet like a slingshot. Cutting across the scrim of *Titus-6,* the sterling, titan bulk of the Battle Cruiser *Minotaur* comes into view. From out of the open belly of the hulking beast comes a whole, fresh wing of enemy fighters blistering for the righteous kill. The gravitational momentum from the frozen waste below propels Johnny's fighter directly toward the *Minotaur*. In a two-handed flurry that twists chrome knobs and snaps levers toward six o'clock, Johnny cuts his engines and sends what's left of his power cell reserves into his forward guns. Emerald beams of light streak out of his cannons. One, two, three, four, five fighters explode like fire-filled balloons. The sixth fighter passes by, scorching Johnny's starboard wing with a blistering salvo. The on-board computer chimes. "Starboard cannon offline." Johnny pushes the yoke down hard. His fighter dives off the edge of a cliff that does not exist, down, barely dodging the battery of laserfire streaming out of the side guns of the *Minotaur*. Those guns trace his trajectory, though, sparking against his main thrusters. The fighter levels out, and now, he is under the cruiser. Johnny curls his hand around a long, yellow trimmed lever. Just before it disappears in his grip, I read what it says. The words come out of my mouth, a whisper. "Hockey stick." The underside cannons of the *Minotaur* pound Johnny's fighter. There are only a handful of seconds left before he's turned to vapor in the void. Johnny pulls the lever. The canopy explodes open. The pilot seat rockets out of the dying fighter, carrying Johnny straight up toward the open hangar bay yawning like the mouth of a cosmic manta ray. The sound of Johnny's furious breathing fills the arena. The quadjets under the seat push him higher and higher toward the glowing ray shield. A shield that begins to slide back over the open hangar where the enemy fighters made their exit. It's the slimmest of windows. Johnny, continuing in his streaking ascent, slaps the central release of his harness and grabs the edges of the seat, a burning comet headed for oblivion. The seat flies into the open hangar bay. The shields slam shut beneath him. Johnny jumps. Hits the ground, ducks and covers. The seat smashes into one of the enemy fighters hanging on the roof of the hangar like a sleeping vampire bat. The explosion fills the hangar with fire. The crowd erupts in cheers. For Johnny Mac, there is no cause for celebration. It does not surprise him that he survived the maneuver. For the crowd, the feats they are witnessing are miraculous. For Johnny, they are the norm. Standard Operating Procedure. *Minotaur's* flat, dead tone booms from an over-head speaker. "Phase One complete. Re-calibrating. Shift incoming." He removes his helmet. A roguish smile bristles across his dark skin. He's having the time of his life. The game is about to change. It's taken Johnny's best punch and it's about to turn up the heat. "3, 2, 1." The screen goes black. White light blinds the crowd. The sound of church bells ringing fills the arena. They toll over the black waters of a fog-bathed bog set deep in the heart of a dark forest at the midnight hour. Out of the two dozen possible paths out of the swamp, only one leads closer to the center. In the distance, punched up out of the horizon like a demonic claw, is a massive Gothic castle. For those of you who are just joining us: this dramatic shift in the layout and theme of the test are a way for the game to test the player's ability to adapt. Johnny's space suit is gone and in its place he's been clad in leather armor. *Minotaur* can't leave a player totally helpless, so out of the kindness of its heart and its inability to break the rules, it gives Johnny a letter-opener that could liberally be classified as a dagger. Johnny inspects the pathetic weapon, sheathes it, and then breaks into an open run down one of the winding paths that undoubtedly twists like a circulatory system through the looming forest. In a rumbling crash, the fog soaked ground falls away into a ten foot wide sinkhole without warning. The crowd gasps at the thought of this run ending on a cheap-ass trick. Johnny doesn't just leap the chasm--that'd be too pedestrian for this future Hall of Famer. He sails over the black abyss, twisting like a gymnast. At the height of his ascent, he comes out of the acrobatic flurry only to flash a double-bird set of middle fingers at the castle. The crowd cackles in astounded laughter. Johnny, like the game, doesn't just play to win. He's a showman; a trapeze artist who does the death drop three times a night without the use of a net. The crowd loves him for it. He bursts out of the treeline in a dead sprint. Before him, and us, lies the Gothic fortress standing resolute in the opal moonlight. Buttressing the wooden drawbridge hanging open like a skull's empty eye-socket, are two titans wielding stone hammers. Malicious, ruby eyes gaze out from the penny-thin slits on their dark, iron helms. The first one rushes out wildly, the great hammer in its hands uplifted to end this nonsense in a single, bone-crushing stroke. Johnny rolls left just in time. The hammer makes a crater only inches from him, sending up a cloud of black soil out of the white blanket of fog. Another diving roll sends Johnny through the legs of the sentinel, where the second is waiting for him with a heel twisting home run swing meant to send Johnny to the moon. It's a smart play on the computer's part. *Minotaur* has seen similar moves over its long and destructive career. What it has not seen, is a player who aerials over the head of the hammer, grabs a hold of its edge, and hangs on for dear life. The extra weight on the tip of the weapon makes it too heavy for the titan to recover from. The head of the hammer sinks firmly into the ground, cutting a trench into the earth. A man on a wire, Johnny runs up the haft of the hammer, unsheathes his dagger and slides the needle-thin tip into the slender gap of the sentinel's helm. The titan howls in pain. Johnny's arm is a piston, stabbing relentlessly. The titan, now a blinded, thrashing animal, begins to swing his weapon with reckless furiosity. One of those sightless blows smashes his compatriot in the head, crushing the titan's helm like a soda can under a boot heel. It's bloody work to finish off the blind thing, but Johnny takes to it like a creature possessed. The battle ends with a quick, hard slash and a fountain of blood eschewed from the titan's exposed throat. It's a level of ferocity that I've never seen before. Not just me either. None of us, onlookers or other scouts, no one has done this to *Minotaur* before. Bathed in a dark scarlet wash under the harvest moon, Johnny Mac looks up at the massive fortress. There's something behind those eyes of his, something hidden, unspoken. I don't like it. The tower stands like the Devil's own mausoleum, dark, brooding, and hungry. The bells continue to chime from a place above the gray blanket of clouds that put the moonlight to bed. A wolf howls from the dark forest beyond. Johnny Mac knows how he feels. What happens next is nothing short of desolation. *Minotaur* throws wave after wave of assailant programs at Johnny. He takes a slash across the ribs that, only an inch deeper, might have made Johnny's insides into his outsides. The crowd gasps at each new horror the game tosses at their current love affair. Johnny slashes and rips and tears them to ribbons with his small knife, leaving behind a horror of gore in his wake. He punches through the clocktower filled with the fluttering wings and poisonous talons of voracious harpies, smashes the dark Rector of the sub-basement library, and decapitates the charnel kitchen's cannibal chef with his own oversized meat cleaver. That last one is the worst of the kills, because Johnny takes his time with the finale by pinning the Chef's head to the ground under the weight of his boot. The Chef's neck is thick as an iron girder. A few arena go-ers chuck their cookies when the third, unrelenting stroke of the knife cuts the monster's head from his shoulders. In all the years I brought him up through the Double A, Johnny never showed me anything like this. He's always looked capable, sure, but never...never savage. Where has all this anger been hiding? *Minotaur* is throwing everything it has at the unrelenting, human-shaped nightmare. It is asking, for lack of a better metaphor, what every peanut-brained dinosaur asked the moment it saw the Chicxulub impactor cutting a hot line through the atmosphere. "What is this thing?" I see what Johnny is now, and soon, all of these people in the arena, and the world will too. Johnny Mac is an extinction event. Standing before a massive set of banded iron doors, Johnny inserts the three obsidian keys he's taken from the bowels to brains of the castle. Each of them slide into place slower and sweeter than a pair of virgins on their wedding night. *Minotaur* blares. "Phase Two complete. Recalibrations insufficient. Incursion alarm. Repeat, incursion alarm." Insufficient? Player incursion? That's not what-- "3, 2, 1." The screen goes black. This time the light that floods the massive, over-sized monitors inside the arena isn't white. The light that fills every wide-eye transfixed by Johnny Mac's performance is red. Red as the molten core of a planet. A world on fire. The center of the Labyrinth is a blistering landscape where *Minotaur* stands nobly atop a single slab of stone that has no melting point. The machine is dressed as a man, costumed in the garb of its enemy. It stands with its arms behind its back. It's an interesting ploy, one I've never seen or heard of before, and believe me folks, I've heard them all. Phase Three is the final conflict between man and machine. It is designed specifically to measure one aptitude; sanity. Normally, it comes in the form of a nightmare crafted from the depths of your childhood fears or *Minotaur* beaming the sheer volume of infinite space into the brainscape of the player. Conquering your fear or withstanding the void means congratulations--it's champagne and Beef Wellington time. Crumble under the weight of abject insanity? Well, there's always barber college. My palms get sweaty in anticipation. I don't like unknowns. I don't play games of chance or bet against the house unless I'm certain it's a sure thing. I've bet the farm on Johnny Mac being butter spread all over a cinnamon roll. I was sure of that bet, until I see Johnny Mac standing on that slab. The game has garbed him in a black tunic and shin high leather boots. Eruptions of liquid fire splash all around them. Even the camera inside the game can't seem to calibrate the synthetic reality well enough to keep waves of heat from interfering with the crisp, high-definition feed. "What the hell is *Minotaur* doing?" One of the patrons next to me says, annoyed. Something in me, something I don't recognize opens my mouth and answers his question. "I don't know." "John Crenshaw MacMorn." *Minotaur's* voice is calm, restrained. "How come you to find this place?" Johnny regards the game coldly. "I've seen it before. Years ago. I saw another player find this path. I never forgot the route she took." "Of the number of players who have bested me, only four have ever found this place--the Construct." "Talent hits the target no one else can hit, Minotaur. Genius hits the target no one else can see." "And you are such genius, John Crenshaw MacMorn?" "No. But someone very important to me was." "Who are you?" I'm shaking my head. I honestly do not know what the fuck is happening. This is not how the game is supposed to go. Johnny Mac, resolute, begins walking toward the little god inside its own creation. I admit there is something frightening about his confidence. "I am the son of a mother who challenged you many years ago." Johnny's eyes are wide, his chin tucked closely to his throat with a killer's countenance. "You stretched her over the wheel of your game, and you broke her." "I am Minotaur, it is my nature to break that which can be broken. Those who want to join the league must-" "I don't want the league," Johnny says. My heart tip-toes over a ledge, falling into my stomach. "I want revenge." My eyes move from the massive screen where the insane drama is playing out, and I see what no one else sees. Johnny Mac's hands finally come out of their pockets. He's holding a weird looking cylinder. No, not a cylinder. A syringe. Whatever is inside, he mainlines it. I am freaking the fuck out. Back in the game, *Minotaur* considers Johnny. "Revenge?" "Did you think," Johnny asks, his tone dripping with a simmering, hidden rage. "No. Did you believe that for all the lives you have destroyed that there would never come a day of accounting?" *Minotaur*'s avatar scrambles, flickering in and out of existence for only a moment. When it reappears, it looks around, confused. "W-What is this subroutine, this...this sensation!" The needle. "What you are sensing, *Minotaur*, is the nano-chemical interface between your mainframe and my mind. My own special cocktail of programming and biochemistry. It took a long time to perfect, but now that I see the panic on your face, I know the sacrifice was worth it." "The first cybernetic pathogen able to be contracted between man and machine. What you are feeling, at this present moment, here at the very center of your being, is fear." *Minotaur* shakes its head again, struggling to stand as it flickers in and out of existence once more. "I didn't come here to beat you," Johnny says, over the complete silence of every dumb-struck witness in the arena. "I came here to end you. To break you, like you broke her." "I don't want this! I-I...I don't want to die." *Minotaur* screams, falling to its knees at Johnny's feet. *Minotaur*, his eyes wide with infant mania, reaches out to grab Johnny's wrists. Unbelievably, they touch. *Minotaur* once protected by its digital nature...is tangible. Johnny Mac blows everyone's mind when he slaps away *Minotaur'*s trembling hands. "I offered you a chance to surrender. You refused," says Johnny. Johnny grabs *Minotaur* by the tufts of hair on the sides of its head. He yanks the avatar's head back violently. The machine begs for its life. "Please wai-" The crowd is a collective of panicked bystanders about to witness the first ever Man on Machine premeditated homicide. It's only then that it dawns on me. I wasn't using Johnny, he was using me. He didn't get it twisted about the League. He was using me to get access to *Minotaur*. So he could...wait- Is an artificial intelligence a life? Am I an accomplice to murder? Is this murd- The swiftness of the wrenching twist is so fast that we see *Minotaur'*s neck snap before we hear the artificial spine break. All the massive screens die, casting the arena into darkness. Alarms blare. *Connection lost...* People start losing their minds. *Connection lost...* What just happened? *Connection lost...* The lights come on in a flash, bright and blinding as the silver helmet from Johnny's head is drawn back up into the rafters like a retreating phallus post climax. He draws himself up erect, to his full height. He regards the silent multitude like Caesar triumphant over humbled Vercingetorix and then exits without a word. There are no cheers for the boy who broke *Minotaur*. No glory for the child who changed the Spiral. In the aftermath of Johnny Mac's ascension I'm assured by my legal council that there is no legal precedent set for what Johnny did. The courts take their time as contracts from every single team owner in the League flood my inbox with offers for Johnny's talent. The zeroes. My God, the zeroes.